The Metro Traveller

Who am I? I am a Kashmiri who yearns for her lost home; a fish-eating Bengali, who can't understand all the fuss about hilsa; a Delhi Metro junkie, who likes the different styles and streams of conversation that cross-ventilate the ladies "dibba"; a journalist, who is tired of repeating the line "no, I am not a reporter, I edit stories"; a housewife, who has been increasingly turning a blind eye to the cobwebs in the various corners of her house and mind.

What makes me feel pretty?  A happy state of mind, well-behaved hair, a nice pair of earrings, and "What you thought you need" playing on loop somewhere in my head (I can never remember more than one line of any song). 

People tell me I am hypercritical; my friends tell me I have a dry/wry sense of humour; my husband says I keep repeating things (well, I repeat because he forgets) and that I should warn him every time I decide to sing; my neighbour thinks the stray dogs prance on our cars because I feed them. What do I think? I think I am all of those with shades of my dad, mom, sister and all the pets who embraced me with all my faults. Physically, my nose walks ahead of me; and my silver strands give me a distinct look in a sea of black and peroxide browns. For a living, I edit the weekend section of a newspaper. I strayed into the profession and have stuck to it—maybe I could have done something else, but I never wandered in any other direction. 

My dreams? It’s more like a to-do list: I will start running from tomorrow (I said tomorrow. Period); I will sort out my paperwork (again, tomorrow); I will leave early from work today (there’s no harm in being optimistic). I actually don't want much, but if were to win a million-dollar lottery, would that complicate life? 

I de-stress by taking a month off in two installments and going on a holiday (which is basically more about eating, lazing and less about sightseeing). Sitting quietly, not thinking of anything also works for me.

My daily bubbles of happiness? Simple random things really—waking up to rain on hot summer days; seeing a green chilli sprout from that potted plant in the balcony; having ice cream speckled with cornflakes (try it, the crunchy creaminess works); looking at old picture albums (yes, such things do exist); discovering a Rs10 note while cleaning the closet; fitting into a decade-old pair of jeans (wonders do happen, they were loose to start with).

What changed my life long time back was the fact that as Kashmiri Pandits we had to leave home and start all over again. Since then I have carried my home in all the houses I have lived. You also carry a holdall of memories, which you hold on to tightly, as time tries to loosen its grip on it. I used to be quiet on the outside and loud inside; now I am quiet on the inside and (a tad) vocal (not loud) on the outside.

To tell you a bit about myself, I grew up in Srinagar. The biggest excitement of our life was going on the yearly school picnic, feasting on Shivratri, and fasting on fritters and fruits on Janamashtami. And then militancy took hold of the Kashmir valley. We moved to Delhi and suddenly nothing made sense, everything seemed hostile: the weather, the people, the city. The initial years were spent in the hope that we would soon return home and go back to the old way of living. But I am still here in Delhi; in between I have lived (briefly) in a couple of other cities. As for the future, I have no plans. As always, I will go with the flow.

Motto: Don’t drive yourself too hard, let the Metro take you places. And if you get lost, don’t worry, you might just discover your GPS skills in the process.