Fishy Chronicles 8: Mousetrap, The Play

Ticket for the play (Photo by A. Peter)

Weeks ago, soon after our supposed rapprochement, Fish called me to say they wanted to go for a play.

“It’s only the best and longest running ever!” Dimitri said.

“So I’ve heard. Tickets probably all sold out. Besides, they play only in London.” That wasn't true. The entire troupe would be in Mumbai soon, with Agatha monitoring them from above.

There was silence at the other end. I asked, “Are you lovelies gnashing your itsy bitsy teeth? The play is only for hoity toity SoBo Mumbaikars.”

“Or just discerning theatre lovers. You selectively forgot them.”

“Indeedy, I did.”

“Well?” Portas came on the line. He was a muscled fish that I had rescued from a public acquarium. Fish had told me he was in danger of dying and we had mounted a kidnap plan. Turned out Portas was an old buddy of theirs and I had needlessly perpetrated a crime.

“Well, what?” I said.

“Would you like to go with us?”

“Really?” I was thrilled. I hadn’t been able to get anyone to go with me... and then I saw how much the tickets cost. The cheapest had been sold out.

“Yes. We thought it’d be good to enjoy a day out. What say?”

“Yes.”

****** 

Fish took care of the logistics.

Apparently Garl, their current benefactor, had had a word with someone at the theatre and we were allowed in without a fuss. Plus, said benefactor had organised the best seats in the house. We sat a seat away from Simone Tata.

“You don’t want to sit right next to the big bigshots,” Gregory whispered when I hefted the tank into the seat next to mine. I needn’t have worried. No one gave us a second look. Apparently it is de rigeur for fish and mosquitos to attend plays.

“Did you know that the first play was staged in 1952 and had Richard Attenborough in the main role?” Dimitri splashed a little water at me to catch my attention. There were many famous people in the theatre. But I thought I saw Genie too.

“You’re imagining things. He's enjoying winter in Yorkshire,” Gregory said, staring in the direction I was. “Besides, he would have told us.”

“He likes to wear flimsy clothes, remember?Yorkshire would be too cold for him.” That wasn't quite true. Genie loved winters, and the colder it was the better. I’d seen him wear a threadbare muffler, a thin t-shirt and march into the snow in Kashmir. I thought he was the original stud. And unattainable. And considering he had money, I didn’t understand why he didn’t wear better clothes.

Norbert buzzed around me. “Please don’t bite anyone, Nobby. You may get hurt. I may get thrown out if I attempt to find you in a darkened hall.”

“Relax, my darling. It was an excellent idea having my dinner here. What exotic fare to be had. For sure, my nourishment will be top notch. Wheeee!” Nobby screamed in my ear and disappeared. My heart palpitated and the play started.

Fish fidgeted. They whispered and fussed and jostled each other for a better view. And then settled down. We discussed it and couldn’t remember if we’d read this book. Was it a book at all?

“No,” Gregory said, “It’s a play. And it’s not been published or the end is supposed to be hush hush, or some such. The worst part is that Wikipedia gives away the plot entirely, even though the cast will ask the audience to keep the end a secret.”

“You know the end?”

Gregory looked sheepish. “I read up on the play. Didn't want to come unprepared.”

“You should chill, Greg. It’s okay if you don’t read the review and plot beforehand.”

Gregory gasped. “Heresy!”

“In fact you should ask if you can replace any of the cast when they’re ill or want a break. You’d do well. You'd love it.”

Fish turned their backs on me. But I was not troubled at all. The play picked up speed and I nudged the fish tank. “You're missing stuff. Watch the play!”

Soon we were standing and clapping. Fish tossed water about and screamed and whistled and people glared at us.

When the crowd started moving towards the exit, I waved at a couple of people I knew, but suddenly I saw Nobby flying towards me. “Run, run, run!” he screamed into my ear and hid in my collar.

I quickly got the Fish into my pushcart and charged out. We shoved a youngster out of the way and almost crashed down the stairs. An older man grabbed the tank and held it steady. I yelled a thankyou at him and ran down the narrow path until I saw a small corner hidden from view.

We waited till the crowd thinned – but not before I saw my ex and his wife. I dragged in my breath and tried to slow my heart.

When we were seated on Marine Drive, I asked Nobby what happened.

“I was having a good meal and kept getting swatted about. I heard someone call for an usher -- complaining that there were mosquitos -- and then I saw Rohit and his latest squeeze.”

“They’re married now,” I mumbled, the familiar feelings of rejection and humiliation bubbling up. Rohit Chawla had been my boyfriend for many years until one day he moved out and took up with Nikita. I realised later that much planning had gone into it.

I shook the hopeless thoughts away. “So what happened, Nobby?”

