Any dream will do

Minu and Koopi are sisters. Minu is the older one, by two years. Minu is the saanvli saloni, while Koopi is the gaaon ki gori innocent bacchi. Minu, by virtue of her being the oldest of the two, likes calling the shots. Koopi is one pretty thing, with this really sweet smile. Koopi is the younger one, by two years, in case anyone out there is really, really bad at math. Minu and Koopi were losers at college romances. So was I. How do I know them? We were thick as thieves during college. We are thick even now, of a different kind. Minu and Koopi are Punjabis, and God help me if they’re not. That’s what I remember them to be, anyway. Their dad is an army man and their mom is a homemaker who makes awesome nariyal ki barfi and poori chhole and their bhaiyya is the oldest one of the children, who is, in plain language, bhaiyya to them – a quiet authority, who by virtue of being the oldest amongst all of them, commanded respect and demanded affection and got both in equal measure. That’s how I remember him. He was bhaiyya to me, too. Minu and Koopi have an older sister, I don’t remember what she looks like. Minu and Koopi have a younger sister, too – Pinky if I remember correctly. They were my favourite family amongst all my friends’ families in college.

Minu taught me a lot of things. Because she is older than me too, she would tell me aise karna chahiye aur vaise nahin karna chahiye and I would listen. Minu also taught me that draping one’s head with a dupatta while frying poories would make the poories absorb less oil and hence, there would be that much less fat that settled around one’s posterior. Apart from almost singeing my scalp and burning the skin off my ass, I have nothing to show for it, or should I say, too much to show for it, so there goes that theory out of the window. Minu would make tea for 16-17 people and after adding the teapowder to the boiling water, would come and enquire if anyone wanted strong tea. If anyone said yes, she would add ¼ spoon more. Minu also made awesome, awesome gobhi ke pakode. Minu in the final year lost her heart to someone much shorter than her (and took it back too). This was during that phase of our lives when we thought that if we did not snag someone in our group before we parted to become independent adults, we would probably never get any action. This was because our dear genetics professor, bless his heart, had told us all, and I mean all, in class, that we should get married as early as possible and not wait until we were 25, because sex was more fun when we were younger. Remind me to sue him if I ever meet him again, for misleading information and hence emotional distress, but like I was saying, most guys in our group of 16-17 people were taken, mostly by the girls in the group. I was the quintessential bridge between every possible permutation and combination of two in our group of 16-17. So anyway, coming back to Minu, I remember that she came to college once in her younger sister’s knee-length frock and she hadn’t waxed her legs, dumbass. Yes, back then, it was the age of the naïves and the don’t-cares who co-existed peacefully with one another.

Koopi is this fragile, tender-hearted thing. I remember being instrumental in her first hook-up, or so she says. He was D-bhai, my rakhi brother in college. I was mighty, mighty, mighty fond of him because during our zoology trip, he told me I looked gorgeous as I came out of my room with a towel draped around my head (I had long hair then). Something now tells me he told me that because he wanted to get closer to Koopi, because I was close to her, but anyway. Their romance was the stuff you get to read in books and watch in movies and always wish for and never have in your real life. DDLJ time it was, I remember. It went on for a year or so and gradually fizzled out because he had tremendous pressure at home to end it, and frankly, what do twenty-year-olds know about life, anyway? He broke her heart, that bastard, and I’m still fond of him. Because the romance ended on a sour note, he stopped being friends with me, too and the world has the nerve to label women drama queens. Really. Koopi's favourite song of all time is Ravindra Jain's 'Ankhiyon ke jharonkon se' sung by Hemalata. Koopi darling would belt it out like crazy after breaking up with D at every opportunity she got. She also wrote down the lyrics of the song for me and I swear I still have it somewhere. According to Koopi, if you wanted attention from a man who wasn't giving it to you, you had to sing mediocre songs such as this and nonsense rhymes of dil, mohabbat and pyar written by Sameer, composed by Nadeem Shravan and sung by Alka Yagnik loud enough for them to hear and voila! They would be at your beck and call. Unfortunately, this was another theory that flew out of the window. And I'm telling you from experience.

Yesterday, I met Minu after five years. Yesterday, I talked to Minu, really talked to her, after ten years. Minu has married a guy much younger than her, which gives me endless hope regarding my own chances of snagging someone before I hit menopause. Really, what is with her and shorter/younger men? Minu hasn’t changed one single bit, and I choose to ignore her burgeoning waist. Minu hasn’t changed one single bit. She stays twenty minutes away from where I stay and I came to know this three years later than I should have. She has an adorable three-year-old bundle of joy who demanded that I come for her birthday party next week. Koopi also is in Bangalore and is married and though she was reed-thin during college, has apparently ballooned now. Hahahaha, divine justice! I spoke to Koopi on the phone and after the standard saali kutti kameeni gaalies that I gave her, to which she replied ‘Tu kabhi sudhregi nahin’, we’ve decided that we’re doing a gupshup cum adrak waali chai cum gobhi ke pakode session soon. Thick and thick as thieves time.

Last year was a year of reunions. It looks like the trend’s spilled over to this year as well. I ask you all, who loves me, baby?

Radhe. And Krishna.

I've recently returned from the best trip of my life so far. I still haven't come down from the high. And verbose and dry and prosaic as my posts are, and perhaps have always been, you just can't hear the music that plays when I write or read them :-). Whoever said that real life has no background music needs a bottle of Waxonil or a hearing aid.

For example, I can tell you of having eaten only dinner for four days and cramming in some biscuits and bananas through the day to curb the hunger that gnawed at my stomach, but you won't be able to hear the lilting voices all around calling out the Lord's name that drowned out the alimentary rumbling. I can tell you of the noiseless din in the dining hall during dinner where nobody spoke, yet everyone communicated, but you won't hear the speaker right outside the ashram that reverberated joyously in one voice the beat of a thousand hearts. I can tell you of our tireless barefoot journey in cold, cold December, on the very land that He roamed many, many years ago, but you won't hear all our teeth chattering in unison to a rhythmic chant of the Maha mantra. I can tell you how I did not know anything but Him for a precious few moments, far too precious and far, far too few, and how I did not want to know anything but Him for a long time after, but you won't hear the silent prayer that my heart knew but didn't say. I can tell you of the man with the kindest eyes I ever saw, ladling food into little bowls made from dried leaves for those who knew hunger like we never have, but you won't hear the melody that a thousand voices sang along as the hungry ate, voices that did not know dark skin from white. I can tell you of the narrow streets that were wide enough for only one cycle rickshaw to pass through at a time, streets with overflowing gutters on each side, but you won't hear the rickshawallahs call out "Radhe Radhe" to each other in a way that you could hear the smiles in their voices. I can tell you of the Lord's footprint that I touched with my own hands, but you won't hear the parrots sing and the cows moo in the gentle evening breeze. 

It's been a week since I've come back, but the buzz is still there. Leaves are falling outside and I can see them flit lazily downward, pausing for effect in the gleam of the streetlight as if to tell me, "Look how light I am. I'm not bothered with all the honking below me like you are. I may not be able to fly, but look at me float. Slow. Enjoying the lightness that I feel. And learn."

Angels fly, because they take themselves lightly, I've heard someone say. Well, what do you know. I've never felt this light in my whole life.

Vrindavan, heaven on earth, take me home. 

P.S. I touched HIS footprint!!!!!!!!!!! A very happy 2007, everybody! May this year be everything you want it to be!