Verses from the past

Posted: March 2, 2014 in Uncategorized

Here’s me posting a few verses written by me over these months of no posts

How wild the sea is, in lashing waves and retreating strokes it makes love to the shore, again and again.

Bury your sadness beneath your temple, let them be explored by the one who digs for your treasures.

The sun kisses the sky every morning and sleeps with sea, every night.

The warm letters his eyes wrote, the beautiful poems she breathed.

The waters kissed her feet and swept her away in their tides. Since then , they have carried all her mysteries.

Teach me how to dance with the waves..I want to dance my way to the horizon.

Steal a little dew drops, before the sun can play.
Steal a little gold from the shimmering waves, while the sun is a at play.
Steal a sunset kiss as the night sky takes the sun away.
Steal a little breeze as it wafts across the sea.


Posted: July 7, 2013 in Uncategorized

You know you have watched a good movie, when you walk out of the hall not wanting to rate the movie. Vikramaditya Motwane brings to you another  magnificent tale of romance, fantasy and drama you wouldn’t want to rate, but just walk away, with the magic lingering for a while. As the story slowly unfolds, like a satin tufts opening up, the fifties era whisks you away and takes you along in its stride.

The narration flourishes as Pakhi and Varun’s eyes and Amit trivedi’s music does the talking, never spelling out but still piercing through your soul. One finds himself drawn to their world. like an invisible spectator watching their soulful tale move to the romance of O’Henry’s  Last  Leaf .
The movie is for art lovers. It holds no overtly dramatic scenes, no unnecessary raised volumes or mushy romantic lines. It begins with a fairy tale that thrums as the story moves to old folklores of zamindari and hidden treasures and romance that blooms on eye contacts,and husky conversations in undertones. One thing grows into the other leading to an end we never thought could be as beautiful.  Amidst rejections and giving in, feigning and learning, the actors conjure up a throbbing romance, one that you read through but can’t hear…one you drink in as it brews.

Pakhi is full of the charm of a child, loved by her father , enchanted by Varun’s demeanor and a love for writing. The love she holds on to, despite of her words denying it, despite of having lost everything (including her father) to his fraudulence. While Varun on the other hand, appears to be calm waters on the outside, he is a storm on the inside…an unveiled mystery.He finds himself coiled in his own web of loot and love, yet he doesn’t quiver from his plan, slowly cursing himself and finally giving up on everything he could to repay the girl who loved him when everyone else used him.

The cinematography does the rest of the magic, weaving the romance and landscape into a lyrical web, where you find yourself lost. From the Havelis of Manikpur to the snow in Dalhousie…there is beauty poured all over. The movie scarcely feels like motwane’s second movie. For how love is potrayed in the last 30 minutes of the movie, you need to watch it, because the best moments of the movie cannot be put into words. they were sheer magic.

Ps : This movie is not for the kinds who enjoy entertainment over theatre.


Friends, a friend of mine has sent this over by mail. He didn’t cite the
source but may be some blog. A hell of a read nonetheless…………………

Having pontificated for two weeks over the tornado of protests that have hit
Delhi, I found time to contemplate if I *really* knew what they were
protesting about. So I asked someone who has lived there and experienced the
alternating splendor and horror of Delhi; my wife. This is what she had to

I love Delhi, the city. I love its wide, open roads, its wonderful
architecture. I’ve made great friends in Delhi. I went to a wonderful school
in Delhi. I’ve also suffered in Delhi. I’m one of millions of women with
tales to tell of how Delhi has ground our self-respect and security to dust.
General descriptions of harassment can’t adequately describe the horror a
woman faces every day in the city. There isn’t a single moment when you’re
walking its streets that you can think “I’m safe, I can breathe easy and
enjoy the sunshine. What a lovely day!” If you have breasts, you’re fair
game. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from, how old you are, you
can be a man’s property. You can be used for his gratification. You can be

I don’t want to recount the hundreds of times I’ve been groped in crowds in
Delhi. Hands moving over you, pinching your bottom, rubbing your breasts as
you desperately try to find some inch of ground that will be safe. Women
routinely carry sharp objects like needles and drawing instruments to
dissuade such attacks but there are too many incidents to deal with.