“I bit ever inch of his bare flesh and of that she devil!”

I stared at my little friend – he looked defiant and angry. He had the biggest, bravest, most loving heart in the world beating in his tiny body.

I tried to find words. Finally I heard Dimitri clear his throat, “Rohit deserved it. You did good, Nobby!” And with that Fish somersaulted in their tank and laughed. They popped out of the tank and blew raspberries at every Rohit Chawla lookalike walking by the sea in the dimming evening light.

Suddenly things felt good. Nobby cuddled my neck and we let the cool, strong, smelly wind of the Arabian Sea wash over us. Yes, I was definitely looking forward to the next few weeks. 

Fishy Chronicles 7: Nobby Helps Make Sense

As much as I tried, I couldn’t get past that heavy feeling in my gut.

I had made a mess of things.

Even if I had shared a noncommittal relationship with Genie, it was still a relationship. Though I wondered why he did, I felt warmed each time he called or sent a postcard, always with pretty stamps. When I ventured to thank him for them, he said gruffly, “You need your loves and your hobbies. And I was passing by a post office.”

I heard a buzzing sound. I had waited weeks for Norbert – I needed his advice.

This is a fictional series surrounding Fish, who previously lived with the narrator, Genie, her erstwhile thug turned manservant and now free soul and world traveller and Nobby, the rum cake-loving mosquito. The narrator is a single woman living in the distant suburbs of Mumbai. 

She feels she has burnt her bridges with Genie and is despondent. Nobby turns up to have a chat. 

I raised myself from the cold, flat, black slab that masqueraded for a window seat and opened the netted window. I lay back down, feeling tired but still sad. I felt embarrassed at what I might have to reveal to Norbert.

Norbert found a spot on the window above me and made himself comfortable.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to stop myself from killing mosquitoes, Nobby?”

“Considering the numerous attempts on my life everyday, I can hazard a guess.”

I sighed and continued to dream. This Christmas I hoped Santa would drop a nice man into my lap, naked and hiding his modesty with a bottle of eggnog. He needed to be kind and love me.

“Those kinds of things are hard to rustle up.”

“What kinds of things, Nobby?”

“A nice, warm, male body with a big heart.”

I sat up straight. I hoped I wasn’t an open book and that Nobby wasn’t turning into Fish.

“Is all well, my dear?” Norbert asked.

“No. I fought with Genie... and Fish.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean? I haven’t got a call from either since...”

“Since your last calls to them. Couldn’t you have called them back?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t try. For sure, Genie won’t want to.”

“Well, I sent word with friends that I wanted him here for Christmas.”

“And?”

“He’s not got back yet. But Fish gave me a earful and told me that it doesn’t matter what’s hidden in your walls.”

“OK.” I tried to damp the irritation I felt at Fish.

“They are going to come here on Christmas week. They have a list. They'll let you know in a few days.”

I sighed, beginning to feel stressed.

The several Christmases they had spent with me – we had been in shambles by New Year's Eve. Their lists had grown wilder each year. And now with their five-star lifestyle, I wondered if I could afford their expensive habits.

One year we had drunk bhang or cannabis for days and things are still a haze.

Another year it was a hookah craze and we had to stop because our chests and coughs wouldn’t clear.

Then they asked me to take them on a cruise. We didn’t go because I was deep in debt. The thought that my poorness had made them leave home has never left me. The sense of rejection is still intense.

“Stop worrying!” Norbert interrupted my thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“Stop it. You are the only one who can stand up to them. Word for word. Scales for skin.”

I shrugged. I couldn’t imagine anyone controlling Fish.

Norbert was still speaking, “Genie told me once that the only reason he stayed for so long is that you hadn’t wanted anything from him – ever. And watching you verbally duel with the Fish cheered him enormously. You never asked him to make you tea – even though he worked for you.”

That was true. I had felt embarrassed I couldn’t pay Genie much and I had never felt comfortable ordering him about. Despite that, he had bought groceries, cooked and calmed my disturbed soul.

Norbert sat on my knee. “How about we have a drink, for old times sakes. For now, you, I and Fish are on for Christmas. We can put together your dining table, wash your good chikankari table cloth and look up cake recipes tonight. Okay?”

“Sure, Nobby. Sounds good. I’ll get the wine.”

A calming drink with Nobby.
(Picture Credit: A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 6: Genie Has A Past

So the goings on at the CBI have the Fish aflutter.
They called me to discuss my clichés.

“You’ve got to give them up,” Gregory said. He was the poshest fish in my erstwhile tank. He slept in a bowtie and read books for fun.

“I don't care if people think I’m clichéed.”

“Tut, tut. So pigheaded. But you need to consider your future seriously?”

“What future and why?” that was the motto of my journo self. Pack in the questions.

