How I met Toto

The day I met Toto – 20th March 2014 – was a freer day than others because all I had planned to do that day was to buy a pot in which I could make compost. For some reason, I had those big water pots made of mud in mind for my compost.

The closest spot where I could get what I had in mind was a 15 minute walk away from home. But I figured I’ll need help with choosing and carrying the pot so I called my friend Barbie to help out. It was 5:30-6 in the evening when we started off. It was a nice evening – the sun was getting ready to set, there was a yellowish-orange glow as we neared the makeshift shop. I could see it in the distance when, for some reason, I decided to go around a tree. As far as I remember, I had no business going around that tree.

Maybe it was to check out the new buildings that had come up where once there was a huge playground. It really kills me to see playgrounds getting turned into unsavoury, tall cement blocks. But well, that day I went around a tree and found a little brown pup sitting by it. The moment I saw him, and he saw me I felt an immediate joy. This little brown pup was doing nothing, sitting on his tummy. And when he saw me he opened his mouth a little, as if saying “Eh! Who goes there?”

And that was invitation enough for me to go pet him. So I went and I petted him. Barbie had no option but to follow me. I don’t remember but I am pretty sure that Barbie was delighted to see the pup too. I played with him a little, and I think I turned to Barbie and said I wanted to take him home. Eyes widening Barbie said, “Whoa”. But then I say that about most of the animals I meet. So I hesitated when he asked me if I was sure. I petted the silly dog a little bit more and decided to do the thing I was there for – buy the water pot.

We went, bought the pot, got into a rickshaw and went home. As we passed by the tree, I looked back but I couldn’t spot the puppy. Despite Barbie convincing me to not do this because it’ll be a huge responsibility, I had made up my mind that I wanted to take the puppy home. At the time, I was working from home for a few months and it looked like I would continue to do so for some more months. Also, my parents and I had come close to adopting a German shepherd but it had not happened. I have always loved indie dogs, so adopting a German shepherd didn’t feel like a desirable option to me. Though of course, I have nothing against them.

There is a story behind my love for indies. When I was a child of 10-11 years old, my friends and I had started taking care of a litter of pups. There were 6 pups in the litter and each of us had decided to take one pup each. Around this time, I was having a tough time at school, dance class, among some friends, and in life in general. The most important thing that has confirmed my affection for dogs, especially street dogs is that when I was having a difficult time, they were always there for me. When I was having trouble with friends or at home, I could always turn to one of my doggie friends for love and support.

One time I had scored the least marks at dance class. And anyway, my dance teacher couldn’t care less about me – maybe because she didn’t see any talent in me. But anyway, that day was a bad one and the moment I stepped out of dance class, the tears had begun to flow. And I was running. I couldn’t bring myself to go home, crying about my low score in a dance exam, because I guess I assumed my parents would just ask me to stop going altogether. So I went where the litter was. By now the pups were a few months old. And usually when I went there, I went with milk or biscuits, or something or the other. But today when I went there, none of the pups were around. Cursing my fate, I stormed in and sat in one corner and continued to sob.

Then, the youngest of the litter, whom we had named Honey because she was honey brown in colour, wandered into the compound and came to me looking confused. She was generally a timid and shy puppy, and wouldn’t dream of coming too close to my face to inspect the tears. She looked at me confused for a while and seeing that I wasn’t responding, went out of the gate, onto the road.

I thought she was gone and I continued to sob, thinking that nothing could help me and that no one cared about me. But after some time, when I wasn’t feeling any better than before, I felt someone at my feet. It was Honey again. But this time, she was not empty-handed, or rather empty-mouthed. She was carrying something in her mouth and was presently putting it down at my feet. It was an eraser. As she finished placing it at my feet, I realised she was trying to cheer me up. In the past I had seen Honey finding bits of meat and offering them to her older sister Candy. This was the sweetest gesture I had experienced in a while I guess because I immediately stopped crying and smiled. Maybe she thought she had found a toy which would make me feel better and had brought it for me. It had definitely worked and I couldn’t feel the sadness and uselessness I was feeling before.

Now at 24, finally, I was very close to bringing a puppy home. I spoke to my parents about wanting to bring a puppy I had met home. They protested but I reminded my mother about how she had herself suggested we adopt a German Shepherd. Somehow, this argument worked and I set out with Barbie once again to look for the pup and bring him home. I was feeling excited and anxious on my way there – like most middle-class children living in the suburbs who have wanted a pet, I couldn’t believe that I was finally getting a puppy.

But when we got there, I couldn’t spot the puppy. It was now dark and he wasn’t where I had last spotted him. Also, since these buildings were new my eyes weren’t adjusting to the newness of the landscape. It was a strange feeling, not finding the puppy at that moment. It really made me question whether I wanted to take the puppy home or not. I took a moment and looked around, noticed that there was a watchman sitting just beyond the gates of the new building complex.

“Yaha ek brown kutta tha chota… dekha hai aapne?” I asked him.

“Ha!” He said carelessly and pointed to a garbage dump. I followed where he was pointing and sure enough, I saw the little brown pup there, having a snack. I went closer to inspect what he was eating –  sad, stale cluster beans from someone’s dustbin. I felt a wave of sympathy for him and turned to Barbie. It was the moment of truth.

