a Parisian Parsi love story

I still remember the day when I first met them. It was late in the evening when dad and I rang their door bell. We had fixed an appointment with them earlier in the day, so, they knew we were arriving. When the door opened, one of the most charming faces welcomed us into their house. He introduced himself as Soli before we exchanged greetings.
Sprawling in all directions with old antiques, wooden furniture and life size balconies, a typical Parsi household stood in front of my eyes. Soli escorted us into their bedroom, where I first met Yasmin. And if Soli I thought was dashing, Yasmin was mesmerizing.
The next few moments of the conversation which my dad had with them were blank to my ears – as I was busy gaping at both of them, in awe. The next thing I know - they were escorting us back to the door. As soon as the door shut behind us, I remember telling dad this, “No matter what the fees are, I’m not losing out on this one.” And all he did was smile back. Probably, he too, had been as smitten by them as I was.
So, finally began what I thought would be just French tuitions, only to be proved wrong later. My ‘date’ with Yasmin would be thrice a week in the evenings. And every time I met her, she would welcome me with a warm “Bon Soir” (good evening) and some shruberries. And for the one hour that followed, I learnt a bit of French and a lot about love.
Yasmin was a living beauty – with rosy lips and scarlet nails. She had lost a lot of hair due to age, but her skin shimmered nevertheless. She would wear beautiful floral prints accompanied by a floral perfume. Even at home, she would sit all decked up as she must have been for her first date with Soli, waiting for her man to come back to her. She had a striking resemblance to the ‘old Rose from the Titanic flick’. But I still insist that Yasmin was a lot prettier.
Soli on the other hand was no less a Prince Charming. He was much calmer than Yasmin, both in appearance and nature. He was a man with humour. A funny bone which always had only one target - his beloved Yasmin. Gosh,They complimented each other completely.
Soli apparently had this fixed time of arriving home which coincidently clashed with my tuition timings. So, if ever he happened to be even a few minutes late, Yasmin would go all eccentric. She would forget what she was teaching, keep staring at the table watch and when she couldn’t contain her worry, she would share it with me, “Look at the time Priyanka.. He is never on time.. What should I do of this man?!” She would wrap up tuitions early those days as her head would be floating somewhere else then. And as I would start to leave, there would stand Soli – with flowers in his hands at times and “I’m sorry jaan” on his lips always.. Oh, that twinkle in his eyes for keeping her waiting and the "I'm not going to spare you this time" look on Yasmin's face was as fresh as it must have been decades back. This was not just a one day affair. I think Soli would purposely come late to live those moments of love with her everyday. They would argue like cats and dogs and just when I would think that the volcano was about to erupt, they would hug and kiss and make up like newly weds.. For them then, I would be invisible and so would be the world.
On other days when Soli would be home, he would play pranks with her or simply tease her all day. He once showed me her swimsuit picture. It was a black and white one, but that didn't hide Yasmin's enigmatic, electrifying persona. And before I could compliment her, Soli purposely commented,"Priyanka darling, did you see how beautiful she looked THEN.." That was enough for Yasmin to get started. She gave him back through me, reminding him how they had a courtship of seven years before she finally said a YES to him.. Such conversations of love would happen everyday. And I would feel obliged to be in their presence.. I was getting a lot more than I truly deserved. With them, I would learn French, travel Alpes, taste wines and cheese and get lessons on love for free. I would keep pondering that how could they manage to be so romantic even at the age of seventy-eight. I guess this is what they call ‘unconditional love’ where even time couldn't keep set conditions for them and age was never a barrier. Their love was like French wine - the older it got, the better it tasted.
Oh, how I wish I could describe all those moments.. But, ‘magical’ is the only word that comes to my mind when I think of Yasmin and Soli.They were the ones who made me believe that ‘fairy tale love stories’ did exist.
Paris may be the most romantic city in the world, but with Soli and Yasmin, one didn’t need to be in Paris to experience ‘true love’.


Adieu Yasmin..

