It is that time of the year again when I have to duck under my desk to escape getting swathed in layers of potentially toxic chemicals – or getting filthy water squired all over. But the worst part is getting held , grabbed , pounced upon by these  otherwise civilized people.

Yes its holi again, the festival I abhor most.
And like always all the non-conformists were pulled,as if by their collars – more so if they had new, bright clothes and even more so if they happened to be females, and still more so if they were reluctant or uninterested in joining, to the office terrace where this chemical warfare is typically staged.
Being a newbie in the organization last year I was obliged to mix (and in the process did irepparable damage to my absoulte white t-shirt which I’d been wearing for the first time).
This year I did not budge from my seat – for , most folks who already considered me an outcast for dining and strolling alone did not bother much – the rest , who had recently joined and didn’t know my (a)social status – had to be dealt with by a deft duck under the desk on the pretext of checking a disconnected cable.
Yes I did enjoy it once – when I was a kid but now – hey tastes change with age.
The biggest part I fail to comprehend is why these party-ers feel compelled to pull everyone into their “hole” – individuals who are not just disinterested but extremely uncomfortable – no its not just chemicals or colors or the shirts getting spoilt- its just not my way of ‘winding down’.
Why is it that in our independent country (esp) there is no independence to individual choice of likes or dislikes – why does everyone HAS to like what the majority indulges in ?
There are picnics which everyone HAS to attend – or you’re marked as on casual leave.
There are activities where strangers (belonging to the same organisation’s distant departments with no chances of working together) are forced into close physical proximity (like 5 people dancing on a 4 ft by 4 ft newspaper which gets folded into its half every few minutes, or people transferring “polo”s["the mint with the hole"] over tooth-picks held from their mouths – or as simple as strangers being made to share the same double cot in the retreat hotel).
All in guise of team building? huh?
Wonder if anybody happens to have heard of a personal space , a breathing space – of choices to be made or rejected.
Or are we going getting herdified – like sheep or cattle – you stray just to fall prey to the unholy wolf called social ostracism.
Most of my friends’ tastes are dictated by what the majority of their peers (friends , colleagues or room-mates) consider appropriate.There is little inspiration to see that off-beat movie or to try that nascent cusine or go to that non-standard holiday destination just because there is no company.
A friend wanted so badly to go abroad – and when he really could – he almost never visited the famous places – the places he wanted to see – the momuments he wanted to have himself photographed posing in fornt of.
And that for no other reason than for the lack of company.
Sad.

“Order and method” said Poirot, were his gurus. Yet, have you ever stopped for a moment and looked, spell-bound, at the beauty of a room absolutely messed up – I have. It’s masterpiece – in that, though an ordered and well-kept room can always be brought back to excatly the same state – a messed up room is unique – its a once in a eternity state – like a masterpiece – unreproducible – you can’t mess it up in exactly the same way again (else “mess” won’t remain “mess”) – so I always gloat at the view of my room in its natural state – in its nakedness – before I’m forced to dress it up – to bring it up into a civilised state – “all things at their places” “Yes,Sir”.
Ah the thrill – of finding simpile things – of finding them at the most unexpected places – of finding unexpected things – of finding things you had long given up for lost – trinkets from the past – of the emotional outbursts they evoke – a dried flower (when you were foraging for something as mundane as one of a pair of socks).
My Mom has tried hard to beat this talent out of me – gladly without success – the state of my study table is where  her ire is usually directed at – you can find atleast three layers of books piled on – the slim volumes carrying their bulkier counterparts – my Mom would never appreciate the hard hours spent (inadvertantly) in achieving such an unstable equilibrium . It makes an unusually good platform to doze off – when you need to recharge your batteries during those heavily loaded examination days- unusually because – after a while the books tip off and you’re awaken with your battery meter showing full bars.
What good comes in by keeping things ordered – that’s what the millitary does when they have noone to fight against – its a “time-pass” job – make the armed men clean up the whole campus – so as to they don’t shoot each other other up over trifles.I’m at a failure to find out why the dining halls are called messes – when they are kept so unabashedly ordered – and why an Officer’s Mess is different from the corporal’s ( because mess is mess – it doesn’t discriminate on social status).
Tell me what would be better than the thrill of keeping something safe and then forgetting about it , messing things up and then finding it out- such can activity can make great crime investigators. 
And I’m not alone – a friend’s Mom while visiting his “bachelor” residence bought him expensive glassware; my dear friend readily started using one of them as an ash tray- ah a beautiful ash-tray – ofcourse this after his mother was out of earshot.
I’m told that its a sure sign of laziness – bah – the ordered folks are lazier – how? – well they’re so lazy to search for things that they spend more time trying to keep them at their places.
Was lucky to discover a group that screened serious cinema under the umbrella: “collective chaos” – which leads me to a more philosophical note – that real life really is chaotic -  we’re simplifying things for our own sake – classifying good and evil , love and hatred , freinds and foes. What makes one think that life was meant to be simple – that everything came in neatly packaged cases – that we can cut, microwave and eat – and we are trying to beat a meaning out of life – when no none might exist…
Even physics sides me – “Entropy” – the only thing that doesn’t remain conserved in a physical system – but tends to increase with all natural processes – science says it needs positive energy (which means we have to work against natural processes to reduce entropy) – so pal , why , uh why bother?