“Let’s get him some biscuits.”

I don’t remember whose idea this was – if it was Barbie trying to elongate the process or if it was me, feeling cold feet. In any case, we went to a nearby shop and bought him a packet of biscuits. He was back at his spot by the tree and I broke a little piece of the biscuit and held it near his mouth. He went for my finger instead, and looked at me almost naughtily. I couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if he genuinely didn’t know the difference between my soft finger and the crunchy biscuit. Now that I think about it, I am pretty sure he was just being a naughty puppy. Or was he choosing me over the biscuit?

Anyhow, that little bite did it for me. Here was a puppy who wanted to play with me. And who says no to that?

Still, I turned to the watchman once again. “Does he have a mother? Some other dog friend he plays with?”

“No. He’s alone.” Came another careless reply.

He has to be taken home, I said and picked him up. I felt Barbie take a deep breath, as if taking those few seconds to accept that his friend was adopting a puppy right in front of his eyes. And also dreading that if not half, some of the responsibility of this pup lay on his shoulders as well.

The puppy came into my arms readily, settling on it as I began walking. He didn’t squirm or try to jump off. It felt like the most natural thing to be taking this puppy home. For a while we walked in silence, taking our time to digest this new turn of events.

What do we name him? I broke the silence.

Tuco-Toto!

What! Tuco? No way!

I was not naming my puppy after a fictional manic drug dealer. I will name him after my imaginary dog! Toto!

Imaginary dog you ask? Let me tell you another story.

One lazy evening many years ago in Ambernath, I met my friends who were just sitting and indulging in banter outside M’s building. The sillies had possibly been discussing how nice it would be to have a dog before I got there and the first thing they asked me even before I had said hi was, “What would you name your imaginary dog?”

I was taken aback, not expecting that question at all.

Imaginary dog? What have you named yours?

I don’t remember all of the names but one of them was Fafa and the other one was Dodo. Or maybe I was given the option to have an imaginary dog named Dodo. I absolutely refused to do so.

Toto! I had said even then.

And that’s how the little brown puppy got his name.

Once home and in better light, I saw how dirty little Toto was – his body was pretty much covered in grease and there were also some wounds. Some were healing while some were old but had left a mark as they healed. He also had fleas and his tummy was unnaturally big. Though there were no serious injuries, it looked like Toto had been having a rough life on the streets (duh).

I filled half a bucket with lukewarm water and started giving him a bath. But Toto wasn’t keen on doing so and kept trying to get out of the bathroom. It was only when Barbie got him some biscuits soaked in milk that he was distracted enough for me to continue giving him a bath. After the bath was done, I found one of my mother’s old soft dupattas and put it in a box. I then placed little Toto in it and sat down, tired.

But Toto was having none of this. He looked confused in the box – sniffed around, looked around and seemed to not like it. Then he stepped out and stumbled towards me, got onto my lap. I couldn’t believe it – I had a puppy, and it was both wondrous and terrifying, like when Marlin went in search of Nemo and found him.

Slow and steady

I have been practicing sketching techniques like hatching, cross-hatching, stippling, and contouring. I am far from being proficient in them, but it is a lot of fun to do, and  it keeps my mind away from negative thought patterns.

And I have been reading The Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver, which is opening up aspects of meter and sound that I had studied back in college but never really paid attention to. More of that later, when I am done reading the book.

Though I have had journals and personal diaries for years now, I never maintained a sketchbook. After reading a little bit of the Artists’ Way, I have started giving myself the space and time to do the things I like to do, just like Julia Cameron asks to. Painting, sketching, colouring are things I have always been interested in, but never thought I was good enough to create anything with. I also didn’t know that that wasn’t the point at all.

The point, all along, was to have some fun. To let yourself just play with things – with different materials, with different colours and mediums. To lose control.

But it happens slowly. Verryyyy slowly. And the way to do it is to breathe through the slow times, to build patience by stopping when no more can be done. To sleep when it is time.

As I do these things, I long to arrive at something. To make something of value immediately. And that leads to frustration. Again, I remember to breathe, to stop, to carry on the next day.

Yes, slow and steady takes time. But slow and steady is good. Slow and steady is healthy. Slow and steady takes you where you want to be.

A change of heart

I am the last person to get excited about a football match, because I simply do not like the sport. I think it’s stupid that a bunch of silly boys run after a ball, kicking it, and never score a goal. I say this because every time I have attempted to watch a football match, there have been no goals scored. It would annoy me no end. Every time the ball went off the field, I would be like, “What the fuck, not again!” I felt it broke some kind of flow, but did not realise that, at that moment, the flow needed to be broken.

Also, the boys around me who generally liked football were either unbearable people, or people who were failing at being cool. They remind me of boys who now buy DSLRs and run around after cockroaches in their bathrooms to get a subject to focus on, while their drying underwear can be hidden in the background. And it drove me nuts when some of these boys stayed up late or woke up early in the morning to catch a football match. Not to mention how annoying it was encountering their status updates on Facebook and other social media the next morning.

