Over a month into being in this part of the world, and time seems to have flown right out of my shivering hands. The sun is rare and dear, the concept of sweat has been long forgotten.

Noise is history. Silence is eternal. Green is almost gone, fall is moving towards the cold.

Novelty is slowly wearing off. The change has seeped in.

People are few. Solitude is easy.

Schedules and appointments run this country. Google calendar is supreme. Sleep is rare. Food is a necessity, usually squeezed between to-do lists. Often skipped. Out of lack of time. Or effort. Or both.

A different life this is. Meeting new type of people. Following street rules. Wearing more layers of clothes. Hearing my name pronounced in the weirdest ways possible.

Making way through this new path. Discovering the bigger picture, the life outside the home-ground.

So much to be learnt. So much to be done. So much to change, so much to prove.

In the daily race against time, a moment is frozen. The squirrel nibbling on a seed while the leaves of Fall make their way into the breeze. This is a beautiful place. Colors as never seen before. Alas, there is no time to wait. The Google calendar has advanced to the next time slot. Clock says it is time to grow up.

The graduate life. The challenge is worth all the trouble. The experience is priceless.

Fascinating it is, to learn more about the lifestyle of natives here. More so, their line of thought. Their view on what is right and what is not. The disparity in points of view here and back home, make this trip all the more interesting.

A call and I am transported back home. Warmth gushing out of Skype windows. Nostalgia creeps in. But for now, cold will prevail.

*Remembers something about Mumbai, smiles. *

Hope to write often. So much to say, can’t think of where to start. So for now I will just stop!

From this side of the world, hope and happiness.

To all, a very Happy Diwali.

Have I?

I wonder.

Three bags stand before me. They are all I can take.

But how do I fit the door-side travel on a Churchgate Fast in them? Will there be space to pack the SP Quad? And how do I carry the long hours sitting at Marine Drive at twilight. The starry nights as the waves splash against the rocks and Mumbai speeds by. Or the stroll by Juhu Beach. The inexpensive bookstalls at Fountain.The Mutton Biryani at Lucky? Or even fried Bombay duck.

How do I take along, the scent of Mumbai.

At least maybe some way to pack those sleepovers and triple seat rides, those innocent school days of eating Vada Pav for Rs.2.5 in the canteen, the crazy Sathaye days of exploring the world beyond Parle, the Sp days of  friendship, IVs, trips, fights, PLs, Katres and Techmaxes, dreams, love and life.

Is there space to fit in the fat brother I will miss fighting with? The bed by the window which I won against him. The chocolates and ice-cream that we “equally divided” each time when brought home.

Can I take mom along?

In the middle of to do lists and things to be bought, suddenly these three bags seem hollow. And useless.

Everything that I wish to take along, I am leaving behind. The concept of paying more for extra luggage sounds like such an irony. *chuckles*

When all is said and done, have you done or said enough?

Have I?

I wonder. Again.

21 years of priceless memories. Moments, I fear I may find hard to remember over time, and those I dread will haunt me forever.

People who walked in and out of life. Those who walked with me and those who left me on paths alone. Things I learnt from them when they were not even teaching.

Some incomplete stories. Some which over-lived their life. Some abruptly cut short, some stretched beyond recognition. Some cherished, some regretted.

Maybe it’s not the end. But maybe it is.  Who can know?

When all is said and done, have you done or said enough?

Have I?

I wonder, not so much this time.

Well, it matters not much. Or in fact, nothing can be done anymore. What is done, is. What isn’t, isn’t.

This is the last post from the city they I swear by, from the laptop that has been patiently digesting all that I type into it, and the home that has made me what I am today.

I know I will cry, I have always been an easy crier. People often judge me on that. It again doesn’t matter. I know there have been things worth missing. It doesn’t make me weak, it only means I am aware of what I am into. How lucky I must be to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

Anyway, it’s been an ultimate joyride. There are no regrets. Only memories. And dreams.

