Life without my Smartphone

2nd April 2014 was a tragic day. The wind was strong, blowing up a sand storm. I stepped out of my car, braving the dust and strong winds, which made opening eyes a task. I had washed my hair that morning and was worried about having to wash them again to get the dust out. I had to pick up a couple of outfits from the boutique and needed some cash. I was coming straight from work. Although not quite trustworthy of the Andhra Bank ATM at the Amprapali complex close to my home, I went there anyway for want of better and closer options. Thankfully the transaction went smooth. It did not gobble up my card and refused to give it back like it had earlier. But it did pay up the sum of Rs. 1000 in 100 rupee notes. I exited the stuffy, dimly lit ATM cubicle trying to stuff the currency notes in my wallet, while trying to keep a grip on my keys and phone. I wish I had a pocket in my green cotton kurta to keep my phone and keys in. Because if I had kept it someplace safe, my phone would not have slipped out of my hands and fell down two black marble steps. My phone. My beautiful phone with its (now dirty) neon green cover. My lovely, loyal and trustworthy Samsung Galaxy Note 2. It slipped, fell and cracked. The screen cracked into a hundred pieces. The back cover and battery came off. I stood on top of the stairs with my mouth agape, not believing what had just happened. I picked up the pieces, rushed to my car, put the phone together and kept it in the passenger seat. Refusing to look at it. Denying the fact that it had broken. I backed the car carefully and drove to the boutique to collect my outfits. I left the phone in the car's dashboard.

After parking outside my society and clutching my handbag, where I had put all my stuff safely, I ran for the lift. It was when I got inside when I pulled out my Note 2, ran my fingers over the broken screen and entered the pass code pattern. I quietly assessed the damage, fighting back the urge to cry. The touch worked fine, I could still see the display clearly despite the large number of big and small gorge like cracks. The touch and display was fine. Well, that was a relief. I entered home, vented out to my brother - in - law and we went out to check repair options. I thanked my lucky stars that the screen could be replaced. Although the price they quoted could have bought me another fancy smartphone. But the damage wasn't permanent. My husband promised to get my phone looked at in Gaffar market, popular for electronics. I put on a brave show of feeling assured and cooked a nice feel - good dinner of kadhi chawal. But I never looked at my broken phone again as it brought tears to my eyes.

The next day I only had an old LG office phone. No internet access, no applications, camera just for formality, no instant email access, no touch. I was sympathised with and teased at office. I was to be smartphone less the entire day. No, the blog will not end with how the day went by so peacefully and I felt relaxed and blah blah. Because I missed my Note 2. A lot! I missed the constant bird chirps which notified me of my emails, texts, whatssapps, FB and Twitter updates. I missed quickly glancing through my gallery and looking at pictures when I thought of someone close. I longed to play Jetpack Joyrider, Table Tennis and the new game (Daddy is a thief) I had just downloaded. I missed the political, sardar, PJs and adult jokes on the various whatsapp groups that kept my mood light. I felt frustrated when I couldn't look up for some old emails or information instantly. I just missed the feel of the glossy back cover on my palm and the attentively responsive touch on my fingers. I hated going to the stinky washroom post lunch to check if I had something stuck in my teeth instead of just checking it with my phone's front camera. I absolutely missed the wallpaper of Bobby and me on the phone and smiling back at our smiley selfie. I felt awkward looking at my wrist watch instead of turning on my phone every 30 minutes to check the time. I missed feeling cared for when my phone tells me that I was 17 mins from home if I took this or that route every time I left office. I just missed my Note 2 a lot.

I found myself pacing the balcony at 11:30 at night, not waiting for my husband to return home this time, but to see my phone again, which he had so thoughtfully gotten fixed in just a day. I had made pasta to celebrate my phone's second innings. I ran to the lift when I saw him entering the building and greeted him there. And the feeling of holding my Note 2 in my hand again was exquisite!

The one day without my phone shook me and made me realise how much I love this not - so - little piece of technology. I might be addicted or it might be responsible for the frequent pain in my neck and shoulder, but I cannot do without my smartphone. To apologise to my handful of a gadget, I am treating it with a new screen cover and phone cover very soon!

P.S.: Note 2 is an amazing phone. It deserves all the love and care you can lavish on it. 

You won't understand

Rantings of an annoyed girl who just doesn't understand!

