Chapter XVI: Love, Faith and Resentment

This dates back to the first week of January '13, three days after our tiny torrent of joy arrived. My youngest sister's baby boy. I was visiting my parents who were staying at my elder sister's. I had to see them and share their happiness. 

The crescent moon raced along my window seat, battling all the gnarled leafless branches that tried to bar the magical conversation it was having with the tiny white eyes gazing right at it.

I was in the mini-bus I had hopped in at Paradise Circle, Secunderabad with two bags placed carefully in my feet. One big and one small. It was taking us all Mumbai-bound passengers to its multi-axle bigger sibling that would consume us all and belch us out in Maharastra. In about 12 hours.

The  smell of sulphur dioxide carried by the gust of wind that sneaked in from the thin rectangular opening in my window pushed its way through the thick strands of nose-hair that only recently had started playing peek-a-boo with every eye that held sight of them. The mini bus has braved it all for years. Everything. The Smell of SO2. Getting hustled by puny species of automobiles. The Pollution. The Rush. The Rage. The Madness.

Inured to the sameness, the less-luxurious, younger sibling honked its way through a sea of automobiles, semi-constructed pillars that will in near future bear the burden of speedy metro rails and some auto-rickshaws that scurried impatiently like a rodent. These auto-walas racing against someone only they can see, sharply cutting through other seemingly invisible vehicles, making space wherever they can penetrate the front wheel of their only source of income are so  accustomed to the surrounding rage that they evoke a mouthful of foul language from the other commuters so effortlessly.  My mini-bus gaily overtook them. The autos made her seem less "mini". Regaining confidence, it sped smoothly through the undying spirit of a big city and the restlessness at its heart. The smoke, lights and noise that usually define a club's dance-floor filled the very old, uneven roads of Hyderabad. These roads were the city's own dance-floor on which many come and go, some dance well and safe, some aggressively as if trying to prove a point while others too drunk to hold composure jostle and crash, taking an innocent dancer down with them.
 

The mini-bus presented us just out of Hyderabad on a gas station where its older sibling's womb was getting loaded with everybody's baggage. I submitted my bags too. One big and one small. Then I sank in my seat, letting a sense of complacency take over. And bam! It dawned on me. Having bragged about my organizing skills umpteen times to my pals here, I let them have the last laugh when despite the multiple lists I made (about the things to be packed or the food that had my tongue wagging), I forgot something they know I have a tough time without. My Earphones! Yes, the garish blue Panasonic ones. 

The moment I settled in the bus to Secunderabad, they visited me in my mind, a vision of them lying quietly on the edge of the centre-table, lonely and submerged in their own futility. The hands that usually after untangling them would make them part and stick each of them in a dark hole that they vomited unlikable noises in. Yes, those hands were now covering my ears to save me from the destruction Bol Bachchan could have caused. The conductor found it appropriate to entertain the lot with the movie but that callous prick failed to acknowledge the only passenger brooding in the front seat, refusing to let a laugh out for the loud, utterly-predictable, pedestrian humour. It's amazing how all Rohit Shetty movies have his stamp on them and how equally and immensely I hate them all.

Right when the credits rolled in, I began to prepare myself to recover from the damage done by the effeminate out-of-work Abhishek, the cringeworthy Ajay, the very manly Archana's veshya act and  Asin's innate ability to look and sound irritating in every movie without putting in much effort. 

I had never missed my blue earphones that bad. I pledged to never be apart. I cursed my stars. I cursed my carelessness. I cursed the conductor. I cursed his choice. I cursed Piracy. I cursed the first person who ever thought of bringing televisions inside buses. Soon I had in my face Salman who sported a moustache and performed bollywood-action so convincingly beating the bejesus out of every crook in the frame. Thankfully, my winks of sleep protected me from witnessing the downfall of a dangerous villain ironically named 'Bacha Bhaiya'. 

