Murder, She thought - Part 2

 

I still remember that fateful night, I relive it every day. Like a slapping scene on a Soap Opera it keeps repeating on and on. Every time I took a step and it pained, every time I looked into the mirror, every time Naresh introduced me to someone and he went from his name to Oh ….

We were an insane couple who were insanely young and insanely in love with each other. It was when Kavita was 6 years old; we had left her with the neighbor and finally had some time to ourselves. It was the welcome party for his friend who had left India for USA and had to come back when the dot com bubble burst. As any America returned he was full of energy, the idea that India was shit and good Bourbon. 

And Naresh had plenty of it; every time I asked him to slow down he sped up. He was drunk and driving his new bike that he bought with the royalty cheque. We were giggling like school children and I punched him in the arm every time he sped up. I remember my laugh, because that was the last time I ever laughed. It was over in a flash, it was blind turn and he got a car coming in from the side, I saw a headlight in my eyes and in the next second I heard was scratching, like metal sliding on metal. And then nothing. 

I woke up in some place which looked like a hospital. Naresh was crying, the first time I had seen him like that and he swore on my life never to drink again. He didn’t have a scratch on him, while I had tubes running in & out of me everywhere. I had one tube going in my mouth, one coming out of crotch and the third coming out of my arm. The mouth one fed me food, the crotch one took it out and the arm one sent things through me to lessen the pain. Morphine they kept feeding me, just enough to make the pain tolerable, not enough to make life tolerable. I had the same dream every night, Naresh pushed me off a building and I fell screaming, screaming until I couldn’t scream anymore. Then there was this silence, a tranquility like no other, an agreement reached with death, then there we no worries, no anger, no pain, just the spirit of being in the moment. And then I used to wake up. Why do our dreams never continue after death, why doesn’t anyone see this life, the life which is better than life?

After 3 months I was released from the hospital with a stern warning not to look in the mirror. I limped my way through my daughter with extended arms, though the ‘Welcome Home’ sign, through everything which was supposed to make me feel better. I limped directly to the mirror where I saw my disfigured face, they had tried their best to stitch my face, but it was worse than the worst patch job I had even seen. I had a scar and stich marks running across my face and the right leg which didn’t work well as it had lots of plates and screws in it. I was asked not to walk too much, not to pass through a metal detector and to see a Physiotherapist. I didn’t do the first or the last.

I took a job in an IT company near my house as an Accounting consultant and gave up on my dream of being a financial advisor, I took a desk job where I didn’t have to travel at all, and I used to walk to and back from my office and hardly ever saw the Physiotherapist assigned. It was a shit life and I got used to very fast. Naresh used to apologize to me every night and he used to mean it, he tried to kiss the scar on my face but I pushed him away, I closed my eyes and waited for him to push me off the roof. I wanted his love instead of pity. I wanted to pretend that this never happened, instead of coming to terms with it, but looking into his eyes always made me remember, so I stopped looking into his eyes. After a while my cynicism won and he stopped trying; trying to apologize, trying to reach out to me in spite of my sarcasm and anger, trying to pose in front of my daughter that it was all right.

We had finally become the couple we were always supposed to be, broken, bitter and non-believing. Only Kavita kept us together, the 6 year old girl who used to walk around with her Barbie was soon transformed into a 16 year old discontented child who used to walk out on during arguments, family outings and us in general. “If you two can’t live with each other, how can you expect me to?”, her words.

But even after all this she was my greatest regret, greatest regret of dying. Leaving her alone in this world. She was a typical 16 year old, angry, insecure, illusioned, and worrying over pimples and hair extensions. I wanted to tell her that all this will pass, and life’s biggest worries have not even crossed her mind yet. But I don’t think she will listen to me, like all teenagers she also thinks her parents were born old and will never understand them. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t always this bitter, self-righteous bitch that I am. I was young, pretty, carefree and risk taking like her; who used to sneak out at night to try cigarettes and watch Madonna videos. And her dad was handsome, slim, funny, charming, confident guy who used to debate professors to tears and steal answer copies from their desks while they were sleeping. I wanted to tell her that whatever we advise her to do is not something copied from a scripture or a “Morally correct mother’s guidebook” but something that is statistically proven to yield best results. But as I said, she wouldn’t listen to me.

Naresh was sleeping off his hangover when Kavita was ready and out of the house. She was practically jogging and didn’t go through her morning beauty routine, which meant she wasn’t going to school. She took an auto and I realized to follow I had to hop on to it, so I did.

She was texting the whole time and I was having a difficult time following what she was typing. Apparently she was informing someone of coming over to her. It was a short drive, didn’t realize the time at all. She got out, paid the auto guy and started walking into a thin street. The locality looked pretty dingy, I was getting worried about her safety but she didn’t, she took calculated confident steps, she walked up stairs and walked straight into a house.

