“I want to make out with you right here”, he said staring at her cabin curtain seat of the Volvo.
The Volvo would take her back to Medical school, away from the city, away from him, away from “them”. The 3-day break she took all of a sudden seemed far too less time to touch him, feel him, kiss him, love him, or know him. She was desolate. He even more so, but couldn’t show it and as usual used lust as a defence mechanism. He knew it would make her smile.
She did and kissed him, tears flowing slowly off her cheeks onto his and somehow they felt “one” sharing a tear.
“I love you and we’ll be together for good”, she choked.
“I love you and we’ll be together for good”, he repeated, waving her goodbye.
They were 19 at the time and as such “lifelong promises” don’t materialise. Life and circumstances get in the way.
4 years passed. They had their share of relationships, without letting go of their friendship. The calls continued as did the conversations.
He was at work one Friday evening when “Anita Calling” appeared on his cellphone.
“Hey Ken”.
“Heyyyy, Long Time. How are you doing?”
“Ok. I’m a doctor now by the way. Forget that. I’m back in Bombay. Let’s meet up. My parents are out of town.”
“Congratulations. Sure lets meet up. Dinner at the ‘usual place’”?
“Sure. It isn’t ‘usual’ considering we haven’t been there in over 4 years”
He smiled. “I’ll see you at 8-30, which means you’ll reach by 9-30”
“No, I’ll be on time. I’ve matured.”
He sat at the “usual”, reading a business magazine. It was 9-15 pm.
She arrived fifteen minutes later looking well, beautiful.
“I thought you had matured”.
“That’s your first line when you see me after 4 years?”
“I thought you had matured”.
“Well, I’m still a woman, ain’t I?”, she smiled.
Being late is a virtual “given” with women, like a lot of other things in life. It’s a rule in an unwritten book of rules that men have learned to abide with, without question. Ofcourse it’s easier to accept when a woman’s late because she always seems to look beautiful when she arrives finally, which somehow makes up for the irritation of the wait.
“Yes you are”, he resigned.
And so the evening began.
They caught up, smiled, laughed and talked about their partners “in between”. At that moment, all their previous relationships seemed meaningless.
“So, How’s she?”
“She’s great...........I’m in love with her and I think she’s the one for me”. He carefully worded his sentence.
“That’s great. I’m so happy for you. You deserve happiness and I mean that”.
He noticed something wasn’t “alright”.
“How’s he?”
“We.....We broke up yesterday”.
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
He stayed silent, with her, without asking questions, demanding answers or offering false assurances, he knew her all too well.
“You know I really wanted to marry him”.
The moment a woman uses “marry” in a sentence, it means the guy was special. But what I don’t get is how a woman can utter the word “marriage” at the age of 23 when her whole life and career is right in front of her.
He looked at her, said nothing.
She looked “rock-bottom”, the beauty of her face stricken with loss that yearned for acceptance, belonging and love.
They ordered starters. It let time pass.
“Let’s play a game”, he announced.
“Not in the mood”.
“Thankfully “mood” is not a necessary requirement in this game.”
She smiled, “Tell me”
“Let’s rate the women sitting here”
“What!!”, she sounded bemused.
“You have to rate the women here. Give me a justification. I’ll decide if you’re spot on or not”.
“Shut up. I don’t want to play this game.”
“Of course you don’t, it’s challenging and you’re insecure”
“Oh Shut UP”
“Let’s try one. How about that woman behind you?”
She looked behind. On the seat was seated an attractive woman, in her mid-twenties, whom he had been noticing all evening. She wore a white T-Shirt and Jeans, striking features and a smile that would have you dream. He had mentally given her an 8.
“I don’t know. 6?” she quipped, hesitatingly.
“She’s an 8!!”, he ordered.
“NO WAY”, she stopped him as if she were an expert in rating women, “I mean look at her. Her face is too sharp.”
“I don’t know what the fuck that means. She’s an 8. She’s hot.”
“She’s not. Her top doesn’t go with her figure, plus her bag doesn’t cut it for me, not to mention her shoes.”
“Jesus. That’s not how you rate women. You rate women by their “inner beauty”, not their outer accessories. She’s got great tits, not to mention slender hips to move one’s hands around while you’re caressing her curvy ass.”
“You’re sick. You rate a woman; physically by how "easy on the eyes" she is.”
“Like you can see “easy on the eyes” when the lights are off. Never make rules for games you’ve just begun playing. You know the years of science that men have used deriving the rules of this game”, he said using his most convincing tone.
She laughed, “Yeah? Explain the science”
“You look at the woman. You determine how much you’d pay to fuck her for an hour. 1000 bucks is the top limit, because I don’t want to spend more than that on anyone. Divide that value by 100 and you have your rating for that woman.”
She laughed louder calling him sick every 2 seconds. The pronunciation of the term “sick” getting elongated with every laugh.
She adjusted her hair, sat back in her chair, took another look at the woman, “I don’t think I’ll pay more than 300 bucks for her”.
“You’re such a lesbian slut. Tell me what you’d want to do with her for that hour”
They laughed. Starters were long done with. The main course was on the way as they sipped their Ice teas.
“You’re saying you’ll blow 800 bucks for an hour with her?. You must be joking”
“Yeah. I’l blow 800 bucks and receive a blow back. Good barter. If only you knew how to think with a dick.”
“You guys are so sick. So sick!!”.
“Look at the whore who just said “she wouldn’t mind paying 300 bucks to bang that woman” talking”. They laughed.
And laughed some more right through the evening. His age old trick of using lust as a defence mechanism had worked once again. It distracted her from her fucked up state of mind to the thought of deciding how much money she’d pay to fuck a woman. It was perverse, to an extent but who gave a fuck if it made her flash her truly beautiful smile; clear the lines of distress from her face; forget her troubles if only for a little while and live.
They walked out. It was 11 pm and strangely the streets weren’t that busy with traffic, people, business or noise.
“Are you getting late?”, she asked as she ate her Cornetto.
