The Dragonflies

What if people really just die? Lights out. Performance over. The end. What if there really is no romance to dying? That people aren't really smiling down at us from heaven? That death really isn't about destiny, about a plan, about life but just carelessness, bad lifestyles, terrible terrible accidents?

What if we can't comfort ourselves saying that the spirit lives on? They'll now be our angels. They'll guide us from above. They'll give us reason.

There's a beautiful story about the little water bug who turned into a dragonfly, but when he came back none of the water bugs knew who he was, so he waited till the others turned into dragonflies and they could all be together again. And it's amazing that this little story has become iconic of Gina's death. Because when they lowered her coffin into the ground, a cloud of dragonflies rose and surrounded it.

And if there ever was anything that Gina was, it was a dragonfly. Tiny manic helicopter. A silver buzz on wings. Something no one ever wants to catch because it's simply too charming in mid-flight.

I miss Gina everyday. I look for her in coffee cups, in names on my phone, in the tap-tapping of high-heels on tiles. And the what-ifs chase me like rabid hounds. Is it really curtains down or is that little cloud I've been seeing everyday her way of telling me that so what if we weren't the best of friends or instrinsically linked in some way, she and I met for reason? We were meant to be.

It's so strange that loss doesn't always get easier. That it really doesn't begin to make sense after a while. Colours don't fade. You just keep looking at them and wondering how they can have such an effect on your life.

I do yoga three times a week with some of Gina's closest friends. And this morning during the class on her terrace I was surrounded by dragonflies throughout the practice. They weren't exceptional dragonflies, they weren't pretty or fast or friendly. But they stayed for the whole class. And even though they didn't bring me secrets or messages, even though I don't feel her presence and even though it's getting harder and harder to believe she's ever coming back, I'd rather look at the dragonflies and believe that at least today, Gina, like she always did, made sure I didn't do two less surya-namaskars.

Gina and Juice

Last week my boss died. She was 38. The next morning the papers, church groups, pearlised ladies armed with champagne glasses and crystal mobile phones and TV channels bubbled over with tasty 'inside' stories. She jumped. She was pushed. She was drunk. There were affairs. Drugs. Bad biryani.

In defending her name and defeatedly fighting for what actually happened, people forgot the simple truth. Someone had died. In proclaiming undying love and loyalty, unfathomable grief and deep closeness on facebook, people forgot that in a split second your world turns on its head. And nothing is ever the same again. If you google Gina Campos Braganza or visit this link, you will know that people called her an angel. An inspiration. Superwoman. Flawless. God's favourite child. Even when she was alive and refusing them leave or raises. But google doesn't always throw up memories. Or what the quiet people feel. Or even the uneducated.

Google, or facebook for that matter won't tell you that in the church during her funeral mass, the electrician who did odd jobs at Opus, her restaurant, sat silent in a corner crying uncontrollably. That at least three people (including me) who work at Trump It, her agency, know that if she hadn't offered us a job, we would be depressive drug addicts. (OK, we're still that, but we would be on the streets.)

Not everyone knows that her two closest friends and employees Vivek and Shonali spent three heartbreaking days making everyone who had gathered to mourn laugh, sing songs and crack jokes because even after passing, Gina always throws the best parties. That Carlton, her husband decided to keep all three restaurants, the hotel and the office open, even on the day she died despite harsh criticism, because if Gina promised something, it would be done.

As an employee for about 14 months and a friend at the times she wasn't yelling at me for an incomplete spell-check or stupid idea, I'm probably the smallest tear drop. There are people who have given their lives to that addictive smile and that crinkling at the edge of her eyes. As someone who was probably programmed to hate her, the way we hate all bosses, I'm the most unusual suspect.

But when I heard her voice in the corridor or saw her name flashing on my phone, I was never scared. When I mailed her a presentation, I knew it would come back bettered. When I sat with her for a coffee and chat post yoga, it didn't feel like I was sitting with a boss. And when I look back at my work and my attitude to people over the last year or so, I see little Gina sparkles all over it. I'm a better person because I knew her. And in my own little 'employee' way, I have lost my Superhero.

There will be comments I'm sure, asking me what happened. There will be widened, unbelieving ears at someone so breathtaking, so essentially alive, not lighting up the world any more. There will be requests for one last cocktail. One more song. And none of these will bring her back. But shut this internet window, turn around and hug everyone who has ever meant anything to you. Tell them you love them and how pretty they make your view. Finish what you set out to do. Every single day. Every single day.

Cheers Geens. Thanks for the drink.

Bombay Cancelled.

Next week Father A and I are supposed to be off to Bombay for my father's birthday. My father is my favourite person. No, not because I want to be like him in 34 years. But because he is the only parent I have who didn't wish me dead.

