Undefined...

I listen to a 100 odd songs a day,
And try to find the perfect one to describe the way,
I feel about you and you about me,
I watch all of these silly romantic movies
And search for one among all the stories,
Where you’re the prince and I am the lady.
I browse through many a love quote
That I could devote or connote
To you my Mcdreamy..

But no song could describe us,
No story can be what is ours
And no quote is just the right one..

Coz we are unsung
We are unwritten,
We are undefined....

Take a chance....

Growing up, I was known for many reasons; I was known as Mr. Naidu’s daughter, for being smart, intelligent and a good speaker; I was known as Chirag’s sister, because he was famous for his sporting adventures and more importantly other infamous misadventures.

But profoundly people knew me as the girl with the long hair, and that I owe to my mother, though people looking at her now-thinning head would never ever believe. My hair was below-waste length, thick, black, and wavy. Invariably when I sat, I would sit on the lower end! It was quite literally a horse tail!

My mother had the loveliest hair, so my granny told me, so she told me herself, and so I saw for myself, in photos of Dad-Mum’s honeymoon on the hills of Mahableshwar. And here I was - a replica of Mrs. Juliet (Concessao) Naidu, with the same features, same looks and of course the Concessao legacy.

I got all the adoration and admiration one could hope for..
“O what lovely hair”
“O, what oil/shampoo do you use?”
“How do you manage your hair? You are so small, and they are so long..”

I never let mum or anyone touch my hair, I was perfectly capable of washing, drying and combing my hair; 2 braids in school, a single braid later on in college.

But one (wo)man’s blessing is another’s curse. I grew fed up with the routine of oiling, washing, drying my hair. I wanted to know what it felt like to have short hair, so that I could tie a pony and feel it bounce around; I wanted to for one day feel weightless around my neck; I wanted to try different hairstyles.

And so, what did I do? I proposed cutting them. The entire family was in an uproar.

Dad remarked “A man is not a man without his moustache, and a woman not a woman without her hair!” to which I said, “I’m just a girl...”

Mum rebuked me, “Don’t act crazy, once you cut them, they won’t grow again, look at me.” Mum too cut her hair, one day just like that, out of the blue, and it took Dad a whole day to figure out what was amiss about his young wife.

Granny said, “No!!” I sulked “Okay.”

A week later I walked into a parlour and cut them. Mum was standing beside me. The lady tried to discourage me, I think I cried, but I wanted to do it. They were cut to half their length. What the lady did with the severed hair makes for a whole different anecdote! Dad was furious, I was ecstatic, but the most bizzarre of all were the condolences and snubs I received from the neighbourhood and teachers in school; I never knew what fan following my hair had! Reactions ranged from surprise to shock, dismay to horror. But I was on cloud 9, so none of it really mattered.

As time went by, the length grew shorter; I did everything I wanted to, I experimented with different hairstyles, different lengths, even a boy-cut!

But then the excitement wore out and boredom set in. So just as one day I woke up and decided I wanted my hair short, I woke up a few years later and decided. “Okay I want my hair to grow back!” It’s been 4 years since that resolution and I’m glad to report they have been growing at a desired pace. They still do not cease to attract the comments they did when I was little. Instead I get the come-back-from-the-dead reaction, “O dear, they were so short, and now look at them..”

The moral of this story is that there comes a time when you get bored of routine, of paradigms, of regularities; you get bored of the same person you see in the mirror every morning. That calls for change. A change in your look or your outlook can make you feel different. I know what it did to me. I experimented though I managed to still spend the same amount of time in front of the mirror!! But that experimentation, that courage to take a chance, to do something because I wanted to do it, felt liberating. When I think of those years, I can tell people proudly, I did the unthinkable, I cut my long tresses, had hair-styles of varying lengths, even a boy-cut! And that gives me the feeling of been-there-done-that-proud-of-that. This attitude thankfully hasn’t left me; I still continue to take my chances, and I am amazed and pleased at the findings.

