The illusive tiffin box

It started with the steel ones with small plastic snappers on its sides. A small top-open container inside it. It will carry biscuits, banana and may be a small sandesh in the small top-open container. I eyed with envy at the other five-year old opening her tiffin box, compartmentalized with a lovely Tom and Jerry cartoon on the lead (in my days Barbie wasn't immortalized). She had a small piece of cake in one compartment, pieces of apple in another and some noodles in the main compartment. My steel box can't hold that much - it was happy with its biscuits and sandesh, while I stared in envy.

Many many many years later, I observed with great interest, the office crowd walking in to different towers through different glass doors and security barriers, carrying along with them, different sizes, shapes and makes of small bags protecting and holding the stuff that sustains them throughout the day - little chaklis, some chapati, a bit of rice, may be a sabji. Amazingly colorful, in different sizes and shapes, the horizontal ones, the vertical ones, the ones carried in paper bags, the ones carried in cloth bags, some in plastic bags while some come with it's own carriers, the tiffin boxes proudly march through the glass doors, everyday, Monday to Friday. Some of them have a pouch to hold snacks, some bags have a pocket to hold a small water bottle, some have separate zips for each box, the list goes on.

Post steel-box days, when I was in possession of that small miraculous plastic card, I decided to erase all memories of steel boxes, and venture into the world of amazing, all encompassing, magic tiffin boxes; I started with Tupperware. I weighed my needs, my plastic card and my choices and settled for a round big box with a small box that comes inside and all of it in a round carrier with a handle. Hmm with the jhola on my shoulders, round tiffin on my hand, I marched towards my office, all pleased. In a month or so, suddenly the round bag was an obstacle to pay for my auto fares or swipe through the security nightmares in the so-called information-secure world. Also I started missing my water bottle. What do I do with it? Carry both the water bottle and the round carrier in one plastic (oops paper) bag? Or should I keep my water bottle locked in my pedestal. Eyes were suddenly inadvertently straying towards the other tiffin boxes marching through the glass doors. They were nice, easy to carry, Milton cases ensuring warm food...sigh. I continued with my round box.


Many more years later, dejected by the various permutations and combinations, I decided to go for a rectangular one. one big rectangle and two small rectangles that can hold 2 ounces of sabji or daal. I think I felt an urge to diet and got that really concise square box. Within days I had bigger challenges. This time a laptop bag, a gym bag, a rectangular tiffin box and water bottle. Lo behold, next to me, comes the colleague with his perfectly tidy tiffin bag, longitudinal, 3 containers, 2 small, one big, zip for snacks and a pocket to hold a 250 ml water bottle - where did he get it from?

Eyeing the illusive lucrative tiffin box, with compartments and boxes to hold the necessities of survival, Monday to Friday, I cannot help but notice how deftly my tiffin box teaches me everyday how I must wriggle out of the latest revised deadline by displaying very little availability of resources as my small 2 ounce box proclaims during the lunch time, and how I must learn to politely refuse furnishing the 200th excel sheet with the same data as my square box refuses to get inside my laptop bag. The lovely compartmentalized, water-bottle-carrying tiffin carrier next to my colleague's desk always shows me how important it is never to display all your capabilities, because believe me, come performance cycle for want of development areas, they may actually want your tiffin carrier to hold a four-piece cutlery set. It tells me always to weigh my options, because once I give in to the all fulfilling notion of the perfect tiffin 'career', I will be too comfortable to get out from my desk and away from the people around me and doing what I did for many years again and again. With its inadequacy to hold enough food, my tiffin box, gives me the option to buy a tasty side dish, every now and then from the canteen showing me how important it is to test one's market value, once in a while, by updating your resume on the job portals.

The all-illusive tiffin box - you win! I will try many combinations, but will always stay away from the perfect one! In the donkey race, I shall run the slowest.

Being rejected

How often have you been rejected? In love? In relationships? By companies? By educational institutions? By friends? By your own dreams? By your own capability? And by reality? How do you feel when you are rejected?

