I Have a Dream…and More of that Shite

You’re 15. You suddenly want your parents to trust you more. You want them to be okay with what clothes you’re wearing, the way you style your hair, the people you hang out with. You don’t like the tv they watch, and they, in all probability, totally disapprove of the loud music you keep listening to and they can’t even make out the words (neither can you half the time).

At that age, you are introduced to the world of rock music. Those guys yellin away to glory with their uber-cool guitars seem like manifestations of God.

Now those are the people who’ve been there, who’ve felt that anger that you feel right now, they understand! The whole world of that music, is like one big let out for people of all ages. And some of us want to be 15 all our lives.

Some of us are lucky however, because you get papas who introduce you Floyd…you know, the Pink one. They talk to you, and then they also understand your need to not talk. Then they take you out for a nice long drive on their very special Bullet. You don’t speak a single word to each other all throughout and yet you come back with that very clichéd but very real feeling of having had the best conversation ever! with one of your best friends.

So then, when the whiff of the most wonderful fragrance on earth – that of freshly fallen rain drops on a parched ground came my way this weekend, I just looked at Ramit, and we knew we are so not staying indoors, me clattering away on the laptop and he immersed in making his pictures say more. We did go out. We let the rain drops fall in the car. We kept the windows down. We were lost in the long symphonic overture of November Rain by G’n’R. We weren’t yapping away to our hearts’ content (Read: I was not yapping away…). Just being with each other. Seeing each other be healed of all the stress that we undergo, through our workdays.

 

Badhai Ho! Mithai Do.

I am a married woman. And not quite well at the moment. An acquaintance from my mother-in-law’s social circle called a few days back and inquired about me. When she answered that I was unwell, Mr. X congratulated her and asked for mithai. I’ve been thinking, Mr. X’s grand-daughter is not keeping well these days either. She is a child of 3 years. Should I congratulate him on his grandchild’s sickness and ask for celebratory sweets too?

Unwell or not well, or not keeping well, or ill, or sick are words indicative of an unhealthy state of a person’s body/mind. Nowhere in the world are they  indicative of pregnancy.

I am not about to have a baby. I am about to have medicines. And a lot of them.

I am to have medicines from the time I open my eyes, when I eat, after I have eaten and before I sleep. And these meds are huge. It takes a lot of water to gulp one down.

Ramit’s recently got me addicted to this new game on facebook. Its called Desktop Tower Defence. Its fun to install guns and towers that will kill all the “creeps” that keep coming in waves. I often dream that the meds I am pouring down my throat are like those powerful guns/missiles. Each pill looks like a giant bullet. I keep thinking they are going in and blasting the daylight out of those bloody bacilli infesting my body.

Perhaps I should eat some sweets myself, and celebrate that.

 

Radio-active Waist! Part II: Name-Calling

One might wonder what has radio-activity got to do with my previous post and this one too! I think it makes for a nice fancy title, considering that I’ve had a CAT scan (Computerised Axial Tomography and not scanning your cat) twice in a span of 4 days. I joked with the doctor asking him if I might become radio-active after two CAT scans in such a short time! So that’s about the radio active waist.

I still have a lot of interesting gossip to share about these seemingly endless hospital trips, which have now taken the trip meter in the car to cross 500 kms. (These are just towards the hospital trips)

But before I get into that, let me call it by its name. It is called tuberculosis of the abdomen.

And I have it. And I’m going to fight it. I’m going to pour down all arsenal I can to kill those bloody bacilli. I don’t know how long they’ve been inside me, but as my doctor says, “not anymore”.

It did take them a month of diagnosis: right from a simple routine blood test and a more detailed blood culture and sensitivity to a malaria antigen to the typhoid test and a urine routine and microscopy to a urine culture

(Mine turned out to be very-well-cultured with e-coli. How cultured is yours?)

Well, a UTI (urinary tract infection and not the unit trust of india) turned out to be an accompaniment of the resident t.b. of the tummy. And no sir and no ma’m it won’t go with oral antibiotics so injections it was and twice a day. And that is how the staff at the billing counter of the OPD, the nurses, the pharmacist, the sample collection people and the parking money collector – all find us familiar now. Most of the nurses are from Kerala. They are usually short and thin and soft-spoken and light-handed. While chooda, bindi, sindoor and bright-lipstick-and-eye-shadow-wearing north-Indian nurse gave me two puncture marks.