I donot remember the events that led to my initiation into the biking world but I do remember the night when a friend in a moment marked with extreme generosity – allowed me to try out his run down and rather old Suzuki – and I (utterly ignorant of the art of motrobiking then) revved so hard on a desolate but perferctly made road , that he started running after me, forseeing the the end of his bike and his friend – I survived.
And decided (against the instict that told me I would never ride/drive safely) that I’d love to have that experience every day even if that would mean , well death or worse – a physical handicap.
And now after a dozen accidents , a score near misses all sustained in one year of driving my beloved Honda – the pain that I have in my knee right now – and which makes me make sloemn promises to ride safely to all deared – evaporates the instant I hit a vast expanse of good road. Two days after my worst accident ever – I was still still cruising past 90 with a knee that refused to bend making shifting the gear a painful process – and all this not for sheer dare-devilry – but the passion , the thrill of (over)speeding; I had the realization that the only death can deaddict you off speed.
I got the first taste of the drug when I was 12 and Dad allowed me to ride a Go-cart in a leisure park in Gujarat – I hit everyone I possibly could – overtaking them as they mouthed obscenities – and then on a curve I did a head-on with the ‘tyre’- barricades – face on steering – chipped one tooth (which exists to date) – and tore up the joint between the lower jaw and the lower underlip.But what I remember most was I did not let the accelerator off for a moment – even when I’d hit the fence I slammed the brakes but never released the accelerator – that was the first and last time I rode a non-twowheeler.
My next vehicle-of-affection was the innocuous looking bicycle – an uncle taught me riding  when I was at an age when my classmates used to drive in cars. Ran amok with it - including when once I fell and a cycle-rickshawallah in the city of Jalandhar went over it – twisting the rim out of shape.Then once I collided with a friend’s car head on and under the impact the front wheel jammed into the mudgard – so much so that I had to tow it with the front wheel lifted to the nearby repairman.
Then my friend baptized me into the world of motorbiking – he told me(in essence) that there the horses and the bulls – the former meant for speed and only speed while latter meant for ruggedness. I took no time in deciding that I wanted a horse but since a genuine horse was beyond my means – I took up a mule which has been reared (theoretically) in the same (Japanese) stables as the best stallions in the world – the Honda.
The bull(et) makes for magnificence of riding , of riding chest up – of riding graciously – of the trademark sound of its ‘hooves’ – of riding rough terrain. All that made no sense to me – all I cared for was speed , speed and more speed – even if the riding position invented for minimum wind drag gave me a back pain (after all you have but one youth).
I did not consider the ‘oxen’ at all -as the dictionary defines it – the Bulls with the balls removed – and cheap to buy – the Avengers and the Eliminators and the Enticers (sorry mate if you own one).
So I bought this mule and I knew no way of riding it ( a friend rode it home from the shop).I started off with some bad crashes into and out of the office parking ramp – both me and my mule still bear those first scars. I realised that it was 90 % fear and only 10 % inexperience. Then I undertook a confidence building drive by riding my mule continuously for some 8 hours and not hitting even once and gave myslelf the modest achievement that ‘I can ride well’. 
Unlike what you would like to believe, the seriousness of my accidents increased the better I learnt riding – I took more and more risks and more and more times my luck ran out.
There are men who are trigger happy – and there are those who are throttle-happy – even amongst the trigger-happy there are those win accloades from the government and the ones who become victims of the others of their kind .
Ditto throttle-happy men.
A friend gave me an advice in good faith to give up biking and take on a 4-wheeler instead – ofcourse he knows better than that I’d listen.
No I have no death wish – I do WANT to ride safely – but its just like a cocaine-addict WANTING to quit.

