Of Life & Wake Up Calls

“Writers are pretentious fucks!”

He spat this at me. Right in the middle of an outrageous fight. 

And I laughed.

“Just because you’re insecure doesn’t make us pretentious fucks.”

I frankly don’t remember how that fight ended. I’m guessing it wasn’t very pretty, to say the least. But I also remember the feeling of…well…I don’t know how to put it in a nice way… almost… satisfaction. Satisfaction in the feeling that I was something that he secretly aspired to be. That I had knowledge gained from years of reading things that helped me live a thousand different lives all from my little room at home. Satisfaction that I perhaps understood this world in a way and from a perspective that his common brain was completely untrained to do. And extreme satisfaction from the fact that I could use words to spell out beautiful sentences and paint images that he could only comprehend in color while sitting like an idiot in front of the television set.

Wait.

Writers ARE pretentious fucks.

They just don’t admit to it.

And it doesn’t really hit you until you surround yourself with other writers. Who think they’re better than everyone else.

Actually, who think they’re better than you.

Of course I’m generalizing. There are a lot of humble and down-to-earth writers out there with inferiority complexes. 

I’m just yet to meet them.

The ones I have met (including myself on most counts, though recently I’ve found myself in a world where I can’t actually call myself a writer out loud to begin with, you know, in front of all the other REAL writers), are the ones who when asked their favorite book will quote a quaint Russian or Japanese author, even though the latest read in their kindle archive would be a Jeffrey Archer.

The ones I know will now find it a necessity to write simple words as poetry, because they HAVE to show they’re serious writers.

The ones I know are probably judging the seriousness of other writers on the number of followers on social media right now.

And sure this is a rant. It’s a rant that will probably never see the light of day. A rant that’s a by-product of the existential crisis that seems to plague my life every few months. (Man, how did that sentence end up sounding so pretentious as well?!)

It’s a rant at the futility of trying to fit in, when writing to begin with was always an outlet, a way, of being myself when I couldn’t. 

Writers ARE pretentious fucks.

But I’m not ready to give up on either parts of those sentences.

I still want to write.

And I definitely never want to stop being myself.

Oh hello, blog, my old friend.

Stop.

You tell me to stop

So instead I type

Because to stop would mean

That this world is fine

And it’s okay to accept it

Just the way it is.

But there, you see

Lies the problem

I cannot stop

For to stop would mean

That I’m finally comfortable

Wearing hot pants and walking

On a dark empty road at night

That my gender no longer

Matters at work

That I won't be asked

Without realising

To book the meeting room

Or arrange the hospitality

To leave after work

Early before a drink

That paternity leave

Is as important as maternity

That popping out a baby

Is no longer just my responsibility

That I don’t have to spend my life

Being Superman

And Wonder Woman

Morphed into one

For I still don’t know how

To make that perfect roti

And manage my retirement fund

And pay my EMIs

And manage to find a job

That doesn’t make me

Tear out my hair

Drown a little everyday

Give up my dignity just a little more

Within these corporate walls

Closing in, closing in.

I’ll stop when I no longer

Feel guilty about sitting

In a women’s compartment

A ladies seat

A ladies special

Or worse

For taking up space

In a general dabba

Which men choose to believe

Is now for men

For why do girls bother entering

When they have a place of their own

Ironic, wouldn't you say

Since the only reason we need that place

Is because your hands decide

To nonchalantly not stay your own.

I’ll stop when I no longer

Need to share my Uber details

Need to carry a pepperspray

Need to worry about what I say

Need to hide my night time escapades

My clothes, my choices

My brains.

You tell me to stop

So instead I type

For what else can I do

Except fight a little

Every day

My way

And hope

That one day

You won’t tell me

To stop

This mahila morcha

This feminist crap

That one day

I won't need to

And this world will be fine

And I’ll stop.

Hadness

That feeling of hadness.

The inevitable low after the high.

That moment when everything is so beautiful, so perfect that you walk around with a smile on your face. But it falters, by just a fraction, as you begin to feel the tiny weight of a nagging feeling, tugging at a corner of your heart you’d have preferred stayed in the dark.