So if you are bored at a job, or bored without a job, or you’re depressed, take a chance, do something that makes you feel better, or view it in a different light. You may find something else that interests you, you may find a calling; it could be writing, singing, playing an instrument, photography, trekking, or simply a new hairstyle! Take a chance and you will see...

PS - I know hair is inanimate and addressed as ‘it’, but I always think of them in an animate form, besides there are so many of them, so excuse the apparent grammatical errors.

"I want to break free"

Have you walked a street and feel like you know every part of that street just because you have been on it so many times you could not possibly count? Every inch of the road, every corner, every building, even a tree or a lamp post seems to remind you of events in the past. You remember every bit of a road, roads where you once ran along, roads you cycled along as a little girl, roads now on which you zoom past on your bike, roads which you know like the back of your hand, roads on which you know just where to slow down, because of a speed breaker or a turning that is accident prone.

You see the stairs of a building and it reminds you of times you saw children (now all grown up), sitting with their mothers waiting for their school bus.

You see the local park and wonder how many times you went there with your building friends for a picnic, ran the lawns, played hide and seek, catch and cook, the same garden where you now take your one year old niece who seems to find joy much the same way you did.

You remember the pavements, upon which you walked as a girl going to school, as an adolescent you walked to catch your bus to the city college, the pavement along which you realised you were growing and you need to become “aware” of your surroundings, because that was the pavement where a man flashed you.

You remember the intersection where as a little girl riding her pink Ms India a motor cyclist dashed you and hurt you, the scar which till this day is visible on your right wrist. You also remember the intersection where you met with an accident a few months ago, this time on your bike. Both times you cried, both times people came rushing to help you up, the difference? The first time it was because you were a helpless little girl, the second time it was because people knew who you were.

You see buildings where friends once resided, now gone to different places, doing different things, barely in touch. And then you see houses of friends who stay barely a few yards away, but with whom you spend time with over the internet.

You remember the road, that you and your friend walked along, the friend who stayed close to your home, with whom you shared 6 years of school, who then shifted residence but thankfully is still your best friend.

You remember your school, and wonder why you don’t visit it often, and then you realise it is because the school with which you associate your memories with doesn’t exist, it’s remodelled, it looks different, it smells different, it’s someone else’s now.

You look at the bus-stop, and remember times when you sat there at 6 am waiting to catch the bus to go to college. You remember waiting nervously for your friend, always late, in an age when neither of you had cell-phones.

You look at the same street and see yourself as a teenager jogging with your sir who once used to mean everything to you, and then your eyes well up because it’s in the past tense.

You look at the club where you first learnt to play your sport, and you look at the ground where you jogged and relive the first time you fell, running backwards, the first time that made you fracture your wrist, and you look at the same place that made you fall in love with your sport.

You look at every bit of physical existence on that same street, and you have memories attached to it, some good, some not, some painful, many joyful. You can’t seem to get on the street without running into someone who does not know you. You can’t walk on the street without seeing a familiar face, and then you realise that the familiarity is freaking you out, it’s almost nauseating. It’s claustrophobic. You begin to feel your life is so small and insignificant. You begin to wonder is there a life out there? Will you ever see something more than just these streets? Will you ever make memories other than these?

And then you hear the song by Queen “I want to break free, God knows I want to break free” and you feel like that’s the song from your heart. You want to break free, you want to go some place else, where people know you as the new you, as the you that exists now, for this moment, not as the you that has existed all these years, not the you that has created memories in the past, but the you that will make new memories, the you that’s grown up, the you that will meet new people, the you that will walk new streets.. and then you sing “I want to break free”

Who am I??

