Hyderabad Blues Part 1

Choosing the right font is very important when you are trying to write. It should appeal to your aesthetic sense. You should want to see more words written in that way.

Such are the random beginnings I employ to tell you my tale. My story thus far in a city far away from my own… I landed here and was welcomed by the harsh cruel reality that hit me in the form of a hot breeze. It was like the hot breath of an angry raging bull about to do a classic head butt. At this time the image I’d like to invoke is the one with the graphic of a grey and black bull with a nose ring and looking might pissed off at you.

I was here in a strange land. Or was it entirely strange? I was badgered with phone calls when I finally got a cab. “Where are you?” “Have you reached your guest house?” “There are riots happening don’t go to the city and flash the auto men” the last comment was made ever so graciously by Nupur.

I was initially quiet suspicious of the cabbie, he kept looking at me in the rear view mirror and I kept shifting my position as to not be in his line of focus. And when the conversation did begin I found out that my charioteer was quiet a serious cab professional. He took his job very seriously. He didn’t joke although he made a passing comment about the Hyderabad weather, which he found mildly amusing and smirked. That was most expressive of the emotions I could get out of him. Besides that, he warned me not to step into the old city, told me that the place I stay at was a “good” place. I really wouldn’t know what a good or bad place is at the moment. So I just went with the flow like I was intended to.

The place that I was lead to was called of all the things, “Aliens Blend”. At once a thousand reasons as to why I should quietly step away from the building came flooding to my mind. . If nomenclature is anything to go by these days, the place was more or less inhabited by aliens and well, they blended in very well with the humans.

The most surprising aspect of my room is the small balcony. It over looks an infestation of high rise corporate MNC like buildings and right underneath them there are big boulders. Large living rocks which a small man in a crane or something that looks like a giant claw trying to break and move the rocks on a daily biases. He is there at the crack of dawn. Actually he starts moving and shaping the landscape at the unholy hour of 3:00AM. The entire place is lit up by flood lights and the workers there look like astronauts and the pit that they are mining looks like a cheap imitation of some alien landscape.

The room itself was comforting, the bed lazy and infectious. The AC had a very friendly hum like a Buddhist monk floating on my ceiling and chanting his prayers in a low tremble. The cupboard was broken at the hinges which was endearing, because even with one hinge lose, it still opened and closed with as much self respect it could muster. Then there was the toilet, there was something German about the toilet, perhaps the pot, it was a very uptight judgmental pot which flushed with such an angry gush, that you would think twice about using it. A shy hook was attached to the back of the bathroom door and on the opposite wall, a towel hanger. The tiles were a depressing blue and the sink was a government hospital white.

One day in, and the room grew on me. I could find my way around the room in the dark; I knew what channels my favorite TV shows were on. The plug point was ideally placed next to the bed and the wireless was perpetually on, although rarely working. I never moved from my bed. During my stay in my room, I lived like a Roman Emperor (I use Emperor deliberately, the Queens didn’t have anything sensational to do I suppose, I could be wrong and am open to corrections). I sat on my soft bed and refused to move. Everything was at arms distance. This was thanks to the pre-bed preparations. Before I get into bed the following steps must be taken.

1. Turn the lights off
2. Turn the AC on and adjust it to 21 deg and swing mode.
3. Turn on the fan on speed 2
4. Plug in the laptop
5. Place TV remote and cell phone on the right hand side
6. Fluff the pillow and place it stragically to support spinal cord.
7. Place ash tray and smokes and match box near knees (so that the smell doesn’t bother me)
8. Cover feet with blanket.
9. Place water bottled near the head of the bed on the floor.
10. Relax

Once I am in Relax Roman Emperor mode, nothing can stop me. This is the closest to indulgence I have come to. The sweet sinful pleasure of sloth and gluttony together. I can read a book, I can watch a movie, I can chat with my friends or I can just doze off. No one to ask me for any explanations.

The room is Shangri-La compared to the outside. Hyderabad is unrelenting in its heat. You’d have to be in fit condition to survive the heat of the city. Heat waves creep in from every direction and latch on to you like a giant friendly octopus made entirely of lava. They weigh heavily on you and you have no choice but to lug the weight around to your destination. They hug you and lick you with their giant hot octopus tongue (do octopuses have tongues?) with the most sincere affection. Once in an auto you’d think that you will feel some respite. You couldn’t be far from the truth. The air that blows on your face is like that from a steam engine. You feel like you are stuck in a bad dream, in which you are at the receiving end of hot piercing dinosaur breath.