But the feeling grows, feeding off of your happiness, slowly but surely.

The feeling of hadness.

The feeling of fairy lights and balconies and perfect moments.

Moments never meant to be, moments that won’t be.

The feeling trying to tell you, that the happiness you feel right now, will soon be something you had.

The feeling when you wonder

Is this the last hug, the last look, the last smile.

The feeling that this will all be over.

The feeling warning you

To steel yourself

For the emptiness ahead.

Monsoons and Shit

Monsoons are back.

So this post had to be.

That annoyed post grumbling about this sewer of a city we love to wade through every day.

And all those amazing people who find it romantic.

But whether in a good mood or bad, I do have a tendency to attract a lot of crap, like literal crap everywhere. It’s one of those things I’ve come to accept (and it doesn’t help when palmists and random numerologists look at you with almost pitying eyes when they try to predict your future).

Some people are just luckier than others. I guess that’s a fact.

And then there are people like me.

If there’s a jam, I will get stuck in it.

If there’s a cab about to break down, I will take it.

If there’s a dead stinking rat submerged in a pool of icky water, I will manage to step on it.

If there’s a shop with water collected on the roof, of the thousands of people on that road, I will singularly stand under it at the exact moment when the wind decides to blow it over and make the water dump its glorious self on my head.

Sometimes I feel like the honorary star of a Charlie Chaplin comedy film being made somewhere… just that they somehow forgot to inform me about it.

At the very least, if not the money, the paparazzi, or the knighthood, I deserve a Star in the Walk of Fame. Or maybe a statue in Tussaud’s. Something to make the next surprise shoot day a little easier to deal with.

Is that really too much to ask?

Serendipity

“I believe in Fate.” She said, smiling at him, her heart beating hard against her rib cage. He was the One, she could feel it in her bones. It was fate. It had to be.

As they stepped out of the Serendipity Café, she picked up a book from the pile in front of the bookstore, and wrote down her number in the old copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. As she put it back in the middle of the pile, she looked at him with sparkling eyes.

“Well if we’re meant to meet again… then we’ll meet again.”

And with that they parted, trusting their lives to an unknown force, that infallible and brutal sense of hope.

Years later, in a different country, an unexplored library around the corner, her hands shook as she opened a tattered copy of Love in the Time of Cholera, and found her writing sprawled across the last page.

The ink slowly spread, mixing in with her tears to form psychedelic patterns.

Fate finally confirmed what she’d cruelly spent her entire life learning.

She was always meant to be her own true love.

Satan

She squinted at Botticelli’s replica hanging on the wall in front of her, trying hard to concentrate in the midst of the storm brewing inside her.

Dante’s inferno and the Map of Hell… she’d read so much about it, and yet the irony wasn't lost on her as she tried half-heartedly to concentrate on each level, barely able to make out the shapes in her head.

She looked at all the pain, the punishment, the anguish… for the unbaptized… the gluttons… the greedy… the wrathful writhing in slime… But as she rocked back and forth one level held her attention the most.

“Faster…” she moaned, and he complied.

Her mother and Sunday school had spent their entire lives warning her of Satan and Hell, but right now, midst the throes of passion, lust didn’t seem like a sin to be avoided anymore. 

Coincidence

“So you see, as it turns out… coincidences can lead to beautiful things…” he said, smiling lovingly at her. She smiled back at him. The act had now been perfected to the last word, for he really did love telling the story of how they met to anyone who’d care to ask.

It was plain to see just how madly in love they were – their story inspiring to all, the thought of finding your soul mate when you least expect it. Listeners found themselves at the edge of their seats, amazed at how a series of unseemly events could so suddenly have aligned to ensure they met, so beautifully. It was almost like fate.

 “It’s like the world conspired to ensure I met her. Luck really is an amazing thing.” He’d often say.