“Not at all. It’s a Friday. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I want to sit with you, somewhere, anywhere.”
“Ok. Does there look good?”, he pointed at the sidewalk on the road, outside the shutter of a shop just closed after business.
“There?. It’s almost on the road. Hmmm.....Screw it, let’s sit there”.
They sat. Talked. Laughed. Reminisced. Smiled. Held Hands. Felt. Saw each other. Smiled again.
Just then an “outstation bus” arrived right opposite to where they were sitting. People began adjusting their luggage on top of the bus before getting into the bus.
“Do you realize, about 4 years ago, the last time I had seen you, you had dropped me on of those very buses and here we are 4 years on, sitting practically on the same road, together but not together. We’re 23, supposedly grown up. You’re with The Times of India, I’m a doctor. How times have changed.”
“Yeah”, he mustered, practically the only time that evening where words failed him as he looked at her, “but we still have each other”, he added what felt like a timely interlude.
“Yeah we do, as we always will.”
They parted ways, holding hands and looking at each other silent, the irony of life and love still lost on them.
As he stepped on the train remembering every tid-bit of the previous three hours, every joke, the woman whose price they fixed, the unintentional glances, the sitting on the road later, the déjà-vu of the bus appearing. Everything.
Just then his cell phone vibrated. She had sent him a message that got him smiling.
“Ok, I’ll pay 650 bucks for that woman, but nothing more. PS - Thank you for being you.”, it said.
Unusual.......
The Chase......
There once existed three separate people. They still exist, un-separate.
He strode outside Churchgate Station, pumped. The shirt crisp and blue, tie well matched, trousers comfortable. Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars played on his Ipod, on repeat for the past 32 minutes since he left office. He recollected his last conversation. The conversation that would redefine his life, his career, his day. Or atleast he hoped it would.
“It will happen Ken. You know it has to.”, Stephen reassured him.
“It fucking won’t. The way things shaping and all that. Recession and all that. ” Ken incoherently cut a sorry figure.
“That’s destiny man. You know you lost those 4 deals over the past 3 months to the recession. It’s the circumstances. Not your fault. It’s written. Nobody’s doing well. The fact that you’re getting deals on the table is huge. Chin up tiger. You know you’re good for it”.
“I hope so Stephen. Those 4 deals were worth 1.5 crores. Fucking hurts like fuck.
“Tell me one thing Ken – Who cracked the Intel deal?
“I did”
“Who cracked the FAI deal?”
“I did”
“Now who’s going to crack the IOL deal today?”
“I am”, he smiled.
“There you go”, smiled Stephen, patting Ken’s shoulder.
“Stephen, you’re the cheesiest fuck I’ve ever seen. You should write movies or become a trainer or something”.
Stephen’s smiled wider, almost laughing as he visualised himself writing movies.
“Tell you what. I crack this thing today and I’l take you out for lunch tomorrow. Done?”.
“Done. I won't have breakfast tomorrow.”
It was just then that the song on his Ipod got done and he sat in the “share-a-cab” at Churchgate as he began preparing for his meeting to close the deal.
She adjusted her hair before she stepped into her boss’s office. She had memorized all the revenue figures after she got an unexpected call from her boss to see her. She picked her diary, took her Reynolds and entered his office.
“What the fuck Neena”, the boss lambasted. “I told you NO MARKETING EXPENSES for 6 months. Why the fuck did you commit to TV Ads. We’re fighting the fucking recession and you’re commiting company money to pointless fucking Ads. Ther’s no fucking revenue in it. You are our Marketing Fucking Manager. Act like it or you can get off the fucking door. Henceforth before taking a fucking decision, ask me coz you seem to be too incompetent to take one yourself.” He was literally frothing at the mouth, fists clenched, tie loosened.
“Bu.t..”, she tried.
“Leave my office right now, You’ve irritated me enough for one day”
She left his office, mind fucked. It was a state of mind she had begun to get used to over the past two weeks. She began dreading her boss’s call, a call she received daily where he let out his frustrations on her, shredding her self confidence to bits. She was contemplating resignation. She didn’t only because the job market is equally fucked. The thought of everything in her life being fucked got her mind fucked further.
She slammed open her cabin door. Ken was seated inside.
“Did I ask for you to come today Ken?” her tone authoritative.
“You did Neena, we were supposed to sign on Print Campaign deal today”
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry. Just a lot of things on my mind. Really sorry”
“It’s allright Neena. I understand. Really do”
“Thanks Ken.” She inhaled as much air as she could. “Ken, we’d not be able to go ahead with the campaign. Not right now atleast. We could look at it, maybe four months down the line, but not now. Cost Cutting, recession and all that.”
He couldn’t muster the inner strength to come up with anything to say. He kept looking at her, as if she had failed him in some way.
“I’m really sorry Ken. I really am.”
It’s allright. I understand.
He didn’t understand. Of all the deals he had initiated this was the last one that he expected to lose.
“Some tea coffee Ken?”
“No, I think I’l head out. Will talk to you better at our next meeting, whenever that may be”
“You allright Ken?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just realised ther’s another meeting I need to head to, so I’l catch up with you some other time.”
He headed for the staircase. The office was on the 15th floor of the tower but he headed to the staircase to get mentally oriented again. Walking led to thinking. Thinking led to a severe mind fuck. He had reached the 7th Floor when he decided to sit on a step and just re-gather himself. Re-gather his world. He was wearing an Arrow Shirt, a Chopard watch and Marco Ricci shoes as he sat alone, on the isolated staircase of a commercial building. Life had humbled him.
He took out his phone. 3 missed calls. 1 from Stephen, 2 from his girlfriend.
He dialled Stephen’s number.
“Hi Ken”
“They backed out – cancelled the deal”
“Fuck, I’m sorry yaar – what happened?”
“Cost cutting”
“Fuck”
“Yeah”
“You’ve got another one tomorrow naa, that KPMG thing.