I fancy myself quiet the explorer and one day decided to venture out into this spunky coffee place I had spotted. It was called “My Café Latte”. Apparently the theme of the coffee joint was movies and I was suitably impressed by the exterior. I opened the door to be welcomed by planks of wood nailed loosely on the floor. Every step made the planks move uneasily on the floor, they let out an annoyed long squeak in retaliation of my weight. I stepped as lightly as it was possible for me and made it to the hard marble floor which singed the beginning of the coffee shop. A couple of surprised waiters looked at me at a loss of what to say or do. They opened and closed their mouths like waiter-fish, trying to recollect the customer service lines. Page 4, Lesson 3- How to greet a new customer.

“Yes mam, hello mam” one of them ventured uncontrollably. I smiled trying my best not to make him nervous and help him to do his job well. I noticed that his boss was lurking in the corner making a note of every mistake the waiter fish made. “Table for one” I said with a smile. “Yes mam, shooor mam, this way mam.” He led me into a dimly lit place where the couches were made of white leather and the tables were made of rose wood. I would be tempted to call it whore-ish, but then it lacked the professional touch a brothel would have. It lacked the funky diva attitude and the brazen outspokenness. It was more like a teenager trying to be sexy but ending up looking like a bumbling hooker. It was graceless; everything was a shade too loud for the afternoon (inside joke).

It’s a coffee place for fcuk’s sake! What’s with all the dim lighting as though it were a pub! Forgiveness Mary, I said to myself and moved around in a slow manner observing the interiors. I looked over my shoulder and found waiter-fish promptly swimming behind me with his Customer Service Page 4 Lesson 3 smile. “Is there a smoking zone here?” I asked, trying my best to sound natural about it lest he pop a gill. It is not unheard of that women smoke in Hyderabad, but then it’s like one of those urban legends of ghosts. Everyone hears about them but there are hardly a few who have seen them. Waiter –fish (the brave) reacted in a very nonchalant manner and said, “Yes mam, top floor fully smoking mam.” I thanked him and made my way up the spiraling staircase which was for some reason red. This is not the whore house red mind you but more like the red oxide floors that we used to have in BDA Flats back home. The kinds I drew on with white chalk. Honestly it was a failed attempt at the whole classy whore look. One thing that I had to admire about the place was the posters. Classy film noire posters from the 60’s and 70’s all framed and hanging on the walls with an intention to lend the place an air of taste, but unfortunately at times the air smelt strongly of uptight cue stick in the…. As I walked further up the stairs I found more plush sofas and couches, but this time they were populated but a horde of self confident teenagers.

There was some sort of celebration taking place at the table next to mine. 4 boys and 3 girls; I reckon it was one of the girls’ birthday. I could tell because she was slightly more dressed up than the rest of her female counterparts. A slight hint of make up and the freshness of a new dress recently opened from its plastic shelter. Like all birthday people would she was basking in the attention and fished for more. A noisy bunch of kids these were, I supposed they were college going and annoyingly full of unwanted hormones making too much of unnecessary noise. One of them caught me staring at the group; I managed a cursory smile and looked for my waiter-fish.

The leather couch was extremely comfortable, my weight allowed me to feel the full pleasure of sitting on a nice soft couch. All the skinny Somalia models would have landed on the sofa like a fly on a rock, with as little pleasure as possible, I on the other hand sunk in, like a paper weight in quick sand, and before I knew it, my generous derrière was lovingly enveloped by the white leather couch. “Ah, this is the life” I thought. I almost closed my eyes and trying to soak in the cool AC and the softness of the couch. But mostly, I was trying to distract myself from the annoying music playing in the background. Some ghastly hip hop or rap or some such music, horribly unbecoming of a nice coffee joint with a vintage movie collection as its theme.

I was thinking about when to take my book out and order for a nice cold coffee, when suddenly a banshee screeched like a fist of nails on a black board. I looked up startled. Someone unexpected had turned up at the birthday party (although honestly, I wished they hadn’t) and was received with an ear piercing squeal from the birthday girl.

That’s it! I don’t think I can sit here. As I got up to leave the waiter-fish approached me and said, “Mam, this not smoking zone Mam, upstairs fully smoking mam.” I smiled at him. Apparently the place had another ‘upstairs’ that I wasn’t aware of. I followed the waiter-fish into an open balcony.