I also got hit in the head by a football once while in college and almost fell because of the impact; a flatmate I am not really fond of has an Arsenal mug; I have heard horrifying reports of football fans killing each other in the stands while some stupid football player pretended to be hurt. That pretending also really pisses me off. But what can you expect from a bunch of blockheads following a silly sport anyway? Stupidity, destruction, death, that’s all.

Oh, how things change.

It’s so fucking annoying, isn’t it, this change? I pretty much hate it, then my mind does a back flip and decides to crave it.

Anyway, how I got to hear about this match is another story. I have been getting a lot of grief about my habit of not reading newspapers. Back when I was at University, my professor was always reprimanding the whole class for not reading newspapers. My father is always winning debates against me because he reads newspapers and therefore knows things. And sometimes, when I meet friends, I feel inadequate in conversations about current events and general establishment blues. Because I have an opinion too, and I would like to have proof to back it in arguments. And recently, I got reprimanded by my producer for not reading newspapers, which was not a good position to be in at all.

So on my daily cycle ride, I look at the newspaper stalls and worry about my inadequacy. Then I remembered how the same university professor once said to do the things you enjoy instead of always setting yourself up for failure.

Let me elaborate. What I would usually do in such a situation is from reading zero newspapers for years, I would go and buy two fat newspapers: The Indian Express and The Hindu, and expect myself to read all of it in one day. Not just that, I would also expect myself to be suddenly and absolutely up to date with everything that’s happening in the world. So much for considering myself an intelligent specimen of humankind.

So, to avoid coming out of this situation as a proven fool, I decided to go and buy a newspaper that I can read all in one day and also have fun in the process: Mumbai Mirror. It has juicy page three gossip, general rants about the state of the roads, garbage, and infrastructure in Mumbai (which are topics very close to my heart), more pages dedicated to leisure than opinion, various agony aunt columns, a hilarious, long-running sex column, and an ample section dedicated to games, comics and horoscopes. Recently, they have even added this new column called The Secret Diary of TAK, which is Taimur Ali Khan’s diary. Bring it on, I say.

So while I sipped on some tea and read this almost-mindless newspaper, I came across this:

I wasn’t going to read it but the headline grabbed my eye: Please get involved.  That sounded genuine to me. And in general life, I want to be involved in things, I just don’t know how to do it. And here, all I had to do was book a ticket and go for a match. That didn’t sound like much hard work at all. As I found out more about the event, it only got better: the tickets were for 250 rupees only! And the match was taking place in Andheri Sports Complex, which is practically in my backyard.

I don’t know if I would have gone if the match was somewhere in town, but in this situation, my heart was sold to his words:

“To all of you who are fans of big European clubs and support European clubs with so much passion and sometimes you guys think that the level is not the same, so why do you waste your time? Agreed, the level is not the same, not even close but with our desire and determination, we will try our best to make your time worth. To all of you, who have lost hope or don’t have any hope in Indian football, we request you to come and watch us in the stadium. I mean it’s not fun to criticise and abuse on internet. Come to the stadium, do it on our face, scream at us, shout at us, abuse us, who knows one day we might change you guys, you might start cheering for us. You guys have no idea how important you guys are and how important your support is.”

“I request you all to please come …talk about the game, go back home, have discussions, make banners. Please get involved, this is an important time and juncture in Indian football and football in India needs you guys.”

Uff, such genuine words. And this particular match against Kenya was Chhetri’s 100th international match? Really! I didn’t know anything about football but I was going. I couldn’t believe I was getting so excited about it since a few hours ago, I didn’t even know who Sunil Chhetri was.

And would you look at that picture.

If it is not clear by now, let me spell it out for you. I was crushing hard on this guy, and in a few hours I was going to watch him play. The excitement was off the roof.

So on the day of the match, I wore my sporty shoes and t-shirt, my trusty knee-length jeans, and pretty much walked on clouds to the stadium. The usual sounds of my neighbourhood – of overlapping azans, the incessant traffic, children playing in building compounds, and road construction work – was drowned by the 8-9000 people gathered in the stadium. As I neared the stadium, past the familiar vegetable vendor, the chai stall, the friendly neighbourhood dog, and the cycle shop, the clouds I was walking on began thundering, as if bringing in the most exciting event happening there that evening. And since this road I was on lined the stadium, I could see the glittering lights and the tops of peoples’ heads, could hear the roaring crowd going “India-India”, and singing Vande Mataram, booming.

I had never been to a stadium to see any sporting event before, and the excitement in my stomach only grew as we neared Gate no. 1 from where we were supposed to enter. Just outside the gate there were these people with little bottles of paint and paintbrushes in their hands – the colours of the tricolour. So this is how people get the paint on their faces! Of course! For a moment, I was tempted, having seen it only on TV and having craved for it in the past. But then I thought I don’t really want skin problems, and right now I am not much of a fan of the country, so I went in unpainted.

Once inside, it was very crowded – so many sweaty boys. So I clung to my sweaty boy and threw myself into the crowd. There was a general sense of unpreparedness at the venue – there were no dustbins, there was no separate queue for women; the power of Chhetri’s plea had caught the humble sports complex off guard. Slowly, the women security guards realised there were few women and that they were probably better off outside of the clump of sweaty boys. So I got in much earlier than the boy and had to wait by the metal detectors as furious winds began to blow – big yellowed leaves and unripe fruit began thudding to the street as I – sore throated and on the first day of my period – stood behind a barricade that swayed in the strong monsoon breeze. The excitement in my stomach grew with each person running straight from the metal detectors towards the inside gate. Initially we walked; soon we were running too, for no apparent reason.

