NYC Melodies

I hear her voice reverberating through the walls as we enter the subway. Her range is amazing, honestly, and the tunes she voices go up and down, loud and soft. She is an opera singer and we can feel her talent sweeping through the area.
We go down by stairs to catch our train, but we have to acknowledge this wonderful lady, and so I go back up to make a 'donation'.
She meets my eyes, this soft, black-haired woman and murmurs a thank you before going back into her song.
I tell her that she's amazing and she thanks me again.
I think of what Ustaad Bismillah Khan had said - many have to sell something to earn money, they physically part with something to earn their bread and butter, but artists never do. They make money and still get to keep the thing that's earning them that money: their talent.
I might be making a donation, but this woman is giving me her voice and it's a very fair exchange.

***

One is silver and one is gold. One is long and one is shorter. But they're both trumpets. I think. My musical instrument knowledge is pathetic.
There's already some music and the trumpets merge right in.
In between the shuffling of the feet and the rattling of the tracks whenever the trains approach, are these trumpets and they provide the background music to our lives that make us feel like we're in a movie. It's 10 pm, the crowd is low and they play on.
There's no 'donation' box either.
And so I rock to the sound of 'A Kiss To Build A Dream On' which is also 'Kaisi Paheli' for me as our train blows to a stop.
I can hear the trumpets, even as we're moving.

***
I come out of the theater wanting to cry, but what else can you expect from an emotionally muddled teenager who's seen something awesome?
Because the world I was in for the last two and half hours was one of a kind.
There, enemies were friends and you could fall in love with anybody because different could be beautiful and beautiful could be different and some animals spoke and some of them sang but all of them could dance and important people had mixed up vocabulary and old men who liked balloons and everyone had funny names.
It was so absolutely different and mixed up and delicious.
Everyone sang in voices that would haunt you forever.
It was a feast for all the senses.
The only downside seemed to be the fact that you couldn't get a ballgown on demand. Also, a lot of people are obsessed with green, but that's OK.
And so I let the tears fall, and I figure they're the sad kind, but I laugh still, at what I've laughed at 334 times before in the past hour.
Because it's a place where the good and bad mix together to become absolutely wicked.

New York, New York

The place I'm at, it's no joke,
The streets, they smell of cold and smoke.
Shoes, like rainbows, shine on feet,
As herds of people cross the street.
The buildings, up and up they rise,
To touch the heavens, each one tries.
Jammed together, shop on shop,
Endless rows - they never stop.
Flashing screens, they catch the eye,
Each one screaming that I must buy,
That their product is what I need,
To live life and to succeed.
There are eating places of each cuisine,
Thai, Irish and French as neighbors are seen.
The people are from so many parts,
One city owned by a million hearts.
They guide the tourists who come in loads,
They own the bridges and the roads.
They own this city that's hard to grapple,
It's NYC, the Big, Bold, Apple.

20 April at Washington DC

Da-da-da-dum-dum-dum.
I hear the beat before I see its creator.
Dum-da-dum-da-dum.
It sounds like bongos, I think. Then I shake my head. What do I know about drums?
Dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da.
The drummer is on the sidewalk parallel to ours. I can't see him for the continuous stream of vehicles and the cars parked next to his sidewalk.
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
The sound is loud. There are people clapping I think. And others watching. It is a catchy beat.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum.
Again I wonder, what kind of drums are those?
Da-da-da-da-da-dum-da-da-dum-da-da.
I catch a glimpse of a man in white, he's smiling and dancing.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da-dum-dum.
Right next to him is another man. He's sitting. He is the drummer, the player. He is grinning just as widely. I finally see his instrument.
Dum-da-da-da-dum-da-da-da.
Wow, I think. I hide a smile. My mom asks me why. I point to his instrument.
Da-da-dum-dum-da-da-dum-dum.
They are buckets.
Da-da-da-dum-dum-dum.

