The day my friend almost gave birth in my apartment

The beautiful mother-daughter pair

I remember it being an unseasonably warm Friday in November. It was the day of the week when I worked from home and didn’t have to worry about getting out of my pajamas. Quite obviously, this incident is from a few years ago when I was a corporate slave in New York City. 

My morning had just begun. I had turned on my laptop, responded to a couple of emails so it would look like I was working and was in the process of figuring out what I was going to eat for breakfast, when the phone rang. It was Aparna. 

“Hey,” she said. “Can I come over and hang out at your place for a while?”

An unusual request for a Friday morning. Fortunately, being a dear friend, I could ask her why. 

“My contractions have started,” she responded. 

So you’ve obviously figured out that Aparna was incredibly pregnant. 

And what good would I be in this situation?

“My doc wants me to come to the hospital only when the contractions are about 5 minutes apart,” she continued.

Suddenly I had lost my appetite for breakfast. 

I should probably give you a little background about why my apartment was a good place for her to hang out at, while she waited for her contractions to be more frequent. Aparna lived in Hoboken, New Jersey  while her hospital was in Manhattan, a 10 minute taxi ride from where I lived. 

A short while later I buzzed her in and she made herself comfortable on my futon.

“Carry on with whatever it is that you were doing,” she said. “Just pretend that I’m not here.”

Ha! In addition to pretending to work, I was now going to pretend that there wasn’t a woman about to give birth in my living room. Piece of cake! I sat down at the dining table, staring at my laptop, worrying about the ‘what if” scenario. 

What if she actually had the baby in my apartment? I had seen some movies and knew that I would need blankets and warm water. Except I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with them. Was I going to have to get rid of my almost new futon mattress if the baby was born here?

“How far apart are your contractions now?”, I asked.

“I’d say about 10 minutes,” she replied, seeming remarkably cool about the entire situation. 

“Don’t you think you should call Ankur?” 

The husband, who should be by your side. 

“He had a really important meeting today,” she responded dismissively, as she began leafing through the New Yorker. 

Was it stress or was it getting really warm? I cracked open a window. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked turning towards her. 

Her face was completely scrunched up and she was holding her stomach. 

“Ow” is all she said, while I looked at my watch to begin timing the contractions for myself.

The television went on. There was no sense in even trying to pretend to work. I began loudly chopping crunchy vegetables. May as well make lunch, I thought

“You’re freaking me out,” she said. “Sit down and relax.”

Words that I thought I should be saying to her.

Seven minutes later the face scrunched up again. Once the pain had passed, I decided that I now had to take matters into my own hands. 

“I’m calling Ankur even if you aren’t” I said sternly. 

She gave me an exasperated look and began dialing his number. It went to voice mail and she began leaving him a message.

“Ratan’s insisting that I let you know that the contractions are about 7 minutes apart. And that maybe you should come over. But I really don’t think there’s a need for you to rush.”

‘Maybe you should come over?’, ‘No need to rush?’. What kind of a message is that to leave for an expectant father from an expectant mother who is very close to having a baby? And what's the deal with the father who lets his wife's call go to voice mail at a time like this?

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she said hanging up.

Except that I wasn’t so sure. It was time to change into my street clothes and prepare to take her to the hospital myself. I was pretty sure that the baby was rolling her eyes wondering when her parents would understand the urgency of the situation. 

The contractions were now 6 minutes apart. Or maybe I had mistimed them and it was really 5 minutes. 

“Okay,” I said commandingly. “Let’s go jump into a cab.”

Funny picture - a 9 month pregnant woman ‘jumping’ into a cab. 

As she began slowly lifting herself up, the phone rang.

Saved by the bell.

It was the husband. He was downstairs. 

“Grab my stuff,” she said. 

“Gladly!” I replied, ecstatic to see her leave!

So it turns out that there was no need for me to panic. Aparna went through a pretty long labor and little Mira didn't make an entrance into the world until 2 am. I dropped by the hospital to see her the next evening and Aparna, Ankur and I had a good laugh.

“I wish you could have seen your face,” Aparna said looking at me. “Can't believe I didn't think of taking a picture!”

Wasn’t funny then but yeah, it was funny now.