The moment play began, it started pouring. It was perfect – I was so happy that it was raining and that I was inside a stadium which was bursting with energy, and that it was no longer hot.

Initially, I did not understand much and I didn’t know who was who since the jerseys the teams were wearing didn’t have their names on them, just numbers. I found that very unfortunate. Anyway, slowly, as play continued, I was explained that there are strikers and defenders, what a challenge was, what a corner was, and why they kept kicking the ball off of the field!

As I followed the game, I saw that number 20 on the Kenyan side was quite deadly, and that number 5 on the Indian side was equally dangerous. And then we spotted the man because of whom I was watching a football match in a stadium – jersey number 11, with the captain’s arm band, Sunil Chhetri! I watched him for a little while, just how he moved and how he kicked the ball, and my fondness for him intensified every time he passed the ball to another player and quickly ran to be in position to strike it.

As play progressed, I found myself getting distracted by the crowd in the stadium doing the usual shenanigans in the stalls, which I had only seen on TV before. And as I was distracted, they came very close to scoring a goal right in front of my eyes. After that I realised the way to keep track of what was happening was to keep an eye on the ball, to follow it. But it continued to pour, which made the ball slow in the mud. The rain reached my face in a steady, soothing, and cool drizzle. I was so happy to be living this moment! The lightning tearing through the sky between two Andheri buildings made the atmosphere in the stadium even more dramatic and electric. And as I looked around, I kept thinking of what Chhetri had said in his plea:

To all of you, who have lost hope or don’t have any hope in Indian football, we request you to come and watch us in the stadium. I mean it’s not fun to criticise and abuse on internet. Come to the stadium, do it on our face, scream at us, shout at us, abuse us, who knows one day we might change you guys, you might start cheering for us.

It was actually happening. Everybody was chanting Chhetri’s name, everybody was cheering for India’s football team. When I went back to check which goal was scored when and who scored it, I did not realise that the whole of the first half went without a single goal being scored. And it had not bothered me at all.

The rain had now stopped, the second half had begun. And just then, out of nowhere, GOAL! It was Chhetri. And I was jumping up and down, screaming. But before the crowd could recover from the first goal, bam, there was another, this time from Jeje Lalpekhlua. By now, the Kenyan side was looking a little glum, as if the fight had gone out of them. They were also getting booed a lot all through the match and I felt bad for them, hoped they would score at least one goal to save face.

Seeing their misery, my thoughts drifted again. I was thinking football is a lot like life – there are challenges, there is drama, there are injuries, sometimes you have to defend, sometimes you have to strike. And in the end, it is great to score a goal, but that’s not the only point of the game.

I was shaken back to the present by the now frenzied crowd: India had a penalty shot. I had to ask what that meant exactly and was explained that a penalty shot was pretty much a sure shot goal. Now the crowd, including me, was in a frenzy. And I cheered wildly despite my very sore throat. The excitement in my tummy kept growing as the referee put everyone in their place. Throughout that time we waited for Chhetri to strike, which was close to two minutes, I don’t think I blinked. It felt like I was witnessing history as Chhetri shuffled towards the ball cheekily and GOAL!

After scoring the goal, Chhetri had jumped over the fence and was celebrating with his arms wide open to the crowd. He was then the man of the hour and he was doing everything right. My little crush was now permanent and I was enthusiastically returning the flying kisses he was giving the crowd. I would have uploaded a video but WordPress isn’t letting me. And though I said goals weren’t everything, I was very glad this wasn’t one of those matches where no goals were scored.

When I think back, I don’t even remember how it all ended. I was suddenly out of the stadium, and just as everything had become exciting in a split second, it had gone back to being like any other ordinary night. The rain had now stopped and the world pretty much looked the same. But there was one change – in me. I’d had a complete change of heart and it felt a lot like falling in love.

Lines

I am addicted to social media. In an attempt to escape it, I deleted my Facebook and Instagram accounts. And though I have managed to stay off of Facebook for months, I had no such luck with Instagram. So I was back to spending at least an hour on Instagram in the mornings, doing absolutely nothing. And this wastage of precious morning time was reflecting on the rest of my day and I had been looking for ways to change things.

Recently, I painted with two of my friends in my house for the first time. And one of them told me about these pens she uses to doodle. So I immediately went and bought a whole packet of those pens from my favourite art supplies store, Art Station.

Then the next thing I needed were some techniques that I could work on. I turned to Google and found this amazing art tutorial YouTube Channel by Alphonso Dunn.

And now I am beating my Instagram addiction one line at a time. Thank you Rujuta!

Also, I have been going through the archives of one of my favourite artist Geninne Zlatkis’s art blog. Where she started, and where she has reached is very inspiring. In a way, going through her archives has compelled me to post my ultra-beginner attempts at calming, mindful drawing.