...Perched throat, thumping heart, cold fingers, trembling voice, sweating forehead...? All of it? Some of it? I have had my fair share of rejections till now, and must confess, did not make me by any means any stronger! But then, that's just me. I am sure rejections a.k.a failure is making someone somewhere stronger. Nonetheless, my encounter with rejections started at a tender age of five, when I was ruthlessly rejected by my Art teacher (yes Bengalees start everything when they are five and their fate is decided by the time they are six) saying I was no good - I especially had problems drawing shapes, and he insisted that I will never learn.


Over these years, I have gone through a number of rejections, the insult and the agony of every rejection made me that much weaker, heavier, bitter, older and madder. More often than not, I have been rejected by my own abilities or the lack of it, you know the ones where you 'know' that you are the world's greatest singer, the most intellectual thinker and the most understanding partner that one can get with the 'funniest' sense of humor and a great 'swagger'? Turns out that you hardly have a sense of tune, you are a below-average thinker, you somehow manage to win five rounds of bridge in your whole life and that 'swagger' is just a worn-out shoe that desperately needs to be replaced. Off to the fridge for some cocoa therapy.

But it is the daily rejections that are more difficult to live with. It starts towards the end of the day, being auto rejected. If you are someone who avails the precariously balanced three wheeler that flies on the road for daily commute, would know how desperately hopeful you are as you approach the auto rickshaw stand outside your office after a hard day's work, hoping against hope that there will be a decent one agreeing to take you home for a decent fair. They are all eager, they throng around you and want to know the destination. You say it. They sneer in pity; only three kilometers?! They reject. They quote three times the regular fair and you reject. They sneer at you with more vengeance. Their eyes follow you as your try to get hold of other auto-rickshaws. They see your lonely figure, observe the rejecting herd sneering at you, and driven by their eternal obligation reject you again. You can almost feel the stare breathing heavily on your neck as you fight the humiliation and walk the distance to the next one. Yes, auto rejection hits me bad.


In today's competition, it is also often that your pride gets a beating as you try to wiggle your way through to secure a domestic help. And more often than not, looking at my flat, my bare means of living and my small tv, they reject me outright. I try to convince them that I will work on a salary revision very soon, they enquire about my job status, nod their heads, look around the room once more, again stop at my battered fridge and walk away. It is not often that your lifetime of work is rejected like that!

From being glanced at and questioned for trying to choose a particular cloth size to being adviced to dye my hair in a posh air-conditioned room to the ominous look on the gym instructor's face at my irregular cardio routine, either my financial stability, or my affordability, my looks, my thoughts or my sanity gets a rejection on a daily basis. Thumping heart and sweaty forehead, heavier and bitter, cocoa therapy, the cycle continues...

Have you heard the rain?

(C) Saptarshi Gupta

Have you heard the rain?...when it speaks to you? Have you heard the rain?...when it lulls you? Have you heard the rain?...when it admonishes you? Or, have you heard the rain?...when it nudges you to lose yourself?

Have you listened to the rain when it lightly brushes against the window of a fast moving train, grabs your hand and sprints to a place where you know you are alive. It travels through your veins and gently taps on your throbbing neck, and tells you to close your eyes. It silences the sounds of the chugging wheels and spreads through your neurons - charging up your every sense and every thought. You are as conscious as you can ever be, as the silent raindrops softly touch the glass window and take you far away to the shores of Bombay where a shy child plays his video games as his mother fights for the covetted begging spot infront of Haji Ali. The raindrops pull you away from the shores of Bombay to the first day you successfully rode your cycle and did not fall, you suddenly remember each and every turn you took that day, number of times you rang the bell, and your smile as you triumphantly got off your cycle. You glide with the drops to the open meadows, a gurggling brooke cutting through it while the trees form a canopy over your head - a place you have never been to, but a place the minute details of which you can see, feel, smell and live as the rain drops gently nudge you to lose yourself - to the time, moment and emotion that you know is the best, yet unrealistic - never ever would you feel so alive when you lose yourself, if you just listen to the rain - as it gently taps the windows of a fast moving train. Have you ever lost yourself while listening to the rains?