“Fuck everything. It’s so fucking depressing”
“Don’t worry, keep the faith, tomorrow’s thing will work out”
“Fuck everything. It’s so fucking depressing”
“Ken?”
“Yeah man.”
“I was sacked an hour ago”, Stephen sounded choked on his own spit and life.
“WHAT? Jesus Fucking Christ...............Jesus Fucking, Fucking Christ. Tell me your fucking kidding”
“I’m not. HR called for me. I was told not to report from tomorrow. 3 months salary. That’s that.”
“What was the fucking reason. You’ve been amongst our best performers over the past 2 months”
“Downsizing. Cost Cutting. Something. I was too dazed to hear. I could only see the HR guy moving his mouth. Couldn’t hear a thing beyond that”
“Fuck Stephen, are you all right? Can we meet?”
“I don’t know. I............I......I don’t know”
“Ok....Ok. I understand. Call you tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. Ken, I have a four year old and a two year old daughter. I’m fucking scared. Job market and everything.”
“Stephen. Relax. You’l get a better fucking job. Easy. You’re too experienced. You’re too good not to.”
“Fucking destiny of mine”
“You’re sure you can go back home?”
“Ya....yea, I think......I’l talk to you tomorrow ya”, he cut the phone.
Ken let the tear roll down his cheek clutching his phone as hard as he could.
He stood up after what seemed like an hour, looked up at the eight floors of deserted staircases above and seven below as he began walking down.
As he walked out of the building, the sunlight slowly kissed him on the cheek. He looked out, at the road, hawkers selling, people walking, talking, laughing, automobiles, taxis, commerce. He couldn’t hear a thing. He just absorbed the scenery. He was jealous looking at all those people on the road. He envied the happy lives they were leading to smile so openly, laugh whole heartedly.
He took his chai from the tapri, gazing back at the road as he sipped his chai. Just then, he saw Neena on the road. He tried not to look at her. She saw him.
“Hey Ken, You had another meeting right?”
“It got cancelled”
She ordered a chai for herself as they stood together along with the other people enjoying the dawn of evening.
A cutting chai is the only thing that binds a man earning 1000 a month to a person earning 1 lakh a month in Bombay.
“So how’s work?”, Neena tried to initiate a semblance of conversation.
“To be honest – Fucked”
“Tell me about it. I so want to throw my resignation at my boss and leave to a place where I can wet my legs in sand whenever I want”
Ken didn’t respond.
“Forget work, how’s life?”
“A colleague of mine, a very dear person to me just got fired an hour ago. He’s got two kids. The current job market”
“I’m really sorry to hear that”
A BMW slowly made it’s way towards them as they continued sipping tea. They looked at the car, a current symbol of impossibility. A symbol that also told them there was their whole life ahead of them. He’s 23, she’s 26. They would have countless such fucked up days in the future, innumerable arguments, failed deals and successes littered here and there which could finally culminate in a day where they sit on the backseat of their respective BMWs.
After all BMWs don’t just park themselves under your arse, you have to get it there.
Neena looked at Ken, “This was just a day”
He looked back “Yeah. This was just one of those days.”
“Tomorrow is a new day.”
“Yeah”, she smiled, a bright spot in a hazy day, “So, what are your plans for tomorrow Ken?”
“Chasing my BMW”
Looking Closeby.....
What Men?
A trademark line of every Goan Catholic (makapav) that you and I know.
Christopher is a Goan Catholic that I know of.
“What Men, you’re not doing anything for Christmas?”
“No”
“Why Men?”
“I just don’t do much. I visit my granny for lunch and that’s it.”
“Fucker men you are”.
Christopher can make 14 grammatical errors in the same statement. But that statement somehow hit me. I’m not a very “celebratory” person by nature. I don’t do parties like typical catholics or people my age. I don’t dance, drink or smoke and hence put a serious doubt to the fact if I’m really catholic. I’m more “understated” as some oversmart MBAs would conclude. But Christopher’s “Fucker men you are” somehow hit me, it redefined my Christmas plans.
25th December – 1:30 am
I stepped out of the church. People genuinely wished each other. Men kissed their wives, Boys their girls, Brothers and sisters embraced, the children smiled and laughed playing with their balloons. People were “together”. People were happy. It was Christmas and I was happy.
“You took your coffee and cake?” said mom, tugging onto my suit.
“Mama, lets go to The Heritage (A four star hotel opposite the church)”
“Why? Madowhat?”
“ I want to take you some place nice on Christmas night. We’l have coffee and eat something”
“No. Why do you want spend all that money?”
“I have the money Mama. Chal lets go. I’l call everybody else”.
It took me 30 minutes, convincing the rest of my mom’s 3 sisters and 2 brothers and their families that we should go there.
What followed in the quiet coffee shop of The Heritage at 2:15 am on Christmas night was loud relentless conversation of what was going on in who’s life. My mom caught up with most of her siblings. They caught up with her and dad. The sons and daughters caught up with their cousins. We ate. We debated. Discussed the terrorist attacks. Asked Diandra (my 20 yr old cousin) what she ate to maintain her Size Zero figure. Ordered more coffee and hot chocolate. It was 4:30 am. Christmas had arrived and “this” was a good idea, I thought as I dug out the credit card from my wallet. Mastercard could make an ad out of this. Dissolving yourself in family : Priceless.
25th December – 11:30 am
I woke up, dressed and headed to Nana’s (my granny) house. It’s a traditional thing we do on important days. Most of her 9 children were already there when I arrived, busy in mindless conversation.
I kissed Nana, wished her, gave her, her gift. Opened the cake I picked up, so we could get this thing started. Nana cut it with my 8 year old cousin Kunal, who was dressed in a miniature Santa outfit with all my aunties and cousin sisters bellowing “Awwwwww” for 15 seconds as they cut the cake and fed each other.