***

'....$20' The man is saying. I try not to look back a third time. $20? Isn't that a lot? Then again, I don't know the distance, but still ...
The vehicle is a fancy version of a cycle rickshaw. There are two wheels at the the back, supporting the seat, and one wheel in the front. There are pedals and a handle. I wonder if this is a common sight. I've definitely never seen anything like it before, not here, at least.

There are rickety versions of the same thing back in India. There the cyclists are skinny and strong, with wrinkly brown skin and shabby white clothes and maybe handkerchiefs tied around their heads to soak the sweat. They haggle with you for the price, trying to get five rupees more. They pound on the pedals throughout the day, sweating in the sun, and despite all their efforts get a meager income.
My mom and I are awed at their strength to do this all day, every day. My mom complies with an extra 10 rupees.
'Dhanyavaad bhaiyya' (Thank you brother)

And here, the cyclists are dressed in good clothes and are talking about their associates.
$20.
Wow.

***

The sunlight streams in through a large window.
We are sitting at a table right beside the door and right in front of the window. We are laughing. My mom's friend is funny.
He tells us about the different monuments in the city and the historical significance of every building, statue, and bridge.
There have been great improvements. A rundown place has flourished in the last fifteen years to become a beautiful area. There have also been sad stories. A woman who was wrongfully persecuted, and then executed.
There's a story behind everything, I realize. Some meaning, some reason, some purpose. It's nice to know.
Uncle leans forward to tell us something else. The reason he chose this pizza place.
'The president has come here before,' he says.
We start joking that we could be sitting at the same place as the president sat or are having the same meal that he did. Maybe it's the same menu, or the drink.
If nothing, it still is the same restaurant.

La vie : A Game Of Chance

My life depended on a picture. Literally. In the end, that's all it came down to.
A picture was what got my parents wedded, and what brought me into this world, followed by my brother.

I think in this crazy world, what is pretty darn scary is that life is a game of chance. Small changes, small choices, and your life could've turned out completely different.

I, for example, may not have even been writing this if not for a picture. For all you know, someone else could've seen it, and then my mom might have never married my dad.
Creepy.

As Stephenie Meyer, writer of the famous Twilight series, said about her character Alice Cullen's ability to see into the future: I think my fascination with that very concept kind of comes through in Alice's visions of the future, where there are fourteen million of them. As characters make choices, they're narrowing down which visions can actually happen. Alice sees flashes of the future possibilities coming from the choices they've made. But if they make different choices, it becomes a whole new future.

That just goes to show that the smallest of choices, the smallest of happenings can change a life. A good example may be the Final Destination series - where a character has a vision of people dying, and despite trying to avoid it, it ends up happening because of the smallest things. 

*Spoilers for FD 3* 
In Final Destination 3, in the end, the characters end up dying because of a train accident that occurs partly because of a rat and a chocolate. See what I'm saying? But Final Destination also reinforces another idea - that what is meant to happen will happen. Basically, the idea of fate.

So does fate play out through those little decisions? If that's so, then it's pretty bewildering. Imagine, your decision to walk instead of taking a car or walking into one shop instead of another could change your life. 

Something like that's happened to all of us. I remember in Delhi, we were supposed to move into one house, but suddenly because of something, we ended up living somewhere else. In the same neighbourhood, but in another house. Now, it was because of that house I went to the school that I did, and made the friends I made. The owner of the first house probably had no idea that he changed our lives.

I don't know whether to believe in fate or not, but I do know that small things make a difference. I love hearing stories of how people discover new things by accident (serendipity, is what it's called, my dad said), and especially of how people meet by chance and fall in love . Anjali Tendulkar met her to-be husband at an airport. How cool is that?!

There's something both sweet and scary in knowing that our next step could change our lives completely, whether it's for better or for worse.

 

To sleep like a baby ...

Tis when the angel sleeps,
Innocent mind lost in slumber deep,
From dream to dream the conscience leaps,
The billowy cushions safely keep,
The angel who is fast asleep.