The few days I had to spend with my parents and sister's family in Mumbai flew by faster than a whizzing flock of busy honeybees that fly for a bed of flowers full of nectar. I'll remember this visit for the eye-opening, faith-shattering trip to Shirdi and Shani Shignapur that extracted every sliver of feeble faith I had, absorbed it, trapped it in an abyss and eventually purloined its life.

We had the online passes meant for those willing to shell out money, which would grant us the chance to be a part of the prestigious 'aarti' of a milky-white idol of an aged man adorned with a golden crown. 

He was like a rock band’s lead vocalist. Only carved in stone and lifeless. With his own posse of portly pandits as his back-up singers. The hysteria grander than that of the Rolling Stones. The mute rockstar and his super show, fed on faith of his frenzied fans not balling their fists up in the air with excitement but clapping synchronously to the notes hit by the backup singers. The fans sang along. For them the hymns were the greatest record ever. Unbeatable tunes.

It was his show and HE was the audience too. He just sat amidst the clamour. At peace. Full of himself. Silently snickering at the hullaballoo. Mocking everyone consumed in the menial earthly tasks of winning him over. Deriding his back-up clan from whom he stole the show without parting his lips, who sang their lungs out but only he garnered the credit.

The hymns were sung passionately in an unknown language, as if the passion would bring the old man to life; as if it was their first performance ever and their only one to please the old man and ask for his forgiveness. Forgiveness because they had bartered their souls for something that the entire world is slave to, something that is as omnipresent as their god- it's the greed, the filthy power of money. Big idol, big benefits.

I somehow like the smaller bands better. The ones in which the same mute lead-vocalist performs the routine without moving a muscle in a much much smaller room. And the big posse is replaced by a tired-looking pujaran beating the soap out of her husband’s frothy mundu in front of a dingy room which is all she can claim to call her home. Small idol, small benefits.

The solace here is unmatchable. There’s no big production show, just a silent tête-à-tête with the mute rockstar’s minute version.  The big production only causes discord and dislike. The real essence is here. It lies within. The essence that the histrionics of the big-production show overshadowed, rises here and fills the heart up. Now takes place what the big show couldn’t spark. An effective dialogue.

The big shows tire me. Because it's all become a nasty business, a way of milking money off someone's faith. Faith so testing that some even start by foot kilometres away towards the temple. What do they intend to obtain from it? To whom are they proving a point? Is enduring pain the only way to mend oneself? Masochism for salvation? Are they doing it for redemption? Is this what they think would erase their array of misdeeds and give them a fresh start? No, this pain and discomfort won't even win them a look longer than a microsecond of the lifeless idol crowded by crazed fans of someone they've only heard stories about. Crazy!
 

Talking about crazy, Shani Shignapur has Lord Shani's vigilant eye over the village that
should be more famous for its sugarcane production. There are no locks anywhere, not even in the banks. Everyone sleeps with open doors, unlatched rooms, unbolted verandahs of their unguarded houses. For whoever dares to deviate suffers his wrath. Faith so strong or faith gone wrong?

The only thing good that yielded out of the trip were my mother's clear pearly tears when I dedicated Rahman's Lukka Chhupi for her. After the six minutes of Rahman and Lata exchanging verses, we both were left sobbing at the thought that how can all the words freefalling in our heads for months be sung out to us by someone else so beautifully.

Right then in the rickety hired Toyota Innova, a mother and her son had their moment. A moment that no one else paid heed to. A moment that went unnoticed.

That hammered their hearts. One young and one old. 

That resonated with their love. So selfless. 

That mirrored her worries. Resurfacing fears. 

That reflected her concerns. Of his well-being. 

That depicted his helplessness. The catch-22. 

That spoke of his respect for her. Deserved and undying. 

That lay bare the hole in his life. Stark naked. 

That conveyed his acceptance of the new turn of things. Its ugly truth. 

That created ripples in the wild ocean that time had tamed. Made it restless again. 

That hummed the symphonies of their hearts out. One young and one old.