Mumbai, you are my first love. You are a rockstar. No New York or London will ever take your place.  I will almost miss the potholes too.

Mom, I will try to make chicken gravy but it will never be like yours.

Omkar, don’t be too happy, you still don’t have sole ownership of our room.

My few blog readers ( I am being really hopeful here), I am starting a new journey. I am sure there will be enough to blog about that side of the world too.

USA, make space for one more Indian.

And now, time for the big leap.

See you on the other side.

That’s All Folks.

Be good, be hopeful.

Saying nothing will be wrong, saying everything will still be inadequate.

I am glad it happened though. And forever, indebted.

For once, silence overpowers expression. Coz not everything can be said.

Even blogging doesn’t serve the cause today.

To a new start.

Yours and mine.

And the world is round. Till we meet again.

Hope always.

I was standing at the door of a Borivili fast. The sounds of the boogies and the wind pleasantly interrupted the music playing through the i-pod plug-ins. As Mumbai flew fast, drops of rain brushed against my face. I pushed myself forward, to feel the wind blow harder.

Train travel- one of the many things I will miss, I thought, as I looked at the Visa I had just received. The train hooted as another train crossed on the adjacent track in a quick blur. I drew myself back. Huge skyscrapers of Worli and Parel have always fascinated me. Mumbai will continue to surprise me always.

Soon I was home. Yes, I was one of the lucky ones to say that today. I had survived another terror attack.

Entering my house, I read the unread message I missed 10 minutes back. “ Are you home? Blasts. Watch news.”

Blank. Cold. Shaky.

What’s more, I was painfully familiar to that feeling. This was the fourth time. Train blasts, blast in Vile Parle, Taj Attack and now this. My home had opened to terrorism once again.

I looked around. Everyone was home. Messages were pouring in. I turned on the News channel.

One horrible thought caught my mind. Dadar! It’s Wednesday. Shit!

Speed dial 9. Go through please.

“The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”

Dialled again. And again. In vain.

I had soon lost count of the number of times I redialled. It was a reflex now. I was pacing around the house. News channels kept increasing the death toll.

Forty five minutes and 5 undelivered messages later, I was still calling. And now I was praying.

I remembered the last meet. The last words I said. There was so much more to be said.

I remembered the times I fought. The times when I have been an utterly ridiculous and unreasonable child. The times when we have laughed and teased. I remembered it all, in a blur. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. The call wasn’t going through.

Networks are jammed, I tried to convince myself. It is going to be alright soon. It didn’t help. I redialled.

It is amazing how you bypass every thought of anger, every inhibition, erase every bad memory, forgive every mistake as you desperately want to reach that person and find out if the person is safe. Everything else seems so insignificant.

There was another part of me, already fuming with anger. It had happened again. And it would happen again in a couple of years. It’s so easy to bomb crowded places of Mumbai and get away with it. World leaders will condemn it, the Government will accuse the lovely neighbour of involvement, lovely neighbour will only deny, halting the Aman ki asha again. Mumbai will keep its date with its offices on the following morning. Trains will still be stuffed with people in rush hours and today will be forgotten. By all those who could get through the phone calls. I was still redialling.

One hour into frantic calling, I began with the ‘what ifs’. This could not be the end. It didn’t fit. I am just freaking out for no reason, I explained myself. And redialled.

Such times of crisis bring you closer to your true thoughts they say. You are working on instinct and you realize what you really want. What you really care about. And you cannot deny that.

There are so many more ways to torture that I haven’t tried yet, there are so many tantrums yet to be played. I smiled.

Death toll had reached 17 now. Phone lines were slowly opening. Now you are just messing with me God, I shrugged.

One call is all I wanted.

One call.

May God give the strength to those whose calls were never returned. Let justice prevail.

Praying for a safer, happier Mumbai.

Two biggest flaws stand out in the pool of shortcomings of this new talk show.