There was a lot of chicken, beer, cake, idlis, whiskey, wafers, children and loud voices. I guess celebration and chaos go together. Traditional gifts like watches, designer pens, mobiles, shirts, ipods, games were given to the men and children. With women, in my family, there is only one “gift” that usually gets them up, “dinner set”. I don’t understand the logic behind their collection. Every woman has atleast 4 dinner sets and the joy of getting a new one somehow rivals the previous one. Other popular gifts include sarees, electric iron, crockery, lipstick and other things that I have no interest in.
After lunch it was time for Nana’s custard and more irrelevant conversation, where the “slightly drunk” men discussed the current financial crisis each giving their own expert opinions on the causes and remedies. It was funny hearing them especially since not one of them has any remote expertise in global credit fallouts or equity fluctuations. But it’s our job to ramble, to talk, to pass time, to disagree with something we agreed upon 10 minutes ago. My fat aunty was describing how she has become an “L” from an “XL”. Everyone clapped. Tea was ready.
I connected the Karaoke machine. We started singing. We like to sing. We all have great taste in music, it’s one of the few advantages of being a catholic. The “XL to L” size woman, Greta sang “Elton John’s - Sacrifice” considering it’s slow and hence easier to score when singing on a Karaoke machine. Greta scored 95. She is a very competitive woman. My Uncle Edward is equally cunning, so he sang “The Beatles’s – Yesterday”, which is as slow as they go. He scored a 96 which was stunning considering he was visibly drunk. He started dancing, making gestures at Greta after the score. Greta got irritated, picked up the mike and started singing “Chicago’s – If you leave me now”. It’s a song she knew by heart and used it only when it was a “do or die” situation. I was in splits just looking at how hard she was concentrating at the screen. She scored a 72. My family laughed so hard that Jesus would have heard it. Diandra then sang “Shakira’s – Underneath your clothes”, the title of the 20 year old’s song raising more than a few eyebrows amongst the elders. Diandra assured them the song had a “deep” meaning. Kunal sang “Nat King Cole’s – Love” to raptures of applauses and “Awwwws”. Walter sang “The Police’s – Every Breath you take”. I sang “The Beatle’s – A Hard Day’s night” considering how short and well paced it is. I scored a 96. Edward and I danced in front of Greta. It was 9:00 pm.
We planned a family picnic to a water park on 28th December considering how much fun Christmas was. What followed was another amazing day. Another day I spent with my family, reminding me of their significance, their warmth, their jokes and what they mean to me. Those two days shattered my basic idea of Christmas being just another holiday to “do” something with friends or listen to music. Being with family somehow seemed “cool”, it seemed nice. It was the most fun I’ve had in the entire year. Work, Money and the busy Life had made me forget that sometimes happiness can be found just by looking “close”. Love resides “closeby”. You have to find it yourself.
As I slid from that 70 degree drop water slides, my entire year flashed before me. The completion of my MBA, the great job at The Times, a heartbreak, a heart mend, money, a large screen TV and a home theatre system, responsibility, maturity, gifts for the family, my first deal worth 30 lakhs, the sexy secretary of this client I frequent without work, success, failure with the recession, the terrorist attacks that tore my city, the romantic trip atop the boat with her, the incredible sex that followed, the conversations, Christmas, family, the picnic at this water park. Just them, the slide submerged me in the depths of the pool and it felt as if I had sunk in a year and was all set to welcome the next. I hope you do too. I hope and pray for me and you that the next year be a happy, fulfilling and peaceful one. After all it’s a short life and I’d rather it were pleasant for you, me and everyone else.
We drove back. I played a cassette. “The Beatle’s – Hey Jude” played and immediately everyone began singing. John Lennon would have been proud of our collective talent. We smiled as we tapped our feet singing. The worries in the world were forgotten, if only for a little while. It’s these little whiles that I will long for, the coming year.
Life is good.
Shards of my City.....
26th November – 10:30 pm.
I was at the Mahalaxmi Race Course-Turf Club, attending The Effies (Annual Advertising Awards) as part of The Times of India contingent, talking to advertising big-wigs like Agnello Dias and noticing the attractive-slutty society types who always make it a point to hug everyone at such functions, except me.
“Why was The Effies held at The Turf Club this year?, I always thought that The Taj or the Oberoi’s would be a better alternative”, I asked another creative director from O&M, whilst eating the spread of barbecued chicken and prawns from my plate.
“The Advertising fraternity actually prefers an open-air”, he replied.
Just then Agnello walked by our table. I congratulated him for JWT winning the Agency of the Year award. He congratulated us on the concept of Lead India of The Times of India which helped him sweep most of the awards.
“Kenneth, there’s some ‘problem’ at the Leopolds Cafe, Oberoi’s, CST and Mazagaon. Apparently its some form of gang war, but it could be some terrorists, so you better go home, you live close by there. I’l drop you.” relayed my ever calm Executive President of The Times of India.
Lead India. Irony Personified.
I reached home in another 15 minutes and put the TV on. I saw what you saw.
My statement of ‘Why was The Effies held at The Turf Club this year?, I always thought that The Taj or the Oberoi’s would be a better alternative’, began to pinch me in the stomach, just wondering ‘what if’ the function, like most functions or meetings I attend were to be at The Taj or Oberoi, I would literally been “in” there, probably in The Ball Room of The Taj or The Regal Room of The Oberoi, along with all the other hostages. Instead I was replying to what seemed like a million messages and calls with a standard saved reply, “I’m Fine”.
I saw CST, Colaba, Leopolds, places that an average South Mumbai, Mumbaikar like me visits most days and weekends, ripped, torn and mutilated.
Ofcourse the Taj, Trident and Nariman House ‘situation’ hadn’t begun in full proportion yet. I was still getting my head around Hemant Karkare entering CST only to lose his life, the terrorists then proceeding to Cama Hospital after trying unsuccessfully to enter The Times of India building, only to be foiled by the presence of mind of the security guards who immediately closed both the front and back shutters. I shudder to think of another hostage situation at the heritage building of the TOI with all the editors and journalists present inside.
