True confessions of an undercover woman operator

She didn’t quite see herself CID. But she knew she was good. For example, she was the first to spot and tell everyone about the Atiya-Anish love story that was taking place right in the middle of the neighbourhood. No one else had spotted the budding romance as yet, but she, the one who had her finger on the button, just knew, just saw and figured out what the scene was.

She had her faithful band of followers. They primarily hated her, partly out of fear that she would find out something about them. But she was careful not to alienate her followers, since that then, would be disaster and would put an end to her undercover operations. Yes, she was the harmless, dull looking maami next door but who was to know that SHE, yes she, of all people, if she ever wanted to blackmail anyone in the neighbourhood, had the information, first hand, to do so?

So she put down all her observations, inferences and conclusions neatly in a little notebook, that she billed her diary. It was a innocuous looking ruled notebook, 200 pages, that had a chubby child on the cover, a butterfly or even sometimes, a tree or a garden. She had 15 such notebooks stashed away in the tin trunk under her bed. What a pleasure it was to go back to some of them.

For example, one day Ruth aunty from next door was remembering Leela from the third floor of the opposite house(at one of their impromptu neighbourly conclaves when Amina, Ritu and Meenakashi were present) and suddenly, she remembered the rotund, cheerful woman with her string of boyfriends. True, Leela at thirty was not married but her string of BFs would also ensure that she never would. She sniffed at the memory and suddenly felt the urge to relive those days when Leela was her pet subject. So to the tin trunk and notebook number 9 it was… and did she enjoy going back!! The Leela who scorned her neighbours, the same Leela who thumbed her nose at them, even as boys, boys and more boys trooped in and out of the door.

Leela, for example, would take a bath at precisely 7.15 every morning, breakfast at 7.45 and leave home at 8am. She would be back at 4.30, after which a stream of young men would adorn her doorstep one after another. She read through her observations, enjoying every relived moment, relishing it slowly like a toffee being sucked till it vanished on the tongue. Some things are best enjoyed at leisure.

A week after Leela was remembered with fondness, a young man came knocking at her door. She peered at him, for it seemed a familiar face, yet one that she was sure, she could not have known personally.

“Aunty,” said the boy. Aunty? Did she look like his aunt?? She peered closer. He could not have been older than 21. She relaxed a bit and waited. “Aunty, sorry to bother you but would you know where I can get a contact number or address for Ms. Leela who used to live opposite?”

“Er… I really don’t know…” she said, her antennae up at once, “Who shall I say asked for her in case I am able to find out?”

“Oh,” said the boy smiling, “Please tell her it is Aditya from Balakrishna College who took chemistry tuition from her – and graduated from being blockhead to brightest.”

It took a few moments for the undercover woman operator to steady her smile and nod her head.

Samosas and sauce at 2am

The nose lies. Yes it does. There are times when I smell ladoos, the big fat ones that come back from Tirupathi thanks to a well-wisher or because you made that trip… Then there are times when my nose thinks there is chocolate cake close by.

The nose lies. And then, the stomach makes growly noises, because it anticipates eagerly, what the nose communicates. You close your eyes, and you can almost see it, thanks to the nose. Except that, there is no food close by. At least food of the sort that your nose says it can smell.

That’s why right now, at 2am, I suddenly smell freshly fried samosas, with soft buttery filling, without too much of spices and I actually smell the tomato sauce too. I look to my left. A little glass dish with the remnants of Kurkure triangles sits sadly, its redness fading right before my eyes.

The organs of sight seek the hot fresh samosas. The nose steals a laugh from right under.

Nothing…

Nothing… is a state of mind.
A state of being.
Where after years of doing,
There is but… nothing.

Where can you go then,
To see if you are something?
What can you do then,
To see, if there is something?

The mirror shows a thing,
The shell. There are shells everywhere.
Moving about, peopling space,
That yet, could be nothing.

Say, how old are you?
How do you get to an age,
When you ought to be something,
But you have made nothing?

Dunno, you say. Says my friend,
Erase that from your vocabulary.
I try… to erase. “I don’t know.”
However, it is there, filling space in nothing.

Nothing on my mind

Roots

Where we come from, we cannot forget,
Where we are going, is the map.
But in between, being what we are not,
Is that what life is about?

The map is charted out, there are possibilities galore,
Endless sunlit paths beckon,
Even as you navigate dark, narrow corridors,
Getting there, getting there…

Then the roots that run deep,
Help you go on, hold on,
Even as the darkness deepens,
Or the pathways narrow.

