Pammi Will Wed Reghu

For her twenty-first birthday, Pammi put on an Australian accent. She ordered a Long Island at Harry’s, unsure of its ingredients, and then sat at the barstool guessing at the taste of alcohol and the people at the bar.

Her Long Island arrived. She started slow: small sips and conversation with women in stilettos. She started to talk of Michaelangelo but the ladies soon returned to their phones. She moved on timidly to surveying the men. On cue, one of the species approached. It was the barman, this time on her side of the bar.

“The second round’s on me,” he said, raising his glass to hers, “Cheers!”

“You can drink on the job?”

“I’m off duty now. So what are we celebrating?”

Mr. Suave Barman quickly added up her story: new to New Delhi, just got a job at the Supreme Court, just broke up with her boyfriend, still wanted to celebrate her 25^th birthday and Harry’s was the nearest bar.

One two ka four, the Suave Barman thought, Four two ka one.

“My name is Lakhan,” he sang, adding, “And you are?”

“Pammi. Friends in Australia call me Pam.”

“I like Pammi. I like Punjabi girls. And I love this song.” he said, starting to dance on the tune that just broke out, “Perfect break-up song.”

She remembers him expertly holding their drinks as they sashayed to ‘Let’s Break Up, o meri jaan’. She did not mind it, this new taste, and this camaraderie over what would become a newfound ritual.

That was seven years ago, exactly.

***

Ashraf finally managed to get through to her. He wanted to meet for her birthday, “Remember, where we first met?”

Pammi arrived at Harry’s Pub in Lajpat Nagar at 9 pm sharp. Ashraf walked in unhurried, 40 minutes later, looking as dapper as ever.

Fuck him, she thought.

“Two Long Islands,” he said, leaning across to the barman. He then turned his smile full-beam on her.

Fuck him, she thought again.

“Happy birthday, Pammi!” he said holding out one arm, the other concealing her gift.  

“Thank you. And it’s still Pam.”

“Were you waiting long? Sorry man, traffic was crazy today.”

“That’s funny because, you know, I ran into Reghu just now. And you know what he said? He said he was coming from the same direction. And it only took him 20 minutes because the roads were totally empty.”

“For God’s sake, Pammi. I’m telling you the truth,” said Ashraf, irritated.

“Oh, I’m sure, Mr. Lakhan. You always tell the truth.”

“Oh come on Pammi, you can’t still be mad about that,” he was irritated, then back to his usual self, “That was so long ago. I can’t even remember...”

“Seven years ago. It was seven years ago, today.”

Ashraf pursed his lips.

 “I still can’t believe you lied to me.”

 “It was just a joke.”

“It was not a joke, and it was not funny.”

“It may have gone a little too far.”

“Two whole months.”

“You are such a nitpicker. You know what I remember? Australia. Broke up with my boyfriend. Supreme Court. You even convinced me you were 25.”

“You were the barman! I’m supposed to say I’m 25. You lied to me about your name for two whole months. I said one little lie so I wouldn’t get kicked out of the bar.”

“Four.”

“What?”

“Australia. Boyfriend. Job. 25. Four little lies.”  

“Pfft! And I’m the nitpicker?”

“That you are.” Ashraf leaned in and gave her that Mr. India smile of his. “But I don’t remember any of that. What I remember is seeing a lady with a Long Island sitting alone at the bar in a lovely black dress, a lot like tonight.”

Fuck him, Pammi chanted, Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

***

Pammi took the robe from Ashraf and closed the bathroom door.

“I’m getting married,” she said, then came out wearing the robe.

“Excuse me?” said Ashraf.

Pammi shot down the urge to say ‘Excused.’
“You know the guy, vaguely,” she said.
She took the towel from around her head and began to dry her hair. 

“What are you on about?”

“Reghu. I’m marrying Reghu.”

“That’s fucked up. He just saw us yesterday at Harry’s, dancing to our song.”

Pammi picked up a hairbrush.
“Our song? What song is that?”

“The break-up song.”

“Yeah, but which one?”

“What are you doing to your curls? I love them the way they are.”

“Don’t change topic. Which song was it?”

“What the hell does it matter?”

“You don’t remember.”

“Sayya ji se aaj maine break-up kar liya. You were there when I asked the DJ to play it last night.”

Pammi turned around to face him.
“Yes, and that is not our song.”

“Pammi, you’re frigging annoying.”

“Our song was ‘Let’s Break Up.’”

“And what the hell is the fucking difference?”

Pammi faced the mirror and started brushing her hair again.

“The fucking difference is this: the first song was from the movie ‘Dear Zindagi’ and the second was from ‘Ae Dil Hai Mushkil.’

“And again, what the fuck does it matter?”

“What’s in a name? That which we call an Ashraf, by any other name – say Lakhan – would be as rotten...”

“Ah.”

Pammi stopped brushing her hair.

Ashraf nodded slowly, breathing out each sentence.

“You’re getting married,” he said.

“Yes.”

“To a guy called Reghu.”

“Hm.”

“Because my name is Ashraf.”

Pammi put her brush down.

Thanks to Nisha Susan's guidance, whose workshop 'Write Like a Girl' was where this piece was first written. I have made a few edits thanks to tips from friends Yuveka Singh and Rihan Najib!  For people who don't watch much Bollywood, there are a few references to Indian songs and cinema. Sorry about that, I hope the story still holds up. Send me your comments please, would love to hear what you think! 

Let them live

They say about your writing that "you have to kill your darlings."

That's what the critics would tell you. And this strange proverb seems to invite them into your head. I think the expression "cat got your tongue" finally makes sense to me. It's that hesitant way that Gutthi, my cat, has about everything. When I've picked her up and she has to think many moments before deciding that she really wants to be down on the ground. The always thoughtful and pensive way she has. That feeling of never quite knowing if you are saying the right thing.

