The Balloon Lady- part 1

i just saw this pregnant and poor lady trying to sell balloons near Jayanagar 4th block last week. The image just stayed in my mind, and i'm trying to write something about it.

She hadn't sold too many today. Only six of them since the morning, and the sun was already reaching its zenith in the sky. She needed to sell a few more to eat her meals and maybe save some money for later. But it was harder to walk around with a pronounced and rotund belly, and with the extra pounds of another life taxing her already frail body. She would have to sit down every once in a while, and take a few deep breaths. The baby had started kicking now, it wasn't too far away. She walked with a tired and resigned look on her face, feet dragging and posture limp. Things had gotten harder since her husband had died.

It was never expected of her to run the house selling the balloons. Her husband used to be a handyman at construction sites and got daily wages. They used to run a happy, content household with it and were looking forward to their new child. But a mishap at the site took her husband away from her. She didn't even get time to grieve properly since she had to get back to earning money. Not knowing too many other things to do, she continued selling balloons by the sidewalks, and got more judicious with her money. She was somehow getting by but with the baby coming, she did not know what to do. She used to trudge through her days and cry through her nights.

The honk of a passing car made her snap back to the present. She looked around and saw a couple of kids coming towards her with their parents. She forced her business smile upon her face, and went to them with her balloons, as though selling them made her happy enough to smile that way. The little ones were instantly interested, but they did not hold enough sway over their parents to get them to buy one. But she was used to it, that was the case nine out of ten times.

She glanced at the traffic cops stationed at a nearby intersection. Hawk-eyed, they watched every passing vehicle, ready to pounce at any indiscretion. While she watched, they stopped a passing goods truck and asked him to show his permit. He handed over everything to them, and disappointment was writ large on their faces when they saw everything was in order. They were about to let him go when they saw the truck's broken rear indicator. They immediately stopped him and abused him for not bringing it to their notice earlier. They called him outside and read out to the him his offence and how much he was liable to pay for it. The man meekly said he did not have that much, and asked them if a settlement was possible. They looked at him for a long second, and directed him to their superior sitting on his bike in the shade of nearby trees. Two hundred rupee notes passed hands and the driver was let go. Two hundred accounted rupees, that would never reach the government coffers.

She shook her head as she looked at this routine occurrence. God only knew how much they made every day. The other day she had even overheard them talking about how difficult it was to stand waiting till someone could come for them to catch. How they were being overworked for their money. She walked away, disgusted at how people could take their good fortune for granted like this. From what she had seen, they were the most shameless, amoral and unprincipled people she knew.

She looked around her. People all dressed up, buying things they probably didn't even need, shopkeepers haggling with customers, smug smiles on their faces knowing that they were cheating them, young boys staring at women walking by, whistling and hooting, and suddenly she was overcome by a wave of hate, disgust and nausea. She felt faint and sit down right where she was standing. How could such a society co-exist, so full of evils and treachery?

Swept by a wave of hormones so common during pregnancy, she felt wave after of despair, and anger and hurt, and started crying. But no one made any move to help her or ask her what happened. She banged her left fist on the ground, overcome once again as she remembered her recent grief. That is when her hand fell upon something sharp and small. She yanked her hand back in pain, and then saw what it was.

It was a diamond ring.

Someone had dropped their ring on the sidewalk and it had lain there, unnoticed. She picked it up and looked at it. It looked shiny and very attractive. Also very real. She wondered how much she would get if she sold it. And then she pondered the question.

What was the right thing to do? What was right in such a world anymore?

Stop Running

its just that phrase that came into my head first. then i thought of writing about what the poem surmises. That sometimes, you don't have to fear...

He walks, glancing back now and then, he walks,

Echoes terrorize him, as to himself he talks.

He doesn't want to know what it is, doesn't care,

All he knows is that he wants to get out of there.

There are no footsteps, and no sound of breathing,

But he is convinced its there, and listening.

He wants to act calm, but then he is shaking,

Trapped in a nightmare from which he's not waking.

Its a long hallway with dark aisles on either side,

And he's fighting through it against the sinister tide.

A book falls somewhere, and his heart freezes,

Yet he walks on till the balcony and then eases.

But there is no fresh air, no liberation of fear,

Then he realizes all the while it waited for him here.

He leans against the railing, pulling back from it,

But it creeps upon him, bit by agonizing bit.

Till he tips and falls, onto the hard ground below,

As the life ebbs out of him, painful and slow.

But then we look for the being that caused his fall,

To see there never really was anything there at all.

That first mystery

i was just reminded of this really funny incident, or rather a series of incidents that had taken place when i used to live in mumbai, or thane, for semantics' sake :P the following story is a mix of memory and a bit of what-it-probably-was...

This happened around the time when CID was actually a good show. Yes really it was! Around the time when detectives were the stuff, so to speak. For the residents of the little housing society of Hyde Park, tucked away off Ghodbunder Road in Thane, this was probably as big as it was going to get.

Someone was stealing the caps off the air nozzles on the bicycles parked in the society garage.

Now, before you pass off the story as a juvenile waste of time, let me say that at the time of its occurrence, I was seven years old. So obviously the situation had stymied me back then. Also anyone who's ever had to fill his tires almost everyday for want of an air nozzle cap will tell you about the severity of this crime. Okay let me just recount to you how we went about the whole thing, so you get a better idea.