Let go of the roots,
And you have floated past the corridors,
Lost the map, and the path,
Beyond… into nothingness.

He said that I am pretty

“He said that I am pretty,” she declared, removing her slippers, looking around grinning. The Family looked back, smiling, some of them as if humouring a whim; others, out of sheer habit. What they could see was a slip of a girl, hardly past five foot, painfully skinny, sallow skin and lanky hair. But prettiness was something in the mind, what the eyes could not see; what the mirror could not show. It was something someone else had said, or perhaps seen.

She looked happy and proud, preening slightly in the admiration of the unseen man.

“Er…” said the grandfather, “Why ever would a bank manager tell you that?” The grandmother chuckled, “Bank managers don’t just manage money you know.” Nothing however, would take that moment from her. She relived it and enjoyed the memory of the moment and the warm feeling inside.

Until the Angel visited. Angel was the Cousin from heaven, good natured, always smiling, but most of all, glowingly beautiful. But as far as she herself was concerned, Angel was the Cousin from hell. Seeing her brought home her own inadequacies in her own eyes. It was little she could prevent, running to the mirror for a furtive glimpse of her own image, her mind automatically comparing it to the visiting Angel, her tall 5’8” well proportioned body, glowing skin, lustrous hair and smiling face. Angel, it seemed, had good-natured-ness to her long list of God-given attributes.

It had been like this from childhood. When Angel walked into a room, the people and the room itself seemed to envelop her, warmly embracing her. Angel herself glowed in company, while she herself hugged the walls, watching the scene from outside. It had been this way and seemed to always continue to be this way.

So when the bank manager threw a compliment her way, she caught it as if to never let it go.

Until the Angel visited. Once again, the Family, the house, why even the sunshine, seemed to turn towards the Angel, lighting her from within. She herself skulked in the doorway of her room, leaning against a wall and looking at the scene from without. With sour eyes she watched the Angel as she said hello, joked with the family members and then asked, “Hey, where is Sunita?” All eyes searched then focussed on her leaning against the wall – and Angel strode forward to laughingly mock punch her. She closed here eyes – the comparison was unflattering.

Before the Angel reached her, she ran into her room and shut the door.

The good life

She rummaged through her meagre wardrobe, wrinkling her nose in irritation. Today was going to be a cut above – and nothing here would do. She pondered for just that little moment – should it be Kavita or Rajni? Rajni, she decided. Rajni’s clothes were just that little bit classier, and she also bought designer. Kavita had a different variety, smart, sassy and happening – but not in that understated classiness that Rajni’s had. Rajni’s wardrobe was a mix of the bohemian and the sophisticated and hers would be the easier pick today.

The doorbell rang. Rajni, who was in the midst of giving her cat’s coat a good brushing, rose to answer it. Her heart sank when she saw who it was. She fixed a polite smile of her face and said, “Hey, what’s up?” But she already knew. It was her wardrobe that was the attraction, not her. Her wardrobe, her shopping life and her car were IT, not her.

She, of course, was completely focussed – the wardrobe, the wardrobe. Something black, something neat, something completely classy. There it was. Rajni was hovering behind and she turned around, completely happy that she had found it. Rajni looked, well… but her mind was already racing. She needed something for the neck to go with the outfit. The neckline was just too simple. “Hey Rajni,” she said, “Remember what your friend Rahul gifted you for your last birthday? I think that neckpiece would be just right with this dress. Where is it?”
Rajni reached out, took a box from out of her dresser and held it out.
She happily clasped it to her chest, took the hanger with the dress on it and cried, “This is great Rajni! See ya! Bye!” and walked back up the stairs to her own apartment.

It was late afternoon. Rajni was walking down the stairs, her jute shopping bag in hand(she hated plastic), anticipating the browsing and the buying. Kavita, who lived on the ground floor would be ready, and they were going to the City Centre mall together. They may even catch some chat at the food court there. Her mouth watered in anticipation. As she stepped on the first floor landing, the door to 1C opened and there she stood. Catching sight of Rajni, she asked, “Hey, where are you going?” “Shopping,” said Rajni with a smile. “Hey,” she said, “Hold on, I will join you.”
It seemed that she was prepared. She dashed in, came out with her handbag and shut the apartment door before Rajni could react. They trotted down the stairs and Kavita, who was waiting out by her car, raised her brows. Rajni waggled hers in reply, as they silently got into the car.