What is the right thing to say?

Ever?

I have been so hesitant. Every word, every sentence goes through revisions. Words almost out of the mouth make their way back in into an in-breath. Statements turn into questions. Thoughts into doubts. Everything, all my words, all my thoughts, go back on themselves.

It's been this way for so long, and it's been so tiring. It's been so tiring answering all those imaginary bullies, and the real ones.

The truth is if I never let these words out, I will never find the beautiful ones, never have any darlings, and before I have the luxury of killing them darlings, I have to let these unformed, unthought words out into the world, to let them be ugly, unfinished, careless.

And simply let them be. 

Mary Oliver passes

I first met Mary Oliver on a bookshelf in Maadi, Egypt. I am not so clear why I was there, kneeling, and pulling out a copy of "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver from a white row of low shelves. Perhaps I was there after a workshop or an event. I am also not clear about the name of this place.

I remember the book being a beautiful purple coloured cover, and I think I may not remember it correctly. I remember it being almost square and weighing well in the hand. I remember reading the title poem, and I remember wanting to keep the book, probably to steal it.

I remember sharing the poem with a friend, who had read her poem "The Dogfish."

I remember sharing it with another friend I loved, and who faced confusion, and I remember sharing it with another friend, and another love.

I remember pulling it out to comfort myself, realising the value of the freedom from the burden of being good, though I have always tried so hard to be good.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things. Mary Oliver Wild Geese

I know this poem is a blessing.

As I hear of her death, I know that I have never craved to meet this person, yet her touch has been light and present, especially in moments where I searched for or sought to share hope. 

If I could pass through this world as lightly, and with as much grace...

I remember today, waking up to quotes and dedications to this poet, and feeling already left behind, feeling already old in my praise.

It is almost as if nothing had happened. You will always be like this quiet morning, this soft light that shines on the bright green leaves of the tree. 

And I am thankful. 

Spark Joy!

I have been watching "Tidying Up" on Netflix featuring petite cleaning sensation Marie Kondo. Her konmari method is based on the philosophy of joy. Keep only the things that "spark joy", she says in her Japanese accent. Marie is also a master folder, and has a technique of folding clothes - usually in thirds - so that they fold into a smooth rectangle that can be stacked vertically. This both makes for neatness and maximises space.

Today, another thing that sparked joy besides my little daily cleaning has been a meeting with Dr. Vikram Patel. I put forward my proposal with Echo to Dr. Patel, who is an eminent psychiatrist dealing with mental health issues globally. Clearly this was daunting because he could quickly spot flaws in my argument. This time I came quite prepared. I had a good presentation and answers to most of his questions.

Today sparked joy.

I find it difficult to toe the line between arrogance and under-confidence. I'm usually on one side or the other. Today I went in fairly prepared, both with the presentation and with expectations, which were quite low. I went in thinking that my idea may be dismissed completely. But with Kartik by my side helping me prepare and present my case to Dr. Patel, I felt confident enough to defend my idea, clear any doubts, and answer questions sufficiently. I also made sufficient headway in terms of progress at the first meeting, and have enough to go on to ask for a second meeting. That already is enough.

We have what it takes to take this project forward. All we need now is funding. Granted that is a big ask, but at the same time, having Sangath and Dr. Vikram Patel by our side is a huge achievement. To be honest, even Kartik and Echo had not yet managed a meeting with Dr. Patel, but now they finally have. Dr. Patel already knew about Sangath and he already has a meeting planned with Dr. Arora. Kartik did not know about this, or did not know that it would be brought up at the meeting, but Dr. Patel apparently has spoken already to Sanjeev Arora and they will be having a meeting next week. So that's very good.

A lot of steps need to be taken to ensure that we are taken seriously. Small steps, like business cards. Medium steps, like a website, and large steps, like registering the organisation formally. I will need Blessin on board for this. I guess that's a nicer way to say, aaaaaaaaaah paaanic, Blessin!

So, all in all a good day. I worked for hours at 91springboard right after the meeting with Dr. Patel. I might take up a work-space over there at Nehru Place. I think the chair arrangement suits me far better because I like having my little corner in the cafe area. So I'll work for another day tomorrow and try to see if it works out with Blessin to finance a chair in the other area. Tomorrow I'll also speak to Google for Entrepreneurs and see what kind of support and funding is available over there.

Had a good catch-up and meeting with Blessin today too. Talked about how to take Sahaayta forward, and honestly talked about my financial situation which was good to do, because someone needs to know about that. 

Laying down the law

Lay down the rules
of the ground
on the ground.

Draw lines
on both sides of the ruler:
the line they cannot cross,
and the line you will not.

Observe
the two lines
Separated
by a space
As
flat and fat like a ruler,

as
Fat and flat like a ruler.


a poem after a long while, and perhaps not a very good one, 
but still a start.

How To Prepare

* Write a list:
* Wash your hair in the morning.
* Do your jobs - remember all the mini-tasks.
* Set an auto-response for the time you are away. .
* Set reminders for when you are back.
* Say goodbyes.
* Pick up the shopping left over at the store.
* Go to the parlour. Get hair done.
* Do the packing at home; gifts, clothes, medicines, telephones, chargers, money, all that stuff.
* Oh yes! Passport! Ticket! Pen!
* Maybe also paper
* Say goodbyes (again).
* Make a list. A new one.

Insomnia

Some window seems to be banging against the sill,
and I cannot find it.
I'm afraid I know which window it is,
and of what I may find behind it..
The dogs have been barking, that cannot be good.
This is a very very quiet, dark neighbourhood.
I live alone; I'm afraid of being alone,
I wouldn't like living with someone.
and I'm afraid I'm not alone...