The familiar octopus with the lava tentacles was waiting around the corner to ambush me again. And boy did it succeed! As soon as I set foot on the balcony the lava tentacles octopus lunged at me with the joyfulness of a friendly dog. I found a nice cozy corner, a table for two. One for the octopus and one for me.

I have to take a moment here and tell you how horribly uncomfortable the chair was. It wasn’t a chair, more of a bench, the kinds you would find in a park. The ones that contort your spine so that you sit with your chin poking in the air as though your olfactory system relocated to under your mouth. If you are a person of my built, it is close to impossible for you to sit on the bench and appear graceful. If you try to cross one leg over the other in the attempts at looking lady like, you will look like a dog trying to stand on its hind legs and trying to look elegant. So with whatever dignity I had left I decided to call it quits. It is a very annoying habit of most people who run coffee shops to ensure that the table is below your waist. It’s at your knee level. What kind of socially handicapped person designed the place? The placement of the table would have been ideal, had you intended for your knees and your date’s knees to have a conversation and sip coffee. But if it was meant for the action to primarily be concentrated in the face area, the table should at least be placed some where near the elbow. This will allow for holding the hand and playing with fingers and most importantly the “nonchalant graze” of the hand. But No! these coffee guys insist on providing us with low coffee tables.

A big part of me wanted to grab a club and beat the damn table to bits, but then propriety and of course lack of money prevented me from doing so. I did the only thing I could do then. Sit my ass on that bloody uncomfortable bench and look through the menu. Familiar names called out to me yelling for attention. The cappuccino said, “Hey, how you doing?” The Mocha Frappe said, “Ola seniorita, comos esta usted?” the Teas just mumbled something in a very British accent and moved over the next page. Ah but the Irish coffee said, “Look here me bonny lass, take me to your lips wont ya love?” And how can I resist that Irish charm. So, waiter fish “One Irish Frappe please.” “Oh and a match box.” “Oh and an ash tray. Thanks!”

Now part two of the production. The “try to read your book part.”

For as long as I can remember going to coffee shops, my hidden agenda would always be to read there. I love to read in coffee shops. It is interesting to watch multiple stories unfold all around me. It sort of puts my imagination into overdrive and I am totally surrounded by bridges that flow in and out of reality and my mind. I like the background humming of people having conversations in hushed tones. The sudden flirtatious laughter of someone will somehow coincide with what I am reading at the moment. It is a very fulfilling feeling of being ‘there’ and yet not there.

The book was out, now comes the hard part to sit myself in a comfortable manner that will allow me to read the book. I was faced with 2 predicaments here.

1. The blessed coffee table was so low that it was near my ankle and I couldn’t possibly place a book there and read it.
2. The ‘dim light’ theme continued into the balcony and the set sun didn’t necessarily provide adequate lighting for me to read.

Above me was a dull 20 watts bulb, the kind you find in kitchens of the Kerala Mess in Banaswadi. It looked like a sad fisherman without any fish.

Ok Mary, give reading a shot I said.
So I positioned myself in a way so as to keep the book close to me and the 20 watts bulb right above me. All this while I was trying to look elegant as a hippo! Well that was a disaster. So I conceded defeat and put the book down and tried to change my seating position. The next position was more uncomfortable than the previous one. And now to add insult to serious injury the heat was becoming ridiculous. The damn lava octopus tightened its grip around me. Sweat began to trickle down my back and from the pits of my knees. I didn’t know that we could sweat from the pits of our knees!

Ok that does it! Let me just stand up and have a smoke. So I put my book back in my bag and fished for a pack of smokes and a match box. Now I had another situation to deal with. I didn’t want to sit and smoke and look like a total retard. I was dressed in a bright pink chudidhar had my hair in a bun, wore horn rimmed glasses and had a cigarette in my hand. I looked like a mélange of bad movies, and to sit on that dreadfully uncomfortable bench and pretend to be comfortable and smoke my cigarette was an extremely tall order.

I stood up to go to the ledge to watch the traffic and smoke. Just then the waiter fish came with my order. He looked confused and slightly disappointed. He thought that I was going to leave. I smiled again at him and told him to leave my drink on the ledge of the balcony.