She had insisted that she would drive. She was happy. A free trip to the mall, and really, her friends wouldn’t mind. They were going there anyway weren’t they? Besides, she was saving them a chore – driving them there, though it was Kavita’s car. Never mind. She ticked off her shopping list in her mind. On the way they would stop at the supermarket as well…

Sitting in the backseat, Rajni put her head in her hands. She was a chump, she was. She wished she had been smarter and said, “I am going to the doc.” That was one place the freebooter would not come along. Yet, here she was once again, and she knew she would be picking up tab for perhaps, a kilo of atta… or would it be eggs this time? Giggling to herself, she looked up, only to see Kavita frowning at her. Her friend and neighbour definitely, was not happy.

She parked the car in the slot meant for it in the apartment block, completely happy and satisfied with the shopping trip. She looked at her friends – they looked a little weary and not too… er… what would be the word… satisfied? Never mind. She picked up her dozen eggs and the half a kilo of sugar(Rajni had paid for it but she knew her friend wouldn’t mind) and said, “See ya guys!” Suddenly remembering, she turned to Kavita and said, “Hey Kavi! Gotta come by this evening – need a stole from you for a lunch I am going to tomorrow.”
“Er… um…” Kavita seemed to be fumbling for words, “I will not be home. I am going out – er… and staying overnight at my cousin’s.”
“Oh ok,” she nodded, turning around to catch Rajni instead.

Rajni had vanished.

PS: For my friend V. It's your story. I am just telling it here.

Young love

Walking down the high street,
She feels good about herself.
Pretty in pink, wearing Levis and Espirit,
She is on top of the world.

Money values, values of a generation,
Brought up on the sprawling possibilities
Of a widening world, beyond
The boundaries of nationality.

Beyond the boundaries of what was home,
Beyond what parents were and what
Family stood for.
With wide open arms,
They embrace all
Nothing matters but the self.

Gelled hair, snazzy phone,
Speaking to the girlfriend,
Walking alone.
He walks tall, and talks quite funny.

Tanglish or Hinglish,
What does it matter.
His language is the language
Of natter.

He dreams of a self
Like John Abraham
Of pretty girls and faraway places
As only the Romeo can.

Plastic self, plastic values,
Once technicolour now gone digital,
The faster the earn, the faster the spend,
They are there, everywhere you turn.

They are there around you, hanging out at malls,
Hey, do you dare say,
What they stand for is false?
The pictures they say and the fantasises they dream
Fuel the fire,
Inside and unseen.

There she walks, in her Levis and Espirit,
Walking tall, walking happy,
Swining and carefree.
He swaggers down smartly,
His phone tapping his knee,
His eyes all awander, and her did he see?

The spoon

She could never eat without the spoon. She would pull one out of the stand on the table that held exactly 6 knives, six tablespoons, six spoons and 5 forks(one got lost, perhaps dropped into the dustbin by a careless maid); she would pull one out and then proceed to eat, assuming a dainty and superior stance. Everyone else on the table would be using their right hand.

The spoon then, became the leitmotif of her life. She was, she decided, a cut above. All she needed to do was just be. So that’s what she did, every day, lounging around the house; chatting with friends, lounging around the bed, flipping through magazines; dressing up prettily to wander out to perhaps a movie or a lunch/dinner… Life was good.

The parents had nothing to say, simply because they weren’t there. She had taken a sabbatical from studies, dropping out of college(fatigue she said, caused a nervous breakdown) – and she just was.

The parents traipsed from home to work, and from work to home. Theirs was the rat race, and tired as they were morning and night, they had nothing to say to their delightful daughter. She would ask for money to spend, related a few amusing anecdotes of her day, and that was it.

She would prettily wash the spoons, while her parents did the dishes, wiped the counters and the table, put the clothes in the washing machine, wait till the cycle was done, and hung the clothes out. Her clothes were the most in number because she changed as often as she needed to: to go to the gym, to meet friends for lunch; to take an evening walk(those Nike tracks and matching tee that went oh so prettily with her pink pink shoe); and when the need rose, to party.
Life was good.

Then, one day, mother fell ill and was home in bed. The fever was high and she felt really tired. But not wanting to trouble the husband, mother put out breakfast and packed his lunch. She, who was in the rat race, knew the power of what the rat race could do to another. She would minimise his suffering.

But of course, HER life did not change. Breakfast was on the table, and emerging from her room late morning, she had no idea that mum was at home, in bed with the viral. Her arm reached out daintily to pick a spoon, when suddenly a hot hand smashed forward, throwing the cutlery rack to the floor. She looked up shocked.

There crouched her mum, garbage bag in hand, angrily thrusting every piece of spoon, fork, knife, tablespoon into its black entrails.
From then on, she was forced to eat with her fingers.