“Because if the top guy at a premier investigative institution is in such deep shit, sooner or later you’ll be next.” Fish were talking about the flutter going on in the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation) at the moment. Some of the top guys were being investigated amid charges of irregularities.

I laughed for several minutes. It was the most I'd laughed in a long time.

“It's not funny!” Dimitri said, upset. He had been, was still, my favourite – sweet, gentle, caring. None of the sarcasm the other Fish heaped on me.

“What’s wrong, Dimitri?”

“You know how they’ve been trailing him and following him about and all the cases and cooked-up stuff.”

“There’s tonnes of debate on it.”

“Yes, well, you could get into trouble.”

I stifled another laugh. I was a nothing and a no one and it was rare for me to think one of the Fish was dim. There had to be something bothering them. Troubling Dimitri especially.

“The thing is, my dear,” Gregory grabbed the phone from Dimitri, “it has everything to do with Genie.”

“Genie?” He had invited himself into my tiny home one rainy day. Had dried himself and proceeded to make my parents, Fish and I fantastic tea and pakoras. He had won us over and ended up not leaving. Years later he had disappeared. Later I received a postcard from a remote town in Norway – he had wanted some excitement and had decided to leave.

This is a fictional series of Fish that lived with the narrator for years and finally decided to spread their fins. Genie is the narrator's former manservant and now world traveller. 

I thought of broad-shouldered handsome Genie. I knew he had had a chequered past but after a while I had let him be. He had a handlebar moustache that he tended carefully and dark smouldering eyes. He was hot... and living in my home. For the strangest reason, no one in the building ever asked us about him. Fish said he only went out in the evenings because he hated people so much.

I brought myself back to Genie and the CBI. “It's not making sense, Greg.”

“Gregory. Do you remember us telling you that he worked for Mogi Singh?”

“Er, yes.” Mogi Singh was a well know gangster. He’d gone to South India looking for work and become bad, rich and a menace. I knew about him – about the terror he wreaked in the South. He was rarely out of the news. Only later did I realise that Genie hadn’t been Mogi's butler, as he had led me to believe and I had naively assumed, but one of his trusted henchman. A henchman who finally broke free. Unheard of.

My thoughts returned to the Fish. “So?”

“So,” Gregory sounded frustrated, “so, Genie made all this cash and just turned smart. He's got his finger in every pie possible!”

I laughed. “What? He worked as my maid! Or Man Friday. Or whatever!”

“That was a front!”

“For what?”

“To lie low. No one leaves Mogi Singh and lives to see the next day.”

“Rubbish. Genie's not bad...” I had had doubts. He’d always treated me well, but he was unreadable, inscrutable. He was an unknown, frightening quantity. There was anger and sarcasm bottled in. In the years he had lived with us he had been polite and cool to me. I had tried to joke with him but later let him be.

Fish latched on to my silence. “See, you know it too. You’ve always known!”

I drew a breath. “Okay. But now he’s no longer living here.”

There was a collective slapping sound. I could hear the water slop out of the tank at the other end of the line. It sounded like Fish were slapping their foreheads and some of them were throwing themselves against the tank's walls.

“Stop that, you guys!” That habit of theirs still bothered me. I worried they’d get hurt.

Dimitri said, “Listen! You were a front for Mogi. When you were at work we’d hear the calls. And all the do-it-yourself repair work that Genie did, he was storing stuff for Mogi. Who would come and look for Mogi's stuff in your home?!”

“Whatttt... stuff?”

“Diamonds. Cash and gold are lumpy and too obvious. Those papers Genie made you sign as a guarantor? It was for a warehouse. He’s bought land and some derelict buildings outside Mumbai and is storing stuff there. Didn’t you think his absences were strange?”

“Yes. But he brooded so much... I thought he was pining for someone.”

I could hear the Fish tsk-tsking. Not for the first time did I think I was of inferior intellect. And worse, inferior to Genie. All this time I'd thought he was just easy-on-the-eye brawn.

“It's a royal cock-and-bull story!” I shouted.

“What will it take for you to believe us?”

I thought wildly. What indeed. I looked up and saw the POP work Genie had insisted on doing. I hadn’t complained because all the work he’d done looked good and had cost me only the price of the materials.

“Some proof. You say he’s stashed stuff here.”

“Er. Yes.”

“Where is it?”

I sensed their reluctance. “I don’t get it. You called me and made a hoo-haa about it and now you don’t want me to confirm the fact or root out his stash?”

“You may get into trouble.”

“You said it was only a matter of time.”

“You're putting words in our mouths!”

“Bye, bye!”

                                     ******

I looked all over the house.

