Parallel Universe

Bombay Dreams....and then some

How do you write when your fingers tremble with a rage emanating from your soul.....when your eyes are glazed with a dampness you realize later are your tears, which refuse to stop for some absurd reason. How do you tell others everythin "back home" is all right, when nothing is? How do you think rationally when your heart skips a beat everytime you look at the aftermath of the blasts in Bombay?

I thought survivors guilt was applicable only if you outlived someone you loved...... usually someone younger. If thats the case, then why am I feeling guilty, although my loved ones are safe?

The guilt, I guess, stems from a feeling of helplessness. The guilt that comes from a rage, which subsides into tears when you realize your inability to stop the place you grew up in from being abused. But ashamed as I am of them, the tears still well-up everytime I hear the words "the spirit of Bombay". A spirit, which is the backbone of this concrete jungle and lives within every Bombayite unconsciously. A spirit, which makes people wake up the next day and go about their daily routine even when the city is traumatised, mere hours before.  A spirit which refuses to die......unlike the city's inhabitants, who die a thousand deaths everyday and still manage a smile at sunset.

Ironically, I saw the musical - Bombay Dreams a week back in Denver. And I smiled to myself  because through all the singing and gaeity, I clearly  saw what the spirit of Bombay actually is. It is the fact that the city offers 13 million people a chance to dream....through all its nightmares.

-S

Frankly speakin

To match the cynisism we face everyday, moments that make us smile are few n far between....... lest we're caught feelin vulnerable.

A smile that comes to ur face when u recollect a line from ur favorite book, a book uve read so many times u dont care to count anymore. The surprise etched on ur face, which translates into a silent smile when a baby grasps ur finger in its tiny fist with surprisin strength. Or when ur sittin in ur car..stuck in a snarling traffic jam and the radio plays ur favorite song.

The smile brought about by a memory, of a tenderness u never knew u were capable of, or of a love u've felt....the kind seen in movies only. When u hear a familiar voice on the phone after years....a voice that takes u back, only for u to see how far u've come.

Lifes' measured by the moments that bring an involuntary smile to ur lips....not by those that take ur breath away. Cos frankly speakin ..the more u see of this world there's less that leaves u breathless..... so u settle for that smile....wistful as it may seem.

-S

505 27th Way..apt 215

There are a couple of couches, a few chairs, two small tables  (that hold everything from keys, food n books to bottles of beer and an improvised ashtray with cigarette butts), a television set and a whirring fan. But what sets this typical student apartment aside from others is the Indian flag ..... in a shot glass.

This is in sharp contrast to the huge flag stretched across the wall by the previous tenants. A flag, which could be seen clearly from the stretch of road running parallel to the layout of the apartment almost 200 meters away. A flag, which represents the sentiments of the grad students who have lived here for the last two years. Though I've never officially lived here (in the sense I've never paid rent n been on the lease), I've spent an immeasurable amount of time with friends who have lived here over the last two years.... ever since I came to the US. I like to believe that this cramped, not so upscale student housing, which has seen better days but at the same time housed the dreams and aspirations of its tenants, is my home away from home. Which leads me to believe, more strongly than ever before..its not the place you are in ...but the people you are with....that defines you.

I've spent countless hours here doing nothing but talk to friends, nursing a cup of chai someones been kind enough to make, while it snows outside. Talk about home, with strains of some old hindi song emanating from a laptop adding to the nostalgia. I'm no die-hard patriot but I do miss home and I do want to return one day...genuinely. Not to start a revolution and propel India as a superpower, although I like to believe I could, but simply becos its where my heart lies.

I dont wear my patriotism on a sleeve but I do possess a sense of national pride, albeit a bit askewed...like the Indian flag ... in a shot glass.

-S

Toys in the Attic

So as a kid there's not much to worry about right? There are always enough adults with enough answers - enough for your problems at least. Its funny when you wake up one day and realize its you who is the adult. Its you who is expected to have the answers, to all the questions.
....And then all of a sudden you long to be a kid again.....

.....the irony is, having answers doesnt drive away the fears. As a kid its monsters under your bed and as you age they turn into skeletons in your closet. I'd take the monsters over the skeletons anyday. At least I wasnt the one who had to drive them out. They are nowhere near as scary as the skeletons.

The part, which scares me the most bout the skeletons is that they are of your own making and they tend to get comfortable in the closets youv'e built them. Sometimes u're not even sure if you want to clear them.........cos that would mean confronting your worse fears....kind of like Batman, just without the fancy suit and the kick-ass car

(Sigh)...not sure if all this growing up was such a good idea

-S