She looked at him, her infatuation with him just barely contained. Ever since she first saw him, she knew they had to be together. And finally she had him all to herself. She didn't believe in luck…  All those hours of stealthily following him and her copious notes on his every movement every day to orchestrate their first meeting… you just can't leave things to coincidence these days.

Infidelity

She looked at her own reflection in the mirror, and knew at that moment, everything was about to change. If she decided to go through with this, there was no turning back. Some things you can’t undo, some bonds of trust can never be rebuilt.

She saw him walk around, ignoring her in an almost painfully obvious way. He wanted her here. She could almost feel her bones ache with tension, knowing what was coming next. He wanted her just the way she was, in that exact position, just the way he liked it.

He finally walked up behind her, and she closed her eyes as she felt his naked fingers run through her hair. She shivered slightly at his touch, then blushed, hoping he hadn’t noticed the effect this was having on her.

But the knowing half smile on his face told her he knew.

She squirmed, suddenly more uncomfortable than before.

She felt rather than saw him bend down behind her, and just as she felt the slightest sliver of his warm breath on her neck, she jumped out of the chair, and mumbling a hurried apology ran out of the swanky salon.

Running back to her trusted hair stylist, she let out a sigh of relief. This infidelity, she would never have forgiven herself for.

Drama

She sipped her morning cup of coffee, breathing in the heady aroma, and looked at their immaculate apartment. She touched their pictures framing the walls…family…friends…beautiful memories… The furnishing was just as she liked it, almost out of a magazine catalogue, but with just that slight touch of craziness that seemed to define her. A scarf covering the lamp…. Colorful disjointed cushions lining the sofa… a cozy blanket lying there from the night before…

She walked into the bedroom and looked at him, sleeping like a baby, soft sunlight playing hide and seek with his hair. He was a good one. The only good choice she’d made in years. After years of self destructive decisions… here she was…in a life that was almost… perfect.

She bent down and with a quick kiss on his cheek, left the envelope next to his pillow. There wasn’t much he’d find in that envelope when he woke up later. Just a blank sheet of paper with one word… “Sorry”.

She picked up her bag, and with one last look at her home, stepped out.

After all, what’s life without a bit of drama.

Superficial

She opened her eyes lazily, almost willing her mind not to, knowing she wasn’t going to like what was in front of her.

Another morning, another unknown face, another unknown bed.

It was becoming a habit, almost.

If only it felt like a bad one.

Slipping quietly out of bed, she tiptoed across the room gathering her clothes, and quietly let herself out to breathe in the fresh air. Looking at her watch, she smiled…just in time for her appointment.

Later, as she felt the first prick of the needle gliding across her skin to ink a beautiful design, she lay back and let a tiny tear escape the corner of her eye.

Sometimes the pain from superficial wounds is so much sweeter than the deep ones.

5 Seconds

The alarm pierces through my agitated dream, disguised as a respite, an escape from the world of nightmares that seems to play havoc in my head all night long.

And just as I try to concentrate on my cellphone screen, the numbers burning bright, the annoying tone ringing ever clearer, the real world of nightmares begins to hit.

5 seconds is all it takes.

To decide between switching it off, or hitting the snooze button.

Hoping for some respite, even if temporary.

5 seconds to decide.

To think of a purpose.

A reason to get up.

Some passion, a dream.

There has to be something.

Something compelling enough to make me open my eyes wide and get up.

And look forward to living this day.

And not just getting through it.

5 seconds can be the longest time ever.

When you’re searching for something that doesn’t exist.

When you’re grabbing at air.

And so you hit the snooze button.

And hope for respite.

Even if temporary.

Spark

5 AM.

Rubbing her eyes, she opened the door to absolute chaos outside. All she could see were heads of people, half of them in uniform.

She looked at the cop staring quizzically at her. “What’s going on?”

“Ma’am, the CCTV shows that your neighbor came over to your house last night. What did she want?”

“Err… ya… a matchbox, I think.”

“What for?”

She looked at the cop, evaluating how much to tell him.

“Can I know what’s going on?”

