The Arrival of Ringo Starr.

My mother was clearing out my grandparents' desk the other day, and found this story I'd written soon after Ringo Starr entered our lives. I was fifteen years old.


Ever since I can remember, I've wanted a dog.

Unfortunately, being blessed with a mother who has a heart of granite, I've never been successful in getting one. Last year however, she softened somewhat (must be because of age...I hear people get sentimental when they reach their mid forties) and on March 24th, 2006, Ringo Starr arrived.

He's a pug puppy, with big beady eyes and a squashed black face ad velvety soft ears and a curled up little tail. He's also slightly mad, which is why he fits in so well with out family.

The first time I saw him was when his owner brought him up to our flat in a tiny little basket. I glanced casually at the basket (you couldn't really see what was inside) but didn't really register anything. I was disappointed because the owner, Mr Sinha (a nondescript man but possessor of the largest mole I have ever seen till date...right on his nose!) hadn't seemed to bring the puppy with him.

Finally (my brain always does work exceptionally slow on Sundays) I realised what was in the basket. I deducted this, not from Mr Sinha whose English I couldn't really understand (not because I am retarded, but because it was so terrible), but from little scrabbly noises coming from inside it.

I tiptoed over to the basket, and opened it, and this little, tiny...thing (for want of a better word) scrambled out of it. He kept slipping and sliding all over our floor, looking absolutely proud of his horrendous sense of balance. My mother and I didn't exclaim over him. Not at first. We just stood there and stared.

We stared as he slid over to the wall and inspected it. Then he tried to walk through it. Having discovered that he couldn't, he snorted at it, and having told the wall exactly what he thought of it, he moved on to explore greener pastures...such as our carpet, which he promptly started chewing. He shredded up the carpet edge in under one minute, and then started on our dining table leg.

Mr Sinha, noticing our shell shocked expressions, said a hasty, "bhery good, bhery good...eggcellent, eggcellent...I am go-eeng, bye bye, bye bye."

He went.

The puppy (he hadn't been christened yet) now decided that my shoelace would be a good thing to chew on. So he chewed on it, his beady eyes looking up at my face suspiciously all the while. I bent down and gingerly patted him. He obligingly chewed my finger. I glanced up at my mother. She had a huge soppy smile plastered on her face.

She held out her arms, and the puppy tumbled into them.

He had come to stay.

The first time we fed him was an experience. I had to hold him down, while Mum gave him his dinner (milk mixed with some other bizarre yet apparently nourishing substance). It was obvious, as we watched him eat (or more appropriately, swim in) his dinner, that this was a dog, whose stomach would always take precedence over his heart. He ate so enthusiastically that milk kept going up his nose (pugs have a very squashed face) and after he was done, he started banging his paws on the floor, which was his (very ineffective) way of getting the milk of his nose.

Almost as if he was playing the drums.

Hence the name, Ringo Starr. Ringo Starr was the name of the Beatles' drummer. (If you don't know who the Beatles are, I advise you to go soak your head).

Of course, we didn't come up with it right away. We went through Sumo (because he looked a bit like a wrestler. Sumo wrestler, get it? Ha ha. No one else did either), Jughead (an obvious choice because of his appetite) and even King Kong (my mother's suggestion. I would never do that to a dog.)

Ringo Starr is now nine months old and thriving. So far he's chewed up every single carpet in the house, a couple of table legs, my grandmother's silver cabinet, all my socks, sixty six fingers, and forty toes. Not to mention a dozen ears. He has also boosted the sale of biscuit companies all over India. He's terrified of milk cans and cats and babies infuriate him. If he ever sees a lady in a salwaar kameez, he will promptly put his head up it, regardless of whether he knows her or not. When I take him down for a walk, he barks furiously at everything in sight, but if something dares to retaliate he hides behind my legs. He's not very graceful...he can walk without sliding all over the floor now, but unfortunately he has not been able to achieve that when he runs.

As I write this, he's sitting at my feet looking hopefully up at me.

It's 11:00 am right now.