It was Sid, her ex-boyfriend. Or at least that’s what she had said when I had caught her with grass in her handbag. It was her ex-boyfriend’s, she had meant to return it, she doesn’t smoke, and it’s all over; that all was her answer. I gave her a stern warning and a promise that I will toss her out of the house the next time she did drugs, along with the promise that I won’t tell Dad and she won’t see that guy again.

But she was seeing that guy again, in fact she just ran upto him and hugged him. He was too groggy to say anything; he just held her and tried to breathe her in, like I used to breathe Naresh in when we first used to date. As soon as they separated she let out a scream and shouted “I’m so happy that she is dead, you know I wasn’t convinced it was you the first time when they told me, but then when they told me it was a hit and run by a car I was sure it was you.”

“You know when Najeeb Bhaai first told me”, she continued “that an SMS is going to go to the owner of the card, I was so shit scared. I thought we were caught and like she is going to find out that I am paying to get her ring out of mortgage from her own card.... She is very smart you know, that way my Mom.... She was gonna come around here sniffing and she was gonna find out that I paid for our stuff from Najeeb bhaai by mortgaging her wedding ring. She never used to wear her anyways, just this credit card would have been the pain". "But what could I do?" She let out an question to no one in particular, "Najeeb Bhaai was after my life to pay the money and take it back, I really had no option.”. She stopped for breath and continued “I swear baby when I first called you about our problem I didn’t know what could you possibly do? But killing her was the master stroke, she is gone now. My Dad is happy, I’m happy and she is never gonna find out about her card”. She punched in the air and lit a cigarette, or maybe it wasn’t just a cigarette considering the stuff that was lying around in the house. There were rubber tubes, syringes, silver foil, candles, rolling paper and lot of other stuff present to prove that this wasn’t just another teenage boy’s house.

I let out my breath,  fell on my knees and started laughing while tears fell down my eyes. I suddenly remembered Nietzsche “Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter”, I couldn’t agree more. But I was happy that I was killed for more than a few thousand rupees that my daughter had borrowed from a drug dealer, I was killed for love. That guy Sid did it to protect Kavita from me even though I would have done nothing so bad, I probably would have ignored that SMS like the dozen others I ignore every day. But I was glad, there were only two reason men waged war, money and love. And wars waged for love were always more brutal. I was bittersweet about the whole affair, while I was just murdered, my daughter had someone who would kill someone for her love.

As I was gloating over the whole thing when I realized that Kavita had already left and Sid was left on bed. He crawled over to drink some water, light a cigarette and started typing on his phone. His hands were shaky and he had to correct a lot but in the end it read something like this “Im sorry Ka bt it wasn’t me. It ws someone else. Bt I luv u anyways.”

God Damn! So  it wasn’t him either. So maybe it was some other random guy in that dark sweat shirt, just a random hit & run after all. Who knows? Maybe he didn’t want a witness and me made sure by running over me twice, maybe some psychopath looking for kicks on a Tuesday night. But my gut feeling; and I still had one, didn’t let me believe that and I still needed to know who killed me.

<To be continued... >

James Bong - The Spy who Scrapped me

It was the summer of 03 when Jishnu banerjee aka JB first saw American Pie on his friend’s new PC . He had lied to his parents about going to Debashish’s house for studying. Debashish had lied to his parents about his stomach ache so as not to go on his parent’s trip to Digha. They were home alone and that only meant one thing, watching forbidden American movies. There were too afraid to ask the CD Rental guy for the real good stuff and no fun in Schwarzenegger movies now so they settled for the movie which would change his life, American Pie. While Debashish could only care about Shannon Elizabeth’s bare breasts JB saw the deeper meaning in the movie. It was not a teen – comedy, or love story or social commentary. It was but a Rallying cry for ‘every man who should be getting laid but isn’t’. It was a message for the involuntary celibates of the world to unite and fight for their right, that is sex. Of course it required some modifications for Indian Culture. Most kids around him didn’t even know what second base was, let alone been to it. Indian high schools were nothing like American high schools, there were no cheerleaders, everybody wore uniform, and only high point was when Mrs. Das looked down to correct the papers. But hope was around the corner. Across the corner lay short skirts, songs in the canteen, dances in basketball court, freedom or in other words College.

JB got into Jadavpur University, his dad’s dream or rather second dream, first was IIT Kharagpur. Though his dad was a little disappointed of him getting into Mechanical Engineering; according to him the real action lied in IT, he would soon realize that, but not in the sense his dad meant.