How many times have you been subjected to these words? I guess it became quite the trend after Rahul told Anjali, "Tum nahi samjhogi Anjali, kuch kuch hota hai". Well, I don't know about you, but I find myself rather annoyed when I am told off with a 'you won't understand'. If I have brought it on myself by butting in uninvited where I shouldn't, I control the urge to roll my eyes and keep a smile plastered to my face and do the world famous Indian head bobble. But, if I was invited into a conversation and then told that I won't understand, it really pisses me off. Why does it piss me off? Read on: 

1. So I was wondering why people say it anyway, despite dragging someone into a conversation. I mean, why even start this subject with them if you don't think them mentally able enough to 'understand'? And why would anyone like it if it is implied in a rather unsubtle tone that they are incapable of the emotional, cultural, physical, mental, supernatural or whatever understanding! So don't blame me if you don't understand why I rolled my eyes and took off while you were still blabbering with a smirk on my face.

2. I get it. Your situation is so unique that no one in the Milky Way galaxy has been through what you are facing right now! Which might be what, job issues? Boyfriend trouble? Weight problem? Career choices? Arranged marriage? Love marriage? UFO sighting? I mean, c'mon! Either don't tell me stuff if you think that it's not my cup of tea or give me some credit for bearing your rantings and 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing at the right places, even if I have never burnt my face while taking steam for a blocked nose or never faced the dilemma of choosing the right cream for your complicated skin type.

3. Of course it is my fault when I begin really sympathising and start giving you suggestions to help your 'situation'. And just when I am trying to sort it out with you, you hit me with the classic: You won't understand. *Grrr*! Why? Because it was not suggestions what you were looking for? Because all you needed was a shoulder to cry on a shirt to wipe your nose on? And because I actually felt sorry for you and tried to help, you told me off with a 'you won't understand'? Of course it is my bad. Should I apologise for not being able to 'understand' and trying to help instead? *Sarcasm*

4. You are not my teacher or parent. I have not sought your help to teach me how the world works. So, please don't try to patronise me and that too, after boring me with your oh - so - different sob story. Because not only might I not understand, but guess what, I might neither give a damn. 

The bottom line is, nobody likes to hear that they won't understand. It is rather demeaning if you ask me, spoken in whichever tone. And never ever ever say it if you expect that person to listen you out, help you or in the long term - take you seriously.

Actually, why am I giving you so much gyaan. You have never been in my situation. You won't understand.

P.S.: Now you know how it feels? :P

Chapter One

All that gyaan on feminism,
All that strong woman talk,

Went down the drain the day we met,

When our eyes locked.

Electric current in my veins,

Jelly legs and weak knees,

It was the point of no return,

I felt my heart beat cease.

That twinkle in your eye,

The music in your laugh,

Mesmerised me to the bones,

My brains blew to half.

When you opened your pretty mouth,

And bowled me over with your wit,

Coupled with those pearly teeth,

'Twas enough to get my torch lit.

The stupidly funny names you gave me,

When we debated on politics and films,

All the stories you made me laugh with,

Or the ones that gave me the chills.

The way you stick your tongue out,

Involuntarily, when you concentrate,

And all the censored things that I can't mention,

But which worked for me like a tempting bait.

You tricked me, trapped me, bound me.

When I came in as a visitor,

And all I could so was sigh and smile,

And readily become your prisoner.

The vows, the pheras, the legalities,

We took the leap, as they say.

Some congratulated, some warned,

That marriage is not all fun and play.

We laugh, we fight, we hug and kiss,

You love me and I still wonder why!

I feel blessed that you had said 'I do',

And I had replied with a 'So do I'.

It's been a year since we got official,

And it has been a fairytale life,

I found myself the perfect husband,

And you got yourself a lovely wife.

It's chapter one of our novel,

There are many more to come,

With sugar, spice and everything nice,

And lots of love, happiness and then some.

For years to come you'll tell me stories,
And I'll make for you your favourite curry.
But today, I'll just hug you  tight,
And say, 'My love, Happy 1st Anniversary'.

:*
With love

Grows on you

Does it happen to you too that when you hear some song for the first time, you disregard it, don't pay much attention. But overtime, when you hear this song some more times, you begin to like it. Then you find yourself humming it in the shower. The next thing you know, you have downloaded it on your phone and are listening to it, on loop, for days together. Does that happen to you? It happens to me a lot! The song grows on me.

Well, I believe people are quite similar to music. There are so many genres of people. You prefer different companies in different moods. There are a couple of people who are your all time favourites. And some who you try and try and try to like to just fit in or because they are considered cool, liked by everyone else or are popular. But can never comprehend them. Like Hard Rock for me.

Similarly, there are people whom you don't like the first time you meet them. But overtime, they grow on you. You might have disregarded them at first or you might have found them easy to ignore or jarring for the first couple of instances, but when you interact with them more, you begin to find layers in them which are interesting, intellectual and beautifully woven.