Time for a biscuit as usual.

Funny, but when I read this, I sort of remembered what the fifteen year old me was like. Thought I'd forgotten, but in essentials, not much has changed. 

The Annual Recap.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before?

i) Reached my 20's. (It feels so WEIRD.)

ii) Got my first paycheck. 

iii) Started using a cycle (goodbye, autos!) 

iv) At one point, I became something close to a pothead and even had my own drug dealer (a lady who owns a beauty parlour). That's over now though and I'm never repeating it again. 

v) Started something I've told only one person about, but it feels pretty special.

vi) Cooked a proper (and edible) meal.

vii) Dyed my hair. 
viii) A back arch. 
ix) [added 20th Dec]: LATE NIGHT BIKE RIDE THROUGH CALCUTTA ROADS IT WAS BLOODY AWESOME!
x) Started watching polo. Next year, I might play. 
xi) A couple of other things which I can't mention here.

2. Did you keep your new years resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Didn't keep my new years resolutions (surprise, surprise), but I am, as ever, undaunted by my own perpetual uselessness and I have made a couple for next year. 

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

No.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Yerr. 

5. What countries did you visit?

I VISITED NO COUNTRIES I DID NOT TRAVEL I HAD NO HOLIDAYS AND IT BETTER NOT HAPPEN AGAIN. 

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

The usual inner peace (it just slips further away every year), and more travel, and an iphone that actually works.

7. What date from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory and why?

Nothing really. It was a pretty forgettable year.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Probably passing Hindi. 

9. What was your biggest failure?

Not getting a first division end of second year. IT WILL BE RECTIFIED. 

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I've suffered a lot of injury since getting my cycle. I also battled through illness and emerged more or less unscathed, but in possession of an inhaler. FML. 

11. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

A, for battling a lot of set backs and attaching the prefix Captain to his name. And A.O., for being happy and content which in itself is a huge achievement. 

12. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

I can't say here.

13. Where did most of your money go?

Costa Coffee, probably. :/ 

14. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Planned holidays which always fell through at the last moment thanks to landslides and other disasters. My internship which is just the most hilarious story ever but I can't talk about it here. 

15. What song will always remind you of 2011?

This Year by the Mountain Goats (because it goes like this: I WILL MAKE IT THROUGH THIS YEAR IF IT KILLS ME).

16. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?

I'm not sad, but I was a lot happier this time last year. Oh well, highs and lows, they come and go. 

17. What do you wish you'd done more of?

I wish I'd worked harder, travelled more, and been more careful with my possessions. 

18. What do you wish you'd done less of?

Drunk texting. 

19. How will you be spending Christmas?

I'm going to eat a lot and wear a Christmas hat, and I'm going to spend it with family and friends, giving presents, and being happy. I might even ho-ho all day. And I'm going to bribe my friends with mulled wine and mince pies, trick them into coming over, and force them to play Christmas Articulate. 

20. Did you fall in love in 2011?

Haha. No. 

21. How many one night stands?

Zilch. 

22. What was your favourite TV programme?

I watch them all on my laptop, and the only one I follow on a regular basis is How I Met Your Mother. I really like The IT Crowd though, and Black Books. 

23. What was the best book you read?

I DISCOVERED  F. SCOTT FITZGERALD AND I DON'T KNOW WHERE HE'S BEEN ALL MY LIFE. 

24. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Phish, I don't know where they've been all my life either. And I've realised that when I'm feeling all heartbroken and sorry for myself, I can always count on a certain trio to pull me out: Madonna, Adele, aaaaaand Leonard Cohen. 

25. What did you want and get?

The trouble was - and is - that I didn't, and don't, know what I want. 

26. What did you want and not get?

See above. 

27. What was your favourite film of this year?

Dono. BUT NEXT YEAR IT BETTER BE STEPHANIE PLUM BECAUSE I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THE MOVIE SINCE I WAS TEN YEARS OLD. 