Tis when the angel dreams,
Peaceful, blissful, the whole world seems,
Not a shout, a tear, a scream,
Happiness spreads, and Mother Earth beams,
All of which happens when the angel dreams.

Tis when the angel opens her eyes,
To see faces. O! What a surprise!
A whole new world to realize,
When asked to wake, when asked to rise,
Tis then the angel cries.

Rooted in the sky

I wonder what it feels like to move. Not just move, but to control your movements. Jasmine keeps reminding me that I can, we all can. But then, it’s only out of necessity, is what I say. Jasmine replies, that everything we do is because we have to. Jasmine doesn't understand.  I don’t expect her to.

Yes, we move. And yes, maybe we can control our motions: we bend for more sunlight, our feet –roots, Jasmine reminds me- stretch out just a little more to areas where we can take in more water, more minerals. But we’re otherwise so limited. Unless a breeze is around and allows us sway, to rustle just a little more than normal. There have been times when the winds were so vicious that plants have actually died. That’s what happened to my uncle Arbre, at any rate. He simply snapped into two. My parents were mournful, saying he was a young soul, and in a way he was – a young mind in an old aching body. There were parasites on him, sucking out his life, and I knew he didn't want to live like that anyway. I was at peace when he died. But he was the only one who understood me, my wishes to move about, to discover, to explore, and to dance. And when he was gone, I had to face the realities of the plant community. It wasn't easy. I wanted to be a squirrel, jumping about, a cat, prowling through the dark alleys of the street with its lamp-like eyes, but mostly a bird, flying freely to touch the ends of heaven. Instead, I got to be a mother to them all. I got to feed and nurture them, help these animals grow, without ever being one. The other plants, they were proud of the part they played in nature. They were proud that humans held them in such high esteem, proud that they were the foundation bricks of our ecosystem. They wanted me to feel the same way. I just couldn't.

A bird lands on my branches. It is small and black and red and the most beautiful thing I've seen. Its eyes are a sharp black. I wish I was you, I think. I gently guide it to my ripest fruit. It looks young, tired. Probably its fourth or fifth flight. It nibbles the fruit lightly, and continues to do so, until it has finished the whole thing. It sighs in gratitude.

You’re welcome, little birdie. You’re welcome. I think, before dozing off under the hot sun.

**                                                                              

I wonder what it would be like to be still. To be at peace. What it would be like to not be in a rush your whole life, to not have to keep moving around, to not be part of a crazy family. My sister just laughs when I tell her all this; It’s your life. Accept it. She says. If only it was that easy. My family, my friends, they’re too busy to think like this. They don’t even have time to think about slowing down.

There are new chicks born every day. Each new chick means one more celebration. There are celebrations for everything. When we first fly, when we catch our first worm, when we choose a mate, when we lay eggs, when they hatch… on and on it goes. Heck, my brother got an extra party because he finally opened his eyes! I’m telling you, we birds just love to celebrate.

The only alone time we get is when we fly to get food. Since this is my fifth flight, I’m still accompanied by my brother (who right now is constantly going from glaring at me to get me to hurry up to spying on another she-bird he finds cute). From my next flight on, I will be completely alone. Hopefully. The others know I’m a bit of a day-dreamer, they may just assign me a permanent companion.

I want to be a plant. Not only because they live quietly and peacefully but also because they are important. If I was a plant, I’d be loved and cherished. I’d make my own food. I’d never have to depend on slow, stupid worms. I’d never have to fly away from an eagle. I could be friend with other plant species, which is pretty hard as birds. I mean, we can’t be friends with eagles and kites. But I guess the trees can be friends with other trees as well as animals.

‘Parinda! Will you hurry up?’ My brother shouts. I hate that he calls me by my full name.

‘All right!’I stop sucking on my luscious fruit, and open my wings. I’ll be back. I think. And then I’m gone in a blur of black and red.   

By Chance ...