After 6 months of short hair, formals, dancing on ‘atariya pe lotan kaburtar’ and running around in his underwear finally he got to step into fabled hallows of the canteen. And it was nothing like he imagined, no girls in short skirts, no guys dancing on table tops, nobody sharing a cold drink with two straws. Instead there were girls with hairy arms, guys fighting over a piece of samosa and the fat canteen owner scratching his belly. This is not what he had hoped for, after finding out there was only 1 girl in all the 4 years of mechanical and she was a girl by a long stretch of imagination, all his hopes laid on the canteen and girls in the IT departments. All his dreams came crashing down, this seemed even worse than school, at least no one came to school in bathroom slippers. At that he moment he realized that there was no strip poker, no beer funnel, and no frat parties in store for him. And all the few girls that were there lay way out of his league and his social circles. Most of his time would be spent attending soporific lectures, drooling over Jenna Jameson and the company of his left hand. The world was a very dark place now.

But then came light in his dark world, the shining beacon in the place devoid of any hope, joy or coitus. Orkut. The story was that the guy created this site to meet his ex girl friend who was lost for 8 years. JB didn’t give a rat’s ass for whom and why, all he heard that there is where the hot girls of Calcutta were, posing in provocative poses and waiting for the right guy to seduce them. On Orkut you didn’t need a car, not even a bike to pick up a girl, money didn’t make your profile better and girls would never get to know if you stammer or spit when you talk. It was a level playing field; he was sure that god was out there somewhere, for nothing less divine could have made such a site. It was time to dig out his old e-mail address JB_007@hotmail.com which he had formed to ask his cousin studying in Texas to get him a cowboy hat, apparently the mail got lost before reaching him, as he never replied to him.

Project Orkut was initiated. He realized that his normal persona was not going to help him pick chicks, not in the real world, not online or alien. He needed a new personality, a character that was smooth yet restrained, cool yet sophisticated, someone who got all the women but wasn’t trying too hard. In short someone exact opposite to him. And this only meant one man, the legendary agent from MI- 6 with his numbers as 007. In his excitement he didn’t even notice the typo when he named his profile as JáMěs BōnG. It was now time to flesh out the rest of the profile. Of course he wasn’t actually in horse breeding and fast race cars but he would have been if he had the money. And of course he didn’t play polo and squash or was in body building but he would surely like to and he hadn’t read, War and Peace and all the 16 sonnets of Shakespeare but he would someday. Orkut was the place where you weren’t bogged down by your current circumstances and could be all that you aspired to be. The real tricky part was the ‘About Me’, this was like the heat tempered, 108° drill bit of the drill which would penetrate the material. So he decided to extra research on that finally he came with his masterpiece. If Mrs. Sequiera had seen this she would have surely kissed him, he mentally made a note of looking up for Mrs Sequiera or her even hotter daughter on Orkut. Here it was – 

Hello there cute and charming gals and girls

i would to u make new friend and im introducing about my self ..
Im a positively possessive attitude that fuels the undying zeal to work for broader prospects puts me where I am today. A young lad hailing from Asansol who has seen the dark side of the life only to light up the future. A man with proven track in intelligenze (I study in Jadavpur University, 1^st year B.E.) and dreaming of one day to have one my own software company. I like guns and fast cars and my Martini shaken not stirred.

By the bye my name is "Jishnu banerjee" with 18 ears of experience on the earth. I would like to make friendship with u if u are interested please add me or feel free to call..
Awaiting for your reply

P.S. - I wrote this 4 years back when Orkut was cooling down and the star of Facebook was rising. But today I thought what the hell and posted this. Coz I wanted to post something on my blog just for the heck of it. I had a whole series of these planned earlier ,  next one was - James Bong : From Calcutta with love.Might still do it if enough people 'Like' this.

And of course there was no intention of making fun of Bengalis (this time), but just James Bong rhymed with James Bond, so I'm sorry for doing this.

P.P.S - I plan to continue my 'Murder She Thought' Trilogy (ooh I love this word - Trilogy) but I'm stuck up on one plot point here and not able to resolve it. I will get back to it as soon as I do. Mental note to self - Get all these ready before you start writing a story and don't get ideas mid-way.

Tell me where do I draw the line?

Travel for days and hope

For an hour with you

A lifetime in return to, for you, pine

Tell me where do I draw the line?

Wither away in the day, daydreaming

And go hungry all evening. Why?

Only so with you I can dine?

Tell where do I draw the line?

 Suffer from your indifference

And hide behind my smile.

You really think for no reason I whine?

Tell me where do I draw the line?

Of course we are not Just friends

I have done much more already

Too much tears for me and bitter wine

Tell me where do I draw the line?

Tell me how much is enough

So that I get some love back

Or at least you care, a sign?

Tell me where do I draw the line?

Late night phone calls, messages.

Scented letters and rings. My gifts

Enough for this life and nine?