I just envy the ‘both’ types – the one could ride with such abandon that they revel in speed and then they are safe too.Needless to say I would never get there.
I forsee therefore that there is a good possibilty that death would overtake me while I’m overspeeding –  doing what I like doing most (esp since everything else I do is so mundane – so mediocre).

Speed is like love – it sure thrills but can kill.

It was a clear day when I found myself in the Thane Transport Bus Depot – waiting inside a State Transport bus, called a Laal Dabba (‘Red Box’ for its sheer unpretentious looks) going to Mahabaleshwar – I had to go to Mahad, a small industrial town – some 200km south-southwest of Mumbai. The bus was full of rustic folk – my old trousers and shirt bore stark contrast to the dirty white drapes and shirts of the menfolk (with an equally dirty Gandhi topi to match). The womenfolk had colorful sarees worn in a way to make it easier to work in waterlogged fields. The already narrow aisle space was cramped by heaps and sacks – mostly lumps tied up in bedsheets.
And it being a weekday most people were elderly – so I practically stopped searching for a pretty face – still the seat next to me was empty -and I was hopeful.
Then there came this young female – dressed in a white Punjabi suit – an old man had come to see her off – as luck would have it she came and sat next to me – she took the window seat and I slid to the one beside.
The man left off – and I did not realise when the bus started moving.I opened my Times of India – though from a corner of my eyes I was studying the occupant of the window seat – I could not place her.
She was not pretty but quite good-looking – but what seemed bizarre was that every effort had been made to make her look unattractive – her wrists were bare – no jewerlry on ears or nose either – no Bindi – the suit - pure clean white, seemed to be made and worn so as to the conceal the protrusion on her bosom – the hair were just clumped together in a heap. There was a small metal badge on the left of her chest – the etching not legible. All this put my mind into a turmoil – I finally came to the conclusion that she must have been widowed – recently.
The woman seemed reluctant to talk (that’s never been a problem with me). She seemed to be curiously interested in the Page3 of Bombay Times I was holding (which splashes images of the Who’s who of the city’s burgeoining social circles – men and women fashionably attired holding wine-glasses in one hand).
I donot remember how I broke the ice – but it did and I finally  got to learn that she was a member of the Brahamakumari Samaj, the spinsters’ union. She turned out to be surprisingly talkative from the point onwards – she could speak good Hindi and I was able to see the world through her eyes – a world where all men were looked upon as brothers (brought over by years of brain-washing) – and then there were Mothers and sisters – she stayed in an Ashram in Mahad – preaching virtues to brothers and sisters who visited the Ashram – controlled by mothers – there was supreme mother she refferred to as Mamma. I tried shifting her focus from the doctrine she preached to, herself – I wanted to know ‘Why’
It seemed she had been ‘donated’ to the Samaj by her parents – and since her teens she’d been part of this – she could visit home once in a while but they were proscribed from doing some common things like watching TV and reading newspapers and ofcourse making friends wth men was unimaginable.
I wanted to ask her if she never ‘felt’ anything – but was at a strange loss of words – I thought up a ploy and told her since she thought her Mamma was her idol whether she never wanted to become a Mother – in the true sense – that of having kids.
That switched her to thinking state – I looked intently at her – she looked beyond – still thoughtful – mayabe I could imagine a sigh escaping ? – no there was no sign of dissapproval – nor of contempt for me for making such a prepostorous suggestion.
Talk thinned – Mahad came – I helped her to her solitary suitcase from the rack above – she thanked and asked me to visit her Ashram if I could find time.
 