Then the rain comes rushing down outside your home window or balcony, and each drop brushes against the other in great fury to hit the ground, and they speak to you. Do you hear as the draindrops form a mesh outside your window, erasing everything around, and you walk the lonely corridors of white walls, masked people, green overalls, silence signs, smell of antiseptics, heavy glass doors in the hope that the one who lies somewhere in this building will fight their way out? You visit and revisit each moment, when you felt that the worst is happening in your life at that moment, when the nearest one fights for their space in the mortal world; but the rain drops get furious, they lash at you mercilessly admonishing you for living the moments of sadness all these years. The drops scream at you, push you to move away from emptying the cupboards, packing clothes and belongings, removing the sandals, the books and the medicine boxes a decade back; and revisited innumerable times over the decade. They thicken the mesh infront of your window, blocking your own thoughts, pounding on the ground erasing all sounds from where you stood alone, confused, shaken as life turned into something that you never thought it would. Have you listened to the rain, just outside your window, as it overflows your garden, fills up the roads and admonishes you to break away from what is not your anymore - a person, a relationship, a success or a failure...have you?

And then when the rain comes down on the roof, foxtrots on your senses, intoxicates your reflexes by its rhythm, the rain lulls you to sleep, it holds you in its embraces, as you pull up your blanket a little bit more and see your first footsteps with your father holding your hands, you remember the first time someone touched your soul, you feel the touch of your beloved, your heart feels big, nested in your chest as the rain whispers to your ears that you have one more day-tomorrow - or may be one more - the day after to live, and breathe and learn - have you ever allowed the rain to lull you to sleep?

From me to you...

I remember you crossing my path once in a while. I remember you bringing a smile on my lips once in a while. Yes, there were times when you would walk with me, but then, you walked your own path till we met again. I do remember you crossing my path once in a while.

It rained a lot one day, I remember. The sun was fierce that day, burning down anything that came on its way. You ignored the heat and walked with me for a while, a long while may be. You shared your thoughts with me and shared mine, yes it rained a lot that day, on my soul and may be yours too.

You met me again, and you continued crossing my path again and again...we walked together, side-by-side, under the scorching sun, the pouring rain, the moonlit nights and through foggy mornings. We parted our ways, knowing when we would meet again.

One day, yes I remember, I found you walking with me.

One night, yes I remember, I found you sleeping next to me.

One day, yes I realised, you had been walking with me for a while.

That day, yes I knew, I needed you by my side, always.

I do remember, you holding my hand tight as we circled the fire, you leading me and then I leading you, I remember your voice as you read out your vows, and I felt your glance as I shared my consent across the purdah...yes, I remember, when we promised to walk all our walks together.  

The memories are not so vivid after that. I do remember our journey together, some of it, or most of it? The dreams that were fulfilled, the bricks that made our home, the pages that we turned on lazy Sunday afternoons together, the songs that we felt in our fingertips, the rhythms that we danced to in our souls, the tiny toes that we felt in our hands, the small steps that we guarded, the nappies that we changed, the parties that you threw at my success, the trips that we took at your success - yes I do remember some of it.

But mostly I remember that night, while sitting on the terrace, I looked by my side, and suddenly realised that you weren't there. I reached out, but could not feel you, I tried to listen, but could not hear you, I tried to speak, but you could not hear, although I remember you handing me my scotch, two ice and one dash of lime - you knew my drink so well. I looked out for you again, the next day, as you waved at me on your way to office, I could not find you - that day the sun came lashing down...I do not remember any rain.

I sat there, on our way, and realised we do not walk side by side anymore. Were you ahead of me, did you take a wrong turn, were you following me? - I could not figure out. I knew we were not walking together anymore.