I lit my cigarette and took a nice deep drag and exhaled into the hot Hyderabad air. I looked down at the traffic and the general din of the city. It must be noted at this point that people in Hyderabad refuse to wear helmets. Everywhere I see people on scooters and bikes going at unholy speeds, with no helmet on. One of these dare devils also had the audacity to speed past a police vehicle and the cops did what any other self respecting police officer would do, they willfully ignored him. I was shocked to say the least and sought and explanation. My search came to an end when I asked one of my trainees Hima Bindu, know simply as Bindu, why her fellow city-zens refused to wear a helmet while riding like the Italian mafia running from the FBI. The explanation is as follows:


“Many months ago they had passed the “Everyone must wear your helmets or you will have to part with some or at times most of the currency in your wallet” rule. People by nature are tight fisted and don’t want to donate money to the cops drinking fund, so most of them wore helmets. But then apparently there were 6 very intelligent beings who said, “Nay, I shalt not bow to the rules that my state maketh. I maketh my own rules notwithstanding how retarded they may be.” The prime concern for these very enlightened beings was the hair do. Which pretty much sums up their priorities in life- Bad hair day= worst thing that could happen to you. Kissing Hyderabad roads and having large trucks run over your head= mildly painful.
So they decided apparently to try and escape a few cops who were going to catch them for not wearing helmets and sped straight into on coming traffic. 3 of them were spot dead and three of them succumbed to head injuries.
The papers splashed the news in a manner that made it seem like the new law killed those 6 guys. So since then, no one stops you if you are not wearing a helmet. I’ve tried my best to wrap my mind around it, but my pea sized intellect refuses to see logic in it. I just gave a non committal look and moved on in life.

Getting back to the coffee place which was such a disaster and a total waste of my money and energy; I drank that Irish coffee like it were water, paid my bill and buggered off there before the waiter fish could start on customer service Lesson No. 5.

Back to my room, I found more comfort there. I ordered for some chai; it must be noted that the chai is not very impressive or tasty, but it’s charming because it’s always extra sweet as though trying its best to make me comfortable. Like one of those nice aunties who will make fresh pakkodas for you when you get home and say things like “this is your house beta don’t feel shy.” When you are living away from home, any sweetness is welcome, even if it’s the diabeties inducing.

Ah! Now that was ordeal was done, I sat on my bed and generally stared at the telly. It felt nice not to think of anything and just be transparent for a while. I smiled.

Ghosts follow me where ever I go.

What they want of me I don’t know.

Reckoning of a lost childhood they say.

The only salvation is to pray.

But to what Gods do I show my sinful face?

To seek mercy; and hate with love replace.

For what sins should I seek forgiveness?

If it is a sin to find in a stranger’s arms solace.

Lost I am; far from where I started out.

A victim of my own hearts drought.

I shun the rains as light does the darkness.

Withered I lie, and to spirits my love confess.

There is no respite for the sinner in us all.

But there awaits glory for every saint who falls.

It seems a violent breach of sacred boundaries when you find yourself reliving a memory that is not your own. You were there when he was born. You were there in the hospital. It was her first child, she was so scared. She didn't know what was stronger; the fear of becoming a mother or the joy of becoming a mother.

In the midst of her heavy breathing you can hear her cry in pain. You cant see her face, but you know he is arriving into the world. The man who your soul was destined to love. Your breath catches in your chest. You are not supposed to be here. Your reality is different, vastly different from this. You don't belong here, you were never here. Yet the details are so vivid so clear.

Then it happens, you see him slide down his beautiful mother's white porcelain thigh. You hear him scream. You feel something born in you with that scream. You feel his mother's exhaustion and joy. You feel the love that will possess your soul later in life at that very moment.

You can feel the taste of his blood in your mouth when he lost his first tooth. The first lump that formed in his throat left you choking. When he had a fever you could feel your body go warm and numb. It is almost like you are connected with an invisible umbilical cord.

You are plucked out of your reality and this overwhelming feeling transports you to his world. You begin to understand the words he does not speak. In the middle of the night you wake up and you are consumed by the smell of him. He seems so close to you, yet there are cities and roads that gape like the open mouth of a grave. His tears leave salty traces in your mouth. It kills you drop by drop that you cant make things better. You grit your teeth and tell yourself he needs this, he needs to live. You tell yourself, he cant find peace by not living.

His joys amplify yours, his sorrow is another story. What you feel upsets you, but what you feel for him devastates you. You live through that. You love through that.

When his lips kiss another woman's it betrays your ego, it betrays your "self". But when you love him with something beyond yourself, it doesn't matter. You feel jubilant! He is loved... He is loved you tell yourself...! that is all that matters.

