Time, you thief!

"Jenny Kissed Me"

by Leigh Hunt

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,

Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kiss'd me.

There are moments in your life that you want to capture and freeze in your memory forever. A simple look of appreciation from the guy you secretly admired... Someone special holding your hands to help you cross the road... Sit on the steps of girls hostel during nights knowing, that the guy who is madly after you will come by on his bike and when he does, pretend that you are annoyed by the attention...

Moments pass by... But certain things remain fresh in your memory. Just before my wedding, while packing my stuffs I came across this old text book of mine. I think it was from class 6. I turned the pages and between the pages, there lied a little, multi-coloured peacock feather!

For some strange reason my eyes started welling up. I remembered how as a kid I preserved bird feathers between the pages of my text books and believed them to multiply in the course of time. So did many kids in my class. I held the peacock feather close to me and wept. I wept for the innocence I had lost. I wept for I knew now that peacock feathers never multiply. Tears trickled down my face.

Time you thief, who love to get sweets into your list, put that in! I have so many sweet little things I want time to put in his list. I love this little poem by Leigh Hunt... It's as sweet as the peacock feather between the pages of my old text book...

hi-fi sounding masochism and plain craziness

One fine day I just went to Jewellers' Street on Commercial Street to this tiny shop owned by one Simon Don Bosco straight from office and got my naval pierced! Just like that.

It certainly was wild even for a person like me. My friends called me crazy. But I liked it. I refused to take it off even when there was pus formation and the whole area looked red and swollen. It healed like I knew it would but my craziness did not.

I showed my naval ring to every girl in the office. Even to my immediate boss, Bharti, who I knew would be scandalised. She was. But she asked me after a few days to write a piece on why women go piercing themselves at weird places for the Sunday edition. She, not without a good reason, thought I was the person for it as, in addition to my naval, I had also four holes each on my ears and one on my nose!

I spoke at lenght to Simon and got all the details as to how many people came to him in a day for body piercing. Spoke to a few teenage friends of my cousin's and invented a couple of quotes myself. Then I decided to talk to psychiatrist just to see if it falls under some kind of behavioral disorder!

No prizes for guessing. It certainly did. My friend Priyanka thought I suffered from many kind of behavioral disorders! Well... I think if you go asking psychiatrists, everything is a behavioral disorder.

The psychiatrist said it was masochism. Like sadists enjoy hurting others, masochists enjoy hurting themselves. He said people who cannot cope with mental agony often hurt themselves physically. Extreme depression, remorse or guilt can prompt people to pierce themselves. He said even tattooing is a form of masochism. (There you go! what did I say? psychiatrists take pleasure in calling everything abnormal)

I never thought of all these complicated 'isms' when I pierced my naval or my ears. I could not associate myself with the hi-fi sounding masochism. I was plain crazy and I admitted it gladly whenever my friends pointed it out. I was neither depressed nor guilty. But a surprising number of people I spoke to later embraced pain as a source of comfort from depression.

I remember a girl back in my school used to slash her wrist whenever she had a fight with her boyfriend. She was with me till I completed my PU and by the time we reached II PU she had so many cuts on her wrist that they looked like dozens of bangles. Her hands looked dark. I always wondered how come her parents never noticed it. She was even proud of it. She would tell anybody who cared to listen-about her latest fight and how she slashed her wrist and made the guy ashamed of all he did. They eventually broke up and predictably she had more cuts.

We all laughed at her behind her back. It was our favourite pass-time to narrate her latest story to each other. Recently, after all these years I heard she got married. I'm sure she got over her er...behavioral disorder! Wonder what happened to the scars on her wrist?...

I can never stop gaping at them...

First time I came across this curious tribe was on the day of my wedding. They swarmed the place in large number. You could see their stubbornly curly hair and eager faces everywhere. Children and elders alike they came up on the stage to wish us as well. They looked exactly like African Indians. Same face, same built only these were wearing typical ethnic Indian outfits! I kept craning my neck to find more of these. But except for my friends and cousins, none others seemed intrigued by these strange people.

''Did you see them?'' I asked my husband when the curiosity got the better of me.

''See whom?,'' my husband apparently thought I was referring to one of the VIPs or political bigwigs the place was littered with. ''Those African Indians of course,'' I said.

''Oh them. They are not African Indians. I mean, well yeah, that was where they initially came from. But they belong to 'Siddhi' community,'' replied my husband without much enthusiasm.