I opened cupboards I’d opened only a couple of times in all the years I lived in my tiny flat. I looked in old boxes, in the storage space in the bed, the old stainless steel dabbas in the kitchen and finally even in the toilet's flush tank – like you see in the movies. Nada.

I desperately wanted to call Fish and rant. But I spent days and weeks looking over and over through the same things. Short of breaking the walls and plaster and feeling a tremendous fool for searching for someone else's treasure, I finally gave up.

I toyed with the idea of calling Genie and, after several weeks, did.

“Genie,” he had never offered a proper first name – I could never hear it, “er, did you leave any stuff behind?”

“Stuff?”

“Yes. Fish are worried your stash might get me into trouble with the authorities.”

There was silence and then a very slow, “Stash?”

“Diamonds.”

I heard a snort and a chuckle. And then a howl of laughter. I listened to it for an eternity. It may have been seconds or as much as a minute. Had the Fish fingered me?

“Yes. All safely in the walls. Do you have the money to fix your walls, pipes and tiles after you take them apart?”

“What?”

“I took it all with me.”

“Really?” I felt disappointment. I had visions of standing in a bucket full of diamonds in my bathroom – wallowing in whatever it might feel like.

Genie continued, “No, of course not! When are you going to figure out Fish are fooling around with you. When will you stop being so naive!” He stopped talking and ended the call.

I stared at the phone. My heart and feelings pooling at my feet. I seemed to have burned my bridges with Fish and, now, Genie.

Worse, I was still confused – because I had believed Fish, but not Genie.
 

                                      ******

Photo Credit: A. Peter

Fishy Chronicles 5: Meeting Norbert

Had a strange caller yesterday.

He threw himself at my window and afterwards screamed and howled until I opened it.

I had to. The watchmen looked up to see who I was torturing. Had to wave and smile and act normal.

Poor Norbert. My mosquito friend seemed bent out of shape – literally.

If you recall, years ago he ate some of my rum cake and passed out on the top of the fish tank. Fish had to revive him and they became best buds. And he visited for all the years Fish lived with me.

This is a fictional series of Fish that lived with the narrator for years and finally decided to spread their fins. Here their good friend Norbert, the mosquito, visits. Fish saved him from drowning when he had too much of the narrator's rum cake and fell into the fish tank. He now counts them among his best friends and is an ardent lover of the narrator's cakes.

“What was so important you needed to try and kill yourself, Nobby?”

He raised himself to his full tiny height. His back stiff.  “Norbert! I was not trying to kill myself! You wouldn’t open the window. So slow. So prone to drama.” He sounded like Fish... right down to the sanctimonious tone.

“My problem now, is it?” I should have squished him, instead I bent down to hear him better.

“Er, making any cake this year?”

“Aha!”

“Will you have a Christmas party?”

“Got guests. Not sure I’ll party.”

“Any cake or rum?”

“You want to come over?”

“Will Genie be there?”

“Not sure. He's travelling. May send me his love via postcard or call. What’s the matter, Norbert?”

He settled on my knee, looked up at me sadly and said, “I don't want to be alone this Christmas.”

My heart melted. My tough lil Norbert. “Oh, my darling! Let's not celebrate it alone. You and I and Rum and Rum-drunk cake. And if we're lucky, with Fish and Genie too!”

I heard the softest sigh.

“Okay. Now open the window. Got to go and spread some disease.”

Fishy Chronicles 4: Rapprochement

Fish took a helicopter ride to the burbs and stayed the night. They called it a rapprochement.

This morning they insisted on joining me for a walk at a new garden I had discovered. So I helped them on with their suits and we drove to the grounds and began walking. After 7 minutes, Fish cussed and demanded I stop.

This is a fictional series of Fish that catch up with their erstwhile owner and seek more adventure. They previously escaped the suffocating environs of a middle class fish tank to travel, broaden their horizons and spread their fins in every sense. 

"Why?" I asked.

"You're taking pleasure in the oddest things!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You see that old lady in the blue sari?" They pointed at the thin elderly lady who just passed us by. I had indeed noticed her and felt a feeling of angst when she quickly walked past. I watched her till she took the turn and disappeared. I turned to look at the Fish, who were watching me keenly.

"Well, what of her?" I said.

"You've been spending the last 10 minutes trying to overtake her!"

"What... What rubbish!" I hated that they were so perceptive.

"Quit comparing yourself to the world!"

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"Are we going to continue this walk?"

"If you stop chasing old women and keep pace."

"I won't lose any weight at your pace."

"None of that! You know we love every jiggly bit of you. Let's go and make fun of the other walkers." And they marched off into the middle of the path, making other walkers jump out of the way.

Sigh. I'm not lying. Attaching pictures to prove I was at the park.

