Thursday, November 19, 2015

A rendezvous with a Gmail helpline executive

A fortnight ago my gmail account went out of my reach. It's been ten years since I'm using it, and there have been very few instances when I might have ever changed my password. I know that is suicidal, but since the past seven years I have got used to the idea of staying logged in through my phone. I take the pains to login through the computer very rarely, which is why staying logged in through phone had become a habit.
Last fortnight was a different ball game. I opened my computer and frantically typed in my login id and password, to be denied access. Hell broke loose thereafter, since I had to send an urgent email. I tried churning my memory to remember my alternative email id's password, since I had entered another person's mobile number as the phone recovery option. This was to avoid any instances of my mobile number being sold to pesky advertisers. That precaution backfired and I felt as helpless as a child who had lost her way back home. 
This is when I happened to click on some random options in an agitated attempt to somehow recover my gmail email, which turned out to be blessing in disguise. Somehow a message was sent to the gmail helpline and I got immediately connected. 
An american lady politely offered help after greeting me. There weren't too many unsolicited apologies, much like our indian customer care or helpline numbers retort to. She carefully guided me through the process of recovering my email, by asking for the last alternate email address I remembered. I informed her that the phone number I had mentioned on the recovery page had been wrongly entered. She assured me of all possible help and after about five minutes of patiently listening to her sermons of handling our email accounts, a solution came my way. She told me that the  recovery team would forward an email to me with a link to reset the password. She also directed me to carefully fill the recovery page again with my correct mobile number.
For the tough lessons, that this episode of confusion had taught me, I filled in the recovery page with all the necessary details and finally caught hold of my beloved email account.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

In Her Tenth Year



Her inner iron melts
as she is being leeched
scraping the rust
on her soul
her smell of blood changes colors
Twenty five days of being human
and five of being an injured cow
that is being milked, drop by drop.
Every month this river
trespasses her land like a robber
much like the July rain
that the crops need for tilling.
‘Be careful lest it gets stained’

‘Do not touch the pickle, else you’ll spoil it’
she stays back at home else she may
dirty a building by entering it
her body doesn’t listen to her
as her earth erodes.

On those days she collects her stains
from her scars
silencing the shrieks of the planet
by stuffing its mouth
with menstrual waste.
In another world, women still use rags, dirty cloth
and husk to soak their rivers of rage,
as she crumples like a foetus
to contain her cramps
a ten year old child, ignorant and ill
of a bleeding that is virginal,
chocolates and tears are her allies
she stamps her foot to complain
to mother nature
‘Why this bad blood?’
while another woman
is happy that her husband
won’t  touch her for the next five days
until then her body will reclaim
it’s unholy celibacy.


Thursday, November 5, 2015

September 27th, Marine drive, 7.30 pm

This city never changes colors
unlike humans and chameleons,
the queen watches the sky pour ashes on her head
as the prostitutes teething pain behind their painted lips
offer themselves to the heat of hunger.
Dancing to the garish tunes of this concrete jungle
mountains rise from molehills
as I look for you like a helpless child
who's lost her way back home.

This morning I had my breakfast at Theobroma

as the cold coffee cut through my parched throat
I saw the smiles you lent me 
melt on the brown velvet cake
chewing vegetables sandwiched between frail breads
I ate fear
fear of a rendezvous someday over an English breakfast
my eyes riveting in circles
trying to thaw cold feet stuck in my shoes
circling dates on a calendar
skinning nail biting moments from dead carcasses of air.

It's a long lustrous night before the day spills gold

on the feet of trees
Here in my room coiled under a blanket
I wish you would blow gently over the clouds
that embower your city, sending rain to me
I've always loved walking in the rain.
Tomorrow these messengers of yours will wake me up
their winter melting on my palms
Don't know if this is how it would feel?
Your first touch.



                           
                              Picture credit: http://grabhouse.com/urbancocktail/?attachment_id=5319