1. When you are adding the country’s name to your title, you cannot spend 15  minutes on air discussing effective ways to approach and flirt with an actress nor can you arse-lick a recently London returned heavy accented hardly Indian boy who btw, does not have the sweetest smile and sex appeal, only because he was lucky enough that God threw him at a rich Kingfisher doorstep.

2. When you have had a previous show which in all probability is the only way people are going to remember you (if they would), it is your added responsibility to uphold that and come up with a comparable sequel.

I have been lucky enough to have missed the pilot episode. But curiosity made me sit through the third. From the zillion advertisements, even the Prime Minister would know by now, that the guests invited for this pseudo glam show were Ranbir Kapoor, Deepika Padukone and Siddhartha Mallya.

If this choice was not lame enough, the content was preposterous. Twenty minutes are wasted in the host falsely sucking up to the beauty ( sweet smile, sparkly eyes, stud posture, oh-so-sexy figure and unknown oomph factor) of the guest while the guest pretends to blush. This topped up by persistent questions about insignificant love lives of these stars. Please torture yourself for 20 minutes through this show and you will know exactly what I am talking about.

Why would I want to know what a certain tattoo in a certain place on a certain ‘India’s Most Desirable’ signify to another ‘India’s Most Desirable’?  And then, this show is supposed to be the face of Indian talk show industry? Then that, I would term, is one ugly face.

Like every other time, let us look at the West for inspiration. No doubt, celebrity lives are ripped apart by paparazzi and millions of dollars are exchanged over nuptials that last for precisely 48 days. And all this is national history. But then look at Oprah. She is a responsible talk show host who has perfected her way of channelizing her ‘most powerful citizen of USA’ status to do enormous amounts of social, financial and political awareness. She has interviewed stars with greater influence and controversies and yet the entire American population identifies with it. Simi aunty could learn something from her.

I will not even start on other disgusting shows on Channel V and MTV and Bindaas. Axe your Ex and Cheaters and Blind date blah blah are a shame on Indian Entertainment. Staged or not, these shows bring nothing to the viewer. It may be popular among a set of people who sadly know no better, but there should be certain discretion followed by TV channels, realizing that they play instrumental roles in building the society.

Get a life, people. Truck loads of money or hours of camera exposure or surgeries of beautifying will not get you one thing- class. Leave the innocent TV audience looking for some moments of entertainment and refreshment, alone.

May God give us the strength to endure what they continue to show us.

Reading: Rich Dad Poor Dad

Watching: Delhi Belly and Two and a Half Men

Listening:  How to Save a Life by Fray

The helplessness and submission to failure and the tiredness of a hopeless marriage along with broken dreams and self pity. So much more that I can’t even imagine. Are these emotions worth the one life you are gifted with? And that of a child who you have no right to play God to? Well, it is hard to empathize and hence it is unwise to question her mental state of being. But yes, we can and we should question the circumstances leading to her trauma.

She is a middle class decently educated woman. She can be a manager or a home maker. She is fair or dark, tall or short.  She belongs to any caste or creed. She is among us. She is one woman or many. And she is just like you or me. And she needs help to release her from her suffocating life.

As female suicides from high rises shook Mumbai in the recent past, the ugly face of domestic violence and backwardness of educated families came to light. It is not limited to the illiterate areas of Bihar or Uttar Pradesh. This, unfortunately, is happening in more gruesome ways, in metros like Mumbai, Bangalore, Delhi, etc.

I shouldn’t be generalizing by giving in-laws a bad name. But considering the number of examples where their names are roped into these suicide cases, there must be some dark truth about their roles in pushing a woman to such drastic steps. Dowri system has relapsed. This time, the attitude is to ask for riches to make up for the loads of money gone into educating their son in USA. This mentality is beyond me. You are actually making another family pay for the education of your son- how cheap are you.  This is your love for your son? Plain give and take? Disgusting.