It was 2am and I couldn’t get off the quite brilliant coverage of NDTV & Times Now of the ‘movie’ that was unfolding in front of me. It was then that news came in that they have nabbed two terrorists at Charni Road and killed both of them. The camera panned on a body of a dead terrorist lying on his stomach, in a van. The policeman, probably in a fit of rage or just in display of bravado, pulled the terrorist’s hair to reveal the bloody and bullet ridden face of the terrorist, while he still had his eyes wide Open. THAT was probably the most scariest thing I’ve EVER seen and I don’t usually get affected easily, I was stabbed and held the insides of my stomach a year ago and I’m unaffected but there was something about that bloodied dead terrorist with open eyes that shook me to the core that I actually couldn’t sleep, considering it was 3am and I live alone. They obviously haven’t showed that footage again considering how gruesome it was. Infact it was so gruesome, that it was actually after seeing that face, did the other terrorist who had pretended to be dead after the firing, actually start confessing.
Day break on 27th November.
I just assumed it was over. It had just begun. Taj, Trident and Nariman Houses, the places of ‘action’. The Taj on fire, literally. The Trident broken down and Nariman House, isolated in mystery. Windows broken. Fires Raging. Grenades thrown. The Bullets, the firing, the bodies, the tears.
Shards of my City.
Shards of me.
It continued like a K-serial without an end, frustrating especially since every time they described the attack as the “Final Assault” and then 4 hours later, they were preparing for another “Final Assault”. It was heartbreaking to watch the relatives jumping at the sight of every body taken out The Taj, Oberoi, JJ Hospital or GT Hospital, just hoping it isn’t their relative. By the end of the day, they had pretty much given whatever hope there was left and just hoped to find a “body”. The day ended, their search didn’t.
28th November – 8:00am
I was tying my tie, getting ready for work, like almost all Mumbaikars. Not reporting to work more than 1 day in this city is worse than fucking your best friend’s wife and being caught while you’re at it. Some refer to the above phenomenon as the “Bombay Spirit” : The ability to bounce back almost immediately. Come to think of it, it’s a little bit of spirit but most of all it’s just a “Compulsion of Commerce”. The show HAS to go on. We HAVE to make money. That’s what Bombay and her people are all about. So lets not hide under overused superlatives. Let’s reserve those for the brave Commandos.
As I was tying my tie I was hearing Arnab Goswami explaining how the troops were being air-dropped on top of Nariman House. The “FINAL ASSAULT” was on. I realised I’m going to work in the same city where there are troops landing on some building as I tie my tie. This is Bombay. And I love it.
I reached work. The Office was full. I wasn’t surprised. Everyone was giving their own account of what was happening, some of them so detailed and graphic, that it seemed to me as if the terrorists had phoned them before landing at The Gateway of India. I wasn’t surprised.
A guy approached my cubicle saying, “Arrey Kenneth, pata hain, Nariman House main 2500 sq feet available hain”.
Everyone laughed. You may not get the joke unless you know that only 0.1% of India’s population can afford a “20 by 20” house in South Bombay.
I read a mail from my immediate dreaded boss saying she has resigned from her job citing “Personal Reasons”
I asked Rohit, “Arrey What happened to Roshni?, Why did she resign?”
Rohit – “She took moral responsibility for the Terrorist Attacks. Her conscience didn’t let her continue”
Everyone laughed. I laughed.
THAT’S the Bombay Spirit. To find humour and just get on with it. Be happy that you’re alive and Live.
Just then another senior colleague comes to me, “Kenneth, lets close the Int*l deal yaar. We’l get those 70 lakhs toh is month ka budget balance main aa jayega.
But don’t forget that you BETTER make money “incase” you’re alive, or you can shove that Bombay Spirit up your arse.
We closed the Int*l deal in the evening, after empathising with the Managing Director about the “State of the City”. He got emotional and distracted. We closed the deal. Budget “balance main aa gaya”.
It’s a generic trick - If you ever want to build a relationship either with a client or a woman, empathise with her, talk about things she likes, fake interest when she speaks, tactfully place her on a pedestal, pick a moment and then close the fucking deal. I’m a nice guy by heart.
I reached home at 6, around 2 hours earlier than usual because I couldn’t wait to switch on the TV to Times Now and hear Arnab Goswami getting hyperactive. I swear, I’ve never been as eager even when my girlfriend sends a very filthy message of how she wants me to ravage her as she heads to my place - as I was, getting back to watch Arnab Goswami that day.
The “FINAL FINAL ASSAULT” had just begun, according to Arnab. In an hour, it was “done” at Nariman house and The Oberoi. All hostages dead, very sadly. Bombay breathed a sigh of relief. I said a short prayer for the jewish couple, the other hostages and for peace. I hope God hears me this time, its been a while.
It was Taj’s turn to hog the entire limelight now. It had to be The Taj, a symbol of Prosperous India, a symbol that was battered, burned, brutalised and raped in front of all our eyes before the brave commandos won her back from the “other people” at 7:30am the next day.
People rejoiced. It was over. Then they mourned. They mourned not only the people who died, but the Soul of Bombay, the Soul of India that was dying.
I said a prayer for the people who are responsible to keep me alive. I thank them.
People looked at disdain at the terrorists that came on that night via the Gateway of India, but lets not get emotional for a second, if you think practically they did a Remarkable job. A bunch of 10 people (possibly 5 more) took on the ENTIRE COUNTRY and WON. Yes they died but they fulfilled their objective of holding the country to ransom for 60 hours. They saw to it that the world sat up and took notice of how well prepared they were, of how 2 of them had the resilience and tenacity to fight 70commandos and not give up till their last breath. The world will take them seriously again now, after 9/11. That’s something and I applaud that determination even if you hate me for that. Let’s face the facts people, the Terrorists have come into our bedroom and fucked us hard in our arse and then left because they were “done”.
If only they were good people.
If only our politicians were half as well prepared, resilient and competent as them.