Once, while attending a wedding in Delhi, I was at a friend’s place and was
about to leave for the venue. I called the bride’s mom to tell her I’ll walk
down to the venue and I heard an unmistakable sense of terror creep into her
voice. She dropped the bonhomie and almost shouted at me to stay where I
was. She would send a car. I laughed and told her that she was being
ridiculous. Her response was that of anger. “Stay where you are. DON’T MOVE!
I’m sending a car. DO NOT walk alone, especially all dressed up. There’s no
telling what might happen.” The venue was two blocks away in Southex, a very
posh part of Delhi. It was five thirty in the evening and it was broad

I accompanied my friend’s relatives to a function at Pragati Maidan. With us
was her 70 year-old grandmother. The lady was a widow, dressed in the
characteristic white sari. She hobbled on a walking stick. The ground was
crowded and dusty. As we made our way through the crowd, a young adolescent
boy shoved his hand between her legs. He felt up a seventy year old woman
hobbling on a walking stick. We were unable to reconcile this incident with
any semblance of logic or sense. Why did this happen? Just. It was a female
with female parts, which of course are the property of every human in Delhi
blessed with a penis.

As a student in Delhi, I’d attend tuitions literally across the road from
where we stayed. The proprietor was a burly man with a shy fourteen year old
son. Every evening, after classes dispersed, it was that young boy’s job to
make sure we girls safely crossed the street. That’s all. He’d just stand
outside the gate and make sure we crossed a distance of fifty feet safely.
He wasn’t worried about us being hit by cars. He was making sure we didn’t
get molested. If a mob of men had shown up, the poor boy wouldn’t stand a
chance. And yet, he’d be there every evening, standing alert and looking
responsible for us.

If you think misogyny and sexism are the refuge of the rich and powerful
alone, think again. As I sat in a car in Delhi, a beggar came up to my
window, begging for alms. A pathetic creature shod in tatters. He saw that I
was a woman and suddenly his demeanor changed. His face lit up in an evil
sneer and he started flicking his tongue in and out. I was so stunned I
laughed. Here’s this pathetic creature with no food or clothes to sustain
him but so desperate was his sexual need and so fearless his demeanor that
it trumped all else. A woman can be ****ed. Should be ****ed. Oh, and can I
also have some money for food?

Delhi’s sexist culture is a festering cesspool that permeates its families.
A friend of mine lived in a joint family in a palatial house. Rich, educated
folk. I remember we were nine year old girls, hanging out at her house,
playing with Barbie dolls. Her younger male cousins barged in and started
creating a ruckus. We shooed them away, treating them as a nuisance but they
had a stunning response up their sleeve. These boys brought their GI Joe
figurines and said “hum tumhare Barbies ka rape karenge”. We were stunned.
These were six or seven year old boys. They probably didn’t even know what
rape was. They didn’t even know how it was done. But they knew it can be
used to teach women a lesson. They must’ve heard their fathers and uncles
talk about putting women in their place. “Zyaada bak bak karegi toh uska
rape kar denge.” This is also why I find casual remarks or jokes about rape
extremely unfunny.

This dehumanization of being, steady erosion of self-respect, the constant
looking over your shoulder no matter where you are, is what makes Delhi such
a horrible place for women. There are some well-reasoned arguments why we
shouldn’t trivialize the larger issues surrounding rape by laying blame at
the doorstep of one city alone, but there’s a reason for this insidious
association; it breeds and lives on the fear that power creates. Let’s just
call Delhi the capital of subjugation. I also need to mention that I’ve
never felt this CONSTANTLY afraid in any other city in India. You can quote
examples of rapes in Mumbai, Kolkata, or other cities and you’d have a
point. This pathetic patriarchal culture pervades India, but there’s no
other place quite like Delhi where patriarchy and power mingle to create a
sense of male entitlement.