Another cause of distress for today’s woman is her helplessness as her executive officer husband finds alternate sources for sexual satisfaction. Prevalent in young, middle aged as well as old class of working men, dating a younger assistant or subordinate or sometimes plain escort is now, not unheard of. “I have the money and the power, I have a stressful job and I buy all the happiness for my dependent family. I deserve extramarital pleasure.” Have you ever thought of the fact that your wife, who today is a home maker taking care of your kids, at the peak of her career and age, left her job and all ambition to raise a good family for you? Have you ever considered the sacrifices that she may have made without even mentioning them? Are you there for her while she fights her battles every day? Are you a friend to your wife? It is amazing how two individuals are married for years and still incapable of understanding one another.

Coming back to the present topic of discussion, it would be unfair to put all the blame on the family members. The woman is at fault because she forgot the basic rule of loving herself in the process of seeking acceptance from her husband, her family and the society. It may be hard to break out of the marital woes, but in most cases, the biggest culprit is the woman’s own acceptance to the situation, pushing her toward the bottomless pits of disappointment, dejection and consequent resignation. Woman, you deserve to break free. It is understandable that you care about the well being of the kids and the respect of the family. But your life isn’t a fair price to pay for it. You have one life; stop suffocating your dreams and ideals. You have as much a right to live and be happy as your selfish husband.

Suicide serves no purpose. With no exceptions ever. Allow yourself to live please.

Remember, the sun rises everyday for you.

Reading: Rich Dad Poor Dad

Listening: Rangeela Songs

Watching: Gone in 60 seconds

I swear by my mother’s food. But the kitchen that has always smelled of delicious rich Mutton Biyani or Bombil Fry or Prawns Pulav, has never really witnessed continental food. The coolest my mom gets about these things, is Hakka Noodles with a face saying, “Dal rice is so much better.”

My laptop, for all practical purposes is my life partner. Googling is a way of life. Pasta in Cheesy White Sauce was on my mind. So the laptop, for most time, sat atop the microwave.

Why the five star? Well the shopkeeper didn’t have 5 rupees change and hence, he gave me a chocolate. A dessert after the main dish, I thought. Good incentive, it was.

I am a simple person. I follow the recipe like a true loyalist. Never improvise or substitute or think I know better. ( though I will always put one extra cube of cheese wherever) After four calls to my mother and two to my friends, whose moms have made pasta before, I was out of the house to buy the ingredients.

What made this experience really count was the entire process of pre-preparation. If only all the finely chopped and proportionate ingredients would magically appear on the kitchen table as seen in cooking shows!

My mom has never used broccoli. She doesn’t need olive oil, olives or even coloured capsicum for that matter. So everything had to be bought. People, let me tell you, this world is very expensive. Vegetable prices are sky high and by the end of this shopping, having the white pasta at Bombay Blues suddenly seemed to be a better option. But I was not going to give up so easily.

Back home, I was all set to rule the kitchen. As Lady Gaga sang though the speakers and a quick shower tried to remind us it’s still monsoon time, I got out all the things I needed. And finally I had reached the start of the recipe. All things in place, I started.

Splash of colour.

Red and Yellow capsicum are so bright and pleasant. I like broccoli. It made me feel cool.

'Yummy sauce' in the making

Twenty minutes of cooking and my brother came in, “I can smell something good.” Bliss.

The final stir.

I served. My brother and I ate happily. I think I will survive in USA. I will cook to feed myself. And keep myself alive. The biggest problem though is, I would feel this urge to cook once in a blue moon. Wonder how our supermoms manage to do this day after day. Respect.

Pasta in Cheesy White Sauce.

The best moment though came when Mom came home from work and I went up to her with a bowl of pasta. I wasn’t sure if she would appreciate such food. It doesn’t normally appeal to her taste buds. “So finally you did make something after all those calls.” I flushed, gave her the bowl and waited for her response. She ate, she smiled and said, “ Waah, mothi zhali. Changla zhalay. Tithe (Amriket) pan banvun kha.“ All the effort was worth it. “ So, I don’t need to cook from tomorrow right? Try something new every day.”