I walked by the reopened Leopolds this evening, had my favourite kheema pav. It tasted Amazing as always. I then proceeded to sit at The Gateway and see The Taj, only to find the place cordoned off. So I walked to Nariman Point and witnessed The Oberoi. I saw a few burn marks, a lot of shattered windows and a deep hollow developing in my heart thinking of all the people hiding under their beds or inside the cupboards, in those very rooms, so the terrorist wouldn’t find them. I hope they were either rescued or are at peace in heaven.
Shards of my City.
Shards of me.
I pray for peace.
Strawberry Swing..........
“Congratulations. Here’s your Daughter”, the doc said, meaning it.
She was ecstatic. She was tired. He was relieved, happy. He was also going to be poorer. He welcomed a baby and a White Ambassador car he brought in the morning, both, on the same day. The year was 1966.
They were a family, a new happy family. The daughter opened her eyes to the world, sleeping, sucking, crying and sleeping some more.
“She’s soooooooo cute no?”, the mother ranted all day to visitors.
The Ambassador drove the family around. It was another addition to the family, albeit a costlier, less precious one.
She started to grow up. Nursery. School. Tears. Teachers. Pencils. Books. Homework. Life happened to her.
The Ambassador grew up. Washing. Servicing. Maintenance. Painting. Pride. Life happened to it. The year was 1975.
The mirror became her best friend. She began seeing beauty in her reflection, finding faults where there weren’t any, trying the jewellery in the dresser drawer. She was a woman in making. The mirror knew that. She didn’t.
Soon boys happened. There was Pampering, gifts, conversations, winks, stolen kisses. She stopped baby talking and started girl talking. Her physical form changed. She liked it and for a few years, boys and body was all she discussed with her girlfriends. She was 19.
By then it was 1985. The Ambassador wasn’t cool enough for her. She preferred the Fiat, Kapil Dev, Sean Connery, Cliff Richards, ABBA, Levis, L’Oreal, Lords, Skirts and lot more other things that only she knew of.
The Ambassador was getting old, with the repairs, continuous breaking down, dents caused by harmless accidents and Bombay roads.
She was a very efficient as a steno. She was a Career woman. Ofcourse in the year 1995, Stenography was a ‘Career’.
“When are you getting married? You’re 29. You want to stay with us throughout your life?”, her mom nagged her daily after she returned from work.
“Later Mama, If I go, who’s going to take care of you two?”
She was a sincere human, emotion filled and a gift.
On the side, she was also waiting for her boyfriend of 3 years, to get secure in his Professional life.
He did, 4 years later and almost immediately married a woman of his parent’s choice. An arranged marriage. An arrangement that dis-arranged the strings her sensitive heart.
She worked, for her parents. Got promoted to be a manager of some sort. Life happened to her. Her marriage was fixed 8 months later. She was 34, successful, unsatisfied and unfulfilled.
1 year into her marriage. She woke up one morning. She found her husband dead beside her. Heart Attack. Gone.
She returned back to her parent’s. Her dad drove her weary soul back in the weary Ambassador. Work went on. Life went on. She proclaimed she had the Bombay Spirit. I just thought she had Human Spirit.
Years passed. She was made General Manager at her firm. She was intelligent. But more importantly she was wise. What followed was a bigger house in which she and her parents could live comfortably. She cared, being the beautiful human that she was. She had Comfort, without actual peace of mind, Success without an actual feeling of fulfilment.
She was bathing, when she discovered a cyst on her left breast, one evening. She was diagnosed with breast cancer 1 month later. Advanced stage. The year is 2008.
She was reluctant to fight yet another battle. Her Bombay Spirit was withering. She didn’t show it. It showed.
She lay on the bed, flanked by books, an Ipod Nano, A laptop and her beautiful smile when she passed away. Life stopped happening to her.
“My Deepest Sympathies. Here’s your Daughter”, the doc said, meaning it, as he handed her to her mother.
The Ambassador stopped working completely, a month later. It was sold off. It was as old as her. It had travelled a full circle. It didn’t fetch much money. “3500 rupees for this scrap”, as the buyer put it. It was worthless. They drove to all their family holidays in it and it was worthless, a forgotten asset. She was forgotten 2 weeks after she died. “Fatima who?”, as a neighbour put it.
Her life laid no significance in the absence of her. That’s just how life is, isn’t it? People continue waking up to take a Churchgate Fast in the morning, drinking a cutting chai on the road, watching Big Boss in the night, sleeping for a few hours, living their life. It’s called being human, nowadays.
“What is happiness to you?”, I asked her, 3 years ago.
“Eating Strawberries, swinging on a swing”, she answered.
If only life were a Strawberry Swing.
Wonderful tonight........
Him – I want to fuck you with ‘Eric Clapton’s Layla’ playing at the background
She thinks for 15 seconds. He waits.
Her – Which version, Original or Acoustic?
Sometimes, women just say the wrong thing. I mean, he’s hard, it’s 2 AM, she’s kinda turned on, but she HAS to play “hard to get”, even though she wants to be had anyways. “Playing hard to get, makes us feel ‘coveted’”, a difficult woman once told me.
Anyways.
Him – Maybe we should call Eric Clapton and ask him which version of “Layla” would set the mood better, for “us” to fuck each other.
Some men know how to use sarcasm, so that difficult women get the point.
Her (Ignoring) – You know I’ve always thought of how amazing it would be to make love to Eric Clapton, every time I hear the song “Wonderful Tonight”.
Him (Deadpan) – How amazing?
Her – Like “amazing amazing!!!”. Imagine, it’s ERIC CLAPTON.
Him – Yeah, I’m imagining Eric Clapton fuck my girlfriend senseless. And my girlfriend’s looking back at me, satisfied, saying it’s the best time she’s had in bed. That’s one fantastic flow of thought I want to have when I AM horny.
Her – Arrey....Don’t imagine “Eric” fucking me, just imagine him making “love” to me.
Women not only know how to “stroke” a man’s ego when the situation demands it. They also know how to cut that ego with a Very sharp knife, mix it with chutney and feed it to 16 vultures.
He didn’t say anything.
He couldn’t say anything.