When I shifted base, I lost touch with them. I always wanted to meet them, but somehow the plan never really took shape. Quite recently when I inquired about them, I got to know that Yasmin had left for heavenly abode about two years back..
She kept nagging me all her life to grow my hair. She would say, "Dikra, what’ s wrong with you? Why you keep cutting them every now and then. Will they ever grow?” Yes, they did grow. But she didn’t stay to see them flow..
As a tear rolled down my cheek, I thought of Soli. It was so difficult to think of one without thinking of the other. Now, if this is not ‘eternal love’ then what is?
I still wonder whether she died in his arms..

Bare teachings

For years now that I pass that lane,
I see him living off his bane.

They pass by him every now and then,
Dogs, cars, men and women.

Nobody seems to really notice,
Everybody just give him a miss.

But, he begs for nothing – neither money nor cure,
That’s one thing that I know for sure.

He simply lies there with his derriere all exposed,
Waiting, waiting, waiting to get disposed.

He has nothing to lose, nothing to gain,
That road is his home - be it summer, winter or even rain.

Was he abandoned or was he not,
I shudder every time I’m crossed by that thought.

He may not know this, but he has taught me a lot,
For one that - a lot in life cannot be bought.

He teaches me that - life is not all that bad,
That one could smile whether glad or sad.

So, here is a man, who doesn’t know anything about me,
Teaching me to see what the others can’t see.

He simply lies there with his derriere all exposed,
Waiting, waiting, waiting to get disposed.

T for Taboo

I wish for a day,
When T stands for Tattoo and not for Taboo,
When it doesn’t matter whether one is Hindu,Muslim,Catholic or Jew;

I wish for a day,
When issues of caste become things of the past,
When corruption is something that does not last;

I wish for a day,
When capitalism is not the way of thought,
When conscience is something that cannot be bought;

I wish for a day,
When options of adoption and abortion are discussed more,
When expectations are less and acceptations are more;

I wish for a day,
When slangs are used less and condoms are used more,
When abuse is tolerated not even behind a closed door;

I wish for a day,
When sex is spoken of not as a sin,
When divorces are accepted and so are live-ins;

I wish for a day,
When transgenders are no more offended,
When gays and lesbians are also befriended;

I wish for a day,
When ‘black’ and ‘white’ bothers only to socks and shoes,
When eyebrows don’t raise at what you choose;

I wish for a day,
When ‘love you’ is heard more than ‘hate you’,
When T stands for Tattoo and not for Taboo.

The way back home..

We all have these childhood memories – some which get diluted with time and some which get frozen inside. And one of my fav among these sweet bachpan ki yaadein was - the way back home..
As a kid, one of my most awaited moments of the day was when the last bell would ring and we would run towards the ‘big blue bus’ and race to get that ‘window seat’.
For the dreamer that I was, the ‘big blue bus’ was a royal carriage that parked itself outside the gates, waiting under the shade to escort the little princesses back to their respective castles.
The ‘window’ for me was like an opening to another dreamy, larger-than-life sequence. Everything I was exposed to through it just amazed me.. Be it the trees swirling like a hand fan to cool off its residents, the baby sparrows chirping to their mothers for lunch, the dust particles that danced to their own tunes under the sunlight, the vehicles at the signal which looked like complicated parts of a jig-saw puzzle scattered on the road, the roadside vendor who stood like a scarecrow swaying the flies away, the dogs who lazed on the footpaths like kings on their thrones and the people who ran at every crossing even when the signal went ‘red’..
It was like the orchestra of life was being played for me. It was my royal privilege.

But, years later, tracing the way back home seemed so surprisingly different. It was weary in a way because I felt so much like a lost wanderer. The roads were the same, so were the turns and so were the structures that garlanded them. Growth had definitely contributed to the add-ons, but that’s not what surprised me. It was me - my growth that had startled me more than anything.

That ‘window’ seemed to have suddenly disappeared. And its then that it dawned upon me that it was not only the trees that had grown over the years, but me too. We both were following the law of the nature. And the ‘tree of sense’ that had fruited in me had unknowingly overshadowed my untamed land of innocence.
The logic in me did not allow me to think illogically.
So, the trees didn’t sway but stood still, the chirpings couldn’t be heard because of the car honks, the dust particles were nothing but pollutants, the vehicles were not part of the jig-saw but were carbon emitting machines contributing to global warming, the roadside vendor was not a scarecrow but a guy selling unhygienic food and people ran all over leaving no space for even dogs to laze around.
The eyes were the same, but, the perception had changed. The feel had changed.