A place to call my own

When I was a kid, I had trouble finding a spot to sit and do my thing without getting in someone or the other’s way. But I didn’t know then that finding a spot for yourself isn’t easy and that it isn’t only about not getting in other peoples’ way.

This quest of finding myself a spot to do my thing led me to a small rented space in a big city. Now, everyone knows living in a big city is as difficult as it is fun. But the serious test starts when you find some sort of an equilibrium or routine for yourself and you get hit by change. Because as and when a change happens in life, it takes people time to adjust to it and start finding comfort in it. And when a major change takes place, that comfort comes rarely and is therefore precious. At such a time in my life, I had developed the habit of sitting in this corner of my rented space and staring at the fairy lights I have painstakingly stuck to walls and window ledges. It was the single-most exciting thing in my day – simply because it would let me be by myself for a while.

But I had to constantly leave this spot – since there’s also the business of feeding yourself when you live by yourself. Cooking required constant trips to the kitchen to check if the food was getting where I wanted it to. One time, after one of these many trips to the kitchen, I came back to find the pillows looking as if someone invisible was sitting there, leaning by them – and I imagined myself sitting there by myself, content after a day’s hard work. It was a small confirmation of having become one with the space I live in. And though there are many more places to go to, this corner had, in that moment, assumed my shape. Then despite all the fatigue, hunger, and loneliness, a quiet relief of having found my spot for the time being snuck up to me, curled by my side and watched the fairy lights with me.

08:45 ~ a near-death experience

These days, my life is dictated heavily by what day of the week it is. Sunday I have to bathe my dog, Monday I am going to eat rotis and sabzi from home, Tuesdays I am going to make a pot of boiled rice and veggies, Wednesday could be soup day, Thursday is (mostly) laundry day, I give up on Fridays and make eggs, maggi/masala oats and some knorr soup, Saturday I am on my way back to Ambernath, etc.

It was a Monday morning. I had to reach work at 11, and not 11:10 as my boss had said. Reaching Malad at 11 from Ambernath meant taking the 09:07 fast train that comes all the way from Karjat. 09:07 is a notorious train: known for broken bangles, terrible fights, suffocation, breasts getting squashed in the rush, tiffin boxes boring into the sides, and a lot of praying to come out of this alive. Another reason why this train is notorious is because there are no fast or slow CST trains after this one for at least 30 minutes from Ambernath.

In order to avoid this notorious train, I decided to board another notorious train: 08:45 from Ambernath. But the reasons for 08:45’s notoriety are different: first off, it is a train that starts from Ambernath – by virtue of which it should be better behaved, but is not. Secondly, there are many people who come ‘down’ from Ulhasnagar, and even Kalyan I have heard. And thirdly, the people in this train are known to be rude, uncompromising, and unhelpful. I should have hailed the saying “known devil is better than an unknown angel” because I have taken the 09:07 many times in my life, but not so much the 8:45.

So on a Monday morning, I left home wearing my strong Reebok running shoes, my casual pants with the nada, and my sturdy bag holding my laptop, books, and the precious food my mother had packed while she herself rushed to catch the 09:02 slow train (a tedious train). The reason why I was being so particular about reaching on time is because I am always associated with being late. It is not without reason since I am always late and I (think I) am in the process of changing that. I don’t remember if my father dropped me or if I took the 10 rupees share rickshaw to the station. Anyway, by the time I reached the station, the train was already at the platform and I started a slow trot to reach the compartment. I did not go the middle compartment because it was already 08:43 and I did not want to see the train go in front of my eyes after all the effort my whole family had put in to get me there on time. Also, for some reason, I thought since it was an early train, and a train that starts from Ambernath, of taking a second class ticket. This was my first mistake.

I entered the compartment to find it packed. The inside (where the seats are) was packed – all the fourth seats were occupied and there were women standing in between the seats as well. Fourth seats are an invention of necessity: when it gets too crowded, as a way of adjusting, four people sit on the three-seater. Outside too, women were lining all the walls of the train and two of the four sides of the train were blocked – one on each side. Blocking is done to prevent people from getting in from the side from which people get out. I walked in, a little wobbly from the weight of the bag, morning stupor, and anxiety. Of course then, I stepped on someone’s foot but it was mostly a brush so it was let go with just a little click of the tongue – indicating discomfort. I looked around, trying to find a safe place for myself. I could see none and I settled for the one by the door. But then, considering that I was feeling wobbly and clumsy, and also that I had a heavy bag with me, I did a rethink. Once again I looked around and found that there were only 3 women standing by the blocked side where four could fit. I immediately started moving towards the fourth standing place and stepped on the same person’s foot once again. This time, I had to apologise, which I did. I then settled on the fourth place and put my bag down by the wall separating the seats from the outside. Choosing the fourth standing place was my second mistake.

The train had still not started moving and one more person got in and went to the door – the same place I had abandoned moments ago. This person was friends with the person standing first in my line and she expressed her discomfort about there being a fourth person, leaving no space to adjust. I ignored her and thought how this is going to be an hour-long ordeal. Just when I thought this, another person got in and the train began to move.