It is a love that has no name or place or worst still, no reason. It is not blind, it does not see more than what it has to. It is a love that is silent, it does not speak its name, for it doesn't know where it comes from. Its a love that is wide and deep at the same time. Its a love that has the power to rip apart space and time and reason. It is a love I feel in every fiber of my being... In every fleeting glimpse of my soul, in every song of my spirit. It is a love I feel for you....

Current Mood: Bah..!

I have recently been deposited into the very comfortable yet dangerously addictive "unemployed" chair. There suddenly seems to have erupted (from the magical world of Nowhere) a sudden surfiet of time. Mebbe the Gods sneaked in a couple of hours extra when I wasn't looking. The sick bastids never get tired of their silly celestial jokes. ( The biggest joke yet being Michale Jackson).

So here I am sitting and marinating at home and generally vegetating. Apparently I am supposed to be studying for my MA exams. For the uninitiated I am currently pursuing my MA from IGNOU (Yes, because the other universities were IGNOUing me) (That was terrible joke feel free to curse me to Christian Hell). Sat my backside in my backyard this morning and opened the book to read about those fancy fekkers known as Metaphysical Poets. Uncontrollably had to correct the grammar that book presented me with. These are supposed to be the great literati it simms. Bah!

Anyhoo, moving on in life, I'm at a loss (as always) to what the next step must be. Marriage? Bolls I say, let me rephrase that, Horses bolls and fried brinjals!! Still nursing my heart which this one rascal (unwittingly?) tap danced on and later decided to take one of those big butcher kinves and do a keema kabab on. So till I can regrow a new heart like some of those cute reptiles, I think I'll make do with my hallal cut keema kabab heart. {sigh}

What else can one do? Change professions? Thought about it... Nah.... I think I'll just STFU and continue with teaching. Nothing gives me more pleasure than driving the future generation up the wrong wall and putting them all out of their misery. Which brings me to this very nice sticky situation, how do I weasly my way out of this other job offer by a close comrade. Refuse Mary! Say No! like Nancy Regan would have done. {sigh again}

What I would really love is a nice trip to a beach place. In moments of perpetual restlessness it does my last frazled nerve good to see vast expanses of water. Waah waah! Just the thought of it makes me joyful!! (happy happy joy joy) But for that I would require some company. Hopefully a few friends could crawl out of the woodwork and join me.

Till then, Mary says : Time heals all wounds... Time wounds all heels...

Someone you use

This song says volumes...!! Here it is ...

Just a shoulder to cry on

That's all I've been to you

Just someone to rely on

When your world is empty and blue

I'm just someone you call dear

Anytime you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you can talk to

And that's all I'll ever be

Just a clown you can laugh with

Someone to treat you as you need

I'm just a fool you can love on

Any time you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

Don't you know when you need me

My little heart just can't refuse

I'm just someone who loves you, baby

I can't win and I can't lose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

It is because I love and love so deeply

That I know what you say even before you say it. After your showers of words are done I hear the things that you don’t say…

That every waking moment you linger in my mind and every sleeping moment you explore my dreams…

That for every ounce of laughter from your heart; mine multiples with tenfold joy…

That I can cry your unshed tears so that your eyes should never know sadness…

That if you sit next to me I don’t need anything else…

That when you call out my name it rings like a poem in my ear…

That when I watch you sleep I know the silence that blankets you keeps me warm too...

That for each wound that you receive I bleed a lifetime for you...

That your childhood joys become the reasons for my smiles and your sorrows the reason for my tears...

That for each unspoken wish that you might have I have a hundred prayers that follow it...

That I love you for all that you are for all that you will ever be....

It is because I love and love so deeply...

For you... Everything... A thousand times over...

For you... Anything

My Love...

Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel. This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind. Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a life somewhere right now. In some airless apartment on a dark, urine stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure. Such life saving powers you have when you smile. You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have.

While I waited for you...

Is it me or the shadows that write?
Must my words rhyme just right?

Legs clad in skinny jeans
Flavored smoke and java beans

Communist Manifesto of a farce
Amber eyed junkie high on grass

Iambic pentameter
My rhymes calculator.

Words that amble along
Some sham of a song plays in the background.

Hot coffee now gone cold
A young heart pretends to be old

Crowds of people swarm in
Rock and drugs and sex with women.

Shadows plays of our lives
Low down lows and way up highs...