Nikhil's father is dead.

He doesn't have to tell me. I see it written big and bold in the newspaper. I immediately look over at him; he is standing in the balcony, gazing out - hands in his pockets, his brow slightly troubled, as if he is deliberating a serious matter.
Anyone who doesn't know Nikhil wouldn't suspect anything wrong. Even his friends barely see through his facade. Just a few of us - me, Smriti, Harsh, Riddhi, Ruby, Gray - are able to make out that he is having an off-day. And only Smriti and I know the reason.
Nikhil was estranged from his dad. My father-in-law hadn't tried very hard to keep in touch, but I blamed that on his acceptance of Nick's anger, rather than lack of time. My husband thought it was the latter, and this just made him angrier.
Nikhil pretends not to care right now, but underneath all those layers of indignation, there is just that wisp of sadness, I know it. I go up to him and hug him. 'I'm sorry' I whisper to his shoulder because I really am, and he doesn't respond, though we both know he heard my words, and we both just let it be.

                                                                            *

Nikhil was well-loved. I know that because I grew up with him. Well, at least for the first eight years of my life anyway. I was their neighbor, and we were about as friendly as a boy and girl as different as we were, could be. There were stupid fights (he often resorted to pulling my hair, and I would always scream at him; I also liked blowing the occasional raspberry at him ... but he totally deserved it) and the silly secrets...Then, when I was eight (and he was nine), Nikhil and his family moved away. And I moved on.
Those days, his family was whole and happy. Smriti was his intelligent sister, just one year younger than him, and she was (and has still remained) my best friend. Auntie was a homemaker who was very talented at designing (always winning the rangoli contest), and Uncle worked at the bank. Or so we thought.

Uncle played with us a lot back in the day. Nick, Smriti, my brother and I always played with him. He would get us these little treats - chocolate sticks, little key chains - that we adored. He was, in other words, our adult-friend, the 'cool' Uncle we'd always show off about at school. He was a sweetheart and that was the only dimension I'd ever seen of him, with the exception of one time. It'd been evening and Nikhil and I had been playing hop-scotch, in front of his house. I had totally been winning, when a man on a motorcycle on the other side of the road started whistling. The motorbike had been a dashing red, and the man was thin and bearded, looking a bit like a fox. We turned towards him automatically and he motioned for us to approach him. Before we could so much as respond, Nikhil's father had burst out of their house and started raging at the fox-faced man. Nick and I had been frightened, totally confused. The man had hopped on his bike and sped off. Soon everyone was out of the house trying to console Uncle, and Auntie had been desperate to know what had happened, but Uncle just shook his head and walked back in.
                                                                        
                                                                                *

I re-met Nikhil in college. He wasn't in the same university, but we were both in the same state, and a mutual friend had introduced us in an attempt to help me make new friends, and instead lead me back to an old one.

The college days were good. Nick and I spent a lot of time together laughing about old things and talking about how things had changed. This new Nikhil was quiet and shy, an introvert, and he did not pull my hair even once (though he threatened to). I had quite started liking this new guy, and casually asked how his family was, how his father was. That was when his face darkened and he stormed off without a word.

Without digressing too much, it would suffice to say that he later revealed to me what had happened after their move - his father had become more and more irregular in his work, had started shouting more at Auntie, and overall, had changed completely.
'He walked out one day. Just walked out. I didn't see him till three days later. Mamma was sick with worry, but he didn't give a damn. Three days later, he comes back with this big briefcase. I didn't know what was in it that time. He just said, "Aap sab ke liye hain," (Hindi for "this is for you all") and left again. He told Mamma something. Something I didn't hear, and then he walked out again. Mamma told us that he had gone to do business. Business, my foot! The three of us managed, though. Mamma didn't let us see the briefcase, but I got a glimpse of it once anyway - it was filled with money. A few days later, I read his name in the newspaper. I'll never forget what it said.'