Introductory conversations with new acquaintances can be very exciting especially when I ask the questions. I know how to build rapport, just an art I have mastered over years of observing people get uncomfortable. So I ask the oft-asked-oft expected questions. So what do you do, what is your family like, any siblings.. etc. Once they are comfortable enough roles reverse and I am the one on the witness stand, and boy do I love talking about myself, not because I am self-obsessed (which a few may think that I am) but just because my history is intriguing. If only I lost a little weight everytime someone asked me these questions I would be a size zero today!

“Are you Maharashtrian?” I get asked, because I speak Marathi.

“No..”

“Punjabi?”, because I am fair, and I have long hair.

“Noooo.. I am Divya NAIDU!”

“Ooo.. South Indian???”

“Aa.. not quite.. Dad is South Indian.”

“Really? From??”

“Umm.. from Chennai.”

“So where is Mum from then?” they ask intrigued.

“Umm, she is from Mangalore..”

“O then they are both South Indians na? So that makes u South Indian as well!” they say so matter-of-
factly.

“Umm, not exactly, you see Dad has settled in Tamil Nadu, though his ancestors are from Andhra. Mum
on the other hand is born and brought up in Mumbai. So she is just Mumbaite.” I educate them.

“Ooo.. So you must speak Telegu or Tamil?” the next logical question.

“Neither actually. Dad speaks both. Mom could not, she speaks Konkani, so they stuck to the universal language – English. But i can understand Konkani..”

“Hmm.. so was it a love marriage?” they ask, part surprised, part investigating, part hoping to say ‘i knew it’.

“Umm I don’t know really, Mum Dad never told me.. though come to think of it, it’s quite possible because dad lived in Mumbai a considerable while before he married mum..” I reply to the wanna-be Sherlocks.

“Hmm.. Interesting... “, they reply disappointed, “But you know u don’t look South Indian at all..”


“Yea, that’s because as dad says ‘thank God you have your mothers looks and my brains’.. “ to which they all laugh as if according to script.

This is by far how most of my introductory conversations go.

But the funniest explanation that I ever gave was at an interview. It was a stress interview, at 5 am, and to top it all without any sleep. I was the last candidate, they were exhausted and so was I.

They asked the mandatory question.. “So are you South Indian?”

And I blurted out, “No, I am a crossbreed!!”

“What!!??” they said in chorus, they could not believe their ears, and “What!!” I could not believe mine either!!

“You are a what?” they chuckled.

“A crossbreed!! What?!!” I interjected.

Well I continued with the above explanations, amidst their guffawing not realising what was funny. Only later did I realise that dogs can be crossbreeds, vegetation can be crossbreeds, but humans –naah, not really!

Since then I just stick to this reply.. “I am Indian”, the safest and the least controversial reply..

Ummm.. or is it??

Aaa.. whatever.. Jai Bharat!!

Shadow

Is this what I will remain? A shadow? A nobody?
Is that what we are? Wavering? Unsteady?

Like cocaine’s temporary feeling of euphoria,
When this is over, will I fade away??

Like the seconds of a clock that go by,,
And leave no trace of existence,
Like the seasons that bid good bye,
And depart into the distance,

Like a haunting piece of anonymous music,
That creates this feeling of sensational magic,

Like the abstractness of the senses,
That is hard to understand or explain
Like memories caught in a lens,
In the fabric of time, frozen.

Will I be anything but a shadow?
With no sense of being..
Will be an angel’s halo?
Mythical, mysterious, unknowing..

The Rainbow

Muskaan looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was contorted. Her eyes were melancholic, while her lips joyous. She wept, while smiling.

The situation owed its occurrence to what ensued over the past one year and then over the last one month. Muskaan was in love with Roshan, and together they dreamt and planned of a blissful life. Their plan was due for completion in one and a half years. Unfortunately, they failed to plan for contingencies, and consequently, before they knew it, Muskaan was engaged to Kartik, all within a month.