Tell me where do I draw the line?

I love you so much that

I will let you kill me

Tell me if that we will be fine?

I think here I will draw the line

Murder, She thought - Part 1

Every story teller starts his or her story was setting in the time and rules of the world that the story takes place in. I intend to do the same; the time is right now, 2012 A.D. And the rules? I don’t know about the rules of this world. I do not know what I am, a spirit, a specter, a poltergeist. The only thing I do know is that I am dead and I want to find out who did it.

When you think of the word murder the mind always thinks of stormy nights, murderer in a cloak and big knives. But mine wasn’t any of this, in fact it was a calm Tuesday night, the kind where you go on romantic walks and take your kids out for ice-cream.  It was my routine walk back from office, I was carrying my laptop and my handbag and thinking about the mails to be sent from home, the changes to be made in the document; work in short. It’s funny how all that seems pointless after being dead. Then there was a sudden roar of the engine as somebody stepped on the pedal just before it hit me and carried me into the wall. At this point I am assuming my spine was broken as I couldn’t move; there was no pain, but an overwhelming sense of dread. My ears were ringing so I couldn’t hear and I was too scared to scream. I was lying on the pavement face up, so that I could see the last face before through the blinding headlights as a man with his jaws clenched backed up and rammed into me once again to finish the job. Then there was the darkness, coming in from all sides, something like if you had too much morphine. It’s numbing, calm and doesn’t matter how much you try to fight it, it always wins. So that’s what dying is, no white light, no life flashing before your eyes, so gates of heaven or hell,  just the darkness akin to too much painkiller.

But dying sucks. It’s one thing being not able to see your grand children, the Grand Canyon and the grand opera at Melbourne. But your plans cut short at the fancy of another human being is too much for me to stomach, and I want to going to find out the Son of a bitch who did it! And why? That’s the beauty of death, after death you don’t need to explain why.

By the time I got wind of what was happening my post-mortem was already done. Doctors said the cause of death was internal bleeding; they laid out the contusions, ruptured veins, broken bones and a plethora of other medical jargon but nothing about the Cause of my death. Probably that’s how my users felt like when I used to send them the report of why our software crashed. Life is funny that way, or rather life after death in my case. I didn’t know where to go after that, the cremation was tomorrow and I had the night to kill. Suddenly I had all the time in the world, no mails to read, no orders to be barked, no documents to be reviewed, no house to help out in, no dinner to eat, no Physiotherapist to worry about, no sleep to catch up on. So I wandered off as a ghost, into the city.

The city was nothing like I had ever seen before, it was no restaurants serving biryanis late night, no BPO cabs trying to run over everyone on the road, no neon lights flashing, no tall IT buildings trying to proclaim one better than the other. There was a calmness, a familiarity, a oneness with the city. I felt like we could talk, even though I could only listen. Listen to the young waiter throwing away his apron in frustration and others trying to tell him that this is going to pay for his college; the drunk crying for cheating on his wife, the whore swearing to one day get out of this, the traffic sub-inspector worrying about the his son’s football kit while taking bribe from all of them. The city was not about the debauchery and thieveries that they had me believe in the night, at night the city was the most moral and true to itself. I just wished why I had not seen this earlier, but then life is so restraining, choking even, but death …. Death is the ultimate liberty.

As I wandered in the city hearing one man’s talk after another, peeking in one woman’s window after another I realized it was the morning. About time they would burn my body. Burning my body seemed a total waste now. Now there were no communicable disease to ward off, no dangers of being haunted by zombies, no fire god to give offerings to. I am sure they would be a hungry lion or two in the city, that would have been better than a horde coming to watch me burn on a Thursday morning. But that was a ritual that would be done even though I don’t want it now. So I started walking towards it now that walking wasn’t tiring.

It was a small gathering, rag-a-tag army of white and most didn’t know each other thanks to my severe attempt to compartmentalize my life. More people had turned up from office though compared to my blood relatives; I didn’t know whether to think that as a triumph or a failure. This was a good place to start looking for my murderer. I was assuming my murder was personal and not a random hit-and-run like the police said it was. I had seen the eyes of my killer; those were someone bent on killing me. But everybody looked sullen, though most were because my death had inconvenienced them in some way. Some wanted some approvals for me, some to earn them money, some were just pissed because they were dragged here in the early morning of a workday, and some just wanted to be sad because it was expected of them to be in such occasions and were not to able to. The only 3 people I couldn’t read were my daughter, my husband and my best friend. If God was out there, he was one hell of a prankster. Someone spoke the word eulogy and there was uncomfortable silence as my people tried to wrinkle their noses to block out the smell of burning flesh. Divya, my colleague, my best friend and my mentee stepped forward after minutes of people looking at each other. She went on at some length to recount my contribution to the company, my handling of crisis situations, my being tough but fair etc. So that’s what my life was, being a well-oiled, smooth running part in a very big machine. There was silence again for a few minutes before my 16 year old daughter stepped forward but choked on her tears. Divya had to come and remove her. All this while my husband Naresh stood stone faced throughout, like he used to when he had too much weed.  I tried to get close to him to smell the weed on him, but I couldn’t. So that what my life’s concoction was – A few awards, one unhappy friend, and an unhappy daughter who was never close to me.