His Name is Khan

I was standing outside the taxi with my luggage but there was no sign of the driver. Calling his number a couple of times had proven to be futile, so I just stood there, waiting for him to appear eventually. It was probably a minute later, though it seemed longer, when I saw a man in a red shirt, running towards me. He had a big grin on his face.

“Sorry sir, I thought you would be a few minutes and decided to get some tea.”

On closer inspection, he seemed more like a boy than a man. His smile had a mix of both innocence and mischief and whatever irritation had accumulated inside me, vanished. 

Once we were on our way he apologized again.

“I haven’t had a chance to eat lunch today - it’s been really busy.”

It was a few minutes past 4 pm. I asked him to stop at Fanoos on the way, where he could pick himself up a kaati roll. He nodded his head and said that he would take a break after dropping me off. No amount of insisting on my part could get him to change his mind. 

“Arrey saab, this is a daily routine. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a nice meal in peace,” he said. 

It broke my heart when he said that. As we kept talking, I got to know that he was 24 years old, had a son who was born 8 months ago and was the only earning member in the family that included his parents and two younger sisters, who he had to marry off. He told me that his name was Mabrouk. 

“But you can call me Khan,” he said laughingly.

I could see Khan’s face in the rear view mirror and not for a moment while we were talking did he stop smiling. He began asking questions about me but I was embarrassed to tell him about my indulgent lifestyle, where I did not feel the need to work and worse still was on my way to New York for a 6 week holiday. It made me feel horribly guilty. While not being unaware that most people have to work really hard to make ends up, hearing about it first hand from an individual who didn’t seem outwardly unhappy, was especially hard. 

Overly burdened from a very young age, Khan began driving a tempo truck illegally at the age of fourteen. An age when all I had to worry about was homework. When he was seventeen his father lost a limb in an accident and couldn’t go to work any longer. His sisters were taken out of school because they couldn’t afford the fees. I would have got really depressed if he wasn’t so nonchalant about it and if the smile had left his face. 

“It’s all kismat,” he said looking towards the Heavens. “I didn’t want to get married as it would mean even more responsibilities, but my parents would not hear of it.”

“They are also right,” he continued. “After all the family name has to continue.”

“What if you were not able to have a son?” I asked.

He laughed and said “Uski ab fikar nahin, beta to paida kar liya (I don’t need to worry about it, now that I have a son)”.

I wish I had taken a picture of Mabrouk. He had the warmest and most honest smile I had seen in a while. As he helped me unload the luggage, I felt almost sorry that we had reached the airport so quickly. He had told me so much about himself including the fun he used to have with his friends and how he looks forward to Eid, which is one of the rare times that he takes the day off and has a celebratory meal. By the end of the cab ride, I didn’t feel like Mabrouk was a stranger or just an individual who had driven me to the airport in his taxi. I opened up my arms and gave him a hug. I also gave him a large tip.

“Go have an indulgent meal now,” I said, pretending to scold him.  

I could see that he was fighting back tears. We exchanged numbers and I made him promise that he wouldn’t forget me.

As I began walking towards the check-in counter, looking at the crowd, filling out forms, going through security and waiting to board my flight, my mind moved on to so many other things. By the time I was in the plane, I had pretty much forgotten about Khan. 

                                                                         ****

Two days ago on Saturday I got a call from a name that I didn’t recognize. But as soon as I heard his voice, I knew. 

“Sir, I’m outside your building,” he said in his usual lively manner. “Chai pilaoge (can I drop by for chai)?”

Once again he hadn't had lunch so I made him a plate with whatever I could find in the refrigerator. And once again it slipped my mind to take his picture. 

It's Just Another Year

Over the past few days I’ve had a number of people ask me about my plans for December 31st. The fact that I have no plans, have not made any attempts to make plans and nobody (well ... almost nobody) has asked me to be a part of their plans, would have bothered me until a couple of years ago. I would be going around feeling sorry for myself and feeling that I am unloved and unwanted.

Not today though. Completely ‘socialized’ out, I am in the alone zone. Reading, sleeping, catching up on television and movies, as much as I love being with people, I also love being with myself. Not having to make conversation, not having to listen to people around me, the silence as a change can be so refreshing and so golden.

It’s been an incredible year for me, mostly because I managed to travel a fair amount. To places that I hadn’t been to before. To places that I’ve previously lived in and continue to love. Re-establishing connections with people I’m related to and am friends with. It really was a good travel year covering beaches (Goa), deserts (Rajasthan), my favorite city (New York), mountains (Uttarakhand) and the city I was the most skeptical about and loved more than I could ever imagine, Varanasi. 