That, I think, was pulling it too far.

I can now feel good about this for next two months. I cooked. Yaay!

Reading: Rich dad, Poor Dad.

Listening: Delhi Belly

Watching: Eagle Eye

10th standard Marathi textbook began with a lesson that touched the otherwise curriculum driven students who knew no better. It was perhaps one of the rare good decisions on the part of the Maharashtra Board. Others would include Toto Chan, Anganaatla Popat Daffodils and Colonel Fazackerley.

So this is the opportunity I give myself to go mad. Some will snort loudly at that. No, this is the chance I give my dearest possession- this blog- to move out of the dark safe zones of emotion and expression to experience a splash of colour. Hence, the revamped blog. It will be a great shift in my instinctive fashion of blogging, but there is a cause behind it. I could sense a pattern in my writing which makes me predictable. More so, repetitive. Time to break it.

Many would have expected a long emotional post of the inevitable goodbyes and the heart wrenching adieu to the beautiful home we call SP. Truth be told, words will fail me and hence I would dread to even try. Not all needs to be said.

Anyhoo, time for some cheer and smiles. In the moment of imminent departure from the city that I grew up to love, I realize there are so many places I haven’t seen. So many food joints I haven’t hogged at. Some many moments I haven’t captured. That calls for a checklist.

So expect a light account of my sweet serendipities, interesting encounters and brightly lit experiences of the last 21 long years and the two short months to come.

Sing a song. Dance along. Take a leap. Make that trip. Say those words.

Get colored.

Reading: The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Dibakaruni

Listening : Here comes the sun by Beatles

Watching: Loins of Punjab  presents

You made me believe that you were right

In a moment, though, the shadows grew

Dreams left broken, ambitions askew

Amidst the remains of bond now charred,

You left me scarred.

What was true, what a white lie?

What made sense, what was a staged pretence?

Questions suffocate, doubts befuddle

A beautiful memory-now marred

You left me scarred.

The helping hand that never really came

The assurances now hollow and undone

Disappointment looms over my head

A dream, newly born is already dead.

You made me question, you made me rethink

I leaped, you cheated-you made me sink

You tried hard, and may again try to break

But I have picked up the pieces; they were never yours to take

People have always bemused me

Each one has an untold mystery

But some, I hoped would still manage to see

That I wanted wings to set myself free

But you cut them off, and here I stay

Don’t worry, I will still find my way

Scarred though I am, I shall fight

Not since it’s my need, because it’s my right.

And once, the rising sun will surely witness my ‘flight’.

We all have had our moments of trials. The first bicycle ride, the first flight. The first injection. Overcoming the initial fears has always brought better things. Remember the first time you stood up in school to answer a question? Or the time you were to give an extempore in your English orals? Or recite that Marathi poem? Heart pounding against your ribcage? You look back and laugh at your clumsiness. But semester after semester, even today, your heart skips a beat when the external professor turns to you in a viva. But really, in most times, it’s not worth the trouble.

There is an unexplainable joy in breaking self created barriers. Gathering the balls to walk up to a potential client in the business world. To make the 3 minute elevator pitch. To sell your product. To voice your opinion. To step outside your comfort zone to open yourself to the vastness of the world. There will always be more to know than we know, more to see that we can see and more to believe than we can believe- the horizon is but an illusion. Moving forward is the only way to redefine horizons.

Don’t let insignificant challenges come in way of the bigger picture. Overcome personal inhibitions. They are but a cloud of doubt. Take that leap. Climb that step. Make that call. The world is better at the top.

I say this, standing at the edge of a new cliff. The leap will take me to a land far far away. Far from my comfort zone, this leap uproots my life of 21 years and throws every bond I have treasured up for a toss. New people, new country, new rules, new methods and new challenges. Will it be worth all the trouble? Only time will tell. But I hear the Coach whisper, “You are going to thank me for this.”