I couldn’t locate the lady in blue, but by then I was enjoying my time with Fish. And, yes, we did make fun of some joggers.

The joggers spot in Mumbai's suburbs
(Photo by A. Peter)

A cricket game in motion in Borivali
(Photo by A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 3: The Dream

Fish at the window
(Illustration by A. Peter)

Last night I dreamt of Fish.

I thought I saw them peering at me through the window.

But when I opened my eyes they weren't there. It was a full moon night, some clouds cuddling the moon. 

Maybe another day.

Fishy Chronicles 2: A Quiet Day With My Book

One of those days when you want quiet,
a mug of tea and a book to read.
(Illustration by A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 1: Fish Call

So Fish and I missed each other by a set of fins in blue, blue freaky San Francisco.

I shacked up with an ancient boyfriend, because I didn't want to run through all my travel money at once. Fish messaged me pictures of their dinner. I stared sadly at my cold Mac burger.

Fish said they had a great view of the sea from their five-star hotel. They had followed their expat buddy from Colaba to SF. For those who don't know, Colaba is the Manhattan of Mumbai. More charming, I'd say.

This is a fictional series of Fish that lived with the narrator for years and finally decided to spread their wings... elsewhere. They are astute, intelligent, fun loving, adventurous and extremely loyal to their friends.  

Fish miss the narrator in San Francisco. They call her to gloat about their travels and they have words with the narrator. But all ends well.

I think they wanted to rub salt in my wound. Hence the call. It was hard to hear them all speaking at once. I wondered how Garl understood them. It was the strangest name I ever heard. Was it Carl and I had heard it wrong through the bubbles? Surely Garl was rich enough to afford the Fish a better phone line to speak on. After all, Garl, from Britisthan, had a seafacing suite at the Taj Colaba and apparently lacked for nothing. And it looked like my ex-posse of scales and fins didn't either.

"Why did you leave me?" was my first question when they paused for breath. I hadn't got over them leaving me.

They had threatened to leave many, many, many times, but I had thought they were being their fishy selves. But when they disappeared, leaving all their old clothes and my trappings behind, I knew they wouldn't return.

After a long silence, I heard a murmur. "Wanted to spread our fins. Time was passing us by."

Who had said it? It sounded ungrateful too. I had given them the best corner of my home. Got them the best airsuits money could buy, took them on my travels and even custom-built a mobile fish tank so that we could navigate Mumbai traffic. I had had to build it with a nephew, who howled with laughter when he heard Fish had left. It had made me feel worse.

I held on to my temper. I still wanted to hear them and keep the contact. "You didn't even leave a note!"

"Yeah. Norbert..."

"Norbert, the drunken mosquito?"

"He hasn't touched liquor since your rum cake. It gave him a headache of epic proportions."

"Have you been reading books? Your vocabulary seems to have improved," I said grumpily. They seemed to be on a roll. I thought they had had the time of their lives with me. Apparently not. "What about Norbert?"

"He said to make a clean break," Dimitri said softly. He had been my favourite of the fish. "It would let you heal... eventually."

I hopped with rage. Silently. I kicked over a chair and tried my luck with the sofa. OUUUCCCHHH!

It had been what Genie, my erstwhile househelp, had said. That it had been the best way for them to go. I had become too clingy.

"So!" I said tearfully. "So why are you calling me now? To rub Garl in my face? To show off?!"

There was silence and I cut the call.

After I had had a stiff walk around Jay's creepy neighbourhood, I had to run the last 20 minutes to his flat at breakneck speed because I thought I was being chased by a pervert. I cursed myself even more for leaving home without my phone. I had hurled it into a corner after the call. I couldn't afford a new phone in expensive America. I had to find that dabba phone and give it mouth to mouth.

I did find it. Under the fridge. With Jay's help I got the phone out and he put it together.

I stared at the screen, trying to figure out what to make of it.

In the few hours I'd been away, Fish had called 53 times and sent me several messages. I dreaded reading them.

I needn't have.

There were 30 messages, all the same. "We missed you. You were our Sun, sea, surf and ocean. Home and heart was with you."

-- AP

23.10.18

******

Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.
(Picture: A. Peter)

Fish suggested visiting the Japanese Tea Garden. It proved soothing. And I met more fish. Beautiful, charming, peaceful Koi. (Picture: A. Peter)

A Pagoda/temple at the Japanese Tea Garden
(Picture: A. Peter)

 The JTG
(Picture: A. Peter)

 Japanese Tea Garden. Beautiful place to walk about. Bought tea and small bits of crockery as souvenirs
(Picture: A. Peter)

Lord Buddha in a serene pose at the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco, California
(Picture: A. Peter)

Death

6 March 2016

Death is everywhere
You are prepared,
you say

It sneaks in
and 
steals your father
and your mother
and your brother
children
uncles
and aunts

Suddenly
you are unprepared 

Nothing you know
feels like Death

Do you really want to call?