A photograph…a body…a man…bare torsoed…covered with polythene…a singular hole in the chest…Death’s sting…lying on snow…two uniformed men by the side…a green paramilitary vehicle in the background.

A girl, six-something, in school, unaware of the meaning of Death, circulating this image in the class (which her teacher confiscated)  – image of her father killed in action in Kashmir.

(My Mom was her teacher and she showed me the photograph – got etched forever in my mind as a symbol for the dispute in Kashmir)

I had a heated exchange with a long-time friend about the truth of the world. Incidentaly this person has not lived in India for more than seven years of his twenty-seven ; and so its not surpising that he be a patron of Indian culture – but he goes further – he’s a staunch RSS supporter and preaches Sanatan Dharma as the core ingredient of the condiment we call Indian culture. And that of a person working on cutting edge technology in the Silicon Valley,sounded quite novel.
The exchange followed due to the misconception that I was one of the Westernised, cynical Indians- raring to move West – the conclusion he jumped into when I divulged my atheist nature and my support for the (West-originated) philosophies of subjectivity (Ayn Rand) and existentialism.
I had to final shout that I was not Westernised, neither Indianised nor Orientalised.( I had to tell him that Sanskrit was my favorite language). I told him that I eclecticly picked whatever was the best of all religions,cultures,races. I told him that I was out of the Matrix – while most people in the world still were not.
I was aware of the truth of my statements only later – Wachowski’s movie gives voice to the malaise which has run amok in humankind and all violence we see around us is directly or indirectly attributable to the existence of the Matrix – or rather the Matrices.
Let me explain – there is hardly a thing called an unbiased opinion or account of anything – my friend accused me of reading history that was written by the West and so biased heavily against Hindutva.I asked him what history to read – Ramayana – Upnishads – they say they are the centre of the world – they and nobody else – its biased against West, or East or north or south – they donot take into account even the ‘existence’ of other races, cultures in ‘Satyuga’ – they finally claim that all that is diverse now has descended from Hindutva.My friend disputed the Aryan invasion theory – I guess what he had in mind was cross-Aryan invasion – the influx of Sanskrit speakers into West.
The point is ‘who do you believe’. I was an extremely gullible person once – believed everything that was told to me – so many people started telling me so many things – totally contradicting each other – that I had no peace of mind – till I decided not to trust anyone – you tell me what you think and I’ll see whether I want to accept it or not- the Self is my Supreme Court – so I decided I won’t be part of any Group that strives to become a Matrix. They want you to believe in what they want and not what you want.Your right and wrong is decided by the Matrix rather than by you yourself.Of course there can be well-intended Matrices as well – the Mission of Charity by Mother Teresa is one example – the Matrix of Compassion.
But most are ill-founded and ill-intended – but the ‘Nodes’ of the Matrix never see that truth – they transform into Agent Smith-s- the Jihad Matrix, the Hndutva MAtrix, the Nazi (and neo-Nazi) Matrix, the Marxist Matrix (which is the most unabashed one – they kill the self completely – the Jihad Matrix does so only physically), the ‘Jesus-loves-you’ Matrix.
Every morning you wake up and you run into Agents – everything said by everyone is intended at making you believe what they believe.
I wake up and see my landlady – she says that I live in the best , the most comfortable house on the Planet,I switch on TV – an ad  tells me that their product is number one (many competitors do that as well for the SAME PRODUCT),I goto to one news channel – they say that a ‘professor has been beaten to death’ I go to another and they say ‘a professor dies of stress and heart-attack’ both channel claim to broadcast only truth – the list is just enless- every moment of the day someone is metamorphising into Agent Smith for his Matrix.
I have a long standing joke wth my former room-mates – everytime we used to go house-hunting – and we would ask someone on street whether there was a house to be let – he immediately transforms into an Agent Smith – just like in the movie – he leaves his original occupation (vending vegetables , tailoring are all true examples) - all transform into a realtor – and would be desirous of Something when the deal is done.
Ofcourse ,all I am talking of could be bull-shit to you – I am no Agent Smith. Please let me know what you think by putting comments.
 