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”, Leo Tolstoy once wrote. Mine was no exception, it has it's own story. My husband, Naresh didn’t love me, and he made that amply clear when I caught him trying to clear the bill of a hotel through my credit card. He was not supposed to be there and nor was the young lolly who fell for his old school charm and Shakespeare lines, like I had, 20 years back. He had cried and begged and swore never to do this again and I knew that wasn’t true, but I agreed. Was I too busy to realize or too tired to even fight for his affection I never will know. But the woman in her 20s, standing right behind him in the White Saree was proof enough that he hadn’t changed? Was it him in the car, I don’t know; I need to investigate further.

Maybe it was him, the man in the dark colored sweatshirt with a cap over his head, grinding his teeth when he rammed the dark colored SUV into me. I needed to follow him. But what would he gain from killing me? I never objected of his philandering, never asked for love or comfort or companionship, the most I wanted from him was to pose as a happy couple in front of my daughter. So that she still has hope, and not grow up into a bitter women as me. In fact he stated to lose much, I was the earning member of house. He was a washed up writer whose last collection of poems had come 10 years ago, that too of poems he had written 10 years ago. He had a perennial writer’s block which he tried to remove from time to time with weed and young dumb women. Muses as he called them in front of his friends, who joined in with laughing at his joke. Perhaps they too thought it was only fair that their college heartthrob married to a limping, bitter, ice princess sometimes got the taste of the life that had waited him before he stupidly married me. I was too drunk that night to wait for a condom, and he was too chivalrous to suggest anything else when he found out I was pregnant. He picked me up from the way to college and next morning and took me to a Mandir before dropping me back to college. I had left home as a bachelorette and was married before the second lecture. I still remember the face of the girl who gasped when she found out and said this was right out of a romance novel. Now I don’t know whether she would have compared us to a tragedy or a farce?

After the tons of formalities he reached home and sank in the couch.  Signs of a guilty conscience? He sat there stoned for some time while I went to see what my daughter was doing. She had updated “At my mother’s cremation” on Facebook and was now checking the responses on her laptop, apparently two of her friends ‘liked’ it too, I couldn’t say what they liked, that I was dead or she bothered to get up in the morning for something as tasteless as watching a corpse burn.

I turned my thoughts back to Naresh, when I came back in the living room he wasn’t there. He was on a call; he in slow thoughtful speech confirmed his identity to the caller, verified that I was in fact dead and that he had the death certificate and the caller could come tomorrow to give him the cheque. I let out a chuckle when I realized what had happened. It was the life insurance company who had after months of dogging me finally insured me for 10 crores very recently, some underwriter would be fired because of this. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, cry that it was money after all, or laugh that my miserable life wasn’t cheap, in the end it was sold for 10 crores. Now he could finally go to Las Vegas like he had always dreamed and drink himself to death like ‘Leaving Las Vegas’. I began to understand why he had murdered me, it was the logical step. After 10 years he had finally become the man he was always destined to be – smart, dynamic and successful. In that very moment I was proud of him.

But instead of fist pumping or calling his new girlfriend about the Las Vegas plans, he dragged his feet to the most unlikely place, the small room he called his study. He hardly went there, maybe except to show off his collection of books or to play on his computer. But today he wasn’t doing either. He took out the crystal glass along the way that I had gifted him on our first marriage anniversary and poured out a large of Chivas Regal 18 year old ,again gifted by a friend of his on our 10^th marriage anniversary who didn’t know he had quit. And then he took out a pad and a pen and started writing.

“If winds can carry me to you, they would,

Or my love else perhaps if, they could.

Across the hate between us, they should.

To whatever world in now, you stood”

And then a tear drop mixed in the ink. It was been ten years since he had last drank, and ten years minus one day since he had cried.  It couldn’t have been him ….. <to be continued>

The five girls you meet in India

"Ryan Bingham: I'm like my mother, I stereotype. It's faster."

Delhi – 

Delhi requires a big purse, big car, big biceps, and possibly other big parts too. Be prepared to dole out serious cash when you take her to the Orange Room for Bloody Mary, Khan Chacha for kababs and then a drive around India Gate in your rented sedan, finally ending up at your distant cousin’ sister’s friend’s farm house. If you can’t convincingly nod to “What does this girl think about herself, she is wearing such a chota skirt, desperate hai saali” while looking her own hip length dress; you are in trouble.