28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I drank too much champagne, I made the mistake of letting my thirteen year old cousin into my party, I made the bigger mistake of introducing him to Vikram who fed him all sorts of dubious substances, and I turned 20. 

29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

I think I just needed to get my act together this year, and I didn't. So that, and also maybe new shoes. 

30. What kept you sane?

Mawii, Mawii, Mawii. And Friend tried.




31. Who was the worst new person you met?


Didn't meet anyone particularly disastrous. 




32. Who was the best new person you met?


Shoi. :)




33. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learnt in 2011.

The most important: make the most of something good while it lasts, because it won't last always. And also (Mawii, this one is for you), good friends and hysterical laughter are irreplaceable. 

34. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

As usual, no. 




PS I JUST RE POSTED THIS SEVEN DIFFERENT TIMES TO MAKE THE GAPS EVEN BUT THEY JUST WON'T GET EVEN NO MATTER WHAT I DO. And I'm sure there are sticklers out there who are cringing over this like I am, but sorry, there is nothing I can bloody do. This bloody blogspot. I'll move to tumblr. 

You think it will be easy. It isnt man.

Talisman.

I don't know when it will happen,

or where. Perhaps it will happen,

on a hot afternoon, as streaks of sun

slice open our faces. Shadows of flies

dance their twisted trails on crimson coals.

Or maybe under a canopy of smoky skies,

sharp toothed sapphires striking down,

pelting gentle rolling waves of soft cotton.

As the sharp scents of cinnamon and

of something once forgotten, 

now remembered,

as these

race towards a waiting world. 

AAAAAAAAAAAARGH I'M GOING TO FAIL.

Approximately seven weeks left before I turn twenty one.

I'm feeling a little alarmed. Not because I think twenty one is old (I did when I was twelve, but what do twelve year olds know, right? Especially if the diary I kept back then is anything to go by), but because it's a reminder that I should by now be firmly entrenched in what vague voices call Life, and I don't think I am. Or if this is Life, whatever Life is and I'm using a capital L for a reason, then it's sort of - disappointing isn't the word - not enough. It's not enough.

Because when I look back, I see my life as one event after another, a series of sequences, of consequences, of oh-this-was-that-time-when-I-was-happy, and that-was-the-year-that-I-was-glad-to-leave-behind. That's the-thirteen-year-old-Trisha-being-an-idiot, and the seventeen-year-old-Trisha-not-being-an-idiot-but-not-being-much-else-really, and the nineteen –year- old –Trisha- being-a-fool-albeit-spectacularly.

Is there anything spectacular about foolishness?

Going through the motions. That's what I'm doing. Right now it's a sort of ho hum, just want to get term over with man, because the past few months have been crap, and want to go back home. And once I am home, it will be an oh my gosh, I'm having so much fun and Christmas in Calcutta is always so wonderful, but I'm worried I'll only feel that when I'm drunk. Anyway there's a reason I don't particularly want to go back to Calcutta right now, but let's not even go there because it's a stupid reason, and anyway I have better things to do than pay attention to it.

What things?

Nothing.

That's my problem.

Everything feels like a hand moving mindlessly, instinctively, to swat at alien fingers on my wrist: there is no real emotion, no real thought, because all of it will be replaced in five years by something new, or it will have died and not been replaced, or it will stay the same, and either way, I'll be no happier, no sadder, no different than what I already am.

Of course being the same sort of person through the years is something that is often looked up to, something that is applauded. I never understand why. How boring to to be the same, to have the same thoughts, the same reactions, the same points of view, through the years, at fifteen, at fifty. People should change, they should grow, they should have past selves and present selves and future selves, because what happens if you stay the same, and you know yourself inside out, you know what you're going to say, or what you're going to do, at any given moment, and then you just get bored of yourself. Like a stale marriage, except I don't think they've come up a way to divorce yourself, although by the looks of things, I'm sure they will soon.

So here's my problem. I am not yet twenty one, although time will soon take care of that, I am reasonably happy, reasonably enthusiastic about the future, reasonably reasoning my way through this bloody Life thing, and I am completely and utterly dissatisfied.