A moment that in his make-believe world he lives every moment. A moment ephemeral but for eternity would last.

                              

Chapter XV: Bienvenue '13

The Mayans never thought we could make it! But, oh boy, didn't we just! 

We're on the threshold of entering a new year. It does excite us all. Because it's a mystery. Enigma intrigues us. It is like a magician's black hat. No one is sure what would pop out of it but we all hope it's an adorably snowy rabbit or a pair of cooing doves; no one ever wishes for a dead dog to emerge.

New is always envisaging a roseate future.
It can be synonymous to new opportunities or a new direction or a novel drive towards uncharted heights or even a better set of circumstances; to each its own.
That's why we look forward to it. We eye it as a harbinger of better times. We embrace all goodness in the world. For once, we are flexible to change, the only constant.
 
Change is always good. And for the ungrateful fellas like me, entering 2013 shouldn’t mean that you forget all the goodness 2012 brought along. 2012 was great in many ways. I got myself a college degree, am in a job that’s more like quicksand – a fact I get more convinced with each passing day, I also made new friends (and forgot quite a few) and I learnt about the importance of family and their unconditional, unbridled love. 2012 also answered many of my prayers and illuminated that dim path directing towards a new chapter along my lazy life. I don’t say that I clearly view how I see myself a few years down the lane but 2012 has sure been reactionary in igniting an idea. The jigsaw is falling in place, gradually.

And I, along with all my college folks in Hyderabad, have built plans to bid 2012 an adieu. But I hope the plans for 31^st don’t go to the dogs, given my unenthusiastic nature.

The trouble:

Past my birthday, my mind is indubitably working overtime; the irony is that it’s channeling energy in things it ought not to. For example, after my flat-mate made me watch AR Rahman’s MTV Unplugged session in the office one fine day, I youtube’d the bejesus out of the videos. There’s something about Rahman’s music. His inimitable Midas touch! It just cuts through the soul. His resonating deep voice, that effortless singing oozing so much soul and the way his fingers waltzed on the piano, it's all so hair-raising. Who would ever want his songs to end?

I also happened to catch the British chanteuse Adele live at Royal Albert Hall last week, on Youtube. Her cockney accent ornate with multiple F-bombs and the candor with which she shared those anecdotes were in sharp contrast to her nostalgia-evoking lyrics, poignant singing style and that big voice.

Yes, that’s how jobless and disoriented I am. And also uninspired and tired of the frustratingly plain tone of affairs here! The ever-dampening already-lackluster inspiration has only been rekindled by my penchant for jazz music. There’s an immediate connect I feel. The sound of the saxophone, the cello in the background, accomplished voices of the yore that work with the subtle piano beat numbs my heart. I’ve celebrated a small portion of the humungous discographies of Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughn and oh boy, have I been elated! I remember returning from a tiring day and jazz's certain piece would breathe life in me. I just can’t get enough.

But I’ve had enough. I resolve to strangle the Mister Lazybones inside me. And as we welcome 2013, I wish it makes space for clarity in everybody's life. Resolve to make the right choices in the upcoming year, it'll save time you spend complaining. Leave the negativity and reasons to be with the wrong behind. Start afresh. Discover the truth. It won’t present itself, you have to get down and dirty in its quest.

The Right versus The Wrong: 
I wrote this thinking about everything I could have done right in 2012.

There’s nothing more dreadful than being in a quandary that you don’t see yourself emerging out of anytime soon. It’s an internal tug-of-war between what you clearly know is wrong and the obvious truth. There’s something very mystique about the wrong. Such magnetism, it’s hard to escape its pull. Such control, you forget about all the varied things that truly deserve a piece of your mind. And hypnotism, your heart’s set bad on it and despite all the facts being in your face, you shrug when it comes to acceptance.