I saw pictures of these young girls standing their ground getting beaten up,
screaming in the cops’ faces. Learned pundits question why. What is the
point of this protest anyway? What do they want? It’s a pity they can’t even
see this basic point. They want to be treated as humans again. I read about
the rape in Delhi and the anger in me has refused to go away. Memories of
those years of harassment came flooding back. If you’re a woman in Delhi,
you’ve been groped and violated five times a day since you were eight. Since
you were too young to even know what breasts are and what they can do to
men. My years in Delhi exacted a heavy price from me. I’d instinctively step
back when a man entered my personal space. This instinct finally started
ebbing away after I moved to Pune. Even there, I’d instantly be on my guard,
alert and tense, when a man looked over my shoulder as I worked on the
laptop. This was because of Delhi and it took years for it to go away.

When you’d get molested for the first time you’d come back tearfully to tell
your mother or the other grown women in your family. “Kya karein beta, aisa
hi hota hai”. What can you do, this is how it is. That crushing realization
as an eight year old girl that you’re somehow going to have to deal with
this for the rest of your life. Groped by the domestic help, groped by the
boy who delivers the groceries, groped by your uncle. Never being able to
step out unless you have a “man” accompanying you. Men, who deal with the
status quo without changing it. Men, who ironically feel a greater sense of
entitlement by being the “protectors” of their women. This feeling is what
that girl in the protest is screaming against.

I’m still angry when I see those pictures because I haven’t moved on. I’m
angrier when I read men lamenting about what ails us. Here’s a reality
check: if you’re a man, you don’t know what the **** you’re talking about.
You have NO IDEA what it’s like to live a life that doesn’t belong to you. I
understand your sympathy but have no use for it.

I’m angrier when I read scholarly articles about civil society, better
governance and societal and infrastructural reforms. I read words like five
years and “long term” and seethe. Of course one wants to live in a civil
society that believes in redemption and the rehabilitation of its worst
members but you have no bloody idea what you’re dealing with in Delhi. These
are men who operate on an animal instinct. You need a brutal deterrent,
employed continuously and consistently in the short term to let them know we
mean business. When you’re cornered by a wolf snarling and baring its fangs
do you lecture it on the sanctity of life? No, you react. If I could come
face to face with these brave men of Delhi who tormented me, I’d shoot them
between the eyes. Even today, if a man stares at me a moment longer than
necessary I have this visceral urge to rip his eyes out.

So **** you and your calls for long term change. Don’t waste my time talking
about the next five years. Tell me what you’re going to do in the next five
hours when your mother, sister or wife leaves the safety of her home and
wades into the filthy muck of the city, telling herself that there’s a
distinct possibility she may not come home unviolated or even alive.

I want to clarify that not all of the examples of harassment or abuse I
mentioned in the post involved me directly. The incidents in the latter half
of the post involve people close to me. For example, I know the 8 year old
who tearfully complained to her mother about harassment for the first time,
because I was present in the room with her. I know someone who’s faced abuse
at the hands of family members. The point of this post isn’t to dwell on
specific examples alone, but to communicate the extent to which a woman’s
liberties are disrespected. It’s to highlight how such horrifying incidents
get swept under the sanitized terms “molestation” and “eve-teasing”, which
dulls their severity and impairs understanding of the circumstances that
enable them. The examples you’ve so courageously shared in the comments will
also go a long way in this regard.

The Men in my Life

Posted: November 5, 2012 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

It has been almost two months since I pushed myself into the rat race of the corporate world. For my own good or bad, well, I’d leave that for the future to decide. A lot of things have changed, since I last left Bombay, only one thing remains the same : the inherent Madness of Mumbaikars. That is one thing I guess nobody can take away from this city.

