She was late, as to be expected. I scowled at the waiter, for the fifth time, as he asked whether I really needed a table for two. "If it's just you, wouldn't a stool by the bar do?" He asked.

"I'm waiting for somebody," I growled at him, "as I've told you, at least four times already." He grimaced, and looked helplessly at the woman near the door, waiting for a table. She was the one who had egged him on, I guessed.

"Looks like she isn't coming," the woman sneered at me. She laughed, a witch's cackle, her fat cheeks jiggling. "You might as well free it up. She won't come." I frowned at her and unfolded the newspaper lying in front of me, bringing it close to my face, shielding my self from further such intrusions. KAREENA SPOTTED WITH NEW BOYFRIEND, the headlines on the society page screamed at me, clamoring for attention beside an article titled ARE YOUR CO-WORKERS LYING TO YOU. I tried to engross myself in the messy affairs of Kareena's love life, ignoring the reproachful looks the restaurant manager threw my way.

She finally sauntered in, hair tousled and eyes half-closed. "I'm sorry I'm late," she smiled sleepily at me.

I tried to smile back, but failed, the corners of my mouth twitching into a sulk instead. She smiled again, charming and sheepish, "I woke up when you called, and as you can see, jumped out of bed, and ran here," she gestured to the loose men's shirt she wore over her jeans, "in my nightclothes."

"Come on, you aren't angry, are you?" She asked in a teasing, playful tone, pulling the newspaper away, leaning over to peck me on my cheek.

I smelt the aroma of sleep and sex steaming from her body, as she bent down. She didn't see me grimace. She was lying...well not exactly, but she was having me. I could see it in her eyes, and smell it on her body. She had woken up in strong, muscular arms when her phone had rung, and had reached over to pick it up from the other side of the bed. "Hello?" She murmured drowsily into the speaker. He must have gotten up as well, nibbled on her shoulder as she spoke to me. Then his tongue must have travelled up, along the curves of her neck, his fingers racing down her spine. "Ohh...yes, yes! I'm already on my way..yes, I'll be there soon," she had said, her voice rising in excitement, which I had mistaken for wakefulness. She had ended the call, and slumped back into bed, as his powerful arms (so different from mine) pulling her back in, and spent a few more minutes dallying....

While I had been here, waiting since noon, as the minutes ticked by, guarding the table for two like a mother-bear protecting its cubs.

But she fixed me with her lovely brown eyes and my sulk melted under her sunshine. Even then, though, a stubborn particle of resentment remained. I couldn't forget that she knew her power over me, and used it, returning my love with thoughtless half-truths. She needn't lie, there was nothing between us and therefore nothing to hide, but she liked the power my admiration gave her. It was the thoughtlessness that stung me the most, the fact that although I couldn't claim the truth, I didn't even warrant a good lie or a half-decent excuse.

But I grinned back, charmed by her smiles and kisses. She sat down and, beckoning the waiter, ordered for the both of us.

"I'm leaving the office," she confided over a post-lunch coffee, "I'm going to set up my own studio."

"Really, Anjali?" I exclaimed, frantic and scared at the thought of losing her. "Have you told the boss as yet?"

She nodded her head, and whispered "It's a secret though so far, don't tell anyone else at the office, he doesn't want me to go, really, but I will!" She had leaned back, beautiful eyes flashing with excitement. "I wanted you to know first, you have been such a good friend."

I smiled, a valiant effort. "Oh, that's great," I mumbled, drowning in a sea of mixed feelings. My cappuccino grew cold as I wondered - what would it be like not to see her everyday? Not to share lunch with her in the canteen, not to feel the warmth of her smile or the brush of her hands against as mine as she handed her work in? And even then, there was the familiar surge of jealousy - she was better than me, more creative and talented - and she was leaving...while I was stuck in my narrow cubicle at the office, with my uninspired, lackluster efforts for company - as she climbed from strength to strength, and scaled heights I could never reach. She would create something brilliant and beautiful, something that would last forever - the opus, the masterpiece that eluded me.

I felt like the figure in Edward Munch's famous painting, hands stopping his ears, mouth opened in a scream no one can hear. I felt like that, like I was screaming and no one could hear me.

And she chattered on, uncaring and thoughtless, about her plans for her studio and the dream she had that I could not share. She didn't notice my smile droop, my forehead crease into a frown, my eyes gleam with unshed tears. After I settled the cheque, she kissed me again, chastely, and twittered. "You're too good, Vicky, such a good guy!"

I hated her for that.

Nightmares

Eight year old Marquez lies warm and slumbering on his soft bed. His mother watches him for a moment before she switches off the light, a smile playing on her lips, wondering what little boys dreams off. Cars...guns...lego sets? She laughs softly and shuts the door.

Marquez is dreaming. A bald man with black sunglasses follows him, gun in hand. Marquez is running, as fast as his short eight year old legs can carry him. In his dream, he runs into a parking lot, filled with cars. He wriggles underneath a car. Minutes pass, and a pair of shoes come into view. A face bends low, peering underneath the car, but Marquez is already worming his way out. He runs and runs. Sweat courses down his face, trickles down his face. Marquez looks over his shoulder, into the barrel of a gun. He looks ahead, and the landscape changes. It's beautiful, like a picture postcard: gold-toned sunset and pink clouds over a calm sea. But he's still running, and his feet sink into the soft beach, sand reaching up around his ankles. He stumbles and picks himself up. But the effort is too much for his eight year old heart, beating to burst. I can stop this, Marquez thinks, I can stop this, I can stop this. He looks back, and sees the bald man, sunglasses reflecting the setting sun.

Marquez wakes up. He's breathing hard. He whimpers and looks up. The bald man stands before him, his gun pointed at Marquez's chest. He fires.

Marquez is hiding in the cupboard. He's still hiding the next morning, when his mother comes in to wake him up for school. But she runs, screaming out of the room. Curious, Marquez steps out of his hiding place. He sees himself, lying in his bed, hole in his chest, red blood darkening the bedsheets and his spiderman pyjamas. His father runs in and stops, aghast, staring at the bed. Marquez waves. He screams at his father. But he doesn't notice. He tugs at his father's hands, but his hands pass through. Marquez's father shivers.

Marquez continues to live in the house, but no one sees him. Months pass. He watches his parents grieve, fight, and go through the motions of living. He watches his mother cry in his bedroom, tears coursing down her red cheeks. His father reaches out to her, but she pushes him away, beating him with clenched fists. He holds her closer still, presses her head tightly to his chest. Gradually, she stops fighting him. She's still sobbing - heavy, horrible, animal sounds. He kisses her slowly and pushes her onto Marquez's bed. He kisses her everywhere, slowly first, and then faster. He pulls off his clothing, then hers.

Marquez screams, Stop! Stop! I'm still here. But his parents don't stop. And he starts to cry.

Marquez's father clutches the headboard to steady himself. He thrusts into her, pushing so hard that it hurts her. She whimpers, then moans. The bedsprings creak to a fast, frenetic tempo. Their shadows, larger than life, bounce and jerk on the bedroom walls. Finally, he rolls off, and they both lie together, spent.

Unknown to them, a new life has begun to beat.

The next day Marquez's mother, still crying, packs her suitcases. For the last time, she fights with her husband, and then storms out of the house, unaware of the zygote that divides and multiplies in her womb. When her lover comes later that evening to collect the suitcases and boxes left behind, Marquez's father tries to fight with him too, but his wife's lover refuses to be provoked. He sits on Marquez's bed and pours himself glass after glass of scotch. He falls asleep, curled up on Marquez