So get that rented Esteem, say we will go to Comesum to eat, park in the dark parking and start off with “tu na yaar is red dress mae bahut beautiful lagti hai” and proceed with the best thing you can do in a sub 200 BHP, non-jack-rabbiting, fuel injected car. 

Also Brush up your knowledge of best Chola Kulcha in Delhi, how much to bribe where, and to say convincingly “Lo aap baat karo uncle, ye koi Balwant Singh hai jisne rokka hai”, being groped in every mall entrance she wants to check out, midnight booze run to Gurgaon and the ability to stomach Bhenchod in every sentence; from her I mean.

Pros –

You mom would definitely approve.

Bigger is better. Fuck what you say about it. This is the truth.

Knowing about Harbhajan Mann and Harbajan Singh is enough to have a conversation

Kiss on the back of the neck is returned with moans and …. Let’s just say parts of anatomy being lubricated

Cons –

Might need a heart transplant soon, considering the stuff she cooks

You get “Jaanu you love me na?” a lot.

You will have to keep away your friends, colleagues and your distant cousins from ever coming for tea to you house

Be ready to sell your soul for a Mark Jacobs and Jimmy Choos.

Bangalore –

Bangalore on the other hand requires a big liver if not anything else. Be prepared to not to throw up as she guzzles down beer with one hand and makes animated conversations with the other hand. If you can’t make sense of “That fuckkkker, chuut he is… He said ‘Hi Baby’ to me it seems and I’m laughing my ass off, I’m like ‘whateverrrrr’, go get a life dude” you are doomed. Be prepared to go to a bakery where she discusses her third tattoo, Raghu Dixit Project and taps the guy standing next to her for a light.

What you see is what you get. Brush up your knowledge of Megadeath, Gaarudi Gombe and global warming while she suddenly kisses you in a dark pub after 5 beers. Be prepared for midnight Ganja runs to Shivaji Nagar, able to stomach that her best friend is a guy and dates that could mean book readings in Crossword followed by dosa in Malleshwaram

Pros –

She might ask you out first.

She can drink and drive you back

Forgetting her dog’s birthday is not a deal breaker.

Dates cost much lesser.

Cons –

Might need a liver transplant soon

“Jaanu I love you” is returned with Peals of laughter.

Mom might faint seeing a navel pierced, stinking of cigarette, dark, curly haired girl.

Kiss on the back of the neck is returned with “what the fuck man”

Bombay –

There are actually two kinds of girls you meet in Bombay. But there is a clear demarcation. One set is Marathi speaking, local jeans wearing and T bought from fashion-street or they call them there – Ghati. She will be flaunting some artificial jewelry which will be a second degree fake of your Gucci/ Versace / Vero Moda stuff and push you with Pudhil Chalo on a train station and eye ball you back when you protest.  But I am sure those reading this blog won’t be interested to know about them

Now the second, and our TG (Target Group for the non MBAs); the South Bombay chick. She will be dressed up in latest of fashion attire with their wardrobes changing every month (You will notice this only if you are able to bear their nakhras for a month). They want to party hard and you have to probably shell out money at all night clubs they know or their friend’s know or their friend’s friends have visited. Hair style and accessories will always be addressed with the designer or the celebrity who was just spotted wearing them. They would speak English if you converse with them for less than an hour and as you cross the barrier of hour the language changes from English to Hinglish with slangs like “Yeah I told you re that road pe we need to ghumao fai our car “. And on every second weekend be prepared to drive your car to Lonavla as “Bombay is so polluted sweetheart, I want some fresh air “

Pros –

The girl’s mom dad would be super chilled out; she won’t need to give lame reasons like night study at friend’s place.

She would never say “Janu, you are sloshed. Ab rehne do “

You don’t need to be John McClane to take a walk with her after 10 o clock.

You would get to know where Hrithik Roshan lives, where Katrina likes to eat and where Sanjay Dutt gets his Paan from.

Cons –

You would get to know where Hrithik Roshan lives, where Katrina likes to eat and where Sanjay Dutt gets his Paan from.

A date requires an entire day.

You might need eyeball replacement after you gouged then out while smiling and appreciating all the dresses/accessories that she tried in the shop.

And their favorite quote - “There this place called A where you get yummy stuff B. I wanna go there today”. So what you waiting for? Get prepared to travel for 2 hours for a 70 bucks pancake.