Every now and then my dad rings me to tell me that the caretakers on his farm are stealing his mangos and his vegetables, his neighbour castrated his dog Shadow and no man should do that to another male, the recession is driving him crazy and the price of prime steak is so high it should be an issue of National Concern. A federal offense. Then he gives me lectures about how I have no loyalties, I'm willing to adopt any man or woman as my parent and how he feels sorry for Father A that he has to look after me, deal with my spending habits and the fact that I have the mental make-up of a criminal.

My father is 100 kgs of lecturing, judgemental, critical, free-spirited, tist-fisted, chronically-worrying 64 yr-old man. And he's the only thing I have left over from my childhood besides an irrational fear of being left behind and the ability to find chocolate no matter where it's been hidden.

The funny thing about my dad, is that he's that 17 yr-old boy who thought family dinners were lame and dressed in black all the time. He's the one who made his mother cry because he wouldn't eat his vegetables and shut himself in his room all day because the latest Beatles number tore his soul. He's the poet whose writing dripped salty blood and whose dancing shook stone hearts. My father follows a secret code to which only he has the numbers and to which no one else has entry. Even his daughter who understood him from the moment she first looked into his hazel eyes.

Since January, I have been planning this trip to Bombay to spend his birthday with him. I've booked the tickets, informed my office, made the plan, sealed the deal, printed the T-shirt and sung 'my heart belongs to daddy' at full volume. And yesterday, my father informs me that yes, absolutely splendid that you're coming. So pleased to have you here etc. etc. But won't be able to spend much time because you know, I've invited all my friends to spend a week at the farm. So do come. Have a piece of sugar-free cake, and then just enjoy the farm and instruct the staff to give you what you want.

This is not something I expected to face for another 18 or so years. WITH MY OWN CHILDREN. I'm totally geared to burst into tears and complain to Father A that my children treat our home like a hotel, they don't love me and that they'd rather spend time with some rat-faced skank eating stale potato chips than with me. The fact that I'm feeling this way about my father, I have to admit has thrown me a bit off course.

Yes I'm used to misplacing my dad now and then. To thinking he's dead and then have him call me from my sister's house in America to tell me that the T-bone steak here is like eating a little piece of heaven. I'm even used to worrying about whether he'll come home on time and if he's skipped breakfast again. In fact, there was even that one time when I had to make peace between him and his girlfriend and he refused to apologise till I twisted his ear. But really? Wondering whether he really loves me or not?

The thing with my dad is, I stopped living with him seven years ago. I fell madly in love with Father A who is nothing like my dad. I got used to being able to eat chocolate without needing to hide the wrappers beneath my bed. I can even have an hour-long conversation with a friend without having to keep interrupting it to answer a question about which movie is coming on TV next. But I still want to spend all my time with my dad. Why doesn't he want to spend time with me?

So, I won't be in Bombay on the 9th. I will be here in Bangalore licking my wounds and hating the world. I might even drink a bottle of Diet Coke. STRAIGHT FROM THE BOTTLE. And who knows? I might even take a knife and carve FUCK YOU WORLD into my belly and shave the sign of the devil into my eyebrows.

And it hits me.

Dude. I'm 30. 30. THIR (like thirsty) TEE (see? no ess. If there was an ess, it would have been easy. Non threatening. Something you can cure with a glass of water. This, has no cure. Even though anti-ageing creams keep offering to quench your skin.)

Thirty I'm afraid has no escaping it. Yes yes a few weeks ago I was all 30 it's lovely wish you were blah blah blah oh look at my glowing skin and shining eyes, but when you're high on birthday cake and four types of Lush soap, the world does seem like a pretty place with orange spirals in the air doesn't it?

Once you settle in to 30 and you have to write it in the age section of every form and tell it to doctors and all, it strikes you that 30 isn't something your friend loaned you for a week. 30 is something the cousin you didn't like gave you saying it was something she never used but was sure it would look gorgeous on you. And then once you got it, you didn't know what to do with the sodding thing, certainly not give it to your mother because she would check the price and realise you didn't buy it and get upset because you don't love her enough to spend money on her.

30 is like a raise. You know you're going to get one. But when you do, you probably won't like it. I should have suspected I was turning 30 when I started actually wiping up water when it fell on the floor. You know what's 20? Letting water that's fallen on the floor simply dry up. Because it's water. IT DRIES UP. You know what's 30?? Washing the bedsheets in Dettol.

There's a constant sense of surprise when you turn 30. You know you've been around a long, long time, but surely that was just a year's worth of living. I mean yes, you did see a black Michael Jackson, the Gulf War did happen, yes, it wasn't just a story cooked up so you'd have more to study in history, the World Trade Centre did blow up and when it did there were millions of photographs taken 'just seconds before the deadly crash' that somehow miraculously survived what the most powerful country in the world couldn't and made their way around the internet. But all that could have easily have happened in a lifetime that lasted just a year right? Like everything that ever, ever happened, like the 70s, 80s and 90s, all happened in sixteen years.