It's like you're walking down a college corridor and you hear voices behind you and you can hear what they're saying and it sounds stupid so you roll your eyes contemptuously and then the next minute you catch sight of a familiar face and you feel a pleasant warmth light itself inside you because you're fond of that face, and at the same time you notice a patch of sun on the a red brick wall and you feel the back of your neck itching, just slightly, and while seeing and feeling all these different things, essentially, you're just distracted, unable to focus on any one thing, unable to get a grip, get a grasp.

But it's not like you're losing your balance, stumbling, tripping, falling, desperately trying to look for something to hold onto either.

That is the tragedy. 

The Trip That Wasn't: Part III

"Is it seven o'clock yet?" I asked, cracking an eye open.

Mawii rolled over and looked at her phone. "Damn." 

"What?"

"It's ten in the morning,"

"So much for sight seeing," I murmured happily - I could see the sun streaming through our window, despite the faded green curtain, and I could tell it was going to be a hot day - and I closed my eyes again. 

"New plan," I said to Mawii, half an hour later, as we ate our breakfast. Hunger pangs had forced us out of bed in a way no 8.40 am class ever has. "We do lunch first. And then we go sight seeing." 

"Sounds good."

"It'll give us more energy anyway." 

"This really isn't sight seeing weather," said Mawii, a couple of hours later, as we were trudging our way to the metro station in the heat. 

I sighed, and looked down at my feet. Keep walking, keep walking. A terrible sight met my eyes (well, eye, I was still wearing only one contact lens) and I groaned. 

"WHAT?" Mawii spun around, probably thinking I'd stepped in cow poop. Our lane harbours the occasional cow which appears and vanishes without a trace (it would be too optimistic to think that someone turns them into beef), only occasionally leaving big lumps of feces for hapless people to step in. 

"I forgot to take my nail polish off." I was wearing sandals and I'd been picking at the nail polish on my toes the previous night (disgusting habit, I know, I know, my mother has told me a thousand times) and now half of it had gone, and half of it was there, and my feet looked terrible. 

"Just ignore it?" Said Mawii hopefully. 

"I can't go sight seeing with ugly toenails!" 

So then I walked past the metro station to the pharmacy, while Mawii sat outside the Exchange Store resignedly sipping a cold coffee, and bought nail polish remover and cotton wool and lip balm because the saleslady told me it would make my lips look luscious and who the hell doesn't want luscious lips? 

I joined Mawii outside the Exchange Store, and started rubbing frantically at my toenails, while passers by gave me curious looks. I ignored them. It comes with the territory. 

I finally got my toes looking clean (although depressingly colourless) and for extra measure, I'd luscious-ed my lips, and we finally got onto the metro, and away from the heat. 

"I could just sit here all day," I said, blissfully, leaning back and stretching my legs out, enjoying the air conditioning and the empty compartment. Of course, then we stopped at Kashmere Gate, and all of a sudden the metro was jam packed with frantic people and decayed people and smelly people, and suddenly life outside the metro began to look rosy again. 

We got to Big Chill eventually and asked for a table outside so we could smoke (you're allowed to smoke when you're on holiday). Because it was so hot, no one else was sitting outside, and so we were rushed past a line of people waiting to be seated in the air conditioned interior. They looked at us enviously. Ha ha, non smokers, ha ha. 

We'd both been exercising (or we intended to start, I'm not sure) and it was really very hot, so we skipped the pasta and had salads instead. Would've felt very healthy if it wasn't for the pack of cigarettes lying between us. 

"I can't believe we've turned into the kind of people who eat salad in restaurants," said Mawii sadly, when we were done. 

"I know. Dessert?" 

"It would be a crime not to have dessert." 

I don't remember what Mawii had, but I had the Belgian Chocolate shake, after two years, TWO years (the last time was when A.O. was in town and I scared the crap out of him by eating more than he did) and it was joy, it was heaven, it was all things miraculous and wonderful, and I'm not even exaggerating. And I didn't even feel guilty because I'd had salad for lunch.