You write to say
you'll call

But you don't
didn't 
haven't

The words 
crept into my mind
and whispered 
"We wouldn't have minded
being unspoken." 

An obituary: A lived life

Arwa Penna, the author, poet, traveler, blogger and serial nut, has died aged 90. According to one of her few surviving friends, her last words were that death had taken its own time.

Work was her life and unspectacular in every way. But on retiring she began to travel, a taste of which she got during a three-year break from work. She trekked the Himalayas and ghats of Western India and travelled well into her 80s, resulting in books on travel, poetry and fiction, almost all of which was vigorously rejected by publishers.

Some of her poetry was published, but not well received. She was, as she said in an interview with the Telegraph, “Over the moon it was published, grateful for the crumbs of fame, and eventually crushed by the rejection and derisive criticism it attracted.”

After being widowed, she embarked, with some surprise, on a series of ‘indiscretions’ with men, all notably younger. As she said of her Syrian Christian self, “When I was young, I was repressed and inhibited. Strangely, in my dotage men seem to find me interesting, which is hugely flattering. What’s the harm in a pleasant distraction.”

The longest such distraction was a pint-sized Tunisian, a financial whiz and already in possession of a wife and a brood of children. The pair met frequently, sometimes in other countries, something Arwa attributed to keeping her on her toes, physically and emotionally.

She was a supporter of equal inheritance and property rights for women and equal rights in the workplace. In the 36 years of her career, she did not get a single promotion. A manager, later a friend, attributed it to her ‘voluble’ and ‘aggressive’ nature. In almost all the companies she worked with, she attempted to join their trade unions, perceived as a threat by their respective managements. One newspaper group, the Bombay Pavwalla, blocked her every application/attempt to join the union. The matter was taken to court and so fiercely fought that it proved to be the company’s undoing. It was eventually liquidated and the case was closed just before Arwa reached retirement at age 58.

Arwa’s constant fights with management, however, stole the shine from her real achievements. She got them to help nearby villages generate electricity, implement organic farming methods and helped create a crude form of co-operative farm insurance.

Arwa’s intense quirkiness came out in her writing and most aspects of her later life. At age 51, she embarked on a hiatus, trekking in the Himalayas, living off herbs, fruits and food offered by kindly villagers, sleeping in the rough, swimming the ice cold rivers and rejoicing the death of her menses.

At age 54, she broke her leg while running down the stairs at Dehradun railway station for a train to Bardhhaman, following which she decided to return to Mumbai. And get a job.

A number of consultancies led to a senior editorial role at an investment bank, where she managed to get a series 16 certification, something that had eluded her for more than 18 years in the industry.

At her retirement, she was gifted a gold-plated ball point pen and a copy of Jeffrey Archer’s Honour Among Thieves, both of which prominently sported price tags. She was not sure if the title was meant to mean anything. The book she had read before. She attributed the price tags and book choice to the careless attitude of modern corporates and the plastics manning them.
  

Eggs galore

Photo: A. Peter 

Saw this yesterday, on my way back from my walk. 

Yesterday was another light day where I was able to dash home a tad early and present myself at the walker's park. The eggs on a bicycle is not a common sight in Mumbai, but I have seen these fellows ride their bicycles, swaying dangerously, with larger stacks of eggs. 

I think this is going to be one of those sights that will disappear soon. I'm trying to catch, among other things, the tempos carrying milk cans and cows strolling the streets. I remember trips to Mumbai where they'd be sleeping in the middle of busy roads. It has not been a common sight for many years, but I think the beef ban in Maharashtra may make them think differently. 

#milk #milkcans #beef #beefban #mumbai #jogger'spark #eggs #APeter

Saturday, Piku, Bombay Velvet, a surprise birthday party

After  a drought of good movies, some good ones came to Mumbai in a rush. I was lucky to catch one.
The first was Piku. Nicely

done. The anxieties of an ageing parent and the frustrations of a carer. I could empathise. I think the movie's a hit.

And on Saturday I tried to catch 'Playing it cool'. The show was cancelled. So I sadly bought a ticket for Bombay Velvet. I yawned and toyed with the idea of leaving, but had paid Rs300 for the ticket. Stiff. So I dreamt a little, saw popcorn jumping hoops and cold drinks running toward me with arms outstretched.

The guy on my right thought it was boring and rued the waste of Rs300 to a friend on the phone at the interval.

The two kooks on the left couldn't stop commenting.  I think they were hoping for racy, but the movie fell short.

After which I was late for a friend's 50th birthday party, which was smashing. Lots of noisy kids, alleviated by a wicked game that involved blowing balloons and bursting them by sitting on them. Harder than one can imagine.

