Just like that..

"A woman on the road wearing bright blue jeans, red top with a black bindi on her forehead, orange flowers in her hair and anklets on her feet. She is waiting on the bustop chatting incessantly on her cell. Horror, shock, disgust and then pure amazement.
Here was a woman who was caught in translation between being a typical lower middle class South Indian woman and an aspiring woman who wants to get somewhere in life. It was a quixotic mixture of traditionalism spiced with modernity. She might have failed miserably when it came to fashion etiquette but she scored full points for exerting her individuality no matter how garish it would seem to you and me."



So read one of my unfinished posts which never saw the light of the day and I lost that chain of thought forever. Maybe that's why I am blogging as someone asked me to capture the memories. Among the many other things I want to write about, this one is about a bus journey.

Lily Allen was crooning in my headphones and I was looking out of the window, cool breeze hitting my face. I had blanked out the noise around me, just observing. A middle aged woman with huge red bindi and many bangles sat next to me. She had the look of a chihuahua. In front of me sat an old woman in a burqa who was having trouble getting the change for her bus fare. The conductor was patient and gently chided her. A young college student was sitting next to her constantly blabbering on her cell and blushing. I could see people pushing and shoving and I was grateful for my window seat. In a matter of 15 minutes three very different women along with me came face to face with each other. We never spoke but we all had made eye contact at some point. I don't know and I will never know what they thought of me but I was just amazed at the radically different lives each of us led and yet we were together for some obscure bus ride. It was humbling.

As I sat there thinking, the old lady got up and walked away. And before I could notice, there was another woman sitting next to me with a huge basket of flowers. My mind began to think of their stories and lives again..

The Blog Dissection.

Most of the bloggers I know are very particular about posting regularly and have a loyal set of followers. Its what popular blogs are all about. Nothing wrong with that, that's the way it should be. What about reluctant bloggers like me? Bloggers can be classified into the following kinds:
1) Good writers with a good publicity.
2) Bad writers with good publicity.
3) Good writers with bad publicity.
4) Bad writers with bad publicity.

Where does that leave mine? To answer this, I was going through the posts of my 'almost' dead and defunct blog. I came up with another set of classification for my posts as follows:
1) "What was I thinking when I wrote that?!.."
2) "Why in the world did I publish this?!.."
3) "Why did I torture my readers with this post?!.."
4) "I could've written it better.."
5) " Grammatically incorrect.."
6) "Proud of this post.."

I once read an article by Jug Suraiya, a columnist and a writer, distinguished for the satire, wit and humor in his writings and who believes in not reading what he has written. He had to attend the book release function of his book and was asked to read a few verses from the book. He said, " I never realized that reading what you have written could be so traumatic, I saw mistakes which funnily escaped my notice previously and were now glaringly visible and I had to read it all aloud." I laughed when I read it then, but now I know what he must have gone through.

Its like watching an embarrassing video of yourself which you never thought was being recorded in the first place. For instance, the cute baby videos that parents take of their baby boy running around naked in the house, picking his nose and blabbering absolute non sense. The poor baby is totally oblivious of the fact that the very video could be used as a means of blackmail later on in his life. Imagine the horror he'll have to go through. Sadist parents.

I was undergoing something similar when I was reading a few of my posts, totally horrified at the stupidity of a few and mundane nature of others. But I also like a few posts of mine. The "Happily Ever After" is a personal favorite, though it has its own glitches when I see it now, but I resisted the urge to correct it. Let it be. There are posts which are so bad that I have had to physically stop my hand from clicking the delete button.

Whatever the posts, good, bad or ugly, they were written with a certain frame of mind at a certain period of time, in the past. The mistakes I made are mine and I'll let it be. This blog is not necessarily a record of the important events in my life nor is it a carelessly written collection of my thoughts.

At the end of it, I don't know if I would want to classify the blog like I earlier mentioned. Lets just say, like I always tell my friends, "We all have a story to tell."
This, is a part of mine.

THE finger.

According to Palmistry, which is perhaps the best known form of divination and character reading, the index finger is said to be ruled by Jupiter, the middle finger by Saturn, the ring finger by the sun and the little finger by Mercury.

The finger in question today is the Index finger or the Jupiter finger or pointer finger or forefinger or trigger finger or digitus secundus, or digitus II.

I woke up at 5:30 am, went for a walk with my best friend (which I will regret later) and then began our "Voter Voyage". Both of us being first time voters, the excitement was palpable. Ale voted first and she did it without any hassles. It took her about 20 minutes and she had the "mark" on her finger. That mark is created by an ink produced by a little known state enterprise, Mysore Paints and Varnish ltd (MVPL) in Mysore. Yes, people should know this.