“Sure, but what did she need the matchbox for? Did she tell you? You were good friends I’ve heard”

“Well… She’d found Sid… I mean her boyfriend cheating on her… I think she wanted to burn some of his clothes in anger.”

“And you didn’t find that weird?”

“Well… it’s just a silly girly ritual we sometimes did… I didn’t think that’s a big deal. What’s happening? Is she hurt?”

“No Ma’am… so she burnt his clothes last night?”

Exasperated, she pushed past the cop towards the door across the hall. “I don’t understand. Did he complain to the cops about her burning his clothes? That’s ridiculous!”

As she made her way past the crowd, she gasped at the sight in front of her.

“No Ma’am, he didn’t complain about his clothes. It’s just that he was still in them.”

Dreamless.

As we stumble out of bed

These mundane mornings

We look into the mirror

To see all the brightness drowning

The shadows of youth

That no longer come to light

The remains of lust & lore

Of the nights that burnt bright

The shattered hopes

And painful dreams

Of everything we could be.

So much has gone wrong

And what has life become

Dream big, they said

Behind the shallow smirk

Not warning us that one day

We won't dream at all.

So we look into the mirror

And see the spotty face

Dark shadows and baggage

Of dreams long past a fade

We see all we never became

And the life we have to accept

If only the heart would stop

Beating I am I am I am….

Let's Pretend

Let’s Pretend

To be who we’re not

Smarter

More Successful

Adulting like a boss

Let’s Create

With updates of life

Check-ins and likes

Pouts and kisses

A mirage of life

Let’s be hypocrites

And throw around advice

On relationships & life

On jobs & success

On how to adult

Without pretense

Let’s hide everything we are

The misery, the plight

All the difficulties in sight

Singing in the spotlight

About our beautiful life

Let’s put on a happy face

Because at the end of the day

That’s really all we are

Exhausted unpaid Actors

In this never-ending rat race.

It’s a man’s world, but I really don’t think I’d want to be a man

I’m pretty sure there’s this recurring thought that passes through every girl’s mind every now and then, even if not very seriously… life would be so much easier if I was a guy!

This could happen when you’re stuck in office late night, and are fretting over how you’ll make it home. Or when you think twice before getting onto a sparsely crowded bus with only men. It happens when you get left out of a dirty men’s joke in office, or when your parents refuse to give you permission to go clubbing in Delhi. It happens every time you hear about learning to make a round chapatti, and it definitely happens when you’re on a road trip with a painfully full bladder and no clean restroom in sight for miles.

But then, there are times that I imagine life as a guy in this world, and I feel so much insane pressure that I feel very happy to be exactly who I am.

All the way from when we were kids, I always felt that a guy could be the best in studies, or a talented singer, but the one thing on which he was judged by peers always somehow came down to how he was at cricket. Because that’s what all the boys in school did during all their breaks. Every boy wanted to bat, and the ones who weren’t athletic enough were banished to field endlessly. But not playing was not an option. It’s what boys do.

And this display of physical masculinity doesn’t change through life. Sure, you can move onto tennis or snooker or some sport that suits you more. But I don’t think it’s still very acceptable for a man to claim he doesn’t like to play any sport at all. He’s judged. Way more than I am judged when I make the same statement. Because it’s easy to assume that I’m a delicate girly girl who wouldn’t want to break a nail. (That isn’t the real reason, though. I actually just suck at anything that needs hand eye coordination. So I’d rather just spend my time reading… Why spend time being bad at something when I can spend that time enjoying something instead?). But if a guy my age makes the same statement, I’ve seen the judgemental looks he gets.

Looks that are almost as bad as the derogatory jokes about men who can’t grow beards (yeah, like that’s a bloody talent!), men who have some effeminate characteristics (“woh jo gay hai?!” Let’s not even get started with everything wrong with the words and tone of that sentence), the rare guy who chooses to stay at home and take care of the household and kids while the wife earns instead. Like what’s with the pressure of being the man of the house?! In today’s world, why must the guy earn more, and be the decision maker of the house? What if he doesn’t want to be? What does 'Be a man!' even mean?!