Frock

The frock is back with a bang. It’s making a statement everywhere you go.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” says my friend V, “Don’t call it frock. It’s the dress da.” Whatever. On the people I see it, I am tempted to call it the frock. The frock it shall be. Somehow, wearing something just for the sake of being ‘in’ never works.

Like L, who practically thinks she is the Lolita of the social set. She is never dressed the same every time she is seen out. In fact, it’s a known and recorded fact(recorded because she is photographed every time she’s seen out), that she never repeats her clothes or for that matter her hairstyle. L, prides herself on wearing something new, ‘never seen’, every time. (I shudder when I think of her wardrobe space; or does she throw out, pass on every outfit when it’s worn once? Curious and curiousier… but I digress…)

Back to L, despite the fact that she IS dressed differently… er… she looks the same. Interesting na?

I am saying all this to my good pal V, who looks at me outta the corner of her eye and steps on the pedal of her SUV. She laughs out aloud and says, “Witch.” Which of course is a cover-up for the other one.

I am used to V, I ignore her ‘goody’ comment and register only the mischievous laugh. She has registered the point about L, but somehow it goes against her grain to laugh at poor L. I am not laughing, I reassure her, nor am I being… er… Witchy. I am just observing, I tell her gently. She laughs again. V is always, neither here nor there.

So I change the subject and go back to starting point. Frocks, I tell her, will not work on every Indian woman’s body. We come in such interesting shapes, sometimes, some shapes are best concealed, not necessarily by a sari, but perhaps by jeans or salwars. I am not being prudish, I insist, but aesthetics, now that is important, at least for the eye of the beholder.

V giggles and says, “But believe me, many of them look good in them da.”

Never mind, I tell her, this conversation is not getting anywhere. Instead, I will blog on frocks.

PS: Never mind my opinion, this blog is for V :), the one on the fence always!

Gold digger

She looked up at the group from under her lashes, a small smile playing about her mouth. This was not the time. Nevertheless, she allowed her body language to show, swaying slightly towards him to ‘display’ her special attraction. Her neat and demure demeanour gave nothing away. To the casual onlooker, nay, to her close friends even, she was this sweet, straight forward thing, intelligent and plain speaking, god fearing and family oriented. That really was her best positioning.

He turned to smile at her, his fondness showing. To him, she was special, a defenceless creature to be protected and cared for. She seemed to want nothing but his company, turning to him for every little care or bother. That was so sweet really. His heart swelled as he looked at her standing there among their group of friends, both young men and women. As she swayed slightly towards him, he automatically put his arm around her shoulder, as if to lend support and protection.

At that very moment, strategically, she lifted her lashes and gave him a really sweet smile. It had worked. Now to reel the fish in. But she hesitated… there was Shrijit as well who she knew was really, really a softie and who liked her a lot. He was there for her whenever she needed him, car and all. But the pity was… Shrijit looked a lot less nicer than the hunk by her side. Pimples where Shrijit’s bane, though his wealthy parents ensured that their only son lacked nothing.

Yet, the handsome who clearly was besotted, though of less means(his parents were working class after all); was a good back-up. Not in the very near future, she decided, turning to smile at him. She got a tender smile in return.

It was at Shrijit’s house that the decision really came to her. She sighed as she sank into the plush sofa before the home theatre. Their group of friends was meeting for a late post dinner evening, to catch a film, with snacks and drinks thrown in. Shrijit’s home was the obvious destination – it had everything other’s houses in the gang did not. It had space. They would have privacy. And best of all, Shrijit had his own den, a largish room with home theatre, music system, a mini bar and plenty of lounging space.

Handsome sank into the sofa next to her; smiling, expectant of a loving welcome. She smiled warmly, but adjusted the body language to a neutral zone. A pang shot through her: handsome was so good-looking, if only he were well endowed as well, with that one most important thing – money.

She quashed that thought: sitting next to the hunk in this luxurious entertainment zone which she knew the hunk’s apartment would never have, helped her make up her mind.

A while later, she got up and stretched, walked around a bit. Her eye was on Shrijit who was lounging on a bean bag, a Coke in hand. “Hey, get me a Fanta da!” she smiled at him. Shrijit was all attention. Drink in hand, she returned, daintly sat at the foot of the bean bag. As the film progress, she leaned slightly, further and further, till her head rested on his thigh, relaxed. She could feel him stiffen.

But a while later, he relaxed as well, and a protective palm came to rest on her head.

Bingo!