It happens a lot to me at work. It is that dormant animal instinct which gets alert when you feel there is danger in your territory. Any new colleague, new team member, new senior is looked at with distaste and negative opinions are formed without much solid base. Just like a previously unsuccessful music director's new music. You already have formed a not so good opinion about it. And might make forced jokes about the lyrics or weird choice of music instruments. I know I do. And that is denial.

But it should be considered natural, I guess. And it is ok. If you eventually realise the real nature of the music. Or the person. Give them the appreciation they deserve. Let them grow on you. So I make it a point to never dismiss any song or person in the first instant. I might form opinions. But I try and not to engrave them on a stone tablet or anything. I leave scope to alter it. And I am often pleasantly surprised.

All we need to do is listen carefully. To both music and people. And we'll be surprised by our acquired eclectic and amazing collection of music and friends. 

Used to

It is white outside. Unnaturally bright. It had snowed heavily last night, conveniently covering the yellow in the trees, the peeling paint of the window ledge, dents on the old Maruti 800 parked in the driveway. All the flaws hidden behind a curtain of fresh white snow.

It is not a sight I am used to. But there have been a lot of things happening that I am not used to of late. Like the man lying beside me in the bed, sleeping peacefully, with an arm over his eyes, blocking the brightness streaming through the window. I am not used to his mustard yellow pyjamas. I am not used to his loud laugh. I am not used to his too cheerfulness. How can anyone be this cheerful all the time? Isn't it exhausting? What was I thinking when I agreed to marry him? He is not him. I know I and him couldn't be together. And I had gotten very used to him. Him with the frown lines dotting his forehead when he concentrated, his wardrobe full of grays and blacks, his waking me up before sunrise. Yes, I had gotten very used to him. But now I am on my honeymoon with a man who is a stranger to me in every sense.

 I hurriedly wipe the tears as he stirs, rubs his eyes and yawns loudly. And now he is looking at me, smiling his smile, the smile that I am not used to. I get busy pretending to look for something in my suitcase as he gets up and stretches. I am not used to the presence of another man in my room. I don't know what to do and run to the bathroom, in search of refuge. But I can't hide in here forever. After some time, which I hope isn't too long, I step in the room again. He smiles brightly as he sees me. He has made me tea. He reminds me that it's my parents' anniversary as he dials their number.

I smile involuntarily. I am not used to all this. But maybe, I can be.

As I look outside the window again, I see the deep green of the pine tree, the cheerful red of the old Maruti and the old world charm of the window ledge, peeking from under the sheet of snow.

Not Quite Ideal

Chemistry taught me that ideal gas doesn't exist. Life taught me that ideal doesn't exist. And at times I tend to forget this and hope for, fight for and get all upset if I don't get the ideal. During rare moments of clarity, my subconsience reminds me that ideal is born from an idea of perfection and is never achievable. But that doesn't mean that we stop trying to achieve it.

Take for instance the big debate the country is engrossed in these days: Delhi elections. I support the Aam Aadmi Party and every other day I am engaged in passionate arguments on why they deserve a chance. My shrill statements are often met with reasonable and sensible counter points that they are too young politically, they have set the expectations of the people too high, Arvind Kejriwal might be a good person but the same cannot be touted for his entire party. So on and so forth. I agree they are not perfect. But then, who is? Their aim of making Delhi an ideal state and India an ideal country struck a chord with me. Their ideas maybe a little too idealistic but I, like so many more voters, got hooked on their fiery passion and sincerity. They are far from perfect and have heaps to learn and I want to give them a chance to reach closer to perfection and learn more. How much worse can it get than the current situation?

Another instance. Professionally, I am no where close to my idea of where I should have been at the age of 25. I am almost 9 months away from that milestone and I don't see myself getting where I wanted to be. It is not the company's fault, it is not my fault. I do not regret any decision I made. But I am pacified because I put in sincere efforts to reach where I wanted to be. I might be somewhere midway but I am proud that I reached here on my own. I could have done more. There is always scope. And I am still making efforts. Even if I reach there a couple of years later, it won't be ideal, because ideal doesn't exist. But it will be close :)

More close to home, my marriage is far from my ideal of marriage. Bobby is not the ideal that I had imagined. He has never taken me to a surprise candle light dinner, infact the poor guy can't stomach any surprise. We don't watch How I Met Your Mother together. He probably won't even know what it means. He won't play scrabble with me. He doesn't do the man's job around house.