When I chose to move to Mumbai before my marriage, A took a transfer to join me. I thought it was super sweet of him to change for me. But I didn’t think it was out of the world to expect him to. But the world did. The concept of a guy moving for a girl instead of vice-versa was very amusing to a lot of people, who let their thoughts be known rather openly by their smirks and jokes. A took it rather well, I’d say, and for that I’ll always be thankful to him. But what a load of crap to have to deal with to begin with!

And then I think, the worst of the lot. Boys don’t cry. Like, why the hell not? Why are little boys told to not behave like a girl? One small sentence to insult both boys and girls in one go. Just as bad as it is to say that you have to be careful with what you say to women or they’ll start crying, it’s horrible to expect men to not cry. It’s a bloody natural reaction. Stop gender-ising it!

Wow this ended up a very long post.

But like I said, it pretty much sucks to be a guy in this world.

Not that being a girl is a hoot.

But about time people realized feminism isn’t just about women, no?

Like really, about time.

The Year That Was... Again!

It’s that time of the year again… time for the annual round up of all moments happy and crappy! And some bullet points, because if you know me even one tiny bit, you know I love bullet points!!

• This year started full of promises (like every year now and then, smirking and deceiving)… with a major annual vacation on the cards, awesomeness at work with another promotion and a generally happy 2015. As it turns out, it had quite a few surprises in store for me.
• My health took a massive toll, complete with chronic tiredness, a back spasm and imported chicken pox.
• My sweet lil ‘cozy’ house decided to enter its teenage years, and became a rebellious brat. Over the year we’ve dealt with leaking roofs, fungus on every surface with a special repeated love for my clothes, remotes that creepily decided to malfunction together, the magical cupboard where watches slowed down by an hour, light switches that commited suicide, and a very moody tube light that decided to function when you least expected it to.
• Work, well, I’ll continue to follow the policy of not talking about work here. Let’s just say that despite a great start, satisfaction levels were rather low, and plummeted quite a bit as the year wore on.
• I feel like I spent half the year literally sitting in an Uber on my way to or from office. But let me just say, that’s better than driving, or standing squished in the train. I think.
• The last two months have been spent crazily house hunting, trying to reduce my dedicated love affair with Uber… but at the moment there seems to be no light at the end of the tunnel for that one. Oh well.
• On the bright side, I started my tete-a-tete with Europe finally this year, and spent a beautiful two weeks exploring the ruins of Italy, the beautiful coast, and DDLJ sceneries of Switzerland. Until I managed to catch chicken pox, but that’s another story.
• I’ve changed jobs, and, well, that’s that.
• I had my first article published on a site I’d been devouring for years, and if nothing else, it felt timely.
• I’ve experienced more joy than ever before with fostering more and more kittens. There have been ups and downs, some helped much more, and some with pure bad luck which resulted in complete helplessness from our side. And more than enough days you come home after a tiring day and find stuff overturned and on the floor and feel irritated at how the house smells. But then the kitten looks up at you innocently, and cuddles onto your lap and goes to sleep. And at that moment, everything, the whole year, is completely worth it.

Overall, this year has been a mixed bag, where I found it easier to remember the crappy stuff than the nice ones. But as per my theory (yes, another one!!), I alternate in my awesome and bawl-some years, so 2017, you’re eagerly and positively awaited!

I mean, no pressure.

But just be awesome, ok?

The Cho-Cha Returns!

Sometimes, I truly believe that when I have kids, specially a daughter, I won’t bother reading fairy tales to them. Not that I have anything against the Grimm brothers. On the contrary, their non-edited gory versions of the stories aren’t that different from my own writing (glass shoe full of blood because toes were cut off to fit the foot in…man!). But I do believe a large part of the dream of Prince Charming and happily ever after starts off at a very young age thanks to books like these. Growing up, Rom-Coms don’t help, and Bella Swan swooning over vampires and werewolves definitely takes feminism back quite a few years.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against romantic stories or happy endings, I DID read the entire Twilight series rather eagerly after all. But I do believe a lot of important things in life should not revolve around finding your Prince Charming. I hope you find your love, if that’s what you want, and live happily ever after. But I also hope that your own happiness doesn’t only depend on the ever after.