I soon understood that the place I had chosen wasn’t the best – my bag was too big to fit where I had put it, there was not much back-support, and the woman standing next to me was a newbie. She did not know which side Ghatkopar was going to be so you can guess her level. I thought this woman has some angel behind her since she does not know what hell she has got into but at the same time has managed to find the safest place there was on the train to be able to get off at Ghatkopar (same station I wanted to get off at). Ulhasnagar came by and went – it was not much of a problem for my side since most women went to the opposite side from where I was standing. Some women squeezed by me to go inside without hassle. Vithhalwadi, too, came and went since it comes on the other side and this time too, the ones who got in went to the opposite side. But by now, the outside was completely packed – there was no space for a person to go past anybody without pushing, shoving, and feeling at least a little pain. But unfortunately, the journey had just begun.

Then, we reached Kalyan and a lot of women got in – including Tall Girl. Most of them got stuck just in front of the door. There was still some space inside but it was almost impossible to get in. Halfway through the other side of the outside of the compartment, people who wanted to get off at Thane were standing. This line ended right in front of me with Old Woman. But where it ended, the line of people wanting to get off at Bhandup/Ghatkopar also ended. What followed was quite dramatic and painful. Tall Girl had a big bag she had taken to the front and was determined to get inside. Now Tall Girl and our friend Old Woman met back to front. I was the audience to this unlikely and unfair battle. I looked behind me and saw that there was place enough only for 2-3 women to get in and thought the struggle was pointless, but Tall Girl didn’t think so. She pushed and pushed and pushed but Old Woman proved to be a worthy opponent – she was like one of those trees with deep-set roots that can’t be displaced easily. Tall Girl didn’t know this and continued to push and yell, but the Old Woman did not budge or utter a single word or sound in retaliation. I was pissed, I wanted Tall Girl to stop but she persisted and started shaking Old Woman, trying to get her off of her feet. At this point, I objected and so did a few others because Tall Girl was being inhuman but the protests didn’t reach Tall Girl, who finally managed to get past Old Woman but now the zip from her bag was stuck in Old Woman’s hair. She stopped only because Old Woman had finally made a sound. Now everyone was on Old Woman’s side and Tall Girl had to wrench her zip from Old Woman’s hair. Old Woman had to accept defeat and stand to the side. Somebody had the guts to say “Saglyanna kiti traas zala” (that was a lot of trouble for everybody) to Old Woman which I found outrageous but Old Woman had found her voice: Mala nahi zala traas? (wasn’t it for me as well?)

Because of Tall Girl’s abuse, another girl got in, but it was easier for her since Old Woman had been pushed into an uncomfortable position.

Before we (by now I had started feeling a strange sense of solidarity with the women around me) could recover from all this drama, we had reached Dombivili. Maybe it was because we were nearing Dombivili that I was feeling the sudden solidarity. We reached Dombivili and I felt the full blast of more people getting in – I held on to the bar with my right hand and shrunk myself to get closer to the woman next to me. I did this to make sure I don’t get thrown off of my feet by the impending pressure of more people getting in. At least 10 more women got in where there was space for none. Only 2-3 women were safely inside, the rest were hanging outside for dear life. The usual plaints of “arey andar jao” (get in) “humlog gir jayenge” (we’ll fall) “kitna jaga hai andar” (there’s enough space inside) began.

But I, a seasoned traveller, am so used to these pleas that I was indifferent to them. In fact, the general feeling inside the compartment every time we make it to Dombivili is that of scorn. It is so because there are fewer trains for the far-off places like Ambernath, Karjat, Badlapur, etc. And naturally, since the distance is more, most of these trains are fast. And the people of Dombivili love fast trains, in fact they are obsessed with them. But for the people of the far-off suburbs, the ones from Dombivili don’t have it so bad. One, because they have plenty of trains – slow, fast, semi-fast, of two different lines (Karjat and Kasara), as well as ladies specials. And two, because their journey gets over at least 20-25 minutes before the people of Ambernath/Badlapur and at least 60-90 minutes before the people of Karjat/Kasara/Khopoli. Because of this unfair distance and infrastructure realities, I think the scorn, the anger, and the disdain is fair. Moreover, I found myself thinking, if you fall, your death is not on me. When one civilian is thinking about another civilian in this manner, what has the world come to?

The disdain in the compartment grew with each stab of the tiffin in the neighbour’s bag, with each force felt on the chest because of overcrowding, and with each bout of suffocation as a result. I told my neighbour to do something about the pointy thing in her bag and she obliged, but it did not help much. The bag kept digging into my side and the pressure of the people around me kept suffocating me. I felt like I was going to break down because of the pain and in the same painful breath I vowed to never ever subject myself to this – why did I opt for a second class ticket when I could afford a first class ticket? At least I had a choice, I had an option. But then I looked around and wondered about the people who do not have a choice. Just a year ago, when I wasn’t making enough, I did not have a choice but to suffer through this journey on my way to work. And anyway, the first class compartment was different in only the criteria of smell, really. The women there smell better because they can afford deodorants and perfumes. And that gives one a sense of betterment even if it isn’t really any different from the second class experience. This is what living in Bombay has come to mean to me: the illusion of having a choice to a better life.