I sat there, waiting for you to come back, and walk with me, as we took the boys to the school, prayed together, held hands and crossed roads...yes, I knew you would come back. To walk with me.

It was raining that night, a lot. I was cold and tired. I was rushing home. I should have listened to you, I should have waited for you to pick me up. I retraced the steps that I had taken innumerable times, ten steps and turn left, I counted, my stick clanked the cobbled street as the Hummer lost control, and skidded, they say. They say it blew the horn, how would I know, they say it had the headlights on, how would I see - I was still counting my next 20 steps to our door. I remembered falling down, through eternity, like the kite breaking free from the spinner wheel, enjoying its heady moments before hurtling down to the ground or like the subdued river forcing open the floodgates in a heavy monsoon and cascading down the dam walls in all its fury. They say I was holding our photo when they found me, they say I had a smile on my lips when they lifted me. I remembered falling down...I do not know how you look, I do not know how a smile looks like - I can just feel...

You took my hand and held it to your face. You allowed my fingers to trace your eyes, face, lips and tears. You held it to your heart and my fingertips felt it beat. You said, it beats just for me. Caged within the white walls, covered by the white sheets, attached to a number of machines, in my dry lips and tired heart beats, and in my numbed pain, I realised, you are walking by my side now, you were walking by my side, yesterday, and will tomorrow.

For I am, because you are, and you are because I am...

*(An attempt at fiction. Let me know how flat it fell! :)

She is...

She stood there, in front of the mirror, naked. Her hair framed her face, ever so lightly, poignantly lifting her chin as her eyes dropped. The street lights lost their way into her room through the glass windows. Carelessly glancing through her body and caressing the mounds and the curves, creating a drama. Her eyes, she felt, were tired. Her thoughts, she knew, were exhausted. Her body, she saw, was a shadow. With a broken marriage, mutilated ovaries and few desperate wrinkles etching her tired face, she wondered for a while, at the milestone of 50, how does she define her womanhood. Is she, she argued, any more a woman? 

Is it her thoughts that make a woman a woman? The famous 'caring and sharing is all about'? Or is it the relationships that make a woman a woman - the father, the brother, the sister, the son, the daughter, the husband, the lover? Or is it just the hair, the softness, the curves and the societal glances that make a woman a woman? 

She knew of a woman in her childhood, complete with the sindoor (vermilion) and the shankha-pola, who visited their house everyday to finish some daily chores. She had not seen her husband for 10 years, she did not know where he was, but she continued wearing the sindoor. Several years later, the aged lady still had the same smile and the sindoor on her forehead just as red as before. Is this why she is a woman?

She also knew of a woman, who chose to raise her several siblings after a bitter partition, fought shoulder to shoulder with several authoritative figures in the 1940's in politics and remained dedicated to the family till her last breath. Is it her tremendous courage, in a troubled world that makes her a woman?

Or was it when her best friend's husband flooded his 'facebook' page with his wife's photographs and published 'notes' for her, that she knew her best friend is a woman? Or was it when someone she knew chased her fiance' to the other side of the world to salvage a relationship is what makes a woman, a woman - the grit, the determination or the desperation? She wonders...

Is it when with a battered body, and an abused conscience, her domestic help gets up every morning to pack food for her husband and her kids makes her a woman? Or is it the calmness with which a woman handles a terribly upset client or a stakeholder that makes a woman a woman? Is she, the one who adores her husband and her child, enjoys few short-lived affairs on the side, but always walks back to the comfort of the four walls of her husband and children - and it is her discretion, her celebration of her life or her bold choices that make her a woman? Or may be when her husband of 30 years, looks lovingly at her, shares his terrible fear what if she passes away before him and her comforting him makes a woman a woman - her beauty and her indispensibility to her family? She continues to wonder.

She walks the streets alone, she buys her own jewellery, she rules the catwalk, she dominates many podiums, she destroys the demon every year amidst dhak (drums) and the autumn clouds, she stares at her tired palms bearing the evidence of years of housework, she refuses to give in, she obeys orders ever so diligently, she nurtures a dream in her heart, but she rarely dares to live it - is this why she is, who she is?

