The first day I set my eyes on you, I was in love. Your dark body, sleek and shiny. Every curve was perfect. The deep black, with the right twinkle in the lens. Sibling and me had spend months just googling you. Lensman-of-Kashmir had also recommended you. My dear Cannon 30-D, I had waited for days, for months. Imagine the joy when you arrived. Packed in a brown box, with loads of paper to read. Who read the instructions. The eyes were all for you. $1,481 and every green was worth it. You were to be my best friend for the days ahead.
You froze with me at the Rohtang Pass, blinked at the yaks there. We drove to Ladakh, through the barren landscape. You saw all with the open wide lens. The happy Ladakhi kids with your portrait eyes.
We went all the way upto Siachen. And when I climbed the ice-wall, you tugged tightly alongside. We both devoured the warm sun after the cold winds swept our faces. We flew overseas. You captured squirrels, sea-gulls, our laughters, the drunken parties… the walks by the beach, the mystery of Stonehenge.
So much beauty, and you. But they say, it just takes a moment to ruin it all. The moment had arrived. The National Express Bus Service was always on time, and I was always late. A hasty jump into the bus, was out of breath, drank some water and placed you by my side. That’s when it happened. Deadly water entered your system like some strong venom. Within minutes, you were quiet. Dead, as if you had completely given up on life. Afreen-the-dazzler tried the first aid. Sun, wind, tissue-paper to clean up. We were on our way to Cambridge, and but the world had already stopped. The shopkeeper at Cambridge took you in his hands, and shook his head. Maha-the-magician said a silent prayer. I could have burst into tears, but guess, you had had enough water for the day.
The next few days passed off in numbness... like a limb had been cut off. Like a bird, with its feathers clipped harshly. Like a wintry evening with no warmth.
In Ireland, Seamus-the-showman brought someone who looked like you. The same deep black, but there was no twinkle. The filters had buried it somewhere deep. It didn’t have your soul either. Everywhere I went, I felt like an incomplete song. You had left me wordless, expressionless. My dear friend, somehow on my travels, you were the one who made me complete.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
And I have learnt...
When your mother suspects something will go wrong, it definitely will.
If you don’t buy an umbrella, you will always get wet. If you buy one, you will still get wet.
Travelling on a double decker bus, in the middle of a night, helps you understand the character of a city.
"Nobody keeps Baby in the corner” , with that line Patric Swayze can still drive girls hysterical.
Language is never a barrier, unless you want it to be.
Even though you don’t know Italian, you can still carry a three-hour conversation with a 70-year-old, who only knows Italian.
Throwing a penny in a wishing well makes you laugh hard.
When its windy, you miss people.
The Welsh like their coffee with a spoon of hot milk, and their tea, with cold milk.
During the long hour flights, only a grey-haired woman gets to sit next to the cute guy.
Keys are the easiest possession you can lose.
All wooden benches in England remind you of Notting Hill.
Even if you have a sweet tooth, tears are only salt and water.
There is nothing called a diet beer.
If it is not mad, then it ain't right.
Borat is funny. And I don’t care if you think its gross.
There are people who read books with titles “ Art of secret keeping” and “ Beach therapy for the broken hearted”.
If you don’t buy an umbrella, you will always get wet. If you buy one, you will still get wet.
Travelling on a double decker bus, in the middle of a night, helps you understand the character of a city.
"Nobody keeps Baby in the corner” , with that line Patric Swayze can still drive girls hysterical.
Language is never a barrier, unless you want it to be.
Even though you don’t know Italian, you can still carry a three-hour conversation with a 70-year-old, who only knows Italian.
Throwing a penny in a wishing well makes you laugh hard.
When its windy, you miss people.
The Welsh like their coffee with a spoon of hot milk, and their tea, with cold milk.
During the long hour flights, only a grey-haired woman gets to sit next to the cute guy.
Keys are the easiest possession you can lose.
All wooden benches in England remind you of Notting Hill.
Even if you have a sweet tooth, tears are only salt and water.
There is nothing called a diet beer.
If it is not mad, then it ain't right.
Borat is funny. And I don’t care if you think its gross.
There are people who read books with titles “ Art of secret keeping” and “ Beach therapy for the broken hearted”.
A tale of two apartments...
Life in the apartment: We are a bunch of 10 journalists: two apartments and we have been divided into two halves..a division of sexes. My phone wakes me up daily. Not the ring, but the alarm. Its my effort at getting organised. Talking about being organised, we live by a set of rules...
Rule 1: The day starts with the bathroom blues. 5:1 ratio. One bathing space and five residents. But we humans have put our intelligence to use. By the law of permutations and combinations, each gets a 7 o’ clock morning bathing shift.. Mine is on Friday. I have decided to be smarter. Bathe twice on Thursdays.
Rule 2: Everybody cooks. And we all are bonded by “the oath” … Whatever one cooks, the others shall eat. Everytime its my turn to cook, I notice the fear in the eyes of Maha-the-magician. She loves home-cooked good food. Whenever I head towards the kitchen space, she looks around with distrust. Sometimes I do get close to her cooking standards, and so I believe. My partner in carnivorous crime is Deepa-of-the-deeps . The day we landed at Sainsbury departmental store, we both stared greedily at grilled chicken legs, pork chops… we decided to binge. Whoever said diet, could live in another times. (I still find it hard to understand vegetarianism)
Rule 3: As journalists, we all have opinions. And we all want to express them at the same time. Just pretend that all opinions are right.
Rule 4: The girls donot watch porn like the boys do.
Rule 5: While at a shopping spree, trust the best deal queen of the group.
Rule 1: The day starts with the bathroom blues. 5:1 ratio. One bathing space and five residents. But we humans have put our intelligence to use. By the law of permutations and combinations, each gets a 7 o’ clock morning bathing shift.. Mine is on Friday. I have decided to be smarter. Bathe twice on Thursdays.
Rule 2: Everybody cooks. And we all are bonded by “the oath” … Whatever one cooks, the others shall eat. Everytime its my turn to cook, I notice the fear in the eyes of Maha-the-magician. She loves home-cooked good food. Whenever I head towards the kitchen space, she looks around with distrust. Sometimes I do get close to her cooking standards, and so I believe. My partner in carnivorous crime is Deepa-of-the-deeps . The day we landed at Sainsbury departmental store, we both stared greedily at grilled chicken legs, pork chops… we decided to binge. Whoever said diet, could live in another times. (I still find it hard to understand vegetarianism)
Rule 3: As journalists, we all have opinions. And we all want to express them at the same time. Just pretend that all opinions are right.
Rule 4: The girls donot watch porn like the boys do.
Rule 5: While at a shopping spree, trust the best deal queen of the group.
Dateline London:Arrival
Dateline London: A second trip overseas. I am a more experienced traveller. Not a novice anymore. Not someone who marvels at the flight entertainment system. Not even someone who is nervous when the steward asks for the choice of menu. I enter the on-flight washrooms with a familiar confidence. I smile at fellow passengers with a “ know-it-all look”. In London, again I do not awe at the good roads, the big cars or the organised traffic. I speak with a touch of experience, no longer the bewilderment. Saturday I take a tube to the Victoria coach station. There are faces to read. A spoilt rich Punjabi boy, dressed in black suit and a steel watch. A bored housewife, a lonely middle-aged man. A doting father, a tired salesman, grumpy teenagers. There are tired faces. Tales of sleepless nights, of weary conversations. Reflections of broken relationships ; of incomplete lives. Faces of a lonely city. My second trip overseas has just begun, and I know by experience, that there is nothing like being “ back home”.
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