Somewhere along the year I became indifferent to the kind of food that is considered cool. Pretentious ingredients (edible flowers to name just one), imported ingredients (eat fresh, eat local), restaurants with more glitz and less taste, the words ‘foodie’ and ‘fine dining’ and a previously loved television show, left a sour taste in my mouth. 

The more I came across people obsessed with money, the less I loved it (and them). Don’t get me wrong - I like having the money I do because it allows me to live the life that I have. I hope in 2014 my finances allow me to do the things that I did in 2013. I have no aspirations of staying in star hotels and flying first class (I would love to fly first class - who wouldn’t? But at what cost?). Budget hotels, economy class and home stays are fantastic. 

I read this morning that Michael Schumacher at the age of 44 is fighting for his life from a skiing accident. With severe brain injuries, the man that supposedly has ‘everything’ may end up having nothing going forward, even if he does get to live. Our lives can change in the blink of an eye. We must make the most of what we have right now. 

What am I looking forward to in 2014? Pretty much what I am always looking forward to. Being healthy. Warmth from my family and friends. Peace. Lots of travel. Delicious comfort food. Hopefully it isn’t asking for too much.

I’m going to end my year just like I would end any other day. Because all I want to have tomorrow is what I have today. 

I hope all of you also get to have what you want in the new year. Happy 2014!

Dial-an-Escort

While I’m perfectly content with the life that I have, sometimes I get these brilliant ideas for a career that I could possibly enjoy. The most recent one being that of offering myself as an escort. Now before you start visualizing sexual favors for money, let me tell you that this escort service is of another kind. So let me start from the beginning. 

Most of you that have met me are aware that not only am I a pretty face, I am also intelligent, interesting, charming and crazy witty. A complete package and exactly the kind of person you’d like to have sitting across from you at a nice restaurant. The thing that could improve your average dining experience by leaps and bounds, would be some arm candy/a trophy friend, enticing conversation and loads of laughs. In other words - me. 

Are you so bored with your life that watching the grass grow seems like a fun activity? When was the last time you laughed so hard, you not only snorted but almost peed in your pants? Do you worry too much about what ‘other people might think’ resulting in never acting incredibly silly? I’m here to save the day and make you laugh so much that your jaws will hurt. And if you are the ‘peeing in your pants’ kind, I’ll even provide you with an adult diaper. 

Are you going through a difficult phase in your life? Does work suck more than usual? Is your married life so dull that you can’t even remember why you guys got together in the first place? Don’t despair - instead of an evening of fun and laughter, I also offer counseling services. Trust me, I can dish out that ‘feel good’ crap as well as the next loony psychiatrist. God knows I do enough of it already. A list of references can be furnished from across the world. 

On the other hand, if you’re simply looking for a mature and sophisticated man to have a nice meal with, I can be that guy too. Although this would be at a slightly higher cost. ‘Immature’ and ‘unsophisticated’ is what I do best. 

And finally, in the mood for some role playing? Get creative and let’s discuss.

Some rules:

The first rule of the escort service is that you do not talk about the escort service. What happens between the client and me stays between the client and me. You get the gist. 

Alcohol is important at these sessions. With each drink I have, I get funnier/smarter.     With each drink that you have, you will find me funnier and turn stupider. 

Chauffeur service, wining-dining expenses will be completely borne by the client. 

The amount I charge will be at my discretion. If you’re rich, you pay me loads of money. 

If you’re not rich, call me once you’ve saved a significant sum.

Examples of topics that will under no circumstances be discussed: Software/IT/anything related  to technology, Finance/Investments/Money Matters (except for the amount you owe me). For a full list, email me. 

No credit cards, no cheques - cash only. In advance. 

No refunds. 

I have the complete right of refusal with no obligation to offer a reason (body odor, lack of a sense of humor, payment in loose change are only some of the possible reasons).

Rules may be added/changed at my discretion.

So what are you waiting for? Is this not the answer to all your prayers? Call me now at 1-800-RATMAN for an evening so enticing, you will wish you could afford to have me all the time. 

Please feel free to share this post. Referrals earn a healthy 10 percent. 