She kept staring at her 'shadow' on the mirror, the hair and the curves. May be a face muscle twitched a bit or may be there was some moisture in her eyes, we do not know. May be she wondered for a while what if she had a complete family, a loving husband, couple of kids, few children in law, membership to kitty parties, she would have felt her womanhood. Or may be she wondered, in her manicured heart and mascara-lined soul, that her setting beauty, her broken life, her failing reproductive organs and her pride in her freedom, proclaims every day that she is...

*Dedicated to many remarkable souls that I have come across in my life. So, what makes a woman a woman! Your thoughts?

Victim of Internet, prodigal daughter lashes out

I am a lavish spender and user when it comes to Internet, since the days in mid-nineties when a 10 min surfing would cost you 70 bucks (not that it does not cost this much today, it actually does, in Calcutta airport - 85 bucks/10 min - but that's another story, I digress) and when sending an email to someone in Bombay would cost less than sending an email to someone in London :). I had always managed my way to the front of the queue, get to the computer with the best connectivity and convinced the cafe owner to download the latest version of rediff bol for uninterrupted chats (yahoo messenger was bad even in those days!). From surfing the net using set top boxes and on a TV to one of the first users of those datacards back in early 2000, I have always prided myself in my 'zeal' to stay 'connected'.

Little did I know, how the Internet would silently but very effectively rob me off my sparingly available but systematically dispersed grey cells.

Cut to circa 1994, a four-year period of rushing back and forth from college at every drop of a hat. We were hostelers and lapped at every opportunity to visit home, be it sudden decision of the batch to bunk classes for durga puja, holi, chhat puja or the plague. We would head to the good old reservation counter at the station, fill up the form, stand in a serpentine queue, chat through the innumerable 'system down' time, 'lunch' time, finally reach the counter after good four hours to realise that it's a Wait List ticket, 147 to be precise. In college days, you don't have the choice of AC or first class, it is the plain old second class sleeper. So what do you do? You prepare, you know the alternate trains, you know the connectors, you know the train numbers and you make part bookings. You even know the counters from where you get reservations for different legs of your journey.

Cut to circa 2011, realised reaching the station that my train was cancelled. I was asked to go to another station to book tickets and catch a train leaving in next one and a half hour. Rushed to the other station, lost my way around, managed to approach all the wrong counters, messed up filling up the forms, learned that yet another train was cancelled, had no clue of what was the next best option, finally ended up going to the right counter only to know that the train leaves in 15 minutes (yes, when you book from the comfort of your home, you forget that there is a huge board showing train timings at the station as well) and hence online booking is closed. I returned home, comforting myself that I will log in to makemytrip and buy plane tickets to my destination...sigh, the thought was such a relief!

To be very frank, I have lost a lot to the boon of Internet! I cannot think on my feet, I cannot decide in a split of a second and believe me you, I would fail miserably if I were sitting on that coveted American Prez chair, and my Home Secretary were eyeballing me 'It's time Sir, approve the nuclear attack,' as I would invariably say, "Google please."

Let's not get that far! Today, I book my cinema tickets from home, if I do not get a good seat in one theatre, then I look for better seats in other theatres on other days. Leave me in front of a ticket counter, with a branded queue expressing their dissatisfaction at my indecision and I cringe. I fail to decide whether to choose a right aisle seat, if left aisle is unavailable, I fail to opt for the next best show, if tickets are unavailable for this one.

Cut to Circa 1995, I would have known the next show timings, booked tickets for the same and would also book tickets for another show to kill time in between. All good seats, and mind you all within the two minutes that you are allowed at any counter. Today, I pine for my laptop to help me decide...sigh.

From tickets to recipes, from the best stores to the best movies to watch, from the best gossip to playing bridge, I depend on Internet, I am at loss when I face the reality, I cannot (and a voice inside me tells 'must not') cook a decent dish anymore without checking the Internet nor 'am I sure if a certain 'Kumkum Kundapathy' is truly an old friend unless I check their profile on facebook.