One of the situations I dread ending up in and yet am forced into frequently is playing audience to the fairer sex. “Thou shalt talk incessantly” seems to be a trait originating in the female hormones.
My spat with the last landlady (which made me move out of my last tenancy at a night’s notice) taught me the benefits of being on friendly terms with the lady of the house, who more often than not are the de facto rulers of their premises and thus of the tenants who occupy them.
Agreed, and the fact that she (my current landlady) spoke my native tongue and was from the same district as I, seemed to help (or so it seemed then) matters. Well, so some sorrys and thank-yous later, now like in countless stories – I sneak up and down through the stairs – while passing through – and this not because I have rent pending to be paid – but , well, if she catches you – a minimum of half an hour is done for.
So usually it happens like this – I come home tired and with smoke smeared on my face and inside nostrils – and I have to get in and cook – and Her Majesty will be done with all her chores and would be waiting for her hubby; boredom borne of day-long solitude writ large on her face.
And then it happens – a steady barrage of all too familiar words starts falling on me ( and I try taking cover in the corner of the stair).Accounts I had heard so many times before – of her crazy westernised son – of his travails abroad – of his retrofitting exploits on his motorbike – of his earth shattering music system – of his countless overseas offers promising big-bucks – of his  first days away from his home,parents – abroad - all punctuated with lots of  what-has-become-of-this-generation-s – man the list is boring.
All this while I just nod my head (I did try interjecting with my own similar experiences – and then realised its futility - she was clearly not the corporate trainer who wanted the “session to be interactive”).
And then she would crib about not being able to go “native” whenever she feels like, having to take care of all the floors rented out – ‘not like you people’ she’d say – ‘can lock ,your house anytime you wish and go anywhere’ – well said I, big (monetary) returns  sure entail big responsibility ; this won’t be taken  in very well and I make an escape – ‘UP, up and away’.
There are two other tenents in her house – both from the same “native” as I – and they’re couples – young ones – I always wonder why  she won’t catch one of the their females ( that may give some respite to the young husbands too).Maybe she thinks he’s just a bachelor – and so no responsibilities (spelt w-o-m-a-n).
Which is not entirely true – I do have a woman home whose endless talk needs patient ears – my mother. She has always craved for having another female in the household,first for a daughter and now for a daughter-in-law and since she eyes me with expectations for the latter – I try warding them off by playing both the daughter and the in-law.
Whenever I visit her she would constantly keep summoning me – she would even arrange for a chair for me in the kitchen – so that I can relax while I listen to her talk and she won’t burn the food either.
And once the talk did seem interesting – all scandalous gossip from the north and the north-east where she had worked – the countless iterations of the Mallu Principal of her school having an affair with a Nepalese office clerk – and the affair goes public - waaah – that was where it all started – there were dozens of other stories followed which she repeated ceaslessly.( I wonder why women , who are such careful folks – never quite remember that they’ve already narrated that story many times before.Or maybe do they)

Of late after settling in the ‘native’ she has lost the all-married-females social circle which is the breeding ground for scandalous gossip- real and imaginary.
Now the stories are less interesting – property feuds in family – her alcoholic brothers and their failed marriages – all very depressing talk.
I usually feign exhaustion after the travel home and try dissapperaing into some ‘remote’ corner in the house – but she finds me invariably.
Well if you think that its married , matronly women who suffer from this malaise you are grossly mistaken. In the one year I gave company to this female who was my colleague as well as neighbour – she would have told me everything about her (well almost atleast) – over and over again.
And all that when she was having an intimate affair with a richie rich guy. It was absolute torture when the day of her birthday she would tell me the details of her midnight tete-a-tete with her lover at a secluded spot near the airport – ‘and then he kissed me’ she would end – and then she realised that she was talking to a guy and hide her face with her palms and say ‘…on the cheeks’ as means for damage control.
Since we commuted to office from the same locality – we would be travelling together on bus daily – she would make me sit far from her (she gets ‘irritated’ by anyone sitting closeby) and then she would tell me how her affair started , what he was wearing on their last date, which upmarket restaurant he took her last,why they quarrelled – and whether she should now call him up or wait for him to say sorry. The trend had repeated so many times , that I had learnt by-heart what she’d be saying – beacause as I’m a little hard of hearing  and would be sitting far – I would keep missing chunks – and she’s too sharp to notice – she would stop her drawl and shout – ‘what did I say?’ – mercifully – most of the time I was able to interpolate from the context. Else I would have be charged with  ‘carelessness towards friend with malicious intent’ and would have to garland her with a wreath of ’sorry it won’t happen agian’s in order to return to normalcy.
And yet all I feel is :its all worth it – in this vast world there are very few people all these women could and would trust – and my pride in being one of them is always more than rewarding for listening to their idle talk.

