Purani Genes aur Nayi Genes

Last night, was chatting with an old friend about how far we had come from those singleton days of first-day-first-show fillum viewings, mindless shopping sprees, strange excursions to even stranger restaurants. Post-marriage we seemed to have become milder versions of Ekta Kapoor kkkkreations (or kretins, same difference), trying to balance home and hearth while trying to retain some semblance of the fun person we used to be.
My theory was that maybe, somewhere we all have a dormant "bahu" gene (associated with Responsibilities) which suddenly comes alive after we get married. Then, after some days, the now-repressed "Sex and the City" gene (associated with our singleton independence) slowly starts to register protest. Then battle ensues between the "bahu" gene and the "Sex and the City" gene. And what you see below is just one manifestation of the resultant chaos.
(This is a collaborative work-in progress envisaged by Cynic and moi during an afternoon crib session about hunger pangs, lack of chai, nuisance of bais and how all poems about wandering away from responsibilities seemed to have been written only by men and not women.)

(With due apologies to Yeats)


I will arise now and go and make some tea
And a small breakfast built of eggs and bread made
Nine baked beans will I have there and a hive for honey for the toast
And eat all this in some cozy tree-shade

And I shall have some juice there
for juice comes dripping slow
Dropping from the juicer into the tall big glass
Dripping after whales of effort
To where the bai groans

I will arise and go now
For always night and day
I hear sounds of the dhobi, milkman, maid
Banging on the door,
Or moping with low sounds by the floor

Small Town Saga, Big City Blues

Chhotein chhotein shaharon se
Khali-bore dupaharon se
Hum toh jhola uthake chale...

Back when I was a proud Mumbaikar and loving every minute of it, if anyone had told me that a few years down the line I would baulk at the prospect of having to stay there, I would have laughed, nay, jeered at them. Me and hate Bombay? Wha..?! After all, wasn't I the one who sang paens about the muddy-grey Arabian sea, how at 3 am near Plaza cinema, 'the city that never sleeps' smelt of fresh coriander, the fact that I could take a train back home at 1 am all by myself, the panipuripavbhajivadapavmisalsizzlingbrowniesundaegoldenbutteredbhuttainmonsoons, how I could rub shoulders with actors and actresses while buying bhaji at the local market?
Last week, I tried to revive just a tiny portion of that love for Bombay as I struggled with the difficult choice of either being gainfully employed but miserable in the metropolis or being jobless in a small town. For the time being at least, I have opted for the latter.
I was born in a small town and couldn't wait to get out of there. So I don't know when I turned into someone who preferred the minimal creature comforts of such places as opposed to the hustle and bustle of a boomtown.
People ask me how I find Baroda in comparison to Bombay and look surprised when I tell them that I love it. (Of course, I would love it even more had there been more job openings for me here, but that's another story altogether.) But I do, seriously. I love that even the most distant suburb of Baroda is barely half an hour away from the rest of the city. I love the spacious garden in my house where birds and bees socialise with squirrels, frogs, monkeys and sundry other creatures that I'm happy not to be acquainted with. And I am seriously in love with the tiny, quaint airport.
While I have had my share of Bombay's hep and bindaas offerings, Baroda has almost everything that I would be content with in my old age: nice eating joints, a couple of good bookstores, good multiplexes, a decent amount of shopping, the odd play or two.
Take away the cattle which double up as mobile roadblocks and magnanimously drop their "holy, purifying offerings" outside my gate each morning, take away the motorists who feel that driving on the right side of the road is only for sissies, take away the unique ability of Baroda to transmorgify into Venice or Amsterdam during the monsoons, throw in a couple of decent-paying jobs for me, and you would have a place where I would ideally like to retire.
Now, if only someone could bring the muddy-grey Arabian Sea here, I would achieve nirvana.