At this point, I saw a tree with red and green leaves. It looked beautiful with the rays of the sun falling on it. The sight made be breathe, reminded me that even at this wretched hour, there are beautiful things happening in the world. The pain became a little bearable. As if on cue, then, we reached Thane and the crowd got off. Tall Girl came back out and stood in front of me again. Both of us wanted to get off at Ghatkopar. I was once again pissed with Tall Girl and with the idea of her getting off before me. She was talking to a friend of hers who was asking her how she managed to get in despite the rush. She just said: I somehow got in – she did not dwell on Old Woman and her resoluteness, or the fact that she shook an old person and had rent her hair. I felt upset and angry; we were nearing Ghatkopar and I promptly stepped in front of Tall Girl and her friend. I managed to get off before Tall Girl to prove a point. To whom, I don’t really know.

Working with anxiety

Often, the best of us find ourselves in a place where nothing feels possible. Sometimes, it happens almost every day – and living life becomes toxic, like a constantly ticking bomb. Just yesterday, I came across this comic by Extra Ordinary Comics which illustrates the feeling just right.

Someone on Facebook commented on it saying “Anxiety?”, which was the right word for it. Also, it is very important to be able to articulate what you are feeling – that’s half the job done. The comment did exactly that for me. It put into words what I feel almost every day – or on days that I want to accomplish something (which is every day).

I also came across a book review of the book Thin Slices of Anxiety on Brain Pickings. The illustration below gave me a new perspective on anxiety.

This illustration is a trick that can be used in our day to day lives to deal with anxiety in an effective way. I’ll give you a personal example. Every weekend, I have to travel for 2 hours to get home. Living in two places at one often takes a toll on my mind. Because there are so many things I have to remember to do and to carry that I often find myself worrying about not having some book or a particular pen with me. These things are supposed to make my life easier, and help me write.

Also, this scattered way of living makes me dread the train journeys home – though once I am home, I am happy. But on these dreaded train journeys I’d be worrying about things that I might have forgotten or of the plans I have made that might not work out because the stars won’t align at home. So, the trick that the illustration suggested is to turn your perspective from inside your head to the surroundings around you. Since observing the surroundings around you help with keeping yourself in the present, in the moment. Because you are not stuck thinking about something that happened in the past or some thing that could happen in the future – desirable or undesirable.

It is just like the trick I learned at Vipassana, a form of meditation I find very helpful in dealing with day-to-day living. The Vipassana trick is called Anapana meditation, which is, simply put, being aware of your breath. What being aware of your breath does to me is that it keeps my mind from overthinking – overthinking being one of the things that causes anxiety.

So, while dealing with all this anxiety and resultant stress, getting some actual work done can become almost impossible. But being patient with oneself and not getting disheartened; having some faith in the process and in yourself helps. And though training the mind is a technique that has guaranteed results, sometimes the chaos in our minds tends to get the better of us. There could be numerous reasons for it: being stuck in a difficult work situation, a dislike for the kind of work we’re doing, an inability to focus on the task at hand, distraction caused by social media, or simply a lack of motivation.

So when all else fails, there’s poetry. For more than a year, Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s “Chand roz aur, meri jaan” has been a constant source of reassurance. Here is the complete text of the poem:

चंद रोज़ और मिरी जान

चंद रोज़ और मिरी जान, फ़क़त चंद ही रोज़ |

ज़ुल्म की छाँव में दम लेने पे मजबूर हैं हम,
और कुछ देर सितम सह लें, तड़प लें, रो लें
अपने अज्दाद की मीरास है, माज़ूर हैं हम |

जिस्म पर क़ैद है, जज़्बात पे ज़ंजीरें हैं,
फ़िक्र महबूस है, गुफ़्तार पे ताज़ीरें हैं |

अपनी हिम्मत है कि हम फिर भी जिए जाते हैं
ज़िंदगी क्या किसी मुफ़लिस की क़बा है, जिस में हर घड़ी दर्द के पैवंद लगे जाते हैं?
लेकिन अब ज़ुल्म की मीआद के दिन थोड़े हैं,
इक ज़रा सब्र कि फ़रियाद के दिन थोड़े हैं |

अरसा-ए-दहर की झुलसी हुई वीरानी में
हम को रहना है पे यूँही तो नहीं रहना है

अजनबी हाथों का बे-नाम गिराँ-बार सितम
आज सहना है हमेशा तो नहीं सहना है |

ये तिरे हुस्न से लिपटी हुई आलाम की गर्द,
अपनी दो रोज़ा जवानी की शिकस्तों का शुमार,
चाँदनी रातों का बेकार दहकता हुआ दर्द,
दिल की बे-सूद तड़प, जिस्म की मायूस पुकार,

चंद रोज़ और मिरी जान फ़क़त चंद ही रोज़ |

For a complete word by word translation of the poem go here. It is quite sad that Mustansir Dalvi has not yet translated this.

Anyway, the poem to me is like an older, wiser person telling me patiently to be patient with myself. It almost feels like a parent who is explaining to me the way the world works and is giving me simple and straightforward advice. Of course it is up to me to take the advice or leave it. But even if I take the advice and try being patient with my failures and rejections, not keeping at the work at hand will bring the house down in no time. And anyway, one can’t really fail or get rejected without trying to get something done.