The newspaper of that fateful day had this big headline: Varun Khanna now leader of ACE Associates.

That seemed OK, until Nikhil understood what ACE meant - it wasn't a reputable company, it was the largest drug cartel in the state, and Varun Uncle was its leader. It felt like a cruel joke.

                                                                               *

Varun Uncle had had an accident when he was younger. His hand was brown and purple and stiff, and his sleeve always hung off of his left arm loosely. He hadn't divulged the details of the accident. He simply said that it had been a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and either way he hadn't been too fond of his left hand. And we just left it at that. It was only later, that I realized maybe something awful had happened, something not meant for children, or even adults (because as far as I knew, even Auntie didn't know what had happened).

                                                                              *

Nikhil and I got married when he was 28 and I was 27. It was probably the happiest day of my life. Through the many ceremonies, he kept making me laugh, getting me to notice the gossipy aunties, and he generally lightened my mood. It's hard to say at what point we 'got together', but it happened, and that's all I cared about. Nikhil and I weren't a dramatic, flamboyant couple, we weren't the heroes of a rom-com, more like the sidekicks who brought comic relief, and shared their own quiet little love story. And honestly, that was enough.

                                                                           *

Nikhil breaks down at the funeral. He is the one performing the rites, and with each mantra, his mask melts away a little more. The sadness that has been there like a tight knot inside him (and not just since the death, it had been there ever since his father had walked away ... twice)  slowly comes undone. Smriti isn't like him, while she too is angry with her father, she decides to forgive him that day, and cries without hesitation.
I want to tell Nick not to hold it in, I am tearing up as well. I want him to be free of the anger and resentment pent up inside that heart of his. But I don't have to say it.
Slowly the tears trace their way down Nikhil's cheek, and he doesn't stop them, they come and come and come, and he just lets those angry tears flow.

                                                                            *

One year later

I guess many of you would've thought that the story ended there ... well, not completely. It ends one year later, in a mall. But I wonder if you would call it the end ... or another beginning ...
           
                                                    -               -              -              -

Glass shards are flying everywhere. There is screaming and people are running for their lives. There's total chaos and panic, and dead bodies are piling up on the floor, innocent people are falling like dominoes. You don't have time to think, you need to run, you need to escape.
I scream his name again and again, and try to see through my tears. Where's Nikhil? Where could he have gone? I want this to be a game, I want to close my eyes and wake up from this scary dream, a nightmare, that's all this should be. But it's not. It's a real live terrorist attack and I'm in the middle of it.

People are evacuating. Safety means getting to the ground floor. That's where I should be right now, at least, that's where Nikhil should be. The guards are fighting back, they're helping out. And so, without thinking, I join the crowd and run down the stairs.