Her – Accha, tell me how was your day?
Him – Was good, what are you wearing?
Her – How did the negotiations with that Birla guy go?
Him – K. Birla?. I clinched it, 2 crore deal. Are you wearing that short purple nightdress?
Her (Mild Scream) – Really??!!!
Women have this ability to extract relevant information and leave the rest of the crap ignored. That’s why they make better managers.
Him (Giving Up) – Ya.
Her (The Scream getting louder) – Damn....I’m so excited.
Him – Good. Atleast you’re getting excited one way, if not the other.
Her – Heyyy, stop with your acidic sacarsm haan. Ek toh I’m giving you “customised bhav” by getting excited for you and your giving me acid.
Him – Accha Accha, tell me how was your day?
Her (Shrieking) – Was AMAZING.
Drama comes second nature to most women. Give a girl a line like, “I just brought a new toothbrush today”. Tell her to dramatise it in 7 different ways. She’l give you 14. Or 21 if she’s Damn good. Try it.
Him (Taken aback with that noise at 2 AM) – Why? What happened?
Her – I did NOTHING today.
Him – Accha?
Her – Actually, I had set out with the script, the props etc. to finally begin shooting the documentary, but then the “weather” was so amazing naa...I called Prerna, Sara, Neeyata, Mickey, Tarun, Raj and someone else who I cannot remember right now and invited them home. We spent the ENTIRE day together, having fun. It’s been a while since we all caught up. We saw Rock On again.
Him – Again? But you just did you haven’t gone out with them in a while.
Her – Why the fuck do you have to analyse the exact thing that you’re supposed to ignore.
This is one of the reasons why “some” men make useless managers.
Him – Accha Accha, Ok. I’l concentrate on the amazing weather and your bonding session.
Her – You gimme sacarsm again and I’l hang up hard on your face right now.
Him – You wanna go shopping this weekend?
Her – For you?
Him – And you. I’m loaded after that Birla deal.
Her – YES. FUCK YES!!! We are going to Colaba Causeway and Atria Mall and Parel and
Him (Cutting her) – You don’t want to hang up “HARD” on my face right now”?
She said NOTHING for 17 seconds.
He didn’t say anything either.
Men really don’t know what to say when women give them the silent treatment. There are 10 things going on in his head. There are 1000 things going on in her head. She EXPECTS him to say the right thing. He doesn’t know what’s the right thing to say, because he doesn’t even know WHY she’s giving him the silent treatment in the first place. So usually he says nothing, awkwardly, hoping somehow she says something. But she’l NEVER say anything, because ther’s nothing women love better than getting an upper hand in conversation politics. Plus she likes to see him suffer for her attention.
Anyways, back to the story. I talk a lot.
Him – You don’t want to hang up “HARD” on my face right now”?
She said NOTHING for 17 seconds.
He didn’t say anything either.
She hung up.
Now this is a very tricky situation for guys, because She’l DEFINITELY NOT call him back. He’s got to make the call and say something really sweet and sugary to get her to listen to him. But MOST of all he’s got to sound convincing, because women you know, they’re cunning bastards, they know when the guy’s not honest and when he’s patronising them to just “get out of the situation”.
There’s another thing that suddenly crops in these situation, with guys, their GIANT EGOs. “Arrey, why the fuck should I call? She hung up. She’l Call.
GHANTA SHE’l CALL.
He’l realise this sooner or later, especially when he realises not calling her means NO SEX for a forthnight. He’l then call her immediately, his GIANT EGO suppressed by his (varied size) penis.
He called her after 7 minutes. Her phone rang.
Her (Deadpan) – Ya?
Him – I’m sorry.
Her – For?
I don’t get why women have to act so pricey all the fucking time.
Him – For.....(he’s trying to search for his convincing tone)....for being an asshole.
Her – Why? What did you do?
I told you women are cunning bastards. They enjoy seeing a man naked, metaphorically.
Him – You know what I did yaar.
Her – No I don’t, tell me.
Him – I was sarcastic.
Her – You were what?
Him – Sarcastic.
Her – Will you give me your acidic sarcasm again?
Him – I’l try my best not to
Her – Will you give me your acidic sarcasm again?
Him – No
Her – God your sooooooo cute. I want to pull your cheeks. I LOVE teasing you.
Him – I should cut off my balls and put it in a jar under your basin.
Her – Then I’l have to search for another man.
Him – Might as well, I’m anyways regrowing my virginity with you.
Her – How long has it been?
Him – 3 daaaaayyyyyssssss!!!!
Her – With that “hopping like a rabbit” dick of yours, it must feel like a year.
Him – YES!!!!. You understand my dick and me so well.
Her – It’s part of my portfolio.
Him – I’m so bloody happy after that Birla deal today.
Her – And I’m happy for you, baby.
Him – I love you yaar, you really helped through all of the 3 months.................. Like, I really love you.
Her – You better, I’m fabulous.
Him – Tomorrow evening we’l go Shopping. Dancing, have dinner and Fuck. Not in that order.
Her – Now, I love you too.
Him – What are you wearing right now?
Her – A REALLY short purple nightdress.
Him – I’m coming to your flat right now. I don’t care if your roommate gets disturbed with the noise.
Her – She’s asleep. Come fast.
He hung up.
Bittersweet Symphony.....
“We look like 2 homos”, Ishaan repeated, pissed off as they entered through the sidey doors of a really expensive pub in Worli.
“No, we don’t”, Joshua blankly reassured him, non interested. He searched for women with short black skirts and inviting plunging necklines.
“Why the fuck did you have to wear a pink shirt?”, Ishaan asked, quite worried about reactions, stares and looks, he thought they would receive.
“Stop being a macho homophobe, I need to piss, Sit at that barstool”, he blurted 3 sentences that had no resemblance to each other, but then irritating friends talking, especially when there’s so much cleavage around to concentrate on, can do that to men.
