Reminiscence of my past Quarter Century

Today on 22nd Jun 2009, which happens to be my birthday, I sit here in my cubicle scribbling down this piece of post. Over the past couple of years birthdays have not been a special occasion, as it used to be when I was a toddler. Now a days, its just another day, jab main mann maarkar office jaata hun and work till I drop. Today in the midst of colleagues, sitting in the boardroom, unable to receive calls from friends and relatives, I wonder how this particular day has changed over the past quarter century of my existence. I remember as a child my birthday used to be a special occasion with new clothes and shoes to wear, mom’s special delicacies to feed on and some extra generous savings from granny to make the piggy bank little heavier. Colored balloons decorating the hall, Mickey Mouse shaped cake, colorful candles and entire gang of bachcha party singing the happy birthday jingle. When I close my eyes, I recall my happiest days as a child. Those were the days of innocence, fun and frolic. 28 years ago on the same day, a baby boy was escorted into the world, crying loud enough for a deaf man to get a pair of earmuffs lest his eardrums go tattered. After all it’s the momma's job to tell me that unless I kept quiet gabbar aa jaayega. Months rolled up and I grew up into a pretty normal kid who thought thumb is gods candy so I hogged on it. Funny days were those. I used to toddle about the dining room and reach the kitchen to see momma cook, waiting anxiously for her to look and throw an endearing smile at me, and when she did, I would chuckle and clap my hands singing in my own baby language loudly, and eventually land on my bums. I kept repeating this act while she was in the kitchen. And at the end of it, when she was done with her chores, she would hug me and kisses followed and I sang even louder. Ahh the joys of the first-born kids. As the days passed by the young toddler turned into a very naughty lad who used to take pleasure in destructing any random object available within 2 feet height. As mom recalls I used to break the glass jars and bottles because I loved the sound of breaking glass. What a unique music lover was I. Once I even dropped my younger brother while mom was busy with her usual household chores. I picked him and bang… my brother was on the floor crying with a bump on his head while I was all clapping with chuckle. And what followed were spankings from momma. In our building a motley crew of about 10 of us ran around with gay abandon, unbothered by adult concerns. If we fell, which we did, bandages and our mothers’ love awaited our scraped knees back home. We were the noisiest lot; we would fight, cry, cold shoulder each other, but would eventually patch up. Unlike kids now, we didn’t brandish cellphones. But we left voice messages for each other the old-fashioned way. “Will you come out to play?” we’d shriek. It did not matter if one were on the ground floor and the friend, on the third, much to the chagrin of snoozing adults. As the years went by, play was abandoned for studies. The noise of children mellowed and the drone of television took over however naughtiness grew proportionately. I used to gasp seeing Sunny deol planting his "dhaai kilo ka haath" on the "chaar kilo ki tond" of bollywood villains and how He-Man and Spiderman used to send hooligans flying in air with their karate kicks. I remember once I kicked the door after I was back from school...Mom heard the loud bang...Two slaps later I was as calm as gurudutt silently scribbling my homework. PS: My mom’s a pro in slapping though, all thanks to yours truly. I have given her enough chances while growing to practice on me. Eventually years rolled by and the kid grew up to become apna desi no nothing Engineer slogging hard to make a living. Today after 28 years history repeated itself and yes it’s my birthday sans the balloons or cake or the happy birthday jingle. How I wish I could carry myself back to those fun-filled days when having fun was more important than feeding the ego, sunday special delicacies by mom were awaited more than the pizza delivery guy, when dad’s shoulders were the highest place in the world, the annual visits to the circus/zoos were eagerly awaited, when dadi/nani ki kahaniyon ke imaginary jaadugars were more scarier than our managers or deadlines. While I jotted these memories, I clutched my childhood close and left the chaotic present for a while only to realize that we cant get back what we have already passed.

Wanna Salsa ?