A Killer Script

He was of below average stature, small-framed with long hair, an unkempt beard and introduced himself to the class as a Yoga teacher. The thing I remember about him most vividly is that he usually wore a black T-Shirt (not in this picture though) and was the only one with a Macbook Pro for taking notes, while the rest of us used old fashioned notepads. Other than that he made absolutely no impression on me - I’m not sure if we exchanged any words at all during the course of the week. Even if we did, they must have been inconsequential. 

It was an interesting mix of students. There was the young doodler with remarkable talent who I always shared a desk with and had long discussions about films. There was the writer for documentaries who I never got to know very well during class but became close friends with later. The playback singer for Tamil films who moved to New York and with whom I attended a Martin Scorsese workshop. The model-looking engineer/MBA graduate, unhappy with corporate life, happiest as a drummer. The engineering student, the home-maker, the IT professional etc.

Oh and let me not forget, the murderer. 

During the course of the next few years some of these students joined film school, began working in television, quit their corporate jobs to make independent films, joined a band, while others continued with their lives as usual. And then there was one who decided to murder his girlfriend and stuff her body into a freezer. Who would have thought that we had a future killer in our midst, learning the technicalities of script writing?

From the introduction you may have figured out that it was the Yoga teacher. An individual you would expect to associate with serenity, calmness, spiritualism turned out to be the one to strike his girlfriend with an iron rod, attempt to hack her into pieces, stuff her into a freezer and continue to live with the body in his home for 18 days along with his wife (yes there was also a wife in the same apartment!) after the deed was done. Either the guy was remarkably smart or his wife, despicably stupid. 

How does a fight between two individuals end up with one of them dead? I get the screaming, shouting, throwing stuff at each other, hitting, slapping, crying. But killing? On the anger-meter how angry does one have to get to be able to justify to himself during that split second that its okay to take a life? And then the seeming lack of remorse. The fact that he didn’t turn himself in to the authorities and hoped to go about his life as usual seems fairly mind blowing. 

‘The Following’ a television show about a cult of killers is not only squeamish and creepy, it is disturbing on so many levels. The cult seems to be made up of people you and I would meet in our daily lives. It’s a show I avoid watching last thing at night because it gives me nightmares. Such people must exist. You know what they say about truth being stranger than fiction.

And while crime shows are my favorite genre on television (not because I love to watch people die, but because I like to use my detective skills to solve the case!), I had never really thought that a nondescript man sitting at the desk in front of me would make headlines for all the wrong reasons. 

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? The next time you’re at a conference or a party, interacting with people you’ve never met before, be aware that there may be a murderer in your midst. Hopefully it isn’t you that’s the target.

And hopefully you're also not the perpetrator.

Memories of Another Rain

Staring at the rain falling in a consistent pattern, I was glad to be indoors. Not being one of those people who love to get wet, I find being outside in the rain quite annoying. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t had more than my share of getting soaked. Whether it was Calcutta or New York, I’ve been caught unawares in a downpour innumerable times, seeking shelter for a while and then finally giving up and walking to my destination, feet wet through my canvas shoes or sandals, my wavy hair turning flat and my glasses wishing they had tiny wiper blades.

I do like the part where I come across other walkers in a similar situation, exchanging a knowing smile which says ‘I guess we may as well enjoy it’. A momentary connection with a stranger that will be forgotten in a flash.

I love the rain so much when I’m simply a spectator, protected by a roof over my head. Looking at people running for shelter or picking up pace under their umbrellas. The folks on motorcycles and bikes coming to a sudden stop for cover. We’ve seen so much rain but it’s always miracle-like for me - the Heaven’s turning on their sprinklers, making the dry moister, the air cleaner and the green greener. Washing the dust off, it feels like laundry day. 

A short while ago I was watching two little girls who got off their school bus. It was drizzling but they refused to get under their mothers waiting umbrellas. Kept running around, giggling, completely deaf to their mom’s screaming at them. I was sitting by the window, not being able to contain my own laughter and wished later that I had taken a picture.   

A favorite childhood memory is associated with rain. Growing up, we knew everyone in our neighbourhood. Not just the people living on our street, but the one past the main road, the parallel streets as well as the perpendicular ones. 