Life as a trainee and now as an architect is absolutely different.So Is the feeling of coming back to a city you have once lived in.After all the palpable memories attached to the city, I think I carved my way back to the city of madness, for the sole reason of reuniting with and nurturing the madness that lies within me.

Unlike my experience during training, where I made a lot of female friends, this time has turned out to be different. In the last few weeks I have encountered a lot of Males in this City, each different from the other.Few further concreting my opinions about them, and few breaking through it, all at once.

I’ll leave aside the mega douches who objectify women to only pacify their greed, and talk about the ones I fall in love with, every single day.And by love I mean, love for their kind. There are few strings that are felt only when someone gives a tug at them, distance being the factor in my case. I called up my father from my office today, because I was too overwhelmed with concern and love for him. The distance from him makes me go berserk with myriad thoughts quite often, and I feel bereft.

My day consists of a lot of men, the ones who make me laugh, the ones who intimidate me, the ones who feel it to be their responsibility to take care of me in this lone city, the ones who toss around frowning looks and the ones who send me cute messages, lifting up my moods. And not to forget, the ones who make me hyperventilate.I have always been attracted towards the male roles in the society. Maybe my inner spirit already took in the female roles to be a part of me. But it is the male typology that always attracted me. As a child, I was very inquisitive about my driver, the postman, the milkman, my rickshaw driver, the office gardener, et al. I was keenly interested in how the lawns were pruned, how my driver waited hours and hours while we all went around doing stuff..How the postman delivered posts on so many addresses, and did someone ever write to the postman? I always wanted to know what daddy did in his office, and why was he not home for more than half of the day. Keen on knowing everything that he carried in his briefcase or the stuff that lied in his drawer. Frankly, my mother’s handbag never fascinated me much.

I used to tag along with my dad every Sunday to his company, and I was left to be taken care of by his staff  there. I sat in the driver’s seat talking to him for hours, or walked behind the Gardener asking him questions about plants or the small little beliefs he and his villagers kept.

When my house was being built, I gazed at the laborers, and the tiring efforts that they took ,in order to feed their Family. And on pondering further, it is not just the Indian society, but men all over the world are laden with so much of responsibilities. Pick up any culture, any country, the men have so much to take care of. I am averse to chauvinism, but I just cannot help noticing how much a man has to deal with too, its not just women who are subjugated. A man undergoes a lot of subjugation too, silently. And to think over it, I have rarely seen them crib about it.

 “A feminist is anyone who recognizes the equality and full humanity of women and men.”

― Gloria Steinem

Call me lucky, that I have met enough good ones to know how adorable a man is. I am in complete awe of how they want to take care of their sister, how they want to save money to provide a good life to their future wife, their kids, how they takes care of their pregnant wives..or simply their female friends around. I smile more than often during office hours or while talking to my father or my brother, When my friends back home call me Every day to keep tab of my injured knee…when my friend here calls me at 3 am in the night to yell on me because I didn’t tell him about an injury at the time it was incurred. When my office mates try their best to make me feel comfortable in the office. Probably that’s why a man’s build is much stronger than a woman’s and he is made stronger and tougher.

Cliché, it might sound, but a strong man and a tender woman, together make a complete package of love, and define beautiful.  As I write this I feel blessed to have met such nice men. Well nicer men have been more in number, than the wrong ones I would say. Enough to know that not every man is the same.

For every time a boy breaks my heart or causes harm, there has always been a man, to heal my wounds, knowingly or unknowingly, but I feel blessed to have the men I have n my life always around. Even the bad ones, for without them, I would never be able to appreciate how adorable and lovable the others are!