We really didn't feel like moving after that, but we did move, all the way to Humayun's Tomb. We went to the ticket booth and gave the man forty rupees (Indians pay twenty each, foreigners pay a hundred something). The man looked at us suspiciously and asked us where we were from in Hindi. (Kidhar sei hai?")

This is an old trick, and it's been played on me before. So I replied in Hindi too, saying "Idhar sei." 

Unfortunately, he looked even more suspicious and said, "Dilli?"

"Haan." 

He gave us our tickets and just as we were about to move away he said that we looked like we were from Japan. 

"I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU BUT I DO NOT LOOK FUCKING JAPANESE." I yelled at Mawii, much to the shock of a bunch of German tourists standing near by. They looked at me nervously. Oh well. At least they weren't Japanese. 

The guard who was standing at the entrance insisted on checking our id to check that we were nationals before tearing our tickets. I was itching for him to say, "Japan se?" so I could kick him, but he didn't, and in retrospect, I think it was a good thing. 

I must say, Humayun's Tomb was incredibly disappointing. We climbed a flight of extremely steep stone stairs, which struck me as ironic considering the reason for Humayun's death, and reached the courtyard which was lovely - at first glance. There were a few tombs to one side, and I strolled over and examined them. They were unmarked. 

We walked around the courtyard a little - let me again reiterate that it was bloody hot - and the outside was quite nice, because it was all red stone and there was a lovely view of the gardens from all sides. The gardens were very well maintained, but the fountains and water holes were dry, or nearly dry.

Then we went inside. I reeled back as I stepped through the archway - there was a terrible smell there. I don't know what it was - probably from the construction work that was going on everywhere which really didn't help the atmosphere, let me tell you - but if I had to put a name to it, I'd say it smelt of decay. 

The tomb is in a large, shadowy, cool hall, but the thing is, it's the sort of room that should be empty and quiet for you to appreciate it, and there were people strolling in and out (which is only fair, I suppose) but they kept taking photographs and talking really loudly and the smell was terrible and there was drilling going on from all sides, and really, if I were Humayun, I'd be seriously annoyed. Also, there's no information about Humayun which is a pity because he was so interesting (though admittedly useless) - nothing that tells you about his reign, or how he died. 

We strolled into some of the ante chambers. The walls were all marked with graffiti. 

There were a few tombs there as well, but all unmarked. Nothing that told you about who lay under them, or why, or how, or when they'd been put there. And I didn't know and I wanted to know, and it was incredibly frustrating. 

After that, we went out (glad to get away from the smell and the noise) and we went down again, and strolled the perimeter of the building (the building itself is beautiful) and the gardens (also beautiful). 

Mawii brought her camera, but it wasn't working, so I walked around taking photos with my phone, because taking photos made me feel more like we were on a trip. 

I suppose everyone wants to leave their mark on history.

The courtyard.

Cute door and Mawii.

Humayun's Tomb in all its glory, baby.

Scenes from the gardens.

What the hall could have and should have felt like, but didn't.

We sat in the gardens for a while, and then decided to carry on to the Purana Quila. I have mixed feelings about Humayun's Tomb. I liked the Red Fort much more, because there's so much more to know there. And there are things to know about Humayun too, you just can't find it there.

So I said goodbye to the son of Babur, the same son, legend has it, whom Babur sacrificed his life for (according to legend, Humayun was very ill, Babur was distraught, he walked around Humayun's bed and begged for his life to be taken and his son's life to be spared and three days later, Humayun was hunky dory and the first Great Mughal was dead), the same son who lost Babur's kingdom and then won it back, only to promptly die (he fell down his library steps and broke his neck. Now do you see why the fact that you have to climb steep stairs to reach his resting place is ironic?), the son who fathered Akbar (general consensus seems to be that was Humayun's greatest achievement.)

We walked to the main road and saw an auto. The autowallah was a relatively harmless looking old man. We got into the auto and asked to be taken to Purana Quila. 

Apparently that was asking for too much.