I, hereby, humbly declare that my intelligence, my wit, my knowledge, my smartness have all been adversely effected by the Internet. Even the blog that I am writing - I cannot finish at one go - I have lost the capability to write fluently - you see this blogspot 'autosaves', so I take my own sweet time.

*Disclaimer: I use Internet to check spellings and whether the sentence construction is correct. I take no responsibility of the same.

Of losing someone

It takes a while to realise why you are dying everyday.

It takes a while to appreciate that you are living everyday.

It takes a lifetime to realise that you had lived.

- for some, like me, it is true.

When I say, we die everyday - I do not by any means want to be prophetic or scientific. To someone very dear to me, who left, and yet lives, whose loss makes me numb, yet a voice inside me cries out loud to speak, a me that I hate, a me that cannot feel the pain, a me that feels the pain, but does not know what to do, a me lost...for evryday you die...and with each passing day...it takes away one more part of you, to someone who had been a part of who I am today...in this non-existent cyberspace I share my tribute to you for being a part of who I am, I pray for your soul to rest in peace, a place where no one knows who you are, but I know that this is the only place where I can bare my thoughts and live your loss...

go away you memories, for I cannot do justice to you
go away you footprints, for I fear your existence in my memories
go away you, the one behind the shadows, for I refuse to know you
go away, for I am far from what I used to be...
 
*no comments please.

The arch-villain

He did not know how it had happened.

He was born in a world of disparity, betrayal, greed, anger and violence. His failure to blend in to his world made him feel unwanted. He adopted himself to his surroundings. He learnt the tricks of his world easily, juggling with emotions, fending off the smiles, nurturing the anger, and worked his way to adulthood.

They were all disappointed in him. They were disappointed because they could never subdue him, corner him or attack him. They saw the despair in his eyes, dishonesty in his demeanour and lies in his smiles. They knew it all too well, they lived the same life themselves.They were disappointed that he was playing their game better than them.

He never knew when it had happened.

He remembers the unfamiliar uneasiness at night, at times the fake smile that pained his lips, the half-hearted nod that creaked his neck, the thoughts that propped themselves up from the depths and he assured himself that it was all good. He does not remember when it all went away. He does not remember when it all became too comfortable. He did not realise that a part of him had drifted away.

He never knew that it had happened.

Life to him was always a choice between the first or the last, the best or the worst. From the promise of a lifetime to a one night stand, he could sail through it all with same amount commitment or sacrifice. The amount that is just about right to get him the best or the worst at that point of time. He remembers the bus driver who used to pick them up for school everyday. He was always punctual, very careful and took pride in his duty. He would remember every child by their names, help them get into the bus, ensured that their parents picked them up from the bus stop before he left. The judicious bus driver annoyed him.

"Can I get you something?", she asked.
 
He looked up from his desk and frowned. What is she still doing in the office, he wondered. "Go home, Sheila! Goodnight." He dismissed her.

He stared at the screen. A happy family smiled back at him. A wife, two daughters and a house. How often does a man need a soul to make it all work? The thought never crossed his mind.  He does not care if he needs one. "I won't be home, tonight. Got some work to finish." He called up his wife. A brief pause, and the click sound on the other end.

He got up. Took the lift and went down to the car park. Started the car and sped away to 46, New Port street. He jumped all the red lights, tried to run over every single pedestrian who dared to challenge the stealth of the night and managed to screech in front of his destination. He looked up. The light on the window of the 40th floor beckoned him. He was disappointed. He took his bag, got out of the car and locked the door. He looked up. Again.