Posted: September 19, 2012 in Love thru my eyes

So finally I saw Barfi today!A movie after almost two months. Life is back to the drill, Back to bombay, back to work. Today being a holiday I finally found time to watch a movie..And Barfi!, was not just a movie, it was an experience. I don’t want to Rate the movie..That would be an insult. The movie was sheer magic for me. If love can be captured in 35mm , it would be called Barfi. I don’t care what the world said, or what the critics said…For me it was the story telling that captured me, the upheavals of emotions that I experienced..My Heart went for Barfi and shruti..His accidents with the Lamp Posts almost felt like they were happening with me. When Barfi goes to Shruti’s House and her Mom covers up the secret.(I shall keep away the similarity with Notebook away here), but my tears couldn’t stop flowing when Barfi pleads to know why he was lead to Love her when the differences is what actually mattered in Life! And not Love. It reminded me so much of the life I have lived, so much of the life we all live. So many Shruti’s around..But shruti before she gets married and Shruti after she gets married were two different people. And it takes a lot of courage to be the Shruti post marriage..Extremely difficult! that test when she has to turn and tell barfi that Jhilmil was calling for him. The moment when she steps out of the her house, leaving everything behind..the moment where she steps into the train..That was love.Doing everything, despite of knowing that she would not get anything in return. I do not know what form of love it can be called..was it just or not, but it was love. Barfi, Jhilmil and Shruti, all three define love in a different manner..irrevocable, indelible love. And the Music weaves travels like a thread, sewing all the unsubjugated emotions floating in the heart..Arjit Singh’s Saawli si raat, Phir le aaya Dil by rekha Bhardwaj..and Aashiyan. The movie leaves one with an emotional turmoil when one walks out of the theatre..unable to juxtapose ones thoughts for sometime..Lost in the thoughts, in that past of their life where they had a Love like Barfi, the magic of Happiness and the Purity of their soul. Have we lost it all in attempts to live an equal sociable life? Where Money matters more over Love? The question remains unanswered..For the grass is always greener on the other side. Isn’t it? file:///SDCard/BlackBerry/pictures/barfi-movie-image-6.jpg.rem

The Train Accident

Posted: September 9, 2012 in Mumbai Dreams

Yesterday morning , i took a cab to Jogeshwari from JVLR, to witness something scary enough, it brought down all memories of 2010.

People were rushing towards the tracks, a man had just fallen off the trains, probably dead, few men with a stretcher rushed towards the body, and took him towards the station office, there were no screams, no cries, only wide eyed starers for the victim. I don’t even know if he was rushed to a hospital as i left ,or if he was dead.
For all i could hear in that moment was my heart thumping in my chest, my thoughts racing back to 2010.The man was being attended by station officers, soon i came to know that he had died.I closed my eyes and prayed for his family.

My thoughts raced back to what i did few years back, i know the pain of it, the guilt of it too.

So back to 2010, i had returned home by train, but someone had guided me.
Next morning, instead of taking my regular 91, i took a 311, that dropped me to Santacruz station, i bought my ticket for lower parel and went to platform 2.

There were two trains standing, one on each side…i asked a lady on the carriageway in one of the trains, if the train would go to lower parel,and the dumbfuck said i wish she said ‘i don’t know!’ It was a Borivali train, that went to the opposite direction. By the time the other ladies  told me its the wrong train, there was a lot of rush in the alley….My heart throbbed,my thoughts raced “oh my god!what am i supposed to do now” “i’ll be late for work” “don’t know where this train will take me” i had no idea what would happen next, All that came to my mind was to get down before the train started, so i pushed my way out, not realisng that in 2 seconds the train was about to start,infact that it had already started slowly, i stepped down, not knowing that it was the very moment when the train would attain its actual speed, and because of the Force of Inertia, i got thrown to the concrete Platform in just a second.

For some seconds, my mind went blank, it couldn’t process what had just happened.My bag flew,and my jaw dropped on the floor,pain spreading through my body like poison…My limbs were bleeding..The platform had vacated around me, everyone moved a few steps away, but noone came up to help me stand up, No one..nobody even asked if i was okay. My view about Bombay crushed down, people started discussing what i should have done and what i should have not.All eyeballs staring at me, but not one heart strong enough to help, is this how a city treats accidents? What is the value of citizens that we hold?Our work, our life, everything is soo important that we can’t even help a stranger who just met with an accident?? i felt disgusted.For the first time, i hated Bombay.