But they had all my attention and I had an imaginary documentary piece featuring them ready inside my head. From then on, till date `siddhi' community never cease to surprise me. I always look in awe each time one of them pass by. Just a few days after my marriage we visited this Shiva temple close to our house. It was supposed to be the auspicious 'Shivaratri' and hundreds of 'Siddhis' thronged the place! All women draped in saree with big 'bindis' and men in traditional lungi (sort of loin cloth). I was so engrossed in looking at them that I hardly paid attention to the pooja rituals we were supposed to be performing.

''Get a grip Divya. Stop gaping at them like that. They are the inhabitants of this place and been here from generations. They are not used to people staring at them,'' said my husband one day when he could stand it no longer. '' Oh. But look, this 'siddhi' speaks Hindi,'' I said thrilled, ''How does he manage that?'' My husband answered patiently that he was a 'Muslim siddhi' and asked me to stop staring for god's sake. The muslim siddhi in question also looked at me with mild interest as he nodded at my husband touching his heart, a sort of gesture for salute.

Apart from speaking 'Konkani', which is the native tongue of this place, 'Siddis' also speak fluent Kannada and of course there are 'Muslim Siddis' that speak Hindi as well. People say that they were brought here by the Britishers for labour. Some of them stayed back and formed their own tribe. They belong to the schedule tribe and majority of them are Hindus. They perform Poojas, dress up in traditional clothes. This particular tribe can only be found in Uttara Kannada district in Karnataka. They are mostly labourers and are physically very strong. They are also apparently known for their promiscuity!

'' They are all 'diluted' now if you know what I mean. Married to 'brahmins' and other castes other than their own tribe,'' said my father-in-law.

''What is their culture like?'' I asked. ''Nothing interesting. Most men work hard all day, later get drunk and beat up their wives during nights. Their weddings are very similar to ours and they observe all our festivals as well. But apart from that no distinguished culture as such,'' replied my dad-in-law. He was very amused at me and promised to get them to pose for me.

Distinguished culture or not, They always arouse my interest and I can never get over them wearing saree and can never stop asking questions about them!

Nostalgia...My favourite word

I really miss my crazy friends, a pair of my favourite jeans that could put rag-pickers to shame. I miss those days I used to sit on the steps of my old college building sipping kaka's chai occasionally with `channa' or something.

I miss going out with crazy friends and sitting comfortably on the steps of the posh Safina Plaza eating raw mangoes, cucumber, pineapple all neatly cut and spiked with salt, pepper and lime from road-side, eying men who passed by and attracting weird looks.

Gone are the days when I would sit up all night on terrace just to see the moon. I just have to think of those crazy times to know what exactly the word `nostalgia' means.

Once I just decided I was into philosophy and bought loads of Osho and JK's books and piled them up in my room much to the despair of my poor aunt. She was just looking at the heap of books scattered all over the immaculately clean floor when I dreamily asked her if I could shave my head?

She was too shocked to even react for a moment. She said she would promptly kick me out of the house if I ever tried anything like that and banned me from even talking about it. And just when the shock was ebbing, I decided that I needed to learn whistling! (I had just watched a wacky, Rajnikanth's movie)

I started to practice by putting my thumb and fore finger inside my mouth just above my tongue that was folded upwards so that they (fingers) touched the roof of the mouth and blew as advised by an expert. After several attempts I succeeded! I would whistle day in and day out just for the kicks of it.

My aunt loved me too dearly to admit to others that I was losing my marbles. But she clearly thought I was a goner. And I could see it on her face. She winced every time I whistled. My cousin Appu on the other hand laughed at all the stupid things I said and did. ( It was much later that I realised he was actually laughing at me all the while!)

My aunt always kept my dinner in the fridge as I did night duties and got back home as late as 3 am sometimes. I would open the door with my spare key and enter. Occasionally I would find small notes on the stove or stuck to the fridge which read, `No need to wash your plate just eat and sleep' or `There is grape juice in the fridge. have it' and stuffs like that.

Once I found a note that read `mom has kept some wine for you in the fridge' scribbled by Appu. I was half way through my dinner and thought I was hallucinating. I jumped up from the chair I sat in and opened the fridge coyly. Sure enough, there was a small glass half filled with red wine! I gulped it up in one sip!

And then I would get up in the mornings as early as 10.30-11 and get out.

I miss those days I used to wander aimlessly on the streets thinking up unimaginable stuffs and day-dreaming. I miss those hours I would sit all by myself in some coffee bar with a book.

I would just call up or leave a message to my aunt telling her that I was staying with Malu when it suited me. And we would leave, me and Malvika on my bike at midnight from office, both singing. Malu sings like a dream and my singing has always been a nightmare. I sang nevertheless. It didn't bother me. ( Occasional pitcher of beer actually made me think I could sing! )

I miss those nights me and Malu used to sit on her terrace. Malu playing guitar...

So many memories... I'm reeled in nostalgia...