Arms were everywhere, shooting up towards the sky, sliding off each other’s arms and backs, and you could only wonder if they had discovered some magical potion that cuts through everything. Sweat dropped off their brows and clung desperately to their clothes but the smiles never waned. Pirouetting on pencil heels and looking ever so electric in their colorful tops, they locked themselves into the arms of the men and flowed like wind. Welcome to the enchanting world of salsa and salseros where the greatest high is dancing, and not alcohol or smoke. For years I was intimidated every time I walked into a club with four left feet. I would freeze at the thought of someone asking me to dance. Sometime back couple of my friends joined salsa classes and in no time they were electrifying the stage with their moves. When I saw them flowing to the tunes I can’t stop myself. What is instantly appealing about Salsa is that being essentially a social dance, it attracts and brings together all kinds of people with a magnetic energy that cuts across age, culture, language and any other human boundaries. I have seen the plainest, shyest, so called insignificant men and women transform into graceful, passionate and poetic movers on the dance floor. Learn the basics, feel the music and let yourself go. Immediately yours truly also enrolled to the next batch and now here I am in F-Bar moving to the beats. The pulse of salsa music has a hypnotic quality; it gets under your skin and makes you move almost involuntarily. What attract the common dancer to salsa are the elegant yet sensual glides and twirls. Two people, who may be perfect strangers, can connect and move to salsa, even if only for five minutes. While merengue and jive are peppier, salsa is more passionate and stylish. I attend classes during the weekends and in the evening, there are performances ranging from the exotic, to the energetic to the sublime. So what if Bangaloreans aren’t ‘technically’ allowed to shake a leg? That doesn’t stop us from getting out there and hitting the dance floor — on a weekday! Three weeks back was the first in series of Tuesday night Salsa’s at F-Bar. We went after work and grooved to the moves till the Cinderella hours. As I’m just a beginner, I managed to stamp on my partners feet couple of times without any guilty feeling :D. As experts say, the key is not to be scared of mistakes, but to live with them, bash on and just keep dancing. That’s the only way to learn. Apart from the fun and learning new art, the newfound friends are an added bonus. But most importantly, I have found yet another way to express myself, and get closer to my soul. The salsa fever is catching up fast and I believe pretty soon everybody would know how to salsa. From classes at various gymkhanas to dedicated nights at Casa Del Sol and F-Bar, lively music, sensual yet not-too-intimidating moves and a very social, interactive couple dance—are the key ingredients for the success of-Salsa. Wanna dance???

Birthday Party

The other day I was invited to my manager’s daughter’s birthday party. As all of my colleagues were attending, so, I also decided to make my esteemed presence. The party hall was decorated with balloons hanging really low. Though in different colors, each had only one particular hue. They were either fully blue or wholly red or completely pink. These were not like the balloons of our childhood. Colored balloons then were always spotted by other tints in ink-drop sizes. In those days, balloons were always taped close to the ceiling, well beyond the reach of our eager, grasping hands. Hopeful, we stood below them waiting for the string to loosen its grip and let them go. Often when the elders were busy clapping for the birthday child, we pulled the nearest chair, climbed furtively and then in small bursts of energy tried to pull the balloons down. On good days, the risk paid off. On bad, of which there were many, the chair creaked loudly, called a grown-up’s attention leading to the inevitable tongue-lash. The color of a twisted, temporarily misshapen ear often matched the blotchy hues on the balloons. It worked both as a remembrance of the deed, and a warning of the punishment to come. As the balloons fell petal-softly, I was the only one watching their descent. The urge surfaced. Get to them before others do. Then hold them close for the rest of the evening lest they escape and float into other outstretched arms. But there was no mindless scramble for the falling balloons. The adults, and now yours truly was one of them, were intent on the food piled on their plate. The kids had other things to beguile them — a clown and a swimming pool. What did — or didn’t — we have that made these things so dear to us? We didn’t have the clowns at our birthday parties. With luck, we would get to see those at the annual visit to the circus. Our party meal was served in paper plates, one helping, no more. A slice of plum cake, five-six wafers, a samosa, an orange-colored drink. Maybe that is why at this party, all who were seven in 1988 and before chose to dwell on the food. I turned and took one last look at the bereft balloons before leaving. I clutched my childhood close and left the balloons fallen behind.