Holding up my tears, i gathered strength to stand up myself and collect my bag. I stood up to realise soon that the tunic i had worn had torn from under my arms, upto my torso and that i was covered in the dirty rain mud all over. I quickly took out my stole from my bag and wrapped it around to cover myself..i couldn’t go to office this way.My left arm was bleeding,so were my knees, and my chin had become blue.. I climbed up the stairs, even though my limbs were aching badly and took a rickshaw back home, called up my flat mate that i met with an accident and am coming back home.I was Numb in the rickshaw, tears rolling down my cheeks as i tried to accept the fact that i was lucky enough to have survived. Few seconds here and there, and that morning of July 2010 would have been my last morning ever. I just couldn’t grasp it.My mind had stopped working.I had just escaped death.

My mind traced back to my mom’s words last night, and it happened today..i was flinching with pain…reached my flat, my flatmate and my maid both stood petrified at the doorway, they made me sit, cleaned my wounds and gave me concern lectures, reminding me of my mom. I called up the receptionist at my office and informed her of the same.My heart pounded…i couldn’t tell my parents.they would freak out.Come to Bombay, or maybe call me back home. And i hadn’t even completed one month of my six month training.I decided not to.

I went to a doctor who took care of the wounds and stayed home that day, thinking of what had just happened.My friend was very concerned, she came home to have lunch with me in the lunch break. I felt warm, unaware of the pains that were about to spring up when i get up next day.

But i didn’t give up, Next day, i got my hand plastered, but i went to office..i traveled in the same crowded buses and the overcrowded Trains…I learnt the train systems, learnt that i could get down at the next station and take a churchgate train to work.I couldn’t gather the courage to let my parents know about it,i knew i was wrong,but in the deepest chambers of my heart, i felt i was doing the right thing.I was growing up..i was learning to walk on my own after falling down.

Wounds take a lot to heal up,but they heal fastest when one has the will to let them heal.


“I think scars are like battle wounds – beautiful, in a way. They show what you’ve been through and how strong you are for coming out of it. “-Demi lovato


I told my dad about the incident after coming back from training. As expected he went berserk hearing about it, and was upset with me for quite a long time for not informing any of my family members about the same.His reaction was as i feared, for the next 6 months he didn’t let me to go Bombay at all. I cried, and pleaded for him, not to do so, but he was a father.A father whose daughter had hidden such a huge thing from him. But you know the beauty of a father-daughter relationship? It is the love that they have!That’s the cuteness of it. A father will never keep his little princess away from what she loves, and today, m back in Bombay, ready to start a new chapter after 2 years.


My most favorite pic with daddy.


The New Office

Posted: September 1, 2012 in Mumbai Dreams
Tags: ,

I entered the Office in Lower Parel, and was taken aback by the interiors. There was a lot of chaos, people were standing every where. The Furniture was being adjusted. But oh, wait…i missed an essential part in between.

Rewinding to the Sunday that went by, Dad had come to pick me from my Uncle’s place. And since i were to no longer live in Chembur, in that small apartment with a Gujju family, all the other options in chembur were ruled out too. Another classmate of mine who was interning in Mumbai, had found a PG in Kalina,Santacruz (E) and since i had no time to find another place, i decided to shift there with her.

We bid goodbye to Dad’s Friend and their Family, and headed For Kalina. It took us sometime to find the flat. The Land Lady was too grungy and money minded. We were shown around the Apartment, it was an old Flat, hence the rooms were bigger than the newer ones. But the place was unkempt, dirty. My Classmate shared a room with another fat 30 year old girl,Who worked with BMW.My Dad did the formalities and i got my room, which i was sure i could make into something better. i was offered a bed, which i didn’t like, so i went ahead to convert a sofa into my’s how it looked.

