Forgetting


I have forgotten me.
The chubby kid I used to be.
The sickly thin teenager I once was.
The perfect twenty one year old.

My body was a tool I used,
To help me hold books and read.
My body was a tool I used,
To help me climb a tree and look at the birds.

And then came the chair,
The exams, the interviews, the job.
I did not care, my hunger grew fierce and stray.
I did not care, McDonalds was a stone’s throw away.

My body was no longer my favorite tool.
I had a phone, a laptop, an ipad.
The birds were now too noisy on the trees no longer there.
My body, just wanted the chair.

I wanted an app to wake me up.
I wanted an app to help me sleep.
I wanted an app to plot a graph of how I run,
But I forgot what it was to walk.

They told me being pretty did not matter.
They told me being pretty helped you get a job.
They told me obesity could kill.
But they frowned upon anyone who criticized the fat.

I have forgotten me.
The things that my eyes could see.
My brain that questioned, played and asked again.
The perfect, ten year old.

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The cat and the husband


When I was away walking line transects in a forest in Northern Karnataka, my then-boyfriend-now husband adopted a kitten, the sole survivor of her sick kitty clan. A lover of animals and having recently quit his job, my husband and cat formed the strongest mutual admiration club I have ever known. My cat allows me to cuddle her for a minute before she kicks me hard with her hind legs. That is her way of showing me her acceptance. But, she sits on my husband’s lap and grooms him for several minutes; probably because of their similar hairy body texture.  She also grooms his beard, in the middle of the night. When he is away, she sits by the window and howls at 12:30 because that is when she expects my husband to come home for lunch and at 17:00, because that is when she expects my husband to come back home from office. She does give up after some 20 minutes, but not before rattling all my patient nerves.

Today, the cat peed on our sofa for the hundredth time. My husband lost his temper and threw her out of the house. I surprisingly stayed calm. It was after all a piece of furniture and peed-on furniture was good to scare away all the cleanliness freaks from our house. Since the cat is stupid and oblivious to the dangers of the outside world, he took her back after half an hour, locked her up in the balcony and released her after another hour.  You can see his love for her in his anger and supposed ‘indifference’ to her. So while my husband and the cat stay busy in their eternal love affair, my sofa is now a bruised, abused litter box, where we sit occasionally when it’s dry.

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Trains and Trumpets


The following article was published in Deccan Herald on 15th January 2013. This is the unedited version.
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I drove along the Siliguri-Alipurduar railway track on the National Highway 31C, through the picturesque Dooars in North Bengal. The road runs mostly parallel to the railway track, going through large tracts of forests intersected by rivers and streams; crop fields; and lush green tea gardens. A few kilometers before Madarihat to my left, I saw an upturned train bogey looking battered and covered entirely by dust flying off the roads. The train had apparently hit a tree and derailed a few days ago. One local inhabitant of the region told me that the weather had been foggy and the driver had failed to see the tree. “My relative on-board the train thankfully survived. These trains often travel fast; even through forests, and get into accidents. Elephants, cows and goats are regularly killed by trains on this route.  Sometimes leopards, gaurs, deer and people die too.”
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While the Siliguri-Alipurduar railway track is famous for the beautiful landscape it traverses through, it is equally (in)famous due to the number of elephants that get killed by trains on this track  every year. The latest casualty on 5th Jan 2013 involves 3 elephants that died and 2 juveniles grievously injured in Rajabhatkhawa, Jalpaiguri, by Jhajha-Guwahati express. A 2 year old calf was mowed down by the Kanchankanya express on 4th December 2012 in the Mahananda Wildlife Sanctuary, between Gulma and Sevoke. In June 2011, 2 elephants, part of a 60-odd herd, suffered a similar fate near a tea estate after they came in the way of the Asansol express. They did not die immediately, but succumbed to their fatal injuries a few days later. In September 2010, 7 elephants were killed by a goods train between Banarhat and Binnaguri. These are only a few individuals out of the more than 40 elephants (as recorded by the forest department) that have died or have been critically injured on these tracks over the past 10 years.