And then it happened. First he started fidgeting. Then before he knew, he was running. He was running from the window of 46, New Port street, he was running from the Pontiac, he was running from the trees that guarded the pavement, the prestigious hospital where he practised, the bigger cabin that he had envied next to his, the prized seats for the next Sox games, the family that smiled back from the screen, the books that lined his father's study, the cheerful laughter of his mother, the village clinic where he did his internship, the girl he first kissed, the twinkle of her eyes that mesmerized him, the football he first netted and the first sigh that escaped him. He ran from it all, as fast as he could, he knew if he ran fast enough it would all go away, he would be able to let it all go. 29 years, 4 months, 15 days - all of it.

"Why are you sweating?" she asked. "Never mind, you are late. Come in. We are waiting for you." He stood at the door on the 40th floor, a lifetime later.

"Edward, Sameer is here. Let's start the paperwork." She sat down. The glasses, the coats, the pinstrips nodded. A mechanical voice read out, "At 1600 hours yesterday, a pair of kidneys were retrieved from an accident on I60. Dr. Sameer Sahani confirms that the kidneys match the proposed recipient admitted in St Johns hospital. The organs are being transported to St Johns hospital and can be transplanted by 0600 hours today. Dr. Sameer Sahani will be heading the surgery..."

Somewhere in St. John Hospital's ICU a pair of kidneys were denied it's last chance. Somewhere in a bank account a hundred thousand dollars were anonymously transferred, somewhere in a house, a mother turned on her bed hoping for a donor to save her daughter's life, somewhere a soul drifted further away.

What if, he had known what had happened? What if he had known when it happened? Would that save the arch-villain? Would he have ran? The fastest race of his life? Do we? Even after we know...Or is it that the true nemesis always knows it all. What happened. When it had happened. And that is their strength and their power? - The drifted soul?

These are a few of my scary experiences...

I get 'petrified, stupefied and mortified' easy. There are many encounters and experiences that scare me to no ends. I try to preempt most of the times from past experiences, but the hands still sweat, and the heart still pumps faster.

I am very afraid every time I step into a bank. I am afraid of the one behind the desk will reject my deposit slip. At one point of time I used to keep sample filled-in forms so that I do not miss any details. However, with ever changing forms, this strategy is of no use. With the long life-threatening queues, I am scared to my wits end that the one with the power will reject my form and I have to get behind the queue again. Only the other day, I was filling up a deposit slip for some yearly investments and I asked the lady whom should I address the cheque. She says, sternly, "Madam, understand! It is your policy, must be addressed to you!" :( I felt stupid.

I am also very afraid of my maid. The good lady keeps my flat livable, cleans up my dishes with specks of leftover soap and chapati as decorative pieces on the utensils, week old dust on my balcony and I am petrified every time that I ask her to clean the dish again or to clean the bathroom. I generally avoid eye contact, ask her to do the needful and shy away to my laptop or newspaper. I feel unjust.

I am also very afraid of Indian immigration officers. They are outright mean to me. I think they plan across cities (except for the ones in Delhi - they are nice) and decide to pick on me. The other day, in haste, having already missed the boarding time, I placed my passport and immigration form on the powerful gentleman's desk, hoping against hope that I had completed the form correctly. He looks at me in utter disappointment, "Ma'am, so many passports you have, you still don't know that you have to present the boarding pass as well!" :( Believe me, I was about to. The split of a second, and I am ashamed.

I am pretty scared of the bhajiwalli (vegetable vendor) as well. She is a robust lady in her late forties. Very efficient, prompt and calculates in lightning speed. I take vegetables from her once in two weeks as she passes by the apartment. She knows me by now - but puts me right at the bottom in her customer's list. Someone who buys vegetables once in two weeks is not worth her attention and service. In my desperate attempt to gain position in her list, I order two tomatoes and one pau (250 gms) bhindi (ladies finger) extra. She eyes me with contempt, my cook expresses displeasure at my miscalculation and I stay at the same place in her list. I feel exasperated.