Well well…what really drew me the most attention and some sympathy was the size of the t.b. antigen test boil. The lab assistant also assures me that I’m going to be alright. It had swollen to a 28 mm size. (10 mm is considered to be a mark of positive so we were looking Very positive then). Other than making me scratch myself like an ape, the injection proved the CAT scan diagnosis of t.b. in the tummy. And drew some sympathetic and some curious and some very disgusted glances from passers-by.

Right now, I’m going to enjoy a week off from the hospital “trip” and rest and kill the bacteria. And dream.

I’ll dream in my sleep that I am the super-energetic, healthy, glowing diva who plays tennis and does power-yoga and works from 10 to 6 and goes for a movie one day, a play another day, some exhibition the third day, attends a family-do the fourth day, and takes the early weekend and is off to an undisclosed location for a short holiday away from the big city.

(That ladies and gentlemen, is what life looked like barely a couple of months ago. I merely take the liberty of dreaming to be a diva.)

Now, won’t you envy my life?

 

Radio-active Waist! Part I

This one is not even remotely connected with a Bullet. Although I see quite a lot of them while on my way to and back from the hospital. I have been going there everyday for the last twenty days. A few of the nursing staff and even the parking guys are now familiar with Ramit and me.

We haven’t been going to visit a sick relative. Rather, I am the sick relative.

What started as a stomach ache (nothing out-of-the-ordinary) developed into a high-grade fever over two weeks finally diagnosed as chronic stomach infection thanks to a CAT scan.

It is after having changed 4 doctors so that somebody could find a remedy for my malady. The really interesting aspects of this episode came out not in the injections and other tests but in discovering attitudes – of others and even my own!

Doc 1: (after 4 visits in a span of 10 days) Take a Crocin for your fever. God only knows what could be wrong with you. (4 days later, to Ramit) If you insist, I’ll write these tests, but I don’t think its necessary. (And its been 6 days of fever already)

Doc 3: (Writes out a huge list of tests to be done for almost everything going up to CAT scan and MRI scan) Why don’t you get admitted to the hospital!

And finally Doc 4: We’re going to make sure that you’re absolutely alright. Very soon.

And I did get rid of the fever after 7 days of injections, twice a day.

It is a very beautiful drive up to the hospital – especially in the morning…there’s this fresh clean and quite green smell of the trees and the grass and an occasional whiff of flowers. And usually we have some good ol’ rock music playing to keep us company. I feel wonderful. And then as soon as we hit the bumpy patch, I forget all about the green smells and the music and I start dreading the moment the big needle is going to pierce into my muscle, or the new blood test for lever or kidneys or something else…

There’s a rather curious episode which at first angered me, and then I thought, in a world where nobody can trust anybody, its only fair.

Doc #3 wrote out 2 injections to be given to me intravenously. Good-Friday being rather bad for me, the OPD section of the hospital was closed and we were told the emergency section charges for administering the same injections which would ordinarily cost like INR 250/00 (two hundred and fifty only) were INR 4600/00 (four thousand six hundred only) So we thought of trying another hospital.

Hospital #2 said they would do it for INR 250 but then they would not do it because the prescription came from another hospital!!!

And Hospital #3 crossed all limits saying “aap injection toh laga lijiye, paise dekh lenge” (you take the injection first, we’ll see how much to bill you later)

I’m glad I decided to not take the injections that day. My medicine routine was changed the very next day. And its not about the money. I have enough money for all medications and tests and the doc’s fees. But not to throw away to Hospitals which have turned the medicine business into a sort of prostitution.

 

Of Not Counting Days, And a Sunday Story

As an annual ritual, of cleansing and devotion (as well as a test of will-power), I fast every year during the Navratras, in the month of Chait (according to the Hindu calendar). I don’t have little girls come home and give them food and gifts at the end of the fast. I don’t go to temples. I don’t go for a “mattha teko” (those from in and around Delhi/Punjab would understand this term better) anywhere.