Roshan and Kartik were 2 very different men. Roshan was much older and had a reckless temperament. Due to the age difference, the terms of the relationship were more like mentor and mentee - Muskaan was the mentee who needed guidance and it was Roshan who mentored her on the rights and wrongs of life. Kartik, on the other hand, was about the same age as Muskaan and acted his age. Since the engagement he courted Muskaan like any husband to-be would. Their relationship progressed like a car being tested – one gear at a time, by novices, neither of whom knew how to drive.

While the two men vied for Muskaan’s attention it was she who was in a fix. On the one hand, there was Roshan to whose emotional needs she had to slowly ease off from and on the other hand there was Kartik to whose growing emotional needs she had to cater to. She had to constantly sway between smiling and being fragile. She felt like she was in a trapeze act, swaying from side to side between Roshan and Kartik.

One evening she sat in her room. Muskaan looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was contorted. Her eyes were melancholic, while her lips joyous. She wept, while smiling.

Muskaan felt the cassette of her life stuck between two beautiful songs. And the cacophony that it created blared through her head and upset her own rhythm.

What do u do when you have to smile and frown at the same time? Life feels like an oxymoron then – A smiling frown. How ironic she mused - the smile and the frown are inverted curves of the lips and yet they depict two entirely opposite emotions. Her life was falling apart. Now since the two events are mutually exclusive, and yet they need to occur simultaneously, what happens? The frown needs an alternative outlet – and hence the eyes.. She wept.

Her mind ached. Her heart tried to think. She thought she would go insane. .

She paced restlessly around the room.

Her life was like a day when the clouds weep, but on such a day you could witness a miracle. When the drizzle is just right and the sun rays penetrate the rain droplets, there appears this marvel, this phenomenon.. a rainbow with seven bright colours across the sky.. You can see it over the mountains or lakes or even in the city. It is a symbol that appears during two conflicting conditions.

Her name was Muskaan – meaning, ‘smile’ – so thats what she did – smile.

She used her rainy eyes to create a rainbow - an inverted rainbow - a rainbow that was a smile on her face. The two conflicting emotions showed vividly on her face - her teary clouds and her bright shining rainbow.

Does size really matter??

Aah! Interesting topic eh? But one wishes to deviate from the oft referred-to context and to expand the scope of this topic.

You may wonder how one thought of this. It so happens one was entrusted to purchase a very expensive farewell gift, and after scouting a few elite establishments (which one is not privileged to otherwise due to monetary constraints), one fancied purchasing a crystal turtle (supposedly a lucky charm to good financial luck). The article had a small turtle perched over the shell of a larger turtle. Both turtles had black stones for eyes. It dazzled in the light, but it was tiny - only 3 inches in length and 2 inches in height - and it cost a (whopping) 1600 rs. One decided it was ridiculous and decided to seek other options. One was disappointed to find cheaper replicas that oozed cheapness – with uncut, unpolished and unruly finishing. One had to embarrassingly fall back on the original choice. So did size matter as compared to the sentiments? No!! Small was good. It looked royal. It looked regal. It worked!

One can speak from experience too, one being a little over 5 feet. One is short and stout, but one has the energy of a tiny fire cracker! One can run errands the whole day or scale mountains, all with astonishing vigour and yet when let up in the sky, one lets out all the shiny sparkling colours that lights up the velvet sky.

One remembers Taekwondo tournaments that one used to play. Anyone tall would be intimidating and self-doubt would creep in. But once in the arena, one displayed talent and skill and most often one would emerge victorious. Height, which one thought to be a short-coming, turned out to be one’s biggest weapon, because the advantage lies in being short - the shorter one is, the faster one’s legs can score.

One always wished one was taller, but then one must always remember –

Good things come in small packages
The rest are all wreckages.
So all u short people hold your head high,
Look people eye-to-eye
And say it out loud,
Say it like your proud
“It doesn’t matter what you call us..
Coz its you who has to adjus’
It’s you whose head is bowed down
And eyes lowered to the groun’
When you talk to me,
Aka shorty, teeny-weeny or tiny!”