Thursday, March 8, 2012

The Colours of Holi

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Holi, his favourite festival, that one time he could legitimately grab unsuspecting girls, and steal away his moments of perverse pleasures without fear of recognition. He grinned as he spotted a slim form in the distance, colored head to toe, her wet kurta sticking to her body, the view playing havoc in his mind. Springing on her from behind he took a quick grab and turned to run off. But not before seeing the shocked look on his sister’s face.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Back to the Basics

As I was boarding the flight to Delhi, I was grumpy to say the least. Slipping and ending up with a fracture had definitely not been part of my plan. Long term bed rest and a sudden flight to Delhi may eventually sound good, but when it’s suddenly thrown at you…well, it throws you off course. And it took me by complete surprise.

But as I stood in that extremely long line of confused people hoping to board the Kingfisher flight (confused, because the boarding gate had been changed thrice, hoping because, well, it was KFA, you really never know), I randomly glanced around at my soon to be fellow passengers on the two hour long and rather painful flight to Delhi. I saw a sardarji, and I smiled. I didn’t even realize I was smiling. But I was. And then when it hit me, I was plain embarrassed. It was only later that I realized that I genuinely felt happy seeing that Sikh gentleman. I just hadn’t seen that many in Mumbai, amidst all the Gujaratis, Marathis and Marwaris, and I guess a part of me just missed the sight. A girl of medium height, straightened streaked hair, and fair skin pushed past me to step up to the counter and demand to know how long they’ll take. And she looked irritated. And her blackberry had a sparkling pink cover. There were varying degrees of young well built guys looking at the time in their expensive watches. Then there was the customary Jat club cricket team, twelve men and their coach only too happy to stare at all the girls and the air hostesses and pass dirty looks.

I was definitely on a flight to Delhi.

My co-passenger was a light eyed well built Punjabi boy, top three shirt buttons undone showing off his shaved chest, rugged two day unshaved look, and flinching biceps. The second co-passenger turned out to be the before mentioned fair skinned girl. Dilli ki ladki, Chandigarh ka ladka. As it later turned out, they were both on their way to Dehradun to shoot for their new soap opera, and I got to over hear two hours worth of acting tips shared between them. But somehow I was smiling. And the Chandigarh ka ladka was chivalrous enough to help me with my bags and stuff, given that I was the weirdo sitting on a bright yellow cushion.

Stepping out of the airport onto Delhi roads always makes me feel good. Maybe it’s just the sight of a nice big road after so long. Maybe it’s returning to the city I’ve spent twenty years of my life in. Maybe it’s all the food I can imagine myself smelling. Maybe it’s the lack of the fish smell in the air. Maybe it’s just the fact that when you’re here for a short period of time, you just have a good time, and love it.

Photo courtesy:
Over the past three weeks, I’ve slept a lot, chilled a lot, watched TV a lot, felt my nose go numb because of the cold, eaten enough to put the Mumbai me to shame, spent time with my family, and remembered the twenty years I’ve spent here. I’ve met some of my closest friends, and laughed about the funny lives we have led, and how different things are today.

I never can get myself to say whether I like Delhi or Mumbai. I really do like both, or hate both, even if for completely different reasons. Delhi's loved me my entire life. Mumbai's given me love.

And then, at times, both have taken clearly taken extreme sadistic pleasure in kicking my ass.

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