Biker babe

Saw my rickshaw driver staring at this lady getting on to her bike.... and I was hooked too. It's an Enfield Bullet. It is a big, heavy, manly bike and guys generally riding this are making a loud statement. Sort of like the roar the Harley makes. Not many women ride these big birds. I was so impressed. (18 May 2015)

 I stared at her too.... till I lost sight of her. Go gurl.

Sigh. Meri number kabhi ayege  

Pictures that speak

In the last few days I have been tidying my cupboard, looking through old photos, trying to take pictures of old ones of my mom and her friends to post on Facebook.

Some years ago my sister left her photographs with me. She was moving countries and her home had been sold.

And while I always see the torn plastic packet I've stored them in, I rarely look at them. I do look, and then stop. It hurts too much to look at pictures of my parents. Not that I don't want to remember them, it's too hard. I still don't look at pictures of my dad's funeral and I haven't looked at the CD of my mum's.

Last week I opened the steel cupboard to look for something and decided to have a look at the photos.

There were pictures of my parents and of my brothers when they were in their 20s. My nephews as young babies and a lot of blurred ones. Hard to look at but difficult to throw away. You see, I've lost all the negatives -- a series of house moves, thefts at my parents' home. Yes, sometimes thieves like to steal photographs. Especially when they are related to you.

Now more than ever I look at the few pictures I have of my parents as young people and wonder why I can't see them that way -- with dreams, more interesting than those of any of their children, especially while remembering my dad's stories of his youth and the pranks he played.  Each time I look at pictures dating to the 1950s and 1960s I wonder why they got lost and why we haven't got around to 'finding' them. If that makes any sense.

My mum (extreme left). I don't know who the others are. This is probably before she married and when she worked as a nurse in Bahrain. c.1950s. I am in awe of her when I look at this picture. She was intrepid, for sure.

My parents on their wedding day in front of my father's home in Kerala. I'd previously said it was my mother's home, but an elderly cousin who attended the wedding ceremonies said this was my grandfather's home. The house now is more modern, but essentially looks like this with no changes to the windows and doors. Only a coat of paint.

Break at Kihim

Early this month some friends of ours, their families and we caught the ferry and went to my sister-in-law's beach house in Kihim, just outside Mumbai.
It was riotous and very enjoyable, if one ignores the itch I developed after returning.

The lane behind the house. All very picturesque. 

 'Flying Penguins' following our ferry. People held out biscuits and chivda hoping they'd swoop down and eat out of their hands. I saw one seagull sitting on the top of the ferry and enjoying the breeze.

Sisters, S and K, checking out their early morning beachside selife (12 April 2015).

 Love apples. Stolen from next door. Plenty of mangoes on nearby trees...all still hanging where we left them.

 My first evening at the beach, alone. (11 April 2015)

 Walking on the little lane toward Kihim beach.

A rooster and his family. 

They saw sand for the first time.

Kerala

A strike in Kerala, a 'samaram' (November 2014). I think that's a church in the background. 

A movie theatre in TVM

A single screen movie theatre in Thiruvananthapuram (November 2014). I was charmed by the building and surprised a single screen theatre could brave competition from multiplexes. But this is Kerala, everything is possible. Saw two movies in two days.

Street views

On my way to work one day in 2014. Near Jogeshwari, Mumbai. There are some pictures crying to be taken. This was taken during the rains.

The aroma of onions

This was written at end 2013.
..................................................................................

I'm sitting at my work table, and for the last couple of days i've been thinking that there's food stored in the drawers of my table. Though there's also the niggling thought that it's actually the onions and garlic sharing space on the window ledge, level with my ear. complicated seating arrangements, right?
My husband is always unhappy about the way i keep house. I would eat something that has recently expired. He would throw it out a month before. and so on and so forth.
But with the recent spiral of onion prices, we ended up watching onion prices carefully, reminds me of my parents buying gold ornaments when i was a kid, and then going off to the wholesaler and buying two kgs of onions and potatoes. The only problem is when they start rotting.
On 24 December we went into overdrive... we were cooking mutton for the larger family and so bought 3-4 kgs of onions and another 3-4 kgs of potatoes and a kg of garlic. Half of the onions and tubers went into the mutton curry.

The cook (pure veg) likes to add potatoes in whatever vegetable she's making. It's edible only when she does. And we only keep her on because she's been able to stand me for the last five years. So, now, we're down to a couple of large potatoes from last year's batch. We still have a watermelon and a couple of apples from last year. We're both silently wondering who will peel and dice the fruits and serve it to the minions.