Take my love for American Chopsuey, for example.

American Chopsuey (which is frankly more Indian by now than American or Chinese) is one of the least liked dishes on a Chinese menu in India. The biggest reason being the fact that it’s sweet, and that’s rarely liked by spicy Indians.

On the other hand, it’s one of my favourite dishes.

But the biggest issue with the dish is the size of the serving, which is almost always too massive for one measly human being to devour. And thanks to that, I was always on the look-out for someone to share the dish with. While at home, my sister and I became best friends at the time of this meal and happily shared what no one else really liked. But once out of Delhi, I suddenly found myself Chopsuey-less.

And so it came to be… the random crazy belief that the one way I’ll know that a guy really is perfect for me, is if he also likes American Chopsuey.

Ya, go figure.

Years and multiple relationships (both Chopsuey-full and Chopsuey-deprived) later, of course this sounds beyond stupid.

And yesterday, having heard my sister recite similar Chopsuey-longing troubles (sans the silly Perfect guy theory, duh) it suddenly hit me.

I didn’t need a guy’s true love to be able to hog on American Chopsuey.

I just needed my own.

Sure I might not be able to finish it, but that’s what doggy bags are meant for!

Sure I’m about to gain weight.

And maybe give my sweet tooth an ache.

But I think it’s time to bring the Chopsuey Challenge back, no?

So whether alone, or with A (who will definitely be ordering something else!), or maybe with you, I’m gonna hog on a whole lot of American Chopsuey!

Know a place in Mumbai worth trying? Let me know!!

Home Sweet Home

Disclaimer: This is a rant. Not necessarily a logical one. Definitely a cribby frustrated one. Feel free to skip this. And yes, I know happiness is not about materialistic stuff. So go, be happy, who's stopping you?!

Let's talk about Housing.

It’s the one thing that is by far the biggest headache I’ve faced in this cramped up litter box of a city. The one thing that Bollywood conveniently skips over in all their dreamy-starry-eyed-in-Mumbai stories. Yes, I’m in a bad mood. No, I’m not over-reacting.

It’s been six and a half years since I first stepped into this city, where I started with staying in a dilapidated PG, sharing a room with two other girls, paying a rent of 6k. Because that’s all I could afford. And that’s all I thought I needed. And life was good, for quite some time, until of course the ceiling collapsed in one room, and the ceiling fan in another. Then someone tried to break in through the window at another point of time, but that’s another story.

Salaries go up and so do basic needs. And then the wants. I have by now stayed in 6 different houses in Mumbai, for different durations of time, and been house-hunting for around half of those times.

And house-hunting in Mumbai is a surreal experience. Actually, yeah, that’s exactly the word, surreal.

From creepy brokers who spend more time checking you out than your requirement, to houses that are so horrifying that you wonder how people actually live there… from kitchens that would ensure that I don’t even enter them once (from the 3-4 times a year I might right now)… to washrooms where you literally bathe on top of the pot… from owners who think it’s perfectly normal to demand your life’s savings as deposit, and a pound of flesh as rent…. To brokers who you’re not completely sure might just have underworld linkages.

To the dream house, that seems just beyond your reach, that you start considering selling your soul for that comfortable bed and clean living.

And then everyone has an opinion.

People who have never searched for houses.

People living comfortably with their parents.

People so far from reality.

And first you laugh.

Then it starts creeping up on you.

The horrendous truth of it all.

Of how this might be the city of dreams.

But dreams remain just that.

Because while you chase your dream, you sell away parts of your life that would be basic requirements for sanity anywhere else.

And you wonder.

How you got yourself into this vicious cycle of un-pleasantry.

Where wholehearted happiness is always

Just a bit too far.