According to the local villagers, elephants regularly cross the tracks to move between forest patches, to go to the nearby fields to raid paddy or maize; and to investigate houses for bananas, and food stored in their kitchens. The latter sometimes results in a broken wall, or window. Sometimes solitary or herds of elephants are chased off the tea gardens or villages by the locals or people from the forest department. This, in some cases has caused chaos resulting in elephants coming in front of trains suddenly and getting killed. According to the people, the crop-raiding incidents have increased over the past 5-6 years and several families have stopped their agricultural practices completely. Some have also been asked by the forest department to stop growing rice or maize since it tempts the elephants to cross the railway tracks to come to their fields, frequently getting them in train accidents as a result. Most of the local villagers and tea garden workers respect that elephants are large bodied mammals that cannot be bound by the boundaries of National parks and Wildlife Sanctuaries. One villager said, “The trees that serve as their main source of diet are all being cut away; the forests are no longer natural but commercial green ventures to earn revenue. More people are moving into these forest lands, there is increased grazing by cattle and collection of firewood. In search of more food, the elephants take to raiding our crops. For this, they have to cross the railway tracks often and get killed by trains as a result”

Elephants are present almost everywhere along the Siliguri-Alipurduar railway track, at least during most parts of the year (such as the paddy and maize seasons), if not all. The track lies in prime elephant habitat, which forms a part of the eastern Himalayan biodiversity hotspot. Every year, elephants migrate over large distances across this region to meet their requirements of food and water.  Initially, this tract of land was covered by forests, and was sparsely populated. Large investment, mainly British, resulted in an enormous growth of tea plantation agriculture. The meter gauge railway system here was laid down for these tea plantation estates.  The gauge conversion from meter gauge to broad gauge was started in 1999 and completed in November2003. This happened despite a PIL filed by WWF-India, West Bengal, at the Calcutta High Court, opposing the conversion on grounds of safeguarding wildlife and the presence of an already existing broad-gauge line 5-30km away from the meter gauge line. In India, the Environmental Impact Assessment notification of 1994 and later in 2006 issued under Environment (Protection) Act 1986 does not include Railways as one of the identified sector for EIA Study. Thus, the Indian Railways remains shielded from any environmental clearance before laying any new railway track or changeover of gauges or for extensions.

The conversion resulted in increasing number of passenger and goods trains plying on the track, well as greater speed of the trains. Not surprisingly since the conversion, the frequency of elephant deaths due to train accidents has increased from an average of about 1 per year prior to broad gauge to more than 4 per year post conversion. Deaths of gaurs, leopards, fishing cat, sambar, chital and python have also been occurred post gauge conversion, many of which go unrecorded by the forest department. On recommendations of an investigative team set up by the high court, the court issued certain directives to the railways in 2002, to minimize negative impacts on wildlife; such as construction of barriers at certain stretches to restrict elephant movement and cautious driving at specified stretches, amongst others. While most trains honk all the way, some villagers say that the honking sometimes agitates the elephants, which often charge at the on-coming train instead of moving away. Most trains interpret the ‘cautious driving’ directive in their own ways, some express trains going up to speeds of more than 90km per hour inside and outside forests.

Despite the directives being issued by the high court and the railways complying with some of them in entirety, casualties have not reduced. The forest department numbers claim that elephant populations are on the rise. In fact, according to a senior West Bengal forest department official, the railway track does not pose any problem for elephants. He believes that the elephant numbers need to come down in the region to reduce loss of crops, property and human life. However, the population estimates are doubtful, since the methods of estimation are not scientifically rigorous.

The first step in alleviating the problem is to acknowledge its existence, instead of considering these accidents as one-off events. Since elephants regularly move throughout this landscape, through forests, crop lands and tea gardens, speed limitations in just a few stretches within forests is not an answer to solving the problem. In any case, speed is not monitored effectively and warning systems do not seem to be very functional either.  Elephants move mostly at night, and trains at night should be banned totally to minimize conflict. An alternate broad gauge line exists through Falakata in Jalpaiguri, not far from the railway line in contention; railway authorities could double the route to ease traffic.   One example of a successful ban on night traffic is one in Bandipur National park in Karnataka to minimize road-kills.

It is high time that the Forest and Railways department snap out of their apathy and work together, instead of their blame games.

Absolutely Nothing


In early 2012, I bought Battlefield 3. It was my first military shooter in a long, long time. The last one was Call of Duty 2, back in 2005. Or 2006. I did play Counter Strike in between, but there’s a fundamental difference between them.

Counter Strike is to war, what cats are to tigers.

CS is a silly, fun, occasionally serious but mostly tame, video game. Family reunions seem more like war than Counter Strike.

Military shooters, on the other hand, promise to take you deep inside the black heart of war. And about 5 minutes into my first multiplayer match in Battlefield 3, I had a realization.

I did not want to go deep inside the black heart of war.

While CS had its contrived maps with oddly placed crates and double doors, BF3 put me somewhere in the Middle East (or Eurasia? some place bright and brick coloured), on streets with cars and bicycles.

Think of Counter Strike as an Olympics 110m hurdles race. Nice, clean, well-engineered track with those strong, languid-on-the-surface athletes.
BF3 was a steeple chase where a scraggly man with very bad running form (me) was forced to jump over thorny thickets with a pack of hungry wolves snapping at his heels.