Unanswered love is worse than starving – unlike the latter which kills you – slowly – the former drives you crazy – slowly – you can feel the mind (well the heart is a goner, already ) dissolving in the aqua regia of grief , of depression – you try to get over it – you try dissolving the aqua regia in alcohol ( you were bad at Chemistry ) – it reacts and gets worse – the stomach churns – eyes get watery – grief is precipitated – clear salty solution – such familiar taste – you land in a trance – nothing else that goes on around you matters – anymore – loud music – wild gyrations – its you and her, just.
Demons called self-consolation , self-pity rake in the opportunity – dance around you – around the altar - where you are being sacrificed- catlysing the regia-alcohol reaction.

Wild Dance – wild wild dance.

Its Her birthday today…

‘Man, you gotta get over it – this has been long’ – closed wounds never heal!!!
‘This too shalt pass’ – yes – time – never stays at a place – longer than a moment
Love remains …
For a lifetime.

Its like heroin addiction – except that you never feel it was wrong for you – totally ‘addicted to love’ – absolute madness – cannot give up – cannot give in – honor – grandeur.

And all a figment of imagination. 

Hallucinatory drug -

Called Love, Denied

All other pains in the body are masked out 

Or Inhibited
You release your grip
On Reality
is it hot or cold
early or late
Does Time matter
Does Money?

By the end of the day – you are in Devil’s grasp.
You realise – love is the privilege of the Smart
Not of the naive ,confused, absent-minded Me.
Cannot take care of The Self
Let alone others
You realise nobody would love you
Ever
You want to be done with Love’s distant second cousin
Lust – the more tangible one and the one available for sale
‘Do we get get any prostitutes – now?’
‘Come lets go’ – and you know like ever that
You won’t.
Nevertheless , feel like falling on the feet of those hostel-mates
I disdained once
They never mixed love and lust.
They never waited for the One
I Did …

I think self-destruction
‘Which is a better stimulant Cocaine or Heroin?’ ask I.
‘Cocaine’
Big words.

Small Me

Insignificant Me.

Guileless Me.

Gutless Me.

Two am
Deserted roads
Speedometer dial – Backlit
80 – 90 – 110
A little more push and instant death
Absolute Thrill – and then Instant Exit
Carpe Diem
All the past life

Unlived
Live in this single moment
The Last One
So promising -

So easy -
Gentle push on the
Throttle – Valve to Life

Valve to happiness
wind beating into face

And then (once again)
I think of mother
She’ll die of grief
‘I shalt live’
‘I shalt write’
Live to Write

Wanted to

Live to Love

Though my usually long journey to and from office in the bus in this varsity town of Cambridge is never uneventful , what happened today was unforgettable.

While returing today, I shared the sparsely occupied bus with a duo of teenage girls , the impatient but good-natured and slighly on the wrong side of weighing scales called A and the sly and naughty, overly weight and appearence concious one called B.

OK now A is highly impatient – she likes to comment loudly on everything she sees outside , mostly stupid comments.B sits quietly in a corner sucking a lollypop , unmindful of friend's hyperactiviness.

One by one the bus empties down – I was sitting at half-back – just beside the heat vents – my favourite spot – for a chill was blowing outside.

A noticed that the bus was almost empty and looked back to reassure herself – I was the only person around – she looked at me and said 'hey can you be my friend – pls be my friend' – I tried to shrug of with a smile somewhere between embarrasement and indifference.

New people had started trickling in but that didnot divert her attention from me – from half way across the bus she kept (mock-)pleading 'can you be my friend – pls be my friend?'

Then she came across and placed her bulk in the seat across the aisle from me – suddenly B also got interested she came in and sat immediately behind me.I continued my mock non-chalance.