Try justifying this inexplicable proclivity towards the wrong or the fun about masochism. We all cling to the wrong because we pine for that push that’ll free the hero we believe lurks inside us, don’t we all? Sadly, there is no hero and before we learn that we are down an irrecoverable spiral. Now the hurt doesn’t hurt anymore; it instead becomes a high.

Wrong steals a part of you. It conceals you from yourself. But the masquerade has to get over someday. The curtain has got to close someday. As you near the showdown, you are left aghast. The closure leaves you bruised. These are self-inflicted afflictions! There’s no more running away from acceptance.

All this while the truth was being smothered but it never let a sigh out. It just doesn’t need to. It is too familiar with the routine, perhaps. There’s no room for diffidence, it knows that it is the ultimate answer. It has battled profuse profanities and umpteen cases have thickened its skin, so it knows too well that even after all the slipshod behavior, we all are bound to it like tethered lambs. Its exemplary tolerance is insurmountable; all it demands is its own sweet time. As soon as the clouds of confusion dissolve, you feel something you never have. As if you now own that ever-elusive kudo. It’s just a matter of enlightenment, of clarity.

Find that clarity to relish in the things worth sticking to. Make your life merrier. As 2012‘s pushing 2013 every passing second, all I hope for it to bring is force and positivity to enable us all to realize fresher aspirations. I hope it brings me wisdom to know right from wrong. I want it to bring us our long overdue torrents of joy.

Happy New Year, y'all. Spread smiles.

Chapter XIV: Darling December

As I drifted elsewhere listening to the 1954 collaborative effort of the dulcet Ella Fitzgerald and the ultra-gravelly Louis Armstrong on the prosaically named 'Ella & Louis', I heard two loud bangs on my door. It was a no-brainer that the day had changed. It’s the day when love from family and close friends would overwhelm me and I would miss those who couldn’t be by my side. It was the day I would get flooded with congratulatory messages from well-wishers and from others who are reminded of me from their Facebook news feed, and many who despite the reminder keep themselves from wishing me and get their pretty names engraved on my Wish-A-Rabid-Dog-Tears-You-Apart List forever. Yes, December 13th is here.
 

I opened the door to find two masked girls and both of my flat-mates donning preposterous conical Ben-Ten caps and blowing jolly party horns. I wasn’t entirely taken aback, for I had heard some noises a few minutes ago but had decided to keep my lips pursed about it. So I tried to play along and act surprised.

Now what many don’t know is that besides being a bumbling bastard, I also am quite inept at reacting to situations like the one I was facing then. Oh, I did feel special. I swear! But the reaction I could muster up with all my might was as dull as Art Cinema. It was a mix between 'Looking Stoked Enough to not let my friends down' and 'Oh well, what's fucking surprising about surprising someone on their birthday?'

So feigning superfluous excitement, I had them take me downstairs where there was an already lit scrumptious-looking chocolate truffle cake waiting for me to come and blow its candles out. I had turned twenty two. At least that is what the candles said.

Amidst answering phone call from my parents who happened to wish me at midnight for the first time ever, I made a merciless incision. A customary out-of-tune “Happy Birthday” followed. Now with the cut cake, the four souls knew too well how I detest smearing it anywhere and that the only befitting place for it was through our food-pipes. So I robbed them of the dimmest chance of any fun they'd have been expecting. As a result, we only stuck to eating it and getting meaningless pictures clicked something that would later be dubbed as “Memories” and as “Lousy” with the passage of more time.

Soon everybody dispersed and I climbed up waiting for those precious winks of sleep, depressed. That's my problem! Somebody else my age would be ecstatic, surrounded by scantily clad girls in a discotheque, dancing like the world would end tomorrow and buying rounds of vodka, tequila or gulping Southern Comforts but there I was in my bed that now creaked every time I turned, all depressed! It's a disgrace, isn't it? But that's not why I was sad. I have never been that kind. That was never my idea of fun. But yes, I was sad on the night of my birthday. Wish I had known why. I gave in with a hope that sleep might cure it.