Fundamentally, they were the same. Running as fast as you can and jumping over stuff. But the latter is just… terrifying.

I roamed around this virtual street, feeling vulnerable, when I heard my first BF3 gunshots. They were awful.

CS had made me believe that guns sounded like what they did in Bollywood movies.

Then this entire invasion of Afghanistan happened, then Iraq, then the Mexican drug wars. People posted videos on liveleak and YouTube. I was now exposed to the sound of gunfire in cities. It rang against the walls. It was impossible to identify, spatially. It accompanied heavy breathing and shrieking. It was unpredictable.

That’s what BF3 guns sound like. I sat there wondering “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

Then I heard a low mechanical rumbling. Like wheels made out metal… I looked around frantically. Took me a minute to spot the elephant in the room.

A tank. A FREAKING TANK.

I was pretty calm till I saw the little orange red triangle above it. OH CRAP. If video games had taught me anything, it was green = friend and red = enemy.

I ran like a maniac. I could only run as fast the video game let me, but in my head I was the flying Sikh. (note: I was neither flying, nor am I Sikh.)

I got behind a structure but the tank kept shooting. It was deafening. There was rubble and dust everywhere. The structure I was supposed to take cover behind had been razed to the ground.

And there I was, standing face to metaphorical face… with a tank. Staring down its barrel (or turret or glory hole, whatever it’s called). I let it shoot me. I gave up.

I dreamt of being chased by a tank later. That’s how bad it was.

Sometimes, it’s impossible to trivialize war. I’ve put 10 hours into BF3 (very little by multiplayer shooter game standards) and I’m still scared of big maps and more serious game modes.

I’m a wuss.

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Together


She slid in noiselessly through the bathroom door.

In fact, if it wasn’t for the cold November air that shot a hole through the wall of steam I call a shower, I wouldn’t have noticed her.

I smiled at her. She looked at me coyly with her big eyes, twinkling with naughtiness.

I also noticed she was naked. Naked, as she was born. Naked, as I had first held her. I stretched my arm out to invite her. A hot shower is easily one of the greatest feelings on Earth. And to share it with someone you love, even better.

She hesitated, playful as ever. So I cupped my hands and splashed some water on her.

That’s when she let out a blood curdling yell and bolted out of the bath.

Basically my cat hates water.

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Past and present: a tail


Past and present, two old sisters,
Went looking for, their very own misters.
Searching in every, cranny and nook,
They reached a village, by a brook.

The village was red, with a hint of brown,
All the human faces, were knit in a frown.
“Stop you misses, why are you here?
The village has enough, fears to fear.”

An old holy man, stood in their path,
Backed by his mafia, backing his wrath.
Past and present, boldly asked away,
“Fears you say, what fears are they?”

“A tiger, it laughs, attacks us and kills,
It hides in the shadows, by our window sills.
Our farms are red, from the blood we’ve shed”,
The old man cried,” We want its head!”

The sisters spoke out, with a crusading zeal,
“We can help you here, but we need a deal,
We’ll rid you of the tiger, rid you of the pain,
But two unborn children, we must gain.”

The men discussed, the deal was signed,
The sisters now, had a tiger to find.
Walking to the brook, they saw a long tail,
The tiger lay lazily, a large heavy male.

“Hey Mr. Tiger, we need to have a talk,
Men of these lands, you give them a shock.
You have the deer, the cow and the dog,
Why then do you kill, the men who slog?”

“Ladies, you annoy me, let me be,
The men they’re stupid, can’t you see?
They talk, they snort, they write about us,
Then they fight about it, creating a fuss.

I avoid them, stay away, yet they follow me,
For one glance of my tail, they pay exorbitant fee.
Adjust I do, with what little I have left,
They steal their own peace, and call it my theft.

Hence, I kill them, it gives me pleasure,
I clean their mess, reclaim my wild treasure.
Do me a favour, and keep away from this lot,
Or else your future, will rapidly clot.”

Past and present, sat down beside him,
And handed him a womb, filled to the brim.
“This womb has two children, those men’s future,
With them your wounds, we shall suture.

Replacing the men, with you they will grow,
And be our misters, when they have wits to show.
So you not only have us, your present and past,
But two futures, to help you coexist, and last.”

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Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki


Land lords are simply Sith Lords who got a name change.

A year ago I found a beautiful house in Sahakar Nagar, ground floor of a 3 storey independent house.  The road that led up to it was like the cover of an Enid Blyton novel.