                                                                               *

I'm pushed out into the first floor. There's literally a crush of people making their way down, and I'm not one of them. Where's Nikhil? My phone isn't working either.
There are shooters here too. There's not as many people though. Maybe I can hide, maybe I can jump out the window. Better a broken leg, than a lost life.
The ladies bathroom has windows, right? But I can't be seen. For a second, I have this ridiculous idea I'm playing cops and robbers. Except this is the real life, you-could-actually-die version. My breathing is shallow, my heart pounds so loud, I'm sure it's gonna explode. I'm behind a wall, and I'm listening for footsteps. I have to run...in 3 (but I have never been this scared), 2 (come on! come on! come on!), 1.5 (now or never..), 1 (NOW!)
And I'm across, in the washroom, but I made a lot of noise... where's the window? where's the window? Is there a window? No. Tears rush to my face, I need to pee. I can't die. Not now. There are people behind me, I hear them shouting, 'Koi hain vahan! Chalo! Chalo!' (Hindi for "Someone is in there! come! come!") I'm going to die. For sure. But not without a fight. The adrenaline kicks in and I know I have seconds before they come in ... there's a tiny window above one of the stalls, maybe I can fit through it. I rush inside the stall, lock the door, close the toilet's lid, and manage to stand on it, if I can remove this glass ...
There's a clatter of footsteps, and people rush in. No.
'Ah, dekh yeh kon hain. Ek choti si ladki. Neeche ao, na bachche.' (Hindi for "Look who's here. Just a little girl. Come down, kid"). A man says to me mockingly. I turn around, my hands going up unconsciously. A chill of fear makes its way down my spine. There are three men inside the washroom, two pointing their guns at me. They're young and strong, and are all wearing masks and gloves.
'Should we kill her, or should we have some fun before?' the same man -wearing a green mask - asks. My heart is beating way too loudly. I feel revolted. I'm reduced to pleading. 'Please, please.'
The men laugh. The only thing separating us is the stall door. They're going to open it. Then they'll kill me, or ...or...or...
' Boss aa rahe hain! (Hindi for "The Boss is coming!") Chalo, let's show him our last prize.' Green Mask says.
Are they going to kill me? Can I make a run for it?
They look at me. Red Mask says, 'Don't even think of going anywhere.' Blue Mask stays there, watching me.
I wait, my breathing reduced to short bursts. My palms sweaty, my hands shaking. I just want them to kill me, to shoot me, to end it fast. I close my eyes.
'Yeh dekhieye Boss, ek pyaari chori.' (Hindi for "Look here boss, what a lovely girl"). The disgusting voice of Green Mask says. There's a booming laughter of a slightly older man, and the Boss enters.
I open my eyes. He's slightly rounder, and the wrinkles are visible on his face. He carries himself awkwardly, keeping his arms straight. His mask is black.
I force myself to look at him, so that he can see me clearly. The jovial look on his face fades.
'Tum log jao. (Hindi for "You guys go.") I'll deal with this one on my own.'
The beating of my heart takes a new rhythm. What's happening? The three men look as confused, and they seem to be about to protest when they see the face of their Boss. He seems livid. What was going on? T'hey leave hurriedly.
'Get out of the building!' The Boss says.
I immediately think of Nikhil. I don't know why. There's something similar ... something familiar ... I can't spot it.
He looks at me. He takes out his gun, and I close my eyes and breathe.

                                                                           *

I still can't tell you what happened. It was all so fast. One minute I'm there, and the next, I'm downstairs. The Boss ushers me down the stairs, pushing me continuously with his right arm, his left hand holding his gun, stiff by his side.
'Jao! Jao! Jaldi!' (Hindi for "Go, go away fast"). I don't get it. What is he doing? I want to stop. To ask him. But there is no time, no time. He keeps prodding me, pushing me further down the stairs. And then I am out. And safe.
The sound of sirens is loud. Ambulances are here. So are the police.
Nikhil sees me from the other side immediately. I turn back to thank the man, but I can't see him. It's like he is gone, like he has melted back into the shadows.
Policemen rush to my side,and start pulling me out despite my protests. Where is the man? Where is the Boss? I keep looking back. Where is he?
Somehow I get to the other side. Nick is holding me, and soon I am crying, finally understanding what had happened. Well, most of it at least.

                                                                         *

I had been wearing a coat the whole time. It is winter, it is chilly. Nikhil pulls it off of me when we get home. 'Are you OK?' he asks. I nod. I am, I suppose. I've not been hurt, I was saved! But I need to know why. Who was that man? He had been wearing the mask the whole time, but he had saved me! Maybe I reminded him of someone else, but that doesn't seem to be the case. He was not new to me. I knew that for sure. Had I met him? If so, where?

'Did you buy this there?' Nikhil's voice breaks my thoughts. he's looking at me, wearing a bizarre expression on his face. 'What are you talking about?' I ask.
He is holding something, two things actually. I approach him and see. One's a chocolate, and the other one is a doll? It looks familiar.
'A key chain.' he says, as though he has read my mind. 'Of a fairy. They don't make these anymore. I have an identical one, though. Papa had given it to me.'