Calcutta – 

Calcutta requires infinite patience and sex drive if not anything else. There is something in Hooghly’s water, I can swear by it. It makes the boys horny and girls hornier. Forget its cricketers and ‘Roshogullas; the girls are Calcutta’s best exports. Be ready to fall for big eyes, enchanting mannerisms and the oh-so-sexy-making-your-heart-skip-a-beat “Oh Maa”. But remember she would as strong as she is sensual, and smart on top of that. If you don’t read at least two newspapers a day, don’t know who our external affairs minister is, can’t patiently wait for 2 hours to travel 2 kms in a car to Burra Bazar or are diabetic; you are in deep shit.

Go Pandal Hopping whole night during the Puja with her and Club hopping during the other 356 nights. Satisfy Kookie Jar cravings during the evenings, Shibu jee’s Kulfi cravings at midnight and …. Let’s just say other cravings post-midnight, and curse the Marwaris somewhere along this to be a part of the gang. So load up the extra deodorant; get that high mileage easily maneuverable small car and say to her “Hum soch raha tha tum aur hum aaj Sher-E-Punjab dhaba chalte hai, humko Egg tadka khaane ka bahut mann kar raha hai” And then have a ‘romantic’ drive till Jessore road while she curses everyone on the road and then wait one hour after a two hour drive and eat overpriced Punjabi food that isn’t authentic Punjabi either.

But that is the least of your worries. Worry about the day when you will have to go meet her dad, when she makes your drive through streets which you can swear are directly out of the labyrinth, shouts for Poltu to park your car and takes you into a 150 year old, crumbling building. As you are cautiously go up the stairs and enter into a colonial house one thin old guy looks up from his book and starts quizzing you on your mathematical, political and literary knowledge while addressing you as “Young Man’ every time.

Pros –

She might kiss you on the back of the neck.

 Leave it to her to fight with the cabbie who scratched your car.

“I was struck in a traffic jam” is always believable even if you stay 100 meters away.

Mom Dad would approve of the Sitar Playing, Shakespeare quoting girl

Cons –

Her dad might not approve of you though.

Your on-one-knee-ring-in-hand proposal might be interrupted if she sees a puchka-wala

Not knowing the entire Tagore’s poetry might be the cause of divorce.

You will have to pretend to like fish even if you are from Rajasthan.

Rajasthan –

What? You don’t meet girls in Rajasthan! That is if you don’t call fixing up a time to chat when the girl’s mom is away as a date. Most you do is meet for a movie, sit with one seat between you while she prays very hard that her dad’s accountant’s dog’s vet didn’t see her with you. And you try to imagine how she would look when you remove her big glasses, dupatta that she wraps around her face and her long gloves that go till her elbows. That’s it. You don’t think further, you can’t. Beyond that is like imagining Santa Claus with a six pack saying “How you doing?”

 P.S. - Bombay part done by Somya Shringi, the original Heart Breaker, Soul Shaker and my Soul Twin (his words)

Descent into Madness (Again)

 "I have labored to pass many a days but my years have flew by"

I have got 10 mins to pen my thoughts, then I need to take a shower and head out to get more drunk. I am two beers down and feeling like writing. I just watched Dev D in parts for the 100th time and whole thing is feeling like Deja Vu.

I have been in this place before, at least two times I can distinctly remember. Days seem like a half remembered dream, I get up, push myself to go to work, even though I hate going to office, but I get this sense of urgency that works needs to be done. I feel like leaving office barely 2 hours into it and everyday I tell myself " Leave office early just this day, have some fun, catch a break" But I know there is no fun to be had, and the break is too short lived, too momentary. So I end up staying in office later than usual. For the last two weekends I was traveling, travel that could change the entire course of my life. But now they seem non consequential too. Week started right after that. Days are a blur now ,so much so that I can't tell one day apart from the other, I seriously can't recall when most things happen. Was it a Monday or a Tuesday, I frequently get confused in conversations and make mistakes. Other correct me very often now. Everyday I feel like running away, and everyday I tell myself not to, to endure it for just one day.

Nights are no better either. I time myself in the mornings. It takes me 15 mins (give or take) to leave from home and reach my desk. Out of that 5 odd mins are the drive from my home to office, 10 mins are taken up by the walk from the parking to my desk in my building. I do it pretty fast, fast as in I walk fast and overtake everyone walking in the same direction, it almost feels like I have a sense of purpose, a reason and a hurry to be somewhere. But the longest walk of the day is the walk back to my car from the building, it never seems to end and I get this cloud of despair over me. I have no reason to go back home, nothing awaits me, I am just exchanging one set of worries with another, that is office with an empty house. I always change my music from dance music to hard but melancholy rock on the way back. And then I can't sleep. I have had trouble sleeping for many years but the current stint is the worst. I can't sleep at night, get up early in the morning and have trouble falling asleep again. I am tired and underslept most of the day, hence I have to push myself to go to office.