My husband is so worried of the waste... what if the onions rot. So he lays them down on the bedroom window ledge. This is the bedroom my mother slept in when she was alive. We have yet to move into it and the bed is now sagging under the weight of my oven,  cake mixer, their packaging, curtains that need washing, papers - his and mine, a leather folder that has some more papers etc.

A few months ago, my husband also tied a clothesline between the TV stand on one wall and the curtain rod on the opposite. His only worry seems to be that people can peep in and see that we are drying our clothes in our bedroom.

The window ledge, a very broad one, now holds a large basket with about 2 kgs of onions and a large quantity of garlic and wafting all about... a pungent smell. The smell reminds me of my early days at the Times of India.

The paste up artists would buy onions in kilos and store them in lockers next to the draft board. The smell so pungent,  some days so welcome and fragrant and, on others,  when the skinny horny artist told me to stand near him and proceeded to skewer my breasts with his elbow, tortured.

It ended one day when I was told I had to put the edition to bed early. I ran up with the layout and explained it to the artist. Ran down to work on the articles. After I'd sent it up electronically, I ran back up to check and sign off the layout.

The layout was a mess. Pasted in the wrong places,  with no resemblance to the layout. It was when he insisted on me standing next to me and poked my breast in the process that I roared that he'd pasted crap on the page and I could do it with half a brain. I was close to grabbing his collar and trying to wrestle his blade from him when the Malayali supervisor slid between us and begged me to go back to my floor and return in about 20 mins. After which I found the page beautifully made... and signed off quickly.

That night my best friend, and working at Economic Times at the time, told me I had quite likely incited a strike and that none of the paste-up guys would work with me again,  and that my useless temper had got the better of me.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink that night.

I returned next day, glumly climbing the stairs to supervise the layout, and had a few guys crowding my table and chatting.

I'd become famous. And a tad popular.  And I realised I came to adore the guys upstairs.

Also breast poker became very careful thereafter.

My obituary

I got this idea after reading Veena V's obit. I enjoyed readin her's and writing mine.

An Obituary

Arwa Penna, the author, poet, traveler, blogger and serial nut, has died aged 90. According to one of her few surviving friends, her last words were that death had taken its own time.

Work was her life and unspectacular in every way. But on retiring she began to travel, a taste of which she got during a three-year break from work. She trekked the Himalayas and ghats of Western India and travelled well into her 80s, resulting in books on travel, poetry and fiction, almost all of which was vigorously rejected by publishers.

Some of her poetry was published, but not well received. She was, as she said in an interview with the Telegraph, “Over the moon it was published, grateful for the crumbs of fame, and eventually crushed by the rejection and derisive criticism it attracted.”

After being widowed, she embarked, with some surprise, on a series of ‘indiscretions’ with men, all notably younger. As she said of her Syrian Christian self, “When I was young, I was repressed and inhibited. Strangely, in my dotage men seem to find me interesting, which is hugely flattering. What’s the harm in a pleasant distraction.”

The longest such distraction was a pint-sized Tunisian, a financial whiz and already in possession of a wife and a brood of children. The pair met frequently, sometimes in other countries, something Arwa attributed to keeping her on her toes, physically and emotionally.

She was a supporter of equal inheritance and property rights for women and equal rights in the workplace. In the 36 years of her career, she did not get a single promotion. A manager, later a friend, attributed it to her ‘voluble’ and ‘aggressive’ nature. In almost all the companies she worked with, she attempted to join their trade unions, perceived as a threat by their respective managements. One newspaper group, the Bombay Pavwalla, blocked her every application/attempt to join the union. The matter was taken to court and so fiercely fought that it proved to be the company’s undoing. It was eventually liquidated and the case was closed just before Arwa reached retirement at age 58.

Arwa’s constant fights with management, however, stole the shine from her real achievements. She got them to help nearby villages generate electricity, implement organic farming methods and helped create a crude form of co-operative farm insurance.

Arwa’s intense quirkiness came out in her writing and most aspects of her later life. At age 51, she embarked on a hiatus, trekking in the Himalayas, living off herbs, fruits and food offered by kindly villagers, sleeping in the rough, swimming the ice cold rivers and rejoicing the death of her menses.

At age 54, she broke her leg while running down the stairs at Dehradun railway station for a train to Bardhhaman, following which she decided to return to Mumbai. And get a job.

A number of consultancies led to a senior editorial role at the Royal Bank of Scotland, where she managed to get a series 16 certification, something that had eluded her for more than 18 years in the investment banking industry.

At her retirement, she was gifted a gold-plated ball point pen and a copy of Jeffrey Archer’s Honour Among Thieves, both of which prominently sported price tags. She was not sure if the title was meant to mean anything. The book she had read before. She attributed the price tags and book choice to the careless attitude of modern corporates and the plastics manning them.