B told A (to my immense relief)  'hey I'm your friend , leave him alone!'

A won't leave 'Is she your friend?'I shook my head to indicate a no - 'Am I your friend ?' I shook again – 'why? I need a friend, please …'

B tried a different ploy – 'he's not undertanding a thing' she said to A.

The sportsman in me woke up – the wish to play along out of embarrasing situations.

'I do' I said to B;

This emboldened A.

I told B 'Was that to trick me into talking?'

A was still nagging and I said , foolishly 'I have the right to remain silent – anything I say can and will be used gainst me'

B got interested 'Where are you from?'

'India'

'So am I , I can speak Urdu'

'Really?' I said tried to mimic the Brit way this word is said – so much so that it can make the meaning clear if spoken to someone who knew no English.

And the surprise was genuine – she didn't look a tad Indain – one of those English girls – snow-white skin - she was a very pretty English girl.

''Tum Mote ho' you know what it means ' – it took me awhile to understand what she meant – then I chuckled 'Does she know what that means?' indicating to A.

'What?' A cried – her wailing subsided now after I got talking to her friend.

Then she asked me something else I could not figure out.

'Are both of your parents Indian ?' I asked in serious doubt.

'My Mom is English (Ah there you go) but Dad's from Pakistan but his mother was from India'

My remark about India and Pakistan being same once was ignored by a

'Do you know Urdu?'

'I can understand – its closer to my national language' said I.

'Can you tell me what is Urdu for -' ( I saw it coming) ' Fuck off' – I hesitated – 'Dont you worry we won't meet again – please tell me – I want to use it on my Dad'

The disrespect for parents in these teenagers westwards of Turkey,was not a new thing for me.

I still hesiatated – while she pleaded and prepared to alight  – her stop approaching – I didnot want to give her a 'respect your parents' sermon (the root of the problem cannot be cured bu mere sermons) – nevertheless, the extensive expletive vocabulary I had picked in college seemed to fail me - exasperated, I told her 'Mera peecha chodo' ('Leave me alone' in Hindi) - she repeated – memorizing – thinking it to be the  gross-est expletive she had ever learnt.

While she got down from the bus and crossed the road I waved to her and she waved back (and A looked upon,quite sullen now) -and I smiled accepting imaginary gratitude from her Old man.

My existence summed up in just one word – 'freak'.I have despised it for long but have come to accept it,finally.People around me would say that it is a modesty trick-but deep inside they know its true.

And why not,the world is swarming with smart people – good-looking people,intricate brains, with huge fan following-so much so that an antithesis is required – me – I am one of the few people trying to balance out this profligacy of undue smartness.I can picturise many comrades but most are garbed beyond recognition,irrevocably.For the Haloween of life ;the mask of their smartness has actually dug deep into their epidermis.

People around me keep thinking-why won't he mix with us,why won't he eat with us, why won't he drink with us,why doesn't he be more presentable?I used to think 'why should I?',now I just say because 'I'm a freak'. I'm in a competition with all you people - its not about looking better,acting smarter,getting more attention,earning more,having more girlfriends/boyfriends.It`s about hatred-that I hate you more than you do me. For all you people who have labelled me 'psycho' – just for wanting to preserve my personal space, for seeing the world with my own eyes, for doing things my own way,for not expecting anything on anybody's faith, for not trusting anyone.

I won't say I 'm happy being a freak-I would have been happy to be left alone-to be just forgotten – but no- for accepting all the taunts,cusses and abuses unleashed from the known and the unknown alike,and without me ever retaliating - people say 'his ego is dead ' – not really, its just anesthetised-not feeling the pain- the price to pay for independent thinking.I inherited this endurance from the woman who pushed me into this world-this world where the only options for a man to survive were – to dominate or being the underling of an alpha and scavenge his kills – to be a hyaena;I desired an alternative. The Desire, the word I was named after, ironically, never got fulifilled.

Yet it is only my mother for whom I'll never be a freak – no – donot want her pushing to go in vain.She is the only woman for whom I'm still the most understanding,compassionate and joyous person.

For the rest of the world,I'm up for display at the freak show (that's my life!) - 'Presenting…the freak without two heads or three arms – but interesting all the same – enjoy!!! '