Long in the night, when lights are turned out and people are snoring away, while they cuddle into their pillows on single beds, she is awake, out of her covers and gazing into a mug of tepid coffee. Sometimes, she listens to yesteryear songs on the radio and taps away on her laptop. Sometimes, she just drapes her shawl around her shoulders and takes a walk in the lawns, with the cold breeze caressing her face. It is difficult to gauge her expression. Sometimes, I feel she is under constipation and sometimes, she has that faraway look. I wonder if she is thinking about the garbage grounds or is she thinking about her love life. Sometimes, I find her just sitting on the bench with a book with the whole world tuned out. In such times, I have often seen a myriad of emotions pass on her emotions. I wonder, who laughs out loud at something they are reading in fiction? She does. Sometimes, she is carrying bottles from one building to another. Most times, I feel like a stalker. May be I am. She is, however, a book with its shades. I have heard her shout in the most un-womanly manner and calling decent girls weird manly nicknames. And I have heard her talk in the most polite manner and sipping coffee in the most ladylike manner. She seems to be her own boss, deciding where to wander and where to stop. She is an enigma, I want to explore. She, all I can say, is like Moriarty, with so many facets yet to be known.
She is too fast, she is intimidating and most of all, she is dazzling. At the first meeting, she had not been able to tell between her cold coffee and bhai’s Devil’s Own. It is laughable how Maa still recognises her in the same manner. ‘The Devil’s Own Chor.’ She is very difficult to keep up with. It is scaring when she doesn’t reply to texts – ‘may be, I have texted something foolish.’ She seems to love clothes and has a motherly touch. She cares for even those she doesn’t care for. She is an actor and she is an intellectual. She will make up to you for an incidence, which wasn’t her fault with a night out on the terrace for a tete-a-tete. She will let you talk shit without interruptions. She replies at all the right places and will let you pat yourself even though all you have talked is shit. She is ambitious and she has all the power to achieve the ambitions. She lends the power to you as well but… She is straightforward and likes to listen to the FM and makes fun of songs like ‘motichoor ke laddoo sa.’ She likes peace but she is fun-loving. It is very easy to fall in love with her and to come to care for her because she cares for you even though you are just another stranger. She makes everything look so easy until you try it yourself. Then, all you want to ask her is, ‘how the hell did you do it?’ She, I can tell you, has a magic wand. 😛
To you, my dear wingman,
On your birthday,
I wish, you find all you are looking for,
And you get all that you actually deserve.
(albeit a little early)
Loads of Love,
It is strange and twisty how you make friends with strangers and end up teasing them about long lost friends.
She is like an eight year old, who in his curiosity of the world ends up embarrassing his parents. She needs to be kept pace with and when you walk in overcrowded streets of old Delhi, she needs her fingers to be firmly grasped. Sometimes, you also need to tell her off from staring at strangers or a couple, who are coochi-cooing in a secluded, dusty and off-limits corner of a monument. She is peculiar in her taste for travel, especially when she doesn’t venture out. She stares at the sign boards in Rajiv Chowk and wonders if the whole population of Delhi has descended down at the station to take a metro train to their destination. She avoids South-Indian food and wants to buy the beautiful Chinese cutlery at MT. She is firm in her stand when she doesn’t let you spend a large amount at an obnoxious cafe which serves lunch in side-plates. She is a force of wind, strong enough to sway you from your spot – just so you can save her from buying highly priced accessories, she just wants to buy. She is fun but sometimes, she irritates you like the child, she is. You’d think she hasn’t grown-up. She doesn’t understand the nuances of being a rebel adult and avoids even fruit beer like a devoted good girl. Then, she talks like an eighty year old grand mom with her story of faraway countries and her wisdom of long spent lives. She makes a grumpy morning a perfect recipe of shoe bites, mushrooms and bright colours for a damp winter day. She makes it a day, at the end of which, you can’t help but chant how wonderful it had been.
Chubby as she is, she is also sharp. She can tackle all the Sarojini vendors together and come out victorious. In shady street lights, she beats up boys and calls them girl-y names. When uncles ask, ‘what is going on?’ she blames it on them. ‘Domestic Abuse ho raha tha, uncle.’ She sweet-talks me into eating Dominoes when we are both low on cash. And then, we are so high on Tang, that we celebrate the future withdrawals from our ATMs. She can cut your sentences with humour as well as the meanders of Delhi streets. She walks and talks but she cannot cross roads. She dances and sings some more on ashleel songs and reminds me every time that sing, I cannot. At three-am, you can find us under clouded skies on mossy lawns – flaunting and mocking my creative efforts. She reminds me that I want everything always and she flouts me in front of her friends as if I am a piece of an idiot.
To her now I say,’I know I am not Ambani’s daughter but I wish you are there when the world’s a piece of and I have everything of it’. 😉