Khotachi Wadi

There's something about small towns that's always been very appealing to me. I don't know if it's the people and their way of life or the lack of high rises or just the general atmosphere of peace and calm.

It's funny how the big city life is always like a dream for people from smaller towns and the other way round for people from cities. Nobody's ever satisfied with what they have. 

Visiting Khotachi Wadi the other day with my Poodle, reminded me of how much I'd like to live in an interesting little town or village at some point in my life. 

Khotachi Wadi isn't a small town or village though. It's just two small, peaceful lanes in the heart of the buzzing streets of South Bombay. These two lanes are so incredibly full of character, colour and life, that they make you wonder whether you're still in the city of slums and high rises. The architecture is beautiful and I love how all the houses are so colourful and vibrant. Even the alleys have this fascinating, mysterious charm to them!

The people there are probably used to a lot of photographers coming and taking pictures because they would always wait for me to finish clicking my picture before passing by. 

The photo walk was an absolutely wonderful experience. Although, I think it was even more fun because I went with my favourite photo walk buddy, Poodle. 

She took me to a small, Parsi shack for some mint tea and bun maska for the perfect end to the most interesting photo walk I've been to in a while. 

Cheers to Chikoodle in Khotachi Wadi. 

The Madonna mural which Khotachi Wadi is known for. 

There was one particular house that was especially intriguing. The urge to ring the bell and go share the joint the people inside were smoking was there (We could smell the marijuana), but we held ourselves back. The more I look at this picture, the more I want to go back and have a nice conversation with these interesting people. I'm guessing they would have to be interesting to have decorated their house this way. 

Pujo in Pune

Pujo time is beyond exciting for anyone from Calcutta. It means stuffing yourself with great food and mishti, wearing new clothes, going pandal-hopping with friends and of course, the endless pseudo-intellectual adda on the streets.

I’ve never had the chance to celebrate during Pujo like a true Calcuttan and it’s something I’ve always regretted. It’s been many years since I’ve been in Calcutta during Durga Pujo and I don’t know when I will be again. I still have this childhood memory of clutching on to my grandfather’s big hand amongst the massive clutter of overexcited, sweaty Bengalis. I remember the energy and excitement all the Pujo pandals exuded. I remember my father and my grandfather talking about how they would count the number of pandals they visited and all the food they would eat.

Pujo is not the same in Bombay and Pune. The atmosphere doesn’t quite match up to Calcutta and the people aren’t half as excited about it as they are there. I remember my grandfather asking me how many ‘thakurs’ I had seen that year and I always replied with two or three. I wonder how many they used to see.

These are pictures from a place in Pune where the idols are made. All the men who make the idols are from Calcutta and they travel here for 2 to 3 months to make them. It’s such a mysterious and fascinating place right in the middle of the buzzing city.

Visiting the place made me want to forget about these trivial exams and take the next train to Calcutta, spend the next couple of weeks there and absorb all that beautiful energy that Calcutta is always exuding. 

Strangers on the street.

Everybody has their own stories and secrets. We wear our faces like masks, trying to hide all the dirty secrets, the broken dreams and everything that we're ashamed of and don't want to share with the world. 
Sometimes, when you look at people, you wonder what their story is. When I look at the people in these pictures, I feel like sitting down for a long time with them and asking them to share a just a small part of their past with me. That way, their faces wouldn't always be a complete mystery to me. 

These are pictures of people that I took in Ahmedabad, during my internship there. I had a wonderful time in the city, despite the lack of booze and non vegetarian food. For some reason, I thought the people here would be hostile towards me and wouldn't be okay with my taking their photo. But they were absolutely great about it. 

Election Day, 2014. ALL I SEE IS VOLDEMORT.

Today is an immensely important day in India, isn’t it? It’s election result day, a day of great consequence in this country which is so fraught with political tension all over. My entire family – my parents back home, aunt, and my grandparents in Calcutta have all probably been up since 6 am, glued to their television screens, listening to the Arnab Goswami’s of the world rattle on the trends. They’re probably calling each other up every half an hour to discuss the situation. My family can get quite high on politics when they want to. My Dad calls me at 8 am today morning, sounding evidently excited and tells me to go watch television. He tells me that there’s going to be a giant screen in his office today along with tonnes of pizza and lots of enthusiastic, overexcited colleagues. He tells me a while later that everybody on the train is discussing the elections as well. All this enthusiasm, excitement and anticipation that you see on the streets of the country today is really brilliant, isn’t it? It makes you feel like the country is alive and wants change, like it believes in change.  

I’ve been wondering if it’s always like this every time there’s an election or it’s just this particular year that there’s so much thrill and interest in the elections. It’s also a monumental change to see a bunch of people my age actively taking interest in the political scenario of the country, even if it’s a small bunch. It’s probably about time we learn to not be so oblivious and ignorant about everything that’s happening around us. 