And I can't see any remedy in the near future. I need a break, a vacation; I really really do. I am going to Delhi next month, I sincerely hope that works. Till then I am going to push myself through each day and pray I don't go insane.

The girl you love or the girl who loves you? : REDUX

Whom would you marry? It’s an honest question. Probably some romantic idealists would say neither, but in a world of 6 Billion people what is the probability that the person you love also found you and only you to love? Or the other way around? Very bleak I would say. And if you are saying that you don’t know the whole world then you are just compromising with the people whom you you know; while your ‘Soulmate’ (if such a thing exists) might be in some other country, speaking some other language and married to someone else.

That leaves me with this question and this very real scenario. Look around and you will find even in the most perfect couples there is always some power imbalance, somebody who first initiated the dialogue; somebody who makes up first after a fight; somebody who is a little insecure; somebody who got laughed on while saying “seriously, this is your girlfriend?, somebody who is always perplexed with “what does she see in me?”. You are now getting the picture, aren’t you? So who do you wanna be?  The lover or the loved? The person who took pity on another because he or she has been there even after rebuttals, insults and being used & discarded?  Or the other person who thinks that the other is the one who he or she was destined to be with and can’t be without?

I think it is better to marry the girl who loves you. It makes better sense logically. It’s just cold hard math. You can count on her loyalty. She will always go the extra mile to please you, she will watch the movies you want, eat the food you like and have sex when you want. She will say sorry first when you fight, go away when you are angry and come back when you need a crutch. It is her problem to make you like her and not the other way around; she will make you look good in front of her friends and will make sure she does in front of yours. She will return your calls at 3 AM and tell herself ‘he would be busy’ when you won’t return hers. She’d be afraid when you are angry and cry in a corner when she is. She’ll throw surprise parties on your birthday and just smile when you forget hers. There’ll be your favorite meal waiting at home when you just say ‘My boss is an idiot’; and a cold hug and “you should have worked harder” will pick her up when she gets fired.  She will defend you in front of her parents and suck up to yours. Bruises will become insect bites and wrist slashes will become cat paw marks.  She will forgive when you cry after cheating on her and smile when you ask her not to talk to her best friend.

And if not for anything else, it is a huge ego boost to have a human doting on you like that.

Maybe you will someday fall in love with her. Or at least you can tell yourself that. She would obviously believe that. Even when her mind would scream that she is a door rug. She will never find someone better than you. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. Love is selflessness and sacrifice. No harm in that, right? Or maybe for you it isn’t.  Ayn Rand had already said. You need reasons to love someone. And whole hearted and blind & stupid one sided love. It is a good reason as any. Any which ways you will get fond of her. Or at least dependent on her. Hell you start liking your dog that has been with you for 3 months.  She is after all a human being. Least you can do is give her attention and an occasional act of kindness. Many people don’t even get that. And for most that is enough from the people they love. It will keep them satiated. One sided lovers have second -hand lives. They derive theirs from their lover; their happiness, their self-worth, their sense of purpose and their gratification. They get drunk on someone else’s high.  It is not a bad life if you ask me, for them I mean. They get happiness out of it. And some ugly-fucked-up distortion of a companionship. It is more than what half of the world is living with. And it certainly beats the bitterness; sarcasm and brewing but implicit hostility. That many couples live with. Who never had or don’t have any love for each other. At least anymore. But most of all you are not giving her the pain. The heartbreak that one gets when the love of their life leaves them. Many can’t get over it their entire lives. And a few end it. It is the biggest favor anyone can do anyone.

Marry the girl you love and you will be playing catch-up your whole life. It is like the deer who runs for a pool of water in the desert and the farther he runs, further the pool of water of gets away from him. Sooner or later the deer dies of the thirst and exhaustion. Which he accumulated running for that pool of water. The pool of water is a mirage, an illusion. Something that is there somewhere but you will never find it. And that search will kill you in the end. The deer would have been better off if he had never started running for that water in the first place. Likewise is the love you would never get.  The constant nagging that if I would have done that or done that better, “she would love me back” will kill you sooner or later. And if that doesn’t, the insecurity will. Every late night, every afternoon lunch without you, every weekend outings with her team, every time she run towards the phone when it rings, every time she smiles at some stranger will stab you a million times. You will stare at your phone for calls that never come and wait hours for a message that says ‘hmmm’. Every time you go to sleep in the night you’d never be sure that in the morning she’d still be there.

I am a Nihilist, ontologically.  I don’t think life has a higher purpose. After we are gone there is nothing. We are ashes or dust. There is no greatness in self-sacrifice, morality or doing good for others.Llife is as Friedrich Nietzsche put it “Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.” 

And finally. Why do I ask this question? I don’t know. It is a good question to be asked. And I like Yossarian. I am a ‘collector of good questions’.