But I did go to Kirtan on an impulse, one day. And amidst the chaos of the dhols, and manjeeras and a myriad voices, singing in a language I do not comprehend, one voice sang a bhajan I did understand. She sang that she’s going up the mountain with a “jaykaara” (Hail! to the Mountain Goddess). And as I sat there with closed eyes, I thought of the same Goddess telling me that it’s okay.

Its okay for delays to happen, for things to not work out the way one plans.

I started this blog One full year back. I hoped to find already my dad’s Royal Enfield Bullet. And make my documentary chasing it. And become famous!

Well, kidding about the becoming famous bit, but the other things I did hope.

But I realise I am not in a great hurry to find the Bullet. I need to get ready to receive it first. My journey is not a simple one on a national expressway. There are many detours in this Story. And while I keep taking those, I leave you with snippets of memories of good times, fun times with that bike, that my father shared with me.

“On most Sundays, I’d get up early, and before anything else, I would get the pipe for spraying the water, some old clean soft cloths, and polishing wax ready and spend about an hour cleaning and polishing my pride. Yes, that bike was my pride. I’d make sure each spoke of the bike is clean and shining like new.

Now that is what I call a perfect start to a Sunday morning. Now that the Bullet’s gleaming, I’d think it would do good for me to take a bath and get cleaned up as well.

And when I’d be done sprucing myself up a bit, so I can go out for a nice long Bullet ride with friends, my younger brother Ajay would come to me, very hesitatingly ask if he could have the bike for Only One Hour – he had to go show-off in front of his girl Chandrakala.”

*Dad would become what the Lay’s advert calls as “Dillogical” and give away the keys -

only to get them back at the end of the day. The bike would come back dusty with the polish gone and the fuel tank almost empty. “And Ajay smiling. I would then take it out for refueling and then head for an hour of sheer cruising pleasure on the nearest highway. That’s how most of my Sundays would start.”

 

Day 278: How often does it happen that you marry the admin of your blog?

“I have a very important announcement to make.”

“Gosh! I really need to tell you something…”

“Ok, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to last 10 months”

I really don’t know how to share the simple fact that I’ve married Ramit Batra, who also happens to be my blog’s admin.

There! I’ve said it… Simply enough. The journey I undertook in these months was not following the Bullet trail but a different one. That of being in love. This is one trail I am to follow for the rest of my life.

So then, the other day when Ramit and I happened to catch an episode of Bigg Boss 3, we found Tanaz B Irani give us a brand new phrase “Disappear, disappear, disappear” to throw around, we wondered…its been a long time since we disappeared from the bullet trail.

Tanaz’s phrase was not the only thing to get us thinking about the bullet trail. The others being our small trek in the Himalayan foothills; deer skin boots (Dad left me those along with the GAK-to-be-found); the chill of the air ripping through your hair; the cloud-free star-laden skies; three-figure-kilometer road-trips…

Where do I start?

 

Day 25: A Memory

Transition times are on in life. Riding far out, “on a wing and a prayer”. And some hopes to keep me going, to keep the faith alive. For the journey, I’ll share with you  an often re-told, favourite Bullet story from dad.

This was when we had the factory (factory being a ‘powerloom’) at Naroda (industrial outskirts or Ahmadabad). Ajay and me were in college and we used to take turns going to the factory. This one day, we had taken the Bullet there and as we were leaving Naroda at around lunch time, on our way home, a bus full of tourists passed us on the Mt. Abu route.

We just looked at each other. And it was decided. We are following the bus.

Not a word was said.

We overtook the bus on the way to Abu. Most of the travelers were pretty young women.

We reached the Nakki Lake much before the bus did. And parked the Bullet there at the most prominent spot available. The bus arrvied and the tourists got off and passed the bike. A pretty young woman stopped there and clicked some pictures of the Bullet and asked us to pose with it.

As they say, “the story ended there.”

That was one trip worth riding 221 kms for is what dad said. I’m sure a lot of Bulleteers would agree.