Men have tremendous visualisation skills. They can visualise the colour and type of bra a girl is wearing underneath a blouse and how she’d look naked (preferably on top of him), but ask him to visualise his future with the same girl or his career, his financial future or anything constructive or “real”, you’d get the guaranteed famed response. “Let’s see”.
Joshua sat beside Ishaan at the barstool. He ordered a tower of Fosters. It cost a fortune. 525 bucks.
Ishaan spoke finally, “So she told me she was seeing someone else”
“Why are these places so fucking expensive? even the Thumbs Up costs 100 bucks. I mean, it’s a normal place, ok seating, decent music (The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” was playing in the background, compared to Sean Kingston’s Beautiful Girl in most clubs, a song that teenagers and most of Bombay’s “hip” youth had taken a liking to). But it’s still so fucking expensive. You know what the “Profit Margin” of this place would be?”, the slightly cheap, but totally money oriented attitude of the practical MBA in Joshua finally showed up.
“Your paying for the ambience and the experience”, the theoretical Marketing MBA, Ish, offered in weak response.
“You even know what that means? or your giving me crap that a typical 22 yr old girl that you went on 2 dates with, told you. These chicks feel that they have a “nice time” in such places and the money is justified. Afterall it’s their pop or their boyfriend’s pop who pays eventually. Why the fuck would they care?”
He was right. A 22 year old who Ishaan went out 4 times with told him this. She didn’t as much as kiss him, at the end of it.
“Why are you being so fucking cynical? Stop overanalysing. And Stop Generalising”, Ishaan was starting to show frustration.
“Why, your girl’s very ‘different’? How is she by the way?”, Josh finally began showing interest.
Ish – I’m fucked. Sonal’s seeing someone else. I think she’s even gone out with him. God knows what else.
Josh – You think she fucked him? (he waited for 5 seconds) or made out with him?
Ish – Keep your voice down. Why are you being such an asshole Josh? (He answered nonetheless) Maybe yes. Must have. Surely.
Josh – What? Fucked or made out? (Josh started laughing, beginning to play with Ish’s misery)
Ish – I’m leaving. (He pretended by standing up)
Josh – Sorry yaar (his first act of “friendliness”)
He knew he had to “listen” to Ish, like those “oversmart” girls who try to be everybody’s agony aunts. But more importantly he had to “be there” for his friend, rather than strike up an interesting conversation with some inviting girl out there, He knew he could pull it off. The “flirting with strangers” part, not the “being there” part.
Josh – So what are you going to do? (there were some traces of empathy)
Ish – I don’t know. I’m feeling fuckall. I really liked this one.
Josh – Fuck someone else. It really helps. Trust me.
Men consider the act of “sexual intercourse” to be the answer to all problems. Physical, Psychological, Emotional, Mental, Anything. “Fuck someone” is the first and only “manly advice” you get. The women would rather hear the guy/girl patiently, give them a ear and a shoulder and just “be there” for them and “talk” to them.
The “manly” advice has greater success rate. Trust me.
Josh – I’m serious. It will get your mind “off” things. You’d gradually meet someone else and things will be back to normal. You know there are plenty of women for both of us, buddy. (Josh was really beginning to turn a corner. He was a real nice guy once you get to know him)
Ish – It’s not so simple this time Josh, I “loved” this one. Now all I picture is “this guy fucking her, kissing her, biting her, being wild all the fucking time, like he’s never been with a woman before”
Josh – I know how you feel. I felt that way too when I lost a girl I loved. (He lied. His relationships lasted maximum of 7 days.). We feel like the girl we loved is fucking this new guy wild. Even though it’s a little perverse and naive, that’s the first and only dominating thought that enters our heads. She’s fucking someone else. Like she has nothing else to do in life besides fucking. But’s it’s OK. It’s normal and I assure you she isn’t fucking him “yet”. She hasn’t gotten over you. (He lied again)
Ish – I don’t know (He really didn’t know what to say)
Josh – And even if she is fucking him, so WHAT? (raising his voice). She’s with someone else. Get over it. I mean life will go on right? Besides, I didn’t like her. She wasn’t worth you. You deserve MUCH better. You’re a “dude” yaar. Kate Moss would bend for you.
The idea of Kate Moss bending for him made Ish beam that captivating smile for the first time in the entire evening.
Josh – Never make someone a priority in your life when you’re just an option in their life.
That line alone could get Josh laid with some fancy literary, media or advertising type.
Josh – There are 2 girls behind.
Ish looked behind and smiled again at those 2 girls
Josh – One’s Korean, looks like and the other’s Indian. I’ve been eye teasing the Korean for sometime. You "take" the Indian.
Ish - Yeah, if we’re lucky.
Josh – (Irritated and Angry) Why do you think that you’d be lucky if she responds to your advances? (He took another swig of his beer). If she does, “fine”, if she doesn’t, “fine”. I mean men like you end up giving so much “bhav” to women and they start growing wings and 100 kgs of attitude on their 50 kg bodies. They begin to think that we need to work for their “attention” and they think they’re doing us a favour if they end up having sex with us. I mean they forget that they enjoy “sex” as well and in reality, they need our “attention” to feel good about themselves.
Sexual discrimination against men was a very touchy topic with Josh.
Ish – Relax yaar, I was kidding (he patted Josh’s back)
Josh – Fuck you. (5 seconds later). Asshole.
Ish – Come on yaar, I’m not that big an asshole. You just said Kate Moss would bend for me, 5 minutes ago.
They laughed. It was 10:30 pm. The evening was moving on well. Life was nice again.
They went up to the girl’s table. They spoke. Well mostly it was Ish who spoke with Sandhya (the Indian girl, a freelance copy writer for 2 advertising agencies)
Josh meanwhile fucked the Korean girl, whose name he couldn’t pronounce, in the loo, as was his fantasy after years of watching American TV shows. They didn’t call each other after the wild rendezvous. What would they talk about?
Ish and Sandhya, called each other, went out, shopped, fucked and broke up 4 months and 14 days later.
Ish phoned Josh, about the breakup.
They met up.