And it did. The morning was unusual, given Hyderabad standards at least. It was a very foggy morning with bad visibility, a fact that immediately transported me to my earlier birthdays in Punjab. That is how it had always been, the sweet taste of reminiscences! After a quick shivery shower, I left for the campus. As I walked in, I witnessed that my wing was pretty much deserted and from afar I could see my cubicle decorated with a giant Happy Birthday poster of Disney characters and birthday notes from friends, all that done very thoughtfully. As I pulled my red chair to sit while reading tiny wishes scribbled on paper stick-ons, I saw two boxes of chocolates seated on it. Elated I thought, “You got yourself two weeks of migraine, Rishi.” And out of emotion then I hugged the girls for whatever they'd done to make me feel special. They had succeeded.

The remnant of my time at office was about giving everyone a hunk of last night's cake, getting even more awkward photographs clicked all with me in the center and a Flipkart delivery along with a beautiful message from a very special friend from Punjab. After office hours died out, on consensus we packed ourselves in an auto-rickshaw to go have pizzas. It wasn't the most comfortable ride but we'd do that for pizzas because pizzas were good as gold for us Pocharam dwellers. Even something so trivial seems like a luxury, it's only a matter of time and circumstances.

The day ended with a few more phone calls. What I needed that day, besides an urgent haircut, was to spend some quiet time with myself. I had lost myself somewhere in the middle of the surprises, reactions, phone calls or going out and taking the mickey out of everyone. I longed for a tiny internal dialogue with myself to be grateful, to thank lord for the things I value. I am a little spiritual, after all. And so goddamn single. [I hope somebody hot is reading this!]

Turning 22 was nothing different from turning 21 except for once in half a dozen years, I was not preparing for an exam. Instead I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II on the evening of 12th. There I lay in the quilt with lights out, clapping like a teenager at moments when McGonagall asks Fitch to steer the Slytherins to the dungeons or when Mrs. Wealsey goes "Not my daughter, you bitch!" on Bellatrix before taking her life or when Harry frees himself of Hagrid's huge arms while pretending to be dead all the time. There I exclaimed like an overjoyed creepy kid, "In your face, baldy Voldy!"

Birthday Resolutions:

We all become what we once hated, don’t we? The cobwebs of the once-despicable indiscipline have got me all entangled, clearly. I’ve allowed myself to bask in much levity ever since I’ve been back from Punjab. I need to shirk it off me. I wish I had someone gift me a cure for procrastination on my birthday. Alas!

Now that I feel finally past my giddy youth, there's one last thing I need to work on a little: Acting less socially awkward and learning the art to leave a positive impact when meeting people, especially at parties. There are just two things at a family party I fear more than death: insanely loud music and old inebriated uncles! And Punjabi weddings present a lethal combination of both, much to my chagrin! No wonder I was labeled as 'The Shy Guy' when I attended a wedding function back home last month. Some freaks apparently can't digest a young boy sitting and enjoying his snacks. After you obey them with a crinkled nose and a silent curse laced with spite, you can see them gloating behind their umpteenth glass of alcohol as if they've won some mysterious battle.
 
To have everyone looking at me, now that's the sort of attention I can't handle. I get more awkward than when watching Sunny Leone’s condom advertisements on television with parents. Either way, I either turn red as a plum or crack uncomfortable jokes about myself or someone I haven't settled scores with whenever in the limelight. I remember blushing more than a girl who's been upskirted, when in Grade 12 [2008] I had everyone singing a cacophonous ‘Happy Birthday To You’ in the English lecture. That also pretty much answers why I look like a crack addict in all my pictures with a larger group. Physically there, otherwise in Faraway-land.

Perhaps now that I’m going on 23, my rueful self should stop loathing itself. I don’t see it happening anytime soon though. I regret not having a good book to give me company, for example. It’s not as much as a matter of finding time out as it is about shunning my slothful new ways.