 

Day 18: Is it a woman? Or a man?

An updated relationship status on facebook: “Salonee Pareek is ‘in a relationship’” started a commenting frenzy. Everybody wants to know who the lucky man is! Why assume…like really…why ass-u-me?

Why does it have to be a man? Or even a woman? (No, I’m not into a relationship with a transvestite) But then, it started a rather interesting train of thought in my head…my Bullet – is it a guy or a girl?

To humanise the machines we love is a natural tendency, I believe, so we are able to relate with them better, feel very possessive about them, and guard them with our lives! I started this blog as dedicated to finding dad’s Bullet which i also termed as “Daddy’s Girl”. Almost all my guy friends owning a Bullet introduced me to their machines with “…and, that’s My Girl”. So, when I do find the Bullet, and go and meet everybody who helped me in this journey, do I say “Hey…that’s my Daddy’s Girl” or do I say “…and, that’s my guy”?

And yes, for all my facebook pals who come visiting this page, the cat’s out of the bag. You know now who am I “in a relationship” with. And who’s the lucky man? or woman!!

This is one for the road, dedicated to everyone with a Trip, from Bob Seger and Metallica. Choose your trip.

Here I am – on the road again
There I am – up on the stage
Here I go – playing star again
There I go – turn the page

 

Day 11: Of Digressions & Days Lost

10 precious days lost in translation! And quite literally. I managed to edit 2 shorts for MTV International, about displaced Kashmiri Pundits living Jammu camps; translate 5 Bangla shorts to English; and plan out a video fellowship program for mass comm/journalism students from rural/semi-urban India to document human rights issues in their regions.

The Bullet kept thumping gently somewhere in the background.

I also enjoyed a trip-ed out weekend at a north Goa beach called Arambol with a few friends, the sun, beers, the sea, and lovely food after all the hectic editing and sleepless days and nights.

Th Bullet thumped along for the ride, in my head. I wondered how infinitely beautiful these beaten roads of Goa would become in the monsoons, feeling the freedom rain on me as I wander around with my friend. The sea would be bluer, the sand would sparkle more, the grass would be greener (ok, bad pun! but you get the point, right?) and the guitar would make music more beautifully than it does!

I’m back on the trail today after a long time, and thanks to mom. No, there are no more updates on me finding the bike, BUT I spoke to mom and she has found a lone Picture of daddy’s girl with the registration number plate!!! Small step but significant!

The number’s going out tomorrow first thing in the morning to the forums and other Bulleteers. And all i can think of is a song for my darling daddy’s girl…

“I can’t stop and catch my breath

And look no further, for happiness

And I will not turn again,

‘Cause my heart, has found its home…”

This one’s from Safe Trip Home by Dido

 

Day 3: Emerging Paths

Sunday rushed past like trees at the side of the road, when you’re driving by at high speeds. I loafed about in the Latin quarters of Panjim, Goa, sad that I had still not received any responses from any of the forums that I had posted at. (I had not posted at  a lot of them) the Delhi Bull Riders replied just I was about to shut down.

Finding an old bullet in this country might be like looking for a needle in a hay stack, since I hardly have any details. But now, I can see two emerging tracks of action available. Contrary to what a lot of my film-maker friends feel, I have been talking to all the world about my Bullet story. Some suggestions came my way. The un-romantic way is to go to the Ahmedabad RTO, catch hold of somebody there, bribe them, and get all the details of the bike. This is a surer way to get close to finding it. What it lacks though, is adventure (Believe me an RTO visit is quite an adventure by itself) that is there in interacting ith strangers, listening to their stories, telling them mine and heading into the unknown.

I have already started on the romantic, which is to write to all possible Bullet clubs/bike clubs/road-trippers about my story. And get them to help me spot my Bullet

The Delhi Bull Riders replied yesterday and gave me a glimmer of hope…links to a lot of other Bullet clubs, biker clubs and a promise to do everything they can to help me here. This is what gives me a soaring feeling already! Because there is not just the chance of finding daddy’s girl but also of coming across a lot of Bulleteers and getting to know their trips

I only wonder…can I not make a living out of doing just that?

Trip On.