We keep getting nagged all our lives to grow up, act matured, think rationally, make sense and blah blah. But if ALL THIS comes at a cost of losing our innocence, I rather think that the trees are just tired, the sparrows have gone for a summer vacation, the dust particles are performing a carnival finale, the vehicles are still a part of the jig-saw puzzle, the roadside vendor is best at his job, the dogs are ruling so well that there are more people wanting to be a part of their kingdom and that the ‘window’ is just playing a ‘disapparting’ trick with me.

Changes in others are so visibly spotted by us, but the changes within us are so easily glossed over. We are so busy reacting to others, appreciating, criticizing the changes around that we almost ignore ourselves - our growth. And that’s what is astounding.

Corrigendum – It’s SLAM the underDOG, become a MILLIONAIRE

Over the years, Indian cinema or Bollywood as it is jargonized by us has been successful in carving a niche for itself in the global market. Not only are our films watched worldwide but have also gained recognition. Fact. But is that enough?
Probably, no. Yeh dil maange more as they say. Fine. I have no issues with we aiming higher, achieving more. The issue is with its DQ -determinant quotient. Here’s why.
We suffer from what I call the ANS – American Nod Syndrome. I mean come on..,we have evidences- The White Tiger wins the Booker Prize and it tops our Top 5 books list.
This is routine. We have a list of artists like Arundhati Roy and Salman Rushdie having been appreciated for their works by US first and then us. My question is -Why? Why are we always so desperate for America’s attention? Why do we need a Booker Prize or an Oscar to anticipate and acknowledge our artists? Why does it matter anyway? I mean it is great if we are applauded on an international stature, but if we’re not, does our worth lessen?
Slumdog had already won accolades in international festivals when it came to India months back but failed to find buyers. Reason given – “This won’t work here. Who wants to see slums and poverty? What’s so great about them? We see them all over. Blah, blah..”
And bamb.. Post Golden Globes (2nd best to Academy Awards), the movie’s splashed all over – everyone’s singing Jai Ho! And now, a little known ‘Q & A’ becomes a bestseller (years later than it should have). Suddenly, multiplexes have a lot of space for this Golden Globe accredited ‘Indian’ film (FYI – its not an Indian film per se, its just shot here). Anyways, who cares now, especially after it being nominated for 10 Oscars!
Cool.. We might even land up winning a few. And gosh! I don’t even want to imagine how we might react then? ‘Jai ho’ might become a patriotic song, Anil Kapoor might land up doing some reality shows himself or participate in Big Brother (or worse Big Boss) and Slumdog might surpass Sholay’s hype.. Well, whatever happens tomorrow, hopefully it shouldn’t be anything that’s happening with the film now.
When Maslow conceptualized his pyramid of human needs, I guess he forgot to customize it for us. Take Slumdog for instance, first we wait for it to get the American Nod, once it does, we go blowing our own ‘its our film’ trumpet, and once it gets all the media hype, we have these ‘here’s-the-moment-grab-the-attention’ types who suddenly wake up, just in the nick of time to criticize, protest, throw accusations and use all their might to play show spoilers. I wonder how Mr.Boyle will cope up with such reception. But poor Mr.Boyle doesn’t know that yahaan shaadi hoti nahi aur baaraati pehle hi aa jaate hai khaana khaane (Mr.Bachchan leading the baaraatis this time). Not that he seeks all the hype. But what the heck if he gets paid lump some for all the ‘blog talk’.
All I got to say is that Mr.Bachchan is not the voice of India. So even if he has had his say, lets not blindly view it through his specs. Cause even if he accepts it or not, the ground reality does not change. There is a difference in realizing and accepting.
India is not all about slums and poverty, but even if this underbelly is exposed, we are not ashamed of it.. So, lets not throw brickbats at something that deserves showering of bouquets.

ps – the book is worth a read. Vikas Swarup may finally take a bow.