It still surprises me how I got to such a senior position at such a young age. Until I look at my claims form and see that some mean git wrote 30 in the age section. And then it strikes me. This is when I should get insecure around other women, or at least sabotage their bra straps so they look a bit saggy. This is when I should eye Father A suspiciously for signs of mid-life crisis. This is when I should start lying about my salary and my designation so people think I'm an achiever. And this, my friends, is when I should abandon my bubblegum-pink car for something low and sleek and screaming penis envy. And when I should know at least five saas-bahu characters by first name.

And I would. Because I take 30 very seriously. Very seriously indeed. But if I do that, and this I've given this very deep thought, I won't be able duck under the window-sill and call my neighbour's cook DICK anymore.

Always

When you get married you realise that always is such an important word. Not that it isn't when you're sixteen and madly in love with the boy with permanent marker tattoos on his forearm and hair that looks like his mother has some sadistic means of punishment. Or when you're ten and your best friend asks you for a commitment. Or even when you're two and your mother asks you if you will be a good girl.

But then again, when you're that young, when you say always, it pretty much does mean always. Like, if you're two and you've been peeing on the floor for a year, that's always. Take the rum ball Tarosh, my eleven month old nephew. He looks at me and says "that weird ass lady makes up lame songs." I've been doing it for eleven months. In the little spiders life, that's always. Al-fucken-ways. Like his entire life GODDAMN IT AND GET OVER IT AND LET ME LISTEN TO HEAVY METAL ALREADY kind of always.

But when you get married. Always is a big word. You always forget to turn off the lights, you always leave the water bottles out of the fridge, you always yell at me, you always look grumpy, you always kick me at night. You always steal the blanket.

When you get married, always means you did it once. So it's like see hot person-bing-bing, fall in love/the sack/see the bank balance/ get pregnant and then spend the rest of your life being the person you threw out of your rented place and swore to never go near again.

When you get married, it's not death, but always that does you part. Always will remind you to behave yourself. Always will keep you in check the next time you look lustily at the last piece of chocolate in the fridge or the next time you flying jump into bed and tuck yourself in so you don't have to turn off the lights. Always is no fun whatsoever.

30

On the 8th of June, I turned 30. 30. That was it. I think until you have children, you still expect to be one. You're still expecting to be seated at the 'kids' table' so the grown ups can have eat their steak in peace. You're still expecting liftmen to call you "baby" and air hostesses to give you a lollipop.



And then you're thinking "Ok I'm 30 and I should not be eating lollipops." But you still want to walk only on the joints in the floor tiles, you still want to ask someone if they want something and then say "keep wanting!" when they say yes and you still do the TV cops shoot and roll with two fingers and you're always up for a water fight in office.



And I've done all the expected in the run up to turning 30. I told Father A I wanted a diamond, I'm on a weight loss programme that is totally kicking my ass, I've been getting drunk, I've been standing on the table at a night club and dancing, I've been hanging out with younger people and giving them lectures, I've been moisturising my boobs in an upward direction, I've been wondering what I've achieved in life so far and where I am in my career. I've had existential issues and nightmares, epiphanies and salad. Cod liver oil, pedicures and ambition.



And on 8th June '09... I still wanted to eat cake for breakfast, and pretend I'm going to kiss Father A and then lick his cheek. So yes. 30 feels great. And despite what they tell you, nothing is sagging yet. So here it is. A picture taken a week before my 30th birthday with a colleague and friend who doesn't mind her picture being up on the net to be morphed and used for porn.



30. It's lovely. Wish you were here.

Keeping it fresh.

Father A and I do an occasional shopping trip that lasts three hours or more. On this trip we buy everything we think we might need for the house at one go. Because of course I never shop in between hours and in case Pakistan ever does bomb us, we can use the skins of the one thousand chicken franks we bought to make parachutes and fly to Iraq.

This place we shop has everything in super size packs and you have to buy those otherwise the organisation will realise that you aren't retailers but actually a supermarket addicted housewife who gets off in the cereal section while caressing the baked beans display at the same time.

So on Saturday, Father A put my straight jacket on and took me there so we could shop for my birthday party on Sunday (another post, another post.) And that reminded me of another incident at the same place when Father A picked up a mammoth pack of frozen corn and dimpled at me while placing it in our shopping cart.

"Gunduls, I'll make this for you everyday."

He didn't. He made it once. And that was it. So one day I squeezed my eyebrows together till a few blackheads popped out and said, "But you said you'll make me corn everyday."

"Gunduls," he said, "When I say everyday, I mean I'll make it often."

Father A. WHEN I SAY I'LL PUT OUT, I MEAN I'LL JUST SHOW YOU MY BOOBS.