I was probably all of 1o years old. It was another one of those Calcutta rainy, monsoon days when you feel like you’ll never see the sun again. Stores were shut and the streets were empty. The rain had been falling incessantly for the past few days and life had pretty much come to a standstill. People were starting to get stir-crazy when someone must have had the brilliant idea of having a very wet picnic. My older sisters and I were standing on our balcony, probably bored out of our minds as we had even lost power, when we saw a group of people coming towards us. It was mostly their friends and a few of mine. They were going around the neighborhood, having everyone come out of their homes and enjoy the rain. 

There must have been at least fifty ‘kids’ and the group kept getting larger as the word spread. We went to the local park which was full of puddles and played there for hours. I distinctly remember the laughter, the unending laughter. The peals of laughter each time the drizzle would turn into a heavy downpour. The constant smiles and giggles as we’d splash water on each other, knowing that we couldn’t possibly get any more wet. The jumping in the puddles, every single one of us soaked to the skin, our mother’s probably worrying about us getting sick and knowing that they could do absolutely nothing about it. 

There was no food but it was definitely a picnic. I don’t know if I can transport you there with my descriptions, but as I write this I can’t stop smiling. These memories were of a much simpler time. When it was people and not possessions that made us happy. When laughter came without a price. And when the monsoons were also a time to have a picnic.

There's Something about Varanasi - The Final Chapter - How much is enough?

Pascal and I met on the last of my 3 days in Varanasi. I was at Niyati Cafe drinking a cup of coffee when we struck up a conversation. Once he found out that I had a food blog and that I had written restaurant reviews for some magazines, he went from being ‘just friendly’ to ‘I love food - I want to be you’! 

“Do you know why I keep coming back to Varanasi?” he asked. Of course I didn’t since I had just met the guy! “It’s the lassi (smoothie Indian style) - they have the best lassi!”, he said salivating. I laughed out loud but also couldn’t help agreeing with him since Aparna and I had had the best lassi of our lives the previous day. Even better than all the ones I drank during my Punjab trip the previous year. Who would have thought?

Pascal was born in Switzerland 26 years ago, stands 6 foot 2 inches and weighs a scrawny 62 kg. Born in a reasonably wealthy family he decided that all he wants to do is to see the world. He works for organizations like Greenpeace for 4 months in the year and travels the rest of the time. India is in his itinerary every year. Travel is on a shoestring budget, staying/eating at the most basic hotels/restaurants or with friends, unreserved compartments of trains and non-luxury buses for commuting. 

“What makes you do this?” I asked. “You could have such a comfortable life back in Switzerland.”

“It’s boring”, he responded. “I love my country but everything is the same. I come here and every place I go to has something new to offer.” 

“But don’t you find it hard roughing it out like this? It couldn’t be very easy?” 

“It’s easy,” he replied. “If you’ve always had everything, you realize that money isn’t what’s important in life.”

That sounded profound to me, especially coming from a 26 year old. It reminded me of my favorite line in The Fight Club - The things you own end up owning you. 

When most people at his age would be working to climb the corporate ladder, spending their earnings on possessions, clubbing, partying, Pascal had figured out that he didn’t want any more than was absolutely necessary. 

“All my possessions are in these,” he said pointing to a small duffle bag and a backpack. “My parents force me to carry a cell phone.” He laughed as he showed it to me saying that he didn’t have a connection. “When I go to a place that has free wifi, I send them an email to let them know that I’m okay.”

I, on the other hand, while in Varanasi, had probably used my phone a hundred times sending text messages, making and receiving calls. 

“They must worry about you,” I said. “You should stay in regular touch with them.”

He told me that he had thought of becoming a sadhu for a couple of years, to experience their lifestyle, to not have any emotional ties. “I think I would make a good sadhu”, he laughed.

“There must be a reason that you are the way you are,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never lacked anything, I grew up in a normal home with parents that have always loved me.”

“When was the last time you sent them an email?” I asked. His smile told me that it had been a while.

“Let’s go to the Blue Lassi Shop,” he responded looking at his phone. “They have free wifi.”

                                                                **

The day I met Pascal, he was on his way to Rishikesh and decided to stop in Varanasi for a few hours. I got an email from him a few days later saying that he was in Vashisht in Himachal instead. “I still haven’t made it to Rishikesh,” he wrote. “I’ve been here since 7 days - it’s so beautiful here. I hope to meet you again soon.”

I hope to meet you again too, Pascal.