But the ones that steal the show are the government officials in Calcutta, be it to issue ration cards, pay late telephone bills, change names on electricity bills or issue corporation tax receipts. First of all, it is a race against time - you must be able to catch the relevant official in between his arrival time to the office (which would invariably be late because of the traffic jam) and his lunch break and his tea break to the time he calls it a day (which has to be early to avoid the traffic jam). Believe me, this is very very difficult and your query must be to the point, you must prepare a list and mark those as you progress in the conversation and you must always be prepared for lead-in questions. If you stammer, pause to think or are unsure, the clock will strike the lunch break and you are doomed. I am literally mortified by them. I prepare and I prepare and I prepare and I still mess up. :( I feel useless.

Yes - I get 'stupefied, mortified and petrified'.

Of Borrowed Thoughts, Feelings, Stories and a lifetime...

*** Warning: This post is a result of a psychotic attack - heavily philosophical and rather Utopian***

When I was a child, I was mesmerised by the stories of Nil Kamal and Lal Kamal. There was a LP record in the house that I used play on the gramophone and instantly transform myself into the world of demons and princes, magic and battles, wins and losses. It was a story of how princes won over demons and how the gold stick would wake up the princess from her long sleep. When I was in my early teens, I was intoxicated by the men in Bengalee literature. They were dreamy, argumentative, headstrong and difficult. They made conversations easy, they made love less romantic. I took parts of authors' imaginations and made those mine. I judged their writings and adopted thoughts that became mine. Their outlook inspired my ideals and believed those were mine. Are my ideals borrowed?

I have never witnessed a war. I have never witnessed a catastrophe. I have never seen deserted roads dotted with torn shoes, broken promises, shattered glasses and leftover lives. The closest I have come to life being affected is the curfew era in the 1980s when the state government declared curfew to combat the tribal uprise in my home town. Yes, roads were empty after 8 PM, people rushed home, we bolted our front doors, the members of the house kept some form of weapon handy (it could be a bettlenut cracker; don't laugh, we are Bengalees), and we huddled together on the back porch in front of cracking coal while our guard from Bangladesh narrated stories of riots and terror. Once in a while in the morning, we would hear about a dead body found floating in the nearby canal, but we were never allowed near that. Today, I watched a much discussed film - The Hurt Locker. It took me to the celluloid streets of Baghdad where people peeped out of their windows as 'elite' US Army squads attempted to defuse bombs on deserted roads. Roads bearing the mark of a generation torn apart, faces etched in surrender and structures propping themselves up - tired and distort by the continuous assault. I have never witnessed a war. I have just watched them, in films and in documentaries. I write about them, the words I believe are mine. Or are these borrowed? From the Hurt Locker? Or the Casualties of War?

Ever since I have started to think, which would be as late as 18 or 19, I have always wanted to visit my father's birthplace, Narayanganj, Dhaka, Bangladesh. I wanted to see the village (or whatever it might have transmogrified into) in search of my roots and to find a sense of belonging. For someone like me, who cannot call any place a home anymore, it is in such hopes I fool myself. I read 'Ekattorer Smriti' (a book on civil war in Bangladesh in 1971) and I believed nothing will be left of my father's ancestral home. I still dreamed of one story buildings, green pastures, the Ganges from family stories and painted a picture. A picture borrowed from hopes, stories and desires.

A very dear friend of mine faced the tribulations of life bravely to carve a place for her in this world. As she narrated her story to me in a late June afternoon, I experienced love, faith, loyalty, heartache, anger, struggle, and courage. She inspires me to believe in myself. I know I have borrowed a lot from her.

We all have our own little place in this world where we have our thoughts, beliefs, values and loved ones. A lifetime of memories and incidents. It makes me wonder how much of our stories are our own? How many such actions that we have taken are our own? How many times has it happened in our lives that after we have done something or thought of something that we have paused for a while and felt this has been done before. Or have wondered if, my friend, mother, father, sibling or spouse had inspired me to do that. Is that mine anymore? Or is it borrowed, copied and 'customised' by me to suit me?

As I embark on yet another year and a decade, it makes me think if all our stories for generations have been stories of borrowed thoughts, feelings, expressions and actions - in parts or in whole? And if that is so, is that what we call existence?