The Kitchen  had a fridge, and funnily a small TV over it.. My land lady worked in Bombay dyeing, and had one room in the 2bhk to herself, the other rooms were converted to twin sharing rooms. I had the bigger hall converted to bedroom, and luckily no one to share it with. The Kitchen was covered with dirt, and hence the girls never used it.But i loved cooking, so i decided to clean it. I started scrubbing the platform with a wire mesh and soon the girls joined me, and we cleaned the entire kitchen. There it was : a Cute little kitchen cum common room. Because our Television was there..and we often spent time there.

Back to Lower Parel, I was standing in the office, observing the chaos. People were meeting each other. This office had a lot of tall beautiful girls, all chit chatting away. I gulped down , How was i ever going to put up with GIRLS?? like really girly girls..All dressed up like there was a photo-shoot, i started wondering how i must appear to them.

I never got along with girls who were all girly, loved to gossip and the kinds. How would i ever enjoy working in such a place.A few people passed by, and smiled, i smiled back at them.not knowing what to do…the awkward feeling that i had, of being in a place where i knew no one, and where everyone appeared senior to me. What was i? Just a third year pass Trainee at that time. And the people on the other side , together formed one of the best firms in  Mumbai.

Suddenly a warm welcome came to my side, The design head of the firm came over to introduce herself to me, and then introduced me to the staff. Again i smiled nervously. The furniture was adjusted, extra terminals for the chembur staff had been placed. And now was time for lunch, and i escaped again, took a walk down the street, to look for places to eat, the office boy Babul, who later on became my reason to smile over every coffee, was in the elevator with me, and curiously asked me why i was going out for lunch alone, and i managed to lie saying i had a friend waiting…i went to  the nearest Food joint that i found, Da vinci sandwiches and wraps. But it was too expensive to eat everyday.

I went back,and now we were all seated back to work. our terminals faced each other in every row.A girl sat in front of me, in the ID row.She peeked in through the crevices, and introduced herself, asking me where i was from. I smiled back and replied, not expecting anything further. And to my surprise, we had a mutual friend. She was from Gujarat too, but from Ahmadabad. And we instantly became friends.

My first friend in Bombay.

Suddenly, all the knots of awkwardness started opening up in my heart, and i actually laughed on her jokes. She was this very jovial, and bubbly person, whom everyone loved in the office. And something hit us, i saw an an instinctive likeness emerging, for each other.And within two days, i was friends with most of my colleagues. A magical unveiling took place, between me and the girls. For the first time i made so many girlfriends. I had grown one step further in life.

While returning, i usually took a 91 no BEST carriage back home. It dropped me just at the bus stop , outside my lane.But there was a problem, i had to wait 45 mins, sometimes an hour or more for the bus daily, because a 9-6 office never gets over at 6.And i always missed the 6 o clock bus. Until one day, when one of my colleagues suggested me to travel by train. I told her that i wasn’t aware of the systems and that i preferred bus because it dropped me from office to home and vice versa. She said she’d teach me..i went walking with her to lower parel station, which was like 750 meters , or maybe a km away from my office.She showed me where to buy my ticket from, And explained the Borivali and Churchgate train systems. She took her trains from parel station, so she left me at the platform, asking me to board an Andheri or Borivali train and get down on Santacruz, and so i did.

Just outside the Santacruz Station is a Bus stand, where i took another 311 that stopped at the same stop as 91. I had reached home almost 40 mins early that day.I told my parents happily about the new way of coming back home. My parents were a little apprehensive about me taking the trains as they are very crowded, Mom even told me that people fall of the train and die, and i should take the bus, its more safe…but i shrugged it off because i knew it didn’t happen with everyone and that thousands of people used the same means of transport everyday.

Little did i know that i too would be a part of the few people, who meet with train accidents.And Soon…..i did meet with one.Very soon.