I also crib a little because all of my friends are in very mature relationships. But as much as I am apathetic about whatever little they have got to share about their love lives, I hear echoes in the empty spaces of my mind shrieking whether I will ever find what they claim to already have. I notice a silent longing for security and mutual promise for longevity have taken center-place and have replaced all the juvenile stuff rife during college years. You filthy seeds of maturity, burn in hell for snatching my friends away! I fear what if I don’t find anybody? Would it be as harrowing as the falsely prophesied end of the world by the Mayans? I guess not. I have a lot on my platter to get sorted with before taking that plunge in the rosy valley of lovelorn martyrs. Say, my career.

All I thrive for is to find myself first. Everything else must wait. I know that sometimes it hurts like it hurt worldwide Cricket fans after Sachin’s announced his retirement but I allay myself by thinking what any mushy novel would profess, “It isn’t something you go looking out for. It just happens.” Same goes for happiness. I wish it finds its way back.

For now, I put a lid on all the worries thinking that it’s only a matter of time. Time is that unconquerable force. Hoping that it keeps me amongst its favourites, I step in on the 23^rd year of my life with confidence and a vision of the yet-unrealized dreams.

Chapter XIII: The Day I Flew Back Home For Diwali

With the Navratas culminating in the immense pleasure derived from conflagration of Ravana along with his diabolical brothers, the festivities have only begun. Diwali is less than a dozen days away. The paeans no longer fill the air like they once must have when Lord Rama returned from his exile, and the earthen lamps have replaced blinding lights and deafening fireworks, we still celebrate it grander every year welcoming the virtues Lord Rama exemplifies. The Ravana inside us takes a day off and we revel in what is the country’s most favorite festival.

It’s that time of the year again when families unite. Those stacked delicacies make those prying eyes crossing the sweets-shop fall in a diabetic coma and set those tongues wagging. Nothing intrigues kids more than crackers and unwrapping gifts that fill up the entire living room. All colleges run empty for everyone is cajoling their professors into cancelling lectures. The hardcore non-vegetarians go through meat-detox. Even the most hen-pecking wives pray for their husbands’ longevity, thank the ludicrous practice of Karva Chauth. Proclivity for neatness exponentially increases to welcome Goddess Luxmi in our cribs. Yes, it’s that time again that deserves a much-needed break from pell-mell of the busy lives we’ve lost our true selves in. A break for which I concocted a colorful story to convince my manager to grant me leave, oh what utterly laughable excuses! Yes, I lie for love. Love is my Achilles heel, and I’m sure that one fine day it'll absolve all the sins I live in.

Flashback: November 2

Sleep plays games with me whenever I have to travel. It evades me, I then end up checking my phone every twenty minutes and wonder why time never understands my state. It would crawl when I want it to gallop like a stallion and would run faster than an incontinent passenger stranded on a railway station looking for a lavatory when all I want is for it to be smooth like Michael's moon-walk. I gave up on counting sheep at 3AM and saw my flat-mate occupied packing his stuff. They leave by train a little later than I do. I go up to say Hi and I sniff some pleasure in his tone when he asked me about my flight's status. It had been raining cats and dogs.

Missing a call from the cab driver an hour before he was supposed to report didn't quite throw me in a panic fit. His not answering my call six times when I am only thirty minutes from leaving the village for Rajeev Gandhi Airport did. I thanked my photographic memory for having remembered the contact details of this other cab-service I caught a glimpse of the other day! Made a call and had luck waving its wand in my favour. One cab was available in thirty minutes. I chose for it. What option did I have at 3:30AM anyway?
 