It had a bedroom so charming that George Clooney would fall for it. A verandah so cosy that evolution modelled the human vagina after it. A garden so green that many video production houses used it as a cheap substitute to a green screen.

Basically a house that would get me laid. Very often.

Just before I paid the deposit, the owner said that he wanted a married gentleman to occupy his house. I was single, and vaguely a gentleman. So I fell short on both counts.

I decided to get married, hoping that would also change my perceived image to gentleman-ly.

A year later (from the year ago, not from today), I found a beautiful house in Sahakar Nagar. Again.

It had bedrooms so large your momma could fit in them. A garden so beautiful my cat would think twice before pooping in it. A verandah so big that all my friends could get drunk there, break the bottles and still have place to sit on the floor without cutting themselves.

And when I met the owner today, he tells me, “Oh so you are married. Actually I was looking a big family. So that they maintain the garden.”

Because, you know, women who have the additional responsibility of raising children are more likely to find time from their torturous schedule to clip the shrubbery.

You want to know why India has 1.2 bn people?

THE MOTHERFUCKING LANDLORDS. THEY WANT YOU TO MARRY AND POP OUT KIDS LIKE HYDROGEN UNDERGOING COMBUSTION.

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2012


First they came for the communists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for Android users,
AND THEN I WAS LIKE “NO WAY BASTARDS!” AND TOTALLY PUNCHED THEM IN THE NOSE.

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L’appel du Vide


I just had to peer down. Down the bright red cliff that didn’t seem even remotely unnatural. If I went back in time and looked at it again, I’d think I’m on Mars. Not on that day. This was my city and I was no stranger to its soil.

But when you peer down a cliff that high, you become a stranger to everything. Life? School? Tomorrow’s 4 PM tennis match? History block test on Wednesday?

None of them matter. What you really want to do is let go. Walk 50 paces behind. Run like you’ve never run before. Barefoot, carefree. Soft, red, moist fertile soil underneath. Run faster than you ever had. Or will. By the time you’re at the edge of the cliff you’re almost breathless.

And then you jump. Jump off that cliff.

Feel the wind make wild love to your hair. Smile. You still have to work against the wind to smile. But then that’s how love works. Note how you missed that large rock jutting out of the wall of the cliff. That run up was magical. It terrorized batsmen when you were 9. In your head it still does.

And suddenly you’re back. You are you again. You with the tennis camp. You with the social science test. You the 12 year old who hates the fact that he knows exactly how it’s going to turn out.

You hold your mom’s hand and walk away. You can’t but look back at the cliff with confusion. Like a hostage who loves his kidnapper.

Landscapes don’t follow the laws of society. And you don’t want to. You were made for each other.

The void. It calls you.

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Swingers


“Here we go again….”

“W-w-wait, what is it, evening already?”

“No man, she’s landed a morning gig.”

“Morning gig?” she repeated mockingly, “morning gig? stop talking about her as if she’s a performing artist. She’s a whore you oaf.”

“Tomayto tohmaato. And oaf? Really? I think I missed all the literature she seems to be reading.”

“Yes you did. It’s the only time she’s still anyway.”

They silently watched her go through her drill. Mobile phone, check. Pepper spray,check. Keys, ummm… wait a minute. Oh yes yes in that corner of her handbag, check check check.

“So who do you think it’s gonna be this time?”

“Who knows. Like I care.” her voice quivered with resignation. “We’re all just little bits of bait she hangs on her fishing line, hoping one of us will snag a big one.”

“But… but do we stack? Or are we like Critical Strike, stack but with diminishing returns? Do we add HP or mana? And are we acti…”, he was in no mood to mope.

“Oh fuck you. Don’t remind me of those days. I wish she’d been addicted to that shit long enough to become ugly and cold and a social misfit. But no, little miss do-it-all needs to do it all”

“I think you mean little miss do-them-all needs to do them all” he chuckled, waiting to unleash a Pokémon comeback.

“Oh save your smartass comebacks, you’ll need them after we’re hit by a spider web of fertile confetti.”

“Spiderwhat?”

“Cumshot”

“WHAT HAS THIS WOMAN BEEN READING?”

“Some Arundhati Roy I think.”

“Figures.”

“Whoever it is, I just hope he’s clean.”

“I swear, I’m sick of dangling next to nether regions that smell like…”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh..”

“What? Don’t shhh me just before I simile you!”

“Shut your poppycock! Look there… it’s not a businessman”

“Good God it’s not! It’s a business woman!  It’s a business woman meeting a woman of business!”

“I knew this would happen. Being gay is the rage these days you know.”

“I really need to start reading whatever you’re reading.”

This was supposed to be a conversation between a pair of earrings. Inspired by this tweet and this realization.

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