While all these things seem easier said than done, there is only one way to actually get to doing them – doing them. Instead of spending hours thinking about an undesirable thing that has to be done, just getting it done with will be effective and less time-consuming. It all depends on you – which is a very scary and a very liberating thing at the same time.

So here’s to doing things despite the fear and the anxiety of failure and the possibility of adversity!

To writerly aspirations and Maya Angelou

Today, I woke up feeling doubtful and stressed because of the changes happening around me. Then there’s this fear of not being able to fulfill expectations I have of myself. But everyone goes through this, right? And they manage to deal with changes that happen in their own ways. I am told the best ways are to have courage in your daily life and to not be afraid of working hard.

I always liked to think I was never afraid of working hard. I tried to study well, go deep and understand something, be able to contribute in class. But even then, I was a terrible organizer of things and I always operated out of fear and stress.

Here I am again, reacting the same way to the next dilemma I find myself in. And this time, I can’t just make myself believe what I’m doing is ‘working hard’. I can’t go on operating out of fear and stress. The only way I see out of it is to pursue things that scare me, that put me out of my comfort zone. Things that make me question myself more often. But I can’t lose my mind as I try to do this – which is why organisation.

But really, this heavy word *organisation* is simply the following of routine and focusing on the work you have to get done. In my case, using words to express the ideas I manage to catch. It is as simple as that. There is nothing romantic about it, which is why it doesn’t appeal to young people like me.

But romanticizing something is a very useless thing to do. For the longest time I romanticized working hard. But I really thought I was working hard when I was merely sitting in one place worrying about the wrong things. Wrong things like whether this will get me good marks, whether these marks will get me into that college, whether getting into that college will make me one of the cool kids, whether this assignment will please my teacher, whether this story will please my boss and make me go viral.

When instead, I could have made better use of that time by trying to address things like whether I understand something from what I am studying, whether I really want to go to that famous college, whether my assignment is really good, whether I have cracked the story I am presenting to my boss to my satisfaction.

Like I said, I am in a difficult and/or exciting phase in my life – it all depends on the way I choose to see it. There are big changes and big learnings. There is love and there is heartbreak. There is youth and there is growing up. So on this dull, sad and stressed Saturday, it’s Maya Angelou – the knight in shining armour – to the rescue. (no female equivalent for knight? I shall use it as a gender-neutral term then!)

My day is suddenly better. This poem below is the reason why it is necessary for writers to do their unromantic, relentless work: to be able to pass on the struggle to the next generation without letting them focus on the fear part of it.

Am I romanticizing writing this time? Well, circle of life.

So in case you are having a bad day, here’s the poem that turned my day around. And if you aren’t, bookmark it for a rainy day.

Still I rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Tale spun

Spin a yarn and keep alive the art of storytelling urges Katha Kosa’s new challenge.

Remember a time when all you really wanted was to be hushed by an animated “once upon a time…” and a happy lull would settle gently upon the world? British writer, Philip Pullman says it best, “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”

Stories also have the power to inspire, to engage, to inculcate knowledge and cultures, and to entertain. It’s a sentiment that Dhara Kothari, founder of Katha Kosa that endorses. Katha Kosa, is a year-old organisation dedicated to the art of storytelling, has plans to organise activities, events, and meetings around “storytelling” in a bid to revive the dying art. Their latest initiative, Stories on a Postcard Challenge is a fun enterprise jointly conducted by Katha Kosa, Settle Stories, UK and India Post. The collaboration with Settle Stories is a result of a chance encounter Kothari had with founder Sita Brand. Kothari sought assistance from the good old India Postal Service, who unexpectedly responded positively.

Participating in the challenge is simple: anyone from anywhere in the Indian subcontinent can write a story that physically fits on a postcard and drop it in an old-fashioned red and black post box. In an age, where technology has taken over almost all forms of communication between human beings, the Stories on a Postcard challenge will be a unique experience for folks who’ve probably never seen a postcard.

The story entries could be in any genre- fiction, non-fiction, true experiences, thriller, sci-fi, or romance. They could also be in any form- prose, poetry, illustrations, even. Participants are allowed multiple submissions but the rules dictate that every entry have its postcard. Exhibitions featuring all entries will be held in the month of October during Postal Week in India and at the Storytelling Festival in the UK. There are plans to publish the submissions both in print as well as digital versions.

However enthused Kothari is about the first Stories on Postcard Challenge (which she plans to hold annually), what concerns her is the less than enthusiastic response from media houses, writers, and the lack of expected participation. More than children, it is the adults who need to be motivated to start writing, she feels. More than one person Kothari spoke to has assumed that the initiative was for kids and therefore would cheer her along, never once giving participating themselves a thought. We lamented jointly over this tragedy; people need to be shaken aware, and we assured ourselves with the possibility of a story doing that. Maybe, it will be a story on a postcard.

“The main purpose is to have fun” Kothari said when we met with her. So pick up a pen and start spinning a tale!

Address your postcards to Katha Kosa, c/o Director, Mumbai GPO, Mumbai-400001. The deadline for sending entries is Mon Sept 30. Also, visit kathakosa.com.

A version of this article appeared in Time Out Mumbai.