Chance Encounters

In the last few days I have met some people from my past.
Going through some ancient photos, which Amma had dug up, I met a bratty 9-year-old with two long braids who cried when she came “third in class”, who loved to participate in recitation contests and was part of the school choir.
While collecting a belated wedding gift which P, a school friend now in the States had left behind for me in Hyderabad, I met the giggly 17-year-old who could not wink to save her life. So she would always end up losing while playing “Killer” with the other girls in the school playground during lunch break.
While catching up with school pals or parents of school pals at close friend’s wedding, I met the 18-year-old who hated calculus and trigonometry with a vengeance and so dropped maths before her final exam, thereby killing any chance of her doing economics in college.
However, at the same wedding I also met the 25-year-old who lived in up Bombay with the other three members of her “awesome foursome” gang, who hopped across to Lonavla, Ganpatipule, Harihareshwar at the drop of a hat, who she planned to go on a Eurorail trip with. But now with all of them married and scattered across the country, she wonders if that trip will ever happen.
While playing a prank on the bride, an old college pal, I also came across the 21-year-old who sat at the breakfast table in the hostel mess where the idea for the prank had taken shape in the heads of some third- and second-years whose breakfast consisted of veg nashta and non-veg jokes.
While watching Rang De Basanti, I met the 19-year-old who used to breeze about Delhi, Gurgaon, Jaipur alongwith her dudette gal pals without a care in the world.
A few weeks ago, singing along to Sweet Child of Mine, I met the jilted 23-year-old who thought she could never ever bear to listen to that song again as its associations wrenched open her heart each time she did.
Today I heard that R, cousin who I was very close to in the past but have fallen out of touch with, is expecting. Then I met the 12-year-old who had a crush on RI, the guy that even R fancied. Twelve years later when RI had just finished tying the mangalsutra around R’s neck, she pulled this other girl close and told her brand-new hubby, “You know, she used to have a crush on you as well and I’m sorry I never let anything happen between you both!” Mortified at this untimely revelation, the other girl willed for the earth to open up and swallow her, but that did not happen.
Yes, I have met some rather interesting people from my past.

Go, Fly a Kite

Over the weekend, the state of Gujarat was held hostage by some bits of coloured paper and sharp string. The sky was dotted with millions of multicoloured specks. Kites, kites everywhere: some lazily sauntering around, some slashers aggressively on the lookout for "victims". Patang enthusiasts stringing along family and friends could be found on every roof top, every terrace, every open ground.
Here, if you told someone to go fly a kite, you would not be telling them off. The hubby, an honorary Gujju by virtue of being born and brought up here, got a wonderful opportunity to show off what serious business kite-flying was here by taking me to the crowded kite market in the heart of the old city. The spectacle was breathtaking: kites of all hues, shapes and sizes; from teeny-weeny ones to gigantic ones; the single-hued plain Janes in turquoise, ruby red, magenta, pristine white; the ones with colourful patterns on them, some carrying the mug of local posterboy Irfan Pathan while others with a backless Bollywood nymphet. Colourful manja being rolled on frames, charkhis and iron frames to hold the charkhis, condom-shaped finger guards to protect your digits from serious injuries, noise-making implements like crude horns and drums and cheep-cheeping toys to create a racket when your kite cut someone else's. That's not all, also on offer were cheap sunglasses to ward off the sun and knock-off binoculors to get the full view of the kite-cutting action.
Some superheroes tried to navigate their cars through the narrow lanes made even narrower by the encroaching vendors who had spread their wares on the greater portion of the road. It took them 40 minutes to cover a five-minute stretch. Minor skirmishes, like choice gaalis being hurled and fists being waved at an ST bus driver who had the temerity to venture out onto what was rightfully his bus route, added to the fun. Of course, we didn't stay there long enough to find out what the outcome of the bus invasion was.
Saturday dawned for us at 7 am with some shrieks and blaring Hindi music. The neighbours had decided to usher in the kite festival with panache. I realised that this would be the signature tune of the weekend: loud toot-tooting with the makeshift horns, cries of exultation and despair, and seven loud songs from five different directions as everyone and their uncle set up booming sound systems on their terraces. Unlike in Sanjay Leela Bhansali's world, the air was not rent with cries of kaipo chhe. Instead, all I could hear was that nasal Pakistani singer belting out Aashiq Banaya Aapne and Aapki Kashish. Seriously, my ears are still ringing with those songs.
It being my first Pongal after marriage, there was stuff I needed to do like make the pongals and the vadais and draw the kolams. Could not wait to finish all that and get to the terrace. S had begun pacing around restlessly, so much so that he decided to draw some of the kolams to expedite the process. Anyway, it was afternoon by the time we finally got free and managed to go upto the terrace. The breeze was non-existant and managed to dampen whatever little enthu we had left. But Sunday was better. S was a total pro and again got the opportunity to show off, while I was struggling to have my kite lift off the ground. When it did move a couple of inches into the air, it headed straight for a giant tree in our yard. Hmpf!
However, the best was yet to come. At night we saw a kite that had been strung at regular intervals with several phaanas or paper lanterns, in which candles were lit. It was amazing, from afar you just saw these beautiful lights rising higher and higher as the kite rose and finally became an indistiguishable dot in the sky.
Can't wait for next year. I'll make sure that I steer the kite in the right direction, even if it means that I have to cut that tree down.

Katra Katra...

Tujhse naaraz nahin zindagi, hairan hoon main
Tere masoom sawalon se pareshan hoon main

Jeene ke liye socha hi nahin dard sambhalne honge
Muskurao to, muskurane ke karz utarne hoge
Muskurao kabhi to lagta hain jaise hoton pe karz rakha hai

Aaj agar bhar aayi hain, boondein baras jayengi
Kal kya pata, kin ke liye aankhein taras jayenge
Jaane kab gum hua, kahan khoya, ek aansoo chupa ke rakha tha

Some days are just made for sitting out in the balcony, soaking the sun and listening to Gulzar's soulful lyrics set to haunting tunes by RD Burman.
Today was one of them, till rude reality intervened in the form of the clock hands informing me that it was almost time to go to work.
Sometimes, you just have to make the most of the little things in life in whatever little time you are given to enjoy them.

Katra katra milti hai
Katra katra jeene do
Zindagi hai, bahne do
Pyaasi hoon main pyasi rahne do

PS: Click title for full lyrics.