I’ve never been very involved in politics in the past, but this year, something about the situation pulled me to it. Today a certain political party has come to power or rather, a certain man has come to power. I can’t seem to be capable of comprehending what people see in this man. I can’t see why the people aren’t frightened of what’s just happened. How can people look at his dead, unfeeling, cold eyes and still trust him to bring change? How can people not see how inhuman he comes across as? How can we not see how ridiculously narrow minded and orthodox he is? They say that he wants growth and development? How can somebody so non progressive in their thought process, somebody so narrow minded and caste-obsessed bring about the progress of the nation? I don’t see it, or maybe I just refuse to and I’m biased. But, I don’t regret having this bias. 

India really is a fascinating country, with all its diversity and culture and languages. But this country scares me.  It scares me because of this very diversity and how everybody is somehow desperate to create divisions within the country because of the diversity. It scares me because we say we’re a democracy but each and every area or field of work is riddled with caste barriers and divisions of all sorts. I’m scared for all of us, for how stupid we’ve been. All I see in this man we’ve elected is VOLDEMORT. That’s all I see.  We probably just elected Voldemort to be our PM, who is expected to bring about change. Although, Voldemort is more likely to turn India into Nazi Germany. That’s change too, isn’t it? YAY for us. This man is also highly capable of declaring this country as a dry country. That itself might create riots of some sort! I’m also scared because this man is so obsessed with economic growth, that he’ll forget all the gazillion other issues that India has – the poverty, the illiteracy, the gender bias, and the environmental issues.  I’m scared and I’m helpless and frustrated.

I saw this Facebook post today that sums up why I probably wrote this article; and why today is a horrible, dark day for all of us who want a happy, free country, not one that’s biased on the basis of religion and caste, sexuality and so many other things.  

“Sorry atheists, freethinkers, beef eaters, LGBT community,

We gotta leave.
India will be Bharat.
Cows will be worshipped (even more).
Cow eaters will be beaten.  
Atheists will be kicked out for "insulting Hindu sentiments." LGBT community will be harassed for "insulting Indian culture."  
Muslims will be sent to Pakistan and Bangladesh.

Because abki baar Modi sarkar.
But hey! Don't be sad. Modi will give us jobs.”

WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

The eyes from the past.

He had this gleam in his eyes. She thought she understood that gleam. She thought his eyes had stories hidden in their depths, stories she would do anything to know. She also saw the fire and the determination in his eyes. She saw the sadness that would come over them like a blanket sometimes. She saw the mischievous glint. She saw the depths of his knowledge sometimes and it made her feel small and irrelevent. She could see it in his eyes when he was deep in thought and absorbed in whatever he was thinking about. She saw the happiness and innocence that came over his eyes when he smiled that occasional child-like smile. Sometimes she saw this calm, calculating look that intimidated and annoyed her to some extent. Every now and then she saw an understanding, loving look that she adored so much. She especially hated it when expressions that she didn't recognize would flash across his eyes and it would leave her feeling flustered and unsettled. She didn’t like not knowing, but at the same time, she liked the element of mystery that came with those black pools he had for eyes. 
They say your eyes are the windows to your soul. Then how can they betray you? Had she gotten it wrong the whole time and misunderstood those countless looks? She grew tired of trying to understand. 
Despite everything, she missed those eyes - the eyes from the past.  

Home, wherever that is.

Home. I’m not sure I know where that is.

Everybody seems to have this one place that comes to their mind when they think of home. Home is a place where they’re comfortable and happy and surrounded by people who love them unconditionally. It’s a place where you can be yourself and nobody would ever judge you for it. It’s a place where the food that your mum or dad has cooked gives you this strange feeling of homeliness and comfort you can’t find elsewhere. The food brings back memories of its own and takes you back to your younger days. 

I’ve had many homes throughout my life – homes in different cities, different houses in the same city. Is home really a place? In each of the places I’ve lived in, I’ve felt at home in some way or the other. I don’t think home is a place. Home is when you’re with people you care about and people who care about you. Home is happiness. Home is where you have happy memories along with the sad ones. But they’re memories nonetheless, aren’t they? Over the last year, I’ve been away from home. It takes you out of your comfort zone and brings out different shades of you. You realise the added responsibility that comes with staying away from home, you realise how much you start missing your mum’s food; you start missing countless things that you never thought you would ever miss. Slowly, I grew to like the new home I had though. I’ve concluded that home isn’t a place; it’s people - it’s family and it’s your friends.  

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Today, as I sat absorbed in the work I was doing on my laptop, a friend I’ve only known two weeks came up to me and asked me to write him something. I assumed he wanted help with something he had to write for his work, so I asked him what he wanted me to write for him. He said that anything would do, that he just wanted me to write something for him. I think that’s the most pleasantly surprised I’ve been in a while. I asked him to be a little more specific because I was still quite confused. He replied saying that I could write about my home, my friends, anything that makes me happy. I don’t think I can express how happy this made me. Nobody, nobody has ever asked me to write something for them. It’s the nicest feeling. I wrote this for him. He’s been away from home for a long, long time and I’m sure he misses home more than anything. He made my morning, he did.