But we go to street side parantha places in the middle of the night. We laugh till our stomach hurt watching old Sunny Deol movies and dubbed Tollywood movies after work. I wrestle him up every morning and he makes me run around the house giggling and screaming as soon as he gets back home from work. He might leave the man's jobs to me, but he sure gets the vegetables and milk and does the laundry. (*sigh* I love him like a lovestruck teenager)

Point being, ideal may not always be the best. At times, the journey is far more interesting, engaging, eye opening and satisfying than the end point. More important than the end point are the efforts you make to reach there and the rewards those efforts reap.

I have reaped many of them and some are still in the pipeline. I know they might not be ideal. But then, I don't think I'll care much about that till the time I am happy! :)

My Diwali. Your Diwali

I don't have many favourites. No favourite colour or place or music or movie or actor or cuisine. Diwali is not my favourite. Like most festivals, my excitement is more for the accompanying holidays. So, I was surprised by the emotions which affected me when we were sharing notes of our Diwalis.

So like we often do, Bobby and I had settled down for a quiet late evening in the small bedroom balcony with plates of snacks and were making plans for Diwali. And as I had sensed, like always, we ended up talking about old times. I don't know what was the trigger but I suddenly realised that in 24 years, it would be my first Diwali away from my parents. Soon, in between sobs and sniffs, I was rambling on and on about all the little things that made Diwali my Diwali.

I could so vividly recollect the big white plastic bag which stays hidden in some corner of the store room for 360 days and makes an appearance only a couple of days before Diwali. The strings, 'Happy Diwali' hangings, shiny plastic ruffles and stars, plastic plates with thermocol balls and baubles hanging from them, they are all dusted and then with great pain, hung up to adorn the front verandah of our home. This white plastic bag has had the same baubles for forever it seems. Nothing is discarded or replaced. There might have been a few new entries every decade or two, but nothing goes out. Just the thought that I would no more be standing on tip toes on iron stools to tie the string of artificial orange flowers to the front gate with Papa had my eyes wet.

And I remembered how I and Chinki, with quarter plates full of red kumkum mixed in water would run all through the house painting small red feet in front of every door. I am sure Goddess Laxmi would appreciate the pretty plastic stick-on feet as invitation as well, but the oddly shaped, painted little feet will always hold a special place in my heart.

All these years we had never ever bought dry colours. We used an old set of water paints to paint a rangoli on the stone and chips floor of the verandah. Taiji used to be livid, cursing us with often heard punjabi curses, for spoiling her carefully swept and mopped front verandah. We used to laugh, tease her heartily and continue drawing and re-drawing and detailing until it got too dark to see while tayiji threatened to have it wiped off at the first instant. She never did. The water colour rangoli stayed there for days, till it faded on its own. I adore her so much!


Diwali has never been about fire crackers for me. I did enjoy the charkhari, fuljhadi, train, serpent, foonk bum, hunter etc. etc. which Papa got in hoardes from the Sadar Bazaar wholesale market when I was a kid. The guy who lives up the streets lit rows of multi - coloured anaar, street long ladi, sky rockets which were delightfully colourful and loud. Now his children are continuing his legacy by going a step further. Wonder where they get so many loud bombs from! 

But what Diwali has really been about is the puja. My oldest Diwali memories is of the entire family of 14 members sitting cross legged, huddled togther, us kids on laps of the adults, on carpeted floors in the living room while Pitaji (my grandfather) sat on the diwan and told us the Ramayana katha. 

Every year. But the past 15 years, we have spent good part of the Diwali singing bhajans. Aah... so many of them. I am the star singer of the family. We have books and books of bhajans with us. While we were singing one, Papa flipped through the books, chose one promising looking bhajan, and slid the book towards me wanting me to sing that one next. We sang and sang for I don't know how many hours. People had already started the fireworks outside. But everyone had favourite gods to please and no one wanted to leave their favourite songs of worship out. Everyone sat pateintly and sang. Since last year, all my family has ribbed me with 'Who will sing the bhajans on Diwali now?'. I never thought it would be something I will miss. But damn, I will miss it so so so much! I already am actually. Humming one bhajan now. :) 

Post the puja everyone brought out the good stuff! Everyone made something special to be shared and had together. There were sweets, one tayiji makes matara chhola almost every Diwali while the elder one makes rice with peas and raita. Ma makes amazing pao bhaji. Oh I am getting hungry just thinking about it. We laugh, talk about this and that and just be together. Perhaps Diwali is the most beautiful day for us as a family.

So yes. I would miss my old Diwalis a lot. And now I can say that Diwali is my favourite festival! And from this year, I am going to make my Diwali our Diwali. We'll make new memories, me and Bobby with our family. Maybe my kid will write a blog someday about the traditions that we will begin. Lol.Happy Diwali guys. Have a good one.