It was a warm Thursday evening, and we had all done finished playing cricket in our lawn. We came back to the building, to see one of our friends Srikant looking around his bicycle. We went up to him and asked him what happened.

'I can't find the air nozzle cap man!' Having been victims of similar misfortune before, we all tried to help him, but to no avail.

'Looks like you have to keep filling often till you get a new one man', I said.

He looked around glumly. 'You're right I guess. Damn.'

But over the next few days, everyone started losing the nozzle caps off their back tires and the issue was escalated. We kept buying new ones, they cost a rupee or so hence money was no matter, but it was inconvenient to keep getting them. But they kept disappearing. It all came to a head one day when Rahul, a friend of mine, found a small steel plate full of these nozzles in one corner of the garage. He called us all and showed it to us. Then started the really funny part. Everybody tried to be the Sherlock, only their performances consisted more of imitation gimmicks than any real deduction. I most decidedly remember one guy going home and bringing back a magnifying glass to look for clues. But do bear in mind we were all seven to eight years then..

'Hmmm, whoever stole it, must have left some clue. They always leave clues. We have to look around the crime scene' was what my friend Gullu had to contribute.

'Lets do this. We all take turns keeping a watch around the garage. That way the thief can't make his getaway', was another suggestion.

'That's when Pratik, one of us guys, said the ominous words, 'you know it could just as easily be one of us. And now the person knows our plans.'

Boy did that cause a furore! There were smaller groups within the group now, each divided on their belief of who the criminal was. Plans were made in secret, and pseudo plans were shared when all of us met together. Highly devious behavior for our age yes, but all our plans came to naught. Nozzle caps still kept disappearing with exasperating regularity.

Pretty soon the situation threatened to slip into anarchy, and the growing murmurs within the smaller groups were on the cusp of turning into full-fledged throaty accusations. Our friendship would have been fractured beyond any help, if not for Majumdar uncle, Rahul's father.

He called us all one evening and told us he had solved the case of the missing nozzle caps. Our reactions varied from incredulity to envy to relief.

'This morning I was coming back from the airport and I was getting into our building at around 4.30, when I saw something in the garage, near Rahul's cycle. Curious, I went to see who it was. There was a weaver bird that was removing the caps with its little forelimbs and carrying it away. I silently followed it and found out that it was keeping all of them on the small plate you found. Then it flew with the plate to its tree, and used it in constructing its nest, for some sort of foundation. Frankly I'm surprised to see such intelligent behavior in animals, but yeah, there's your mystery. I suppose it'll stop once its done building. You kids don't have to worry after that.'

We all sat silently, stunned by who the criminal actually was. A bird! It had been a fun experience; the kind of perverted excitement I had felt when I'd for the first time heard there was a criminal amongst us! The thrill of pursuing an actual case, albeit with questionable methods. All of that. But right now, everyone was feeling a little foolish, going to such great lengths to catch someone who never existed. But we all tried to put a brave face, laughing outwardly at how this had turned out. I guess that night each one of us looked in the mirror, wondering how they could perpetrate such stupidity. I know I did.

Sure enough, the nozzle caps stopped being spirited away after a few days. The simplicity of the whole situation had changed something in us. There were a few other things that happened which seemed inexplicable on the face of it, but this time we never got so involved. Everyone just let it be. We weren't interested in getting excited, we didn't want to fantasize things. There was probably a very boring reason for most anomalies. We didn't want to pursue things, with wide eyes and amazement.

Maybe we were just growing up.

Bottled emotions

emotions bottled up. Something about that phrase made me think. More than anything, I wanted to write this to explore the concept. what if we could drive away our negative emotions just by taking a swig of a potion to induce the feeling we wanted?

I write from my desk, with wobbling hands,

I haven't had a gulp in a very long time.

They say they've run out of happiness,

What do I do till I wait for a new batch?

I'd gone to them not more than an hour back,

Their board claiming they had every emotion.

I entered to see aisles full of labelled bottles,

'Reason, calm, honesty, determination, bravery'.

There was a woman with a bottle of Reason,

Taking a swig as tears ran down her face.

It seemed not enough as she burst out again,

Drinking and drinking but to no avail.

I wondered what her sorrow was as I looked,

As eventually she grew stoic, and left the place.

And the bottled emotion did its trick again,

With another unwanted emotion driven away.

Another man who was shaking with anger,

Hurriedly paid for a bottle of Calm.

And only to gulp it down at once, too much,

Then sat down right there in a silent trance.

Its funny how long it has been, so long,

Since we were helpless to feel like we did,

But no more of that, even that has a cure,

'Bottled Emotions' give you what you want.

I went up to the counter and asked the man,

If he had any happiness for my depressions.

A string of failures getting me where I was,

I wanted to make the sinking feeling go away.

But he said he was out of its stock,

As happiness was the fastest selling item.

He said people horde him for it, as seemingly,

They don't get any of it on their own now.

What was I to do now, in the meanwhile?

I haven't had to face sadness in so long.

Well I guess I just have to sit in the corner,

Tide over till my rescue comes in that bottle.