Now, it was my turn to vote and this is when my trauma began.
We went to my colony where there were people who were carrying the voter's list. I went and showed them my card. The person who was checking it, did not find my name in the list and coolly told me that since I got my card very recently, I might have to vote next time. I was pissed, Ale frustrated. The other guy who was checking my name was asking me about the others whose names were there in the list like, "Yeh Sheerlay kaun hai?" Read Shirley. I said I don't know. Then he asked me about some other 3-4 people, each time I gave him the same answer (patience getting tested). The first guy actually showed me the pic of some other female with some other name and told me it was me. I showed him the name on my card and the photo, but he again did the same thing, this time it was the pic of some 35 year old guy. His logic, the number on the card was almost the same as mine. Either I was going mad or the world was turning stupider. Finally when the third guy was checking the list, I found it myself. It was my "Eureka Moment!"

I did not know my polling booth and the person who had successfully found my name gave me the wrong directions. I am not surprised, when I think about it at hindsight. I guess some people are born with a limited intellect. Anyway, after wasting a good 15 minutes at the wrong booth, I managed to find out the correct address and we finally reached there. All my happiness was gone the instant I saw the huge waiting line ahead of me. Ale made herself comfortable in one of the benches provided there, looking half sleepy and half bored. My ordeal had just began. I spent about 15 minutes at one spot on an average. The female behind me was worried that her date of birth was not right. The middle aged woman behind was happy that the age on her card was lesser that what her actual age was. The woman in front of me was standing like a zombie. The girl in front of her had a rose in her hair which looked like a rotten tomato. I can go on about the innocuous details, shows the levels of boredom. I finally reached the spot where the symbols of the candidates were at display. Apart from the usual ones, there was a banana, a shuttle cock, a glass, a hat, and an unidentifiable symbol which I thought looked like a cat's litter box. Old ladies and physically handicapped people voted first. Finally, after what seemed like millions of years, I reached the door of the entrance. When I went in, I was almost expecting them to say that my name is not there in the list, but thankfully my worst fears were laid to rest. The "mark" was put on my left hand index finger and I was given the 2 slips. One for Lok Sabha and one for Vidhan Sabha. It was an electronic machine which was put and I casted my vote. I could almost hear the hallelujah chorus when I came out. Ale returned my gleeful smile and we were done for the day.

It was the click of a finger which changed a lot of things. That sound of the beeper going off when you cast your vote lingers on in my mind.

"Happily Ever After"

Once upon a time, there lived a gentle King who ruled the land of Glory Dale...so on the story goes and after a lot of trials and tribulations, which normally includes rescuing a gorgeous damsel in distress, fighting a wicked witch and then riding away in an idyllic landscape on a milky white horse. The story ends in "Happily Ever After."

Such fairy tales were an integral part of my childhood and I was besotted by them. But as you grow older, you realise that the Prince Charming doesn't exist and the wicked witch looks pale in comparison to the real life villains. The dreamy idealism of childhood slowly gets eaten away by cynicism of adulthood. The innocence is replaced by an uneasy sense of responsibility. Sometimes you are tempted to get lost in this transition.

Deaths because of terrorism will become more common than natural deaths but the winners of beauty contests will wish for "World Peace" with a pearly white smile stuck on those plastic faces. The Antarctic and the Arctic Glaciers will melt but we'll continue to consciously ignore it, hoping that Santa Claus who lives in the north pole will magically set it right! The Panda along with our Olive Riddley Turltes and many other species will become extinct and we'll say "Tch tch, what a tragedy, they were such cute things". Civil war will break out in many of our neighbouring countries replacing the farcical democracy with dictatorship but we are more bothered about the IPL dates. Unconcerned desi politicians will politicise Valentine's Day but wont give two hoots about the 10% rise in poverty in the country where the number of children dying because of malnutrition is the highest in the world, beating even the Sub Saharan countries of Africa. Girls will get beaten out of their dignity for not upholding our "culture" and we'll celebrate Women's Day with aplomb. I will go on writing about these things and frankly I don't really have a point to make. Its a glaring reality.

Its in moments like these, I wish I could escape to the unbridled life of ignorance and bliss. Sing songs of joy and laughter with Hansel and Gretel. Play ringa-ringa roses with the seven dwarfs of Snow White. Take a world tour in Cinderella's pumpkin carriage. Have a chat with a leprechaun and find out the secret of sliding down a rainbow, maybe he'll show me that elusive pot of gold. Have a romantic dinner with Aladdin on the moon, Genie can arrange that and then climb trees with Mogli. Spend the next morning with Alice in her Wonderland and catch a glimpse of the Cheshire cat. Go trekking with Pocahontas and then a wild life safari with Simba who'll show me a breathtaking view of the forest and all its animals from the Pride Rock. Meet Little Red Riding Hood's granny. Finally I would help build an elevator for Jack to go up his Beanstalk.

As I sit here reminiscing about the various fairy tales, fully aware of the escapist nature of it all, the world continues to reel under the cruelty of its most intelligent species. I can't help but wonder whether I'll ever have my own "Happily Ever After."