It disturbs me sometimes that I can't remember what I used to think. It's like I wasn't there.

I used to be a horrid tattletale (or so I am told by past victims)- but I can't seem to remember feeling like one at all. But then, maybe I'm thinking of the Blyton description of tattletale-psyche and missing the same viciousness in my own head. Maybe this forgetting was convenient.

I can't remember the me who wanted a textbook on talking to people. I can't remember what it was like inside the head of the girl who wrote on my old blog. I can't even remember, and this was only a year ago or so, what it was like to blissfully contemplate a life spent running a cafe-cum-book and card shop.

I know I'm forgetful, but even I should notice leaving selves behind.

People are really quite beautiful.

They pop up, in dirty gullies with dead rats and much dung and vegetable vendors married to household help, and make you filter coffee and make you grin.

She is a wife-beaten.
Yet she comes upstairs sometimes to reassure me
about sitting alone in the office—
I am not to worry, because
She doesn't let just anybody into the building;
Yes, that's right, I should have no fears on her watch.

And I don't. While she,
and the old women who chastise trespassers
in the women's compartment,
and the women who come up discreetly in public places
to tell you you've stained your skirt
are around, I know
that I'll deal with the screechiness
and silliness
and yuckiness
and pain
of being female.
We'll get by.

Maybe they'll reserve a whole metro-train for us soon,
so girls in stilettos and pinstriped pants
won't have to stuff wrist-to-elbow I'm-married bangles
in my face.

"Ya, the bathroom is so dirty nowadays. It's the painters. I went there and asked them, Bhaiya, are you using the bathroom? They said no, but later I saw one of them combing his hair there or something, so I went and said, Are you using the bathroom? I know you people are using the bathroom, and that's okay only, but you have to pull the flush after that. Really, ya, it's too disgusting. I went in today, after you got out after your bath, and there was pee in the toilet ya.
(Quiet protestations that the other girl hadn't even looked at the toilet, etc)
"Of course, ya, I know, it had to be the painters only. I told them. But that girl is also dirty- the one who lives in the corner room. Only she, you and I use this bathroom, the rest of the girls use the other one. She's damn dirty. And you know what? I heard from aunty that she uses other people's toothbrushes! I heard that, and I was, like, shocked! I can't imagine, ya, it's so disgusting. If you use other people's paste, that's ok—she takes it and doesn't give it back also, she calls it 'sharing'— but seriously, using other people's toothbrushes!
"She steals also— some people have lost thousand-thousand rupees— You lost money, too! Oh god, it's that girl only. She takes everything. She's been caught doing it also, many times. But uff, she doesn't stop! Yesterday or the day before, Aunty was telling me that she told her it has to stop. Aunty said, Listen, Elsa will offer to share her toothbrush, Elsa's very generous—you know Elsa, the dog downstairs—(giggles) she said, Elsa's very generous, but you can't go around using anybody else's toothbrush.
"I don't know, maybe she is poor, or maybe her parents don't give here enough money to spend, just enough to pay the rent or something, something like that. Anyway, when I couldn't find my charger and earplugs, I just went straight to the girl, and I said, Listen, have you taken my charger and earplugs? They were on the table in the corridor. She said no. I said, Are you sure? Really, ya, you never know with this girl, she'll take anything. Di also lost her charger, also upstairs. Maybe she's selling them! (giggles)
She used to go to this cyber cafe—maybe you haven't seen it, it's close by— and one chap used to hang around there, and she made friends with him, and then made him her boyfriend. We went and told him what all she does here, and you know what he said? You wouldn't believe— we told him she steals stuff and all, and he said— 'That could be. I mean, she takes money from me to get herself waxed.'
Can you believe it?"

I get to call him Anand.

He sits with his back to me, two tables ahead, the table between us unoccupied. I peer out from behind the computer screen to sneak peeks, sometimes. Neat, square, muscular back, broad shoulders noticeable through the loose linen shirts.

Crew-cut, like naval officers (you who are female will know what this Means). When he suddenly swivels around in his chair, his eyes are sparkling. Answers questions with energy but not fervour, precise but not painstaking; walks over to the dark wooden shelves and selects a book effortlessly- his book, his shelf, and he knows them- peels it open to the line that clinches it. Suggests casually that I read it- it’s a good book. [I do, and it is.]

He’s short and fair-skinned and straight-nosed. Aryan-looking though short, but if that’s a judgment in your head then there's a problem. We discuss issues over lunch- Issues, yes, and he’s an Issue-er, but without the sanctimonious air- and discuss spicy chicken curry-which he's made, and we're eating- and the work of genius that is the iMac.
Is it love?
Nope. But it’s kickass-ness.
I'm a lucky girl.

'My bowl is empty and my spoon has been licked- Yuck! And my chair is broken, and my bed is taken. MA!'

'Be generous, little one. She was alone and tired and hungry. Such pretty golden hair, poor child! I'll go make some more porridge, and don't you dare be a crank and wake her up.'

'But- but- they're Mine! Why can't she go to Her house ? But- maybe she doesn't have a house. Or a mamabear. Or a papabear. I should not make a fuss. I'll go and help mamabear make the porridge; I'm sure she'll be making some for me, to make up for it. Maybe papabear will let me help him fix the chair, or even get me a new one. This one was getting kind of small anyway.'

Dear Diary. Goldilocks (yes, people can actually be named things like that) is going to stay. The chair's fixed and being given to her, and I get the old beanbag, and a room of my own- the attic. She's kind of annoying and immature, but I feel really cool and old, and I'm getting my space. And she's really polite and grateful, she really must've been hungry when she ate my porridge and all that, the poor kid.

I still don't get the fuss about the yellow hair, though.

Scrambles to his feet, hurry, messy, beats dust off his bum, his elbows, his knees, stands up straight. Yes Sir. Drop-dead silence in the lines behind.

Right Away, Sir.

He runs, leaning to the right on a limp, into the Acco. Kicks off his boots, stands in the shower for a minute. Drops the torn vest, sweat, blood blotches, grit on the floor. Pulls another vest on.

Hesitates a moment. Picks up the mangled remains and stuffs them, awkwardly, in the back of his cupboard. Trophy of his trying.