The cab arrived and I said goodbye to my flat-mate with an awkward hug saying stuff that people usually say when they know they will never meet again. Mercy! Being socially awkward is one bitter sting in my crown of thorns. Anyway, crooning Winehouse's 'You Know I'm No Good', I hurried to the elevator and hopped in the cab. It was still raining heavy and the highway to Uppal did not have any streetlights. Well that's Pocharam for you! I stayed on the edge of my seat that reeked of damp unfresh socks until Uppal, after which I found it safe to take my eyes off the road and plant them on my phone. And it rang! The other cab driver was now calling me and I really felt bad for that bloke. Usually I am the sole victim of my panic attacks and myopic indecisive disposition! This time a classic case of bad synchronization had taken its toll on him. I felt sorry. So taking off amidst torrential rainfall and dark clouds was the least of my worries. I felt like witnessing that Quidditch match sitting by my window seat where a Dementor plants a kiss on Harry as water trickled down my window making indecipherable patterns. The flight, to my relief, was on time.

The delicious meal I was served also blew life in my listless self. The mint leaf resting atop the fruit salad, the scrumptious omelette-foldover served with a rich flavored curry and a corn-potato stuffed fried side-on, the lilliputian bun that I adorned with butter and strawberry jam and a much-needed cup of tea. The meal stole the few winks of sleep I was left with and the little difficulty my eyes had in staying open was instantly eradicated. And I lay all awake and gay. It is the 2nd of November, and I'm on my flight back to my hometown. The feeling was sinking in. Buds of excitement were blossoming one more time.

We descended 34,000 feet to Delhi cutting through the dense clouds that now resembled a colossal cotton candy, and the reminisces of the mild association I’ve had with the city flooded my mind. I hurried towards the gate from where my flight to Chandigarh(IXC) had to depart. Now as I find myself 45 minutes away from home, my flat-mates' state crosses my mind. A train from Secunderabad to Delhi is not as rosy as they made it sound. An hour to the railway station, 23 by train to Delhi and at least 6 to their respective hometowns.

 
At T3 while I waited at Gate 28B, in front of me was an old couple made up of a sad, sickly and nagging wife and his balding man wearing trousers so loose that it could perhaps clothe an entire fleet of Bollywood Item-song backup dancers altogether. The lady's expression was as cold and contemptuous as is Bellatrix Lestrange’s on a killing spree. She maintained it while she kept playing Temple Run on her Apple device. The minute the husband asked for his turn, her answer brimming with spite was ''Let me finish first.'' Then she disappeared, just like her husband's fleeting smile, towards the washroom and didn't return till I was there. And I realized that I have been kept away too long from experiencing the charm of being with someone you can probably crib and complain about forever! Ah, married couples, old or not, make such a sweet journey-free-time fillers.
 
Beside me was another couple in their prime. Their newborn was being taken care of. I was eschewing the ongoings because I know it could have led me to barfing. Why? Because nothing is pleasing about eating out of your kid's jar of 'something that looks disgusting' or baby-talking with him and making yourself look like morons in a lounge crowded with people so full of themselves. I almost thought, "I have had it. No more observations that can drive you crazy, Rishi." But at the final check-in, I see this preened and primped crew-member seated at her desk, a treat for the eyes. You know how we've all met a good-looking girl whose atrocious English makes you forget how good-looking she really is. The second she spoke 'Ladies with childrens come ahead in the queue', the Grammar Nazi inside stirred a storm bigger than Cyclone Nilam that was currently hovering over Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh.

And I boarded the plane full of old Sari-clad air-hostesses welcoming me with Namaste and tired smiles. On my short flight to Chandigarh, I had Ice Age 3 to give me company. This is how I spent my least boring 45 minutes of the day. When I landed, I had my father waiting for me. What I'd never forget is that phone call he made around two weeks ago when he told me in the most Karan-Johar-directed-way ever to "Jaldi Aaja Bas". It made me realize the soft interior that resides underneath his stern look and that expletive-filled tongue. And there we were meeting after four months that seemed more like eight centuries and as I hugged him I felt this heaviness in my head. I knew what was to come, we'd soon be here at the airport together again but only parting for an undefined period of time. You know what they say about "good things", they don't last forever. I returned from Pocharam as a blank page that only family time could draw a smile on. Love indeed is my Achilles heel.