Of Growing Up and Ageing

I stood in the loud darkness outside my office, willing A to reach a little faster, all the while feeling the dull choke of cigarette smoke from all the meandering chimneys standing nearby. As luck would have it, all traffic jams of the world seem to occur outside my office compound, which always results in a spiralling boring wait on the road.

And just like that, yesterday, a guy asked me for directions.

Which I gave.

And then he introduced himself.

And then he made more small talk.

Small talk that seemed to be heading towards not-so-small directions.

It gets difficult to keep giving monosyllabic answers beyond a point.

So instead I picked up my phone and called A instead, and proceeded to talk to him for the next 5 minutes till he arrived.

Not that there was anything even mildly threatening about the guy.

Or weird.

Or shady.

Maybe he was just bored.

But I think more than anything else, he took me by surprise.

I can’t remember the last time a guy randomly tried to talk to me.

I think somewhere along the years flying by, time went from crazy evenings at pubs, meeting new people, flirting and enjoying yourself, to a tame life revolving around excel sheets, Uber rides home, and worrying about the maid’s tantrums.

Time went from being one of the few girls in an all guy’s team, to being yet another married girl hiding behind her cubicle.

Time went from a lot of attention, to startling randomly scattered experiences.

Time went from perfect skin to spots and the first signs of wrinkles.

But as narcissistic as this whole post has sounded, I don’t miss it one tiny bit.

Because after the excel sheet, and the Uber ride, I finally reach home, cranky as hell…but knowing there’s a cushiony diwan, a puffed up comforter, a laptop set up to watch the latest season of Black Mirror, and A to snuggle up to.

And life is, as it should be, when it should be.

Of Mumbai Rickshaws and a Few Good Men

My rather rocky relationship with Mumbai rickshaws goes back six years, ever since I stepped into Andheri West and realized that while Mumbai ricks are so much more economical than their Delhi counterparts, they are also that much harder to catch.

Over the years, I’ve gotten used to the disgusted looks they give when you mention your destination (Like…eewww…who goes to Oshiwara?!), the way they don’t even bother stopping while you try to flag them down, or how they’re suddenly more precious and rarer than diamonds when it rains. And it rains a lot in this city!

In fact, I’ve faced more rejection by Mumbai rickshaw-wallas than men and employers put together in my life.

And they taught me how to abuse in Hindi. Like, not actually taught me, but that’s what comes out when they refuse to take you where you want to go after an hour of being stuck on the road looking for them.

So last night, I was standing on the highway at a spot where usually it’s not that difficult to spot an empty rick, but thanks to the torrential rain they were nowhere to be seen. And slowly more and more people started crowding up looking for that knight in yellow-and-green armour, who when he would slowly roll by without stopping, would get his pick of destinations to go to.

And then, miraculously, I managed to flag one down, but the idiot in Schumacher mode, only managed to stop in front of another guy standing much further down the road. And the guy was about to get in, but then probably saw a desperate me huffing puffing down the wet road towards him, and offered the rick to me instead.

Now this might be the way it should have been, and this might be the city with amazing people, but I’ve barely ever witnessed either in my years here.

And so, I was shocked, not even just pleasantly surprised.

And so I decided to shock myself, and share the rick with him.

This might not sound like a big deal, but for any girl born and brought up in Delhi, offering to share your cab / rick with an unknown stranger at night is like going against the first rule of how to stay safe in this world.

But for once, I decided to repay his niceness with gratitude.

I did however barely talk to him throughout, or share my name or any details about me. Old habits die hard.

But I did turn the rick and take it into a galli out of my way to drop him at his friend’s house.

I did smile when he parted with an apple for a little beggar girl (the same one who loves fleecing people at Juhu circle every day) from the packet of apples he got from Kashmir for his friend.

And I did feel better after the ride, even if it meant I reached home a little late.

It’s sad that we live in a world where we have to think twice before doing something that should come as basic human nature to us. It’s sad that we’re all so hardened and cynical that any niceness offered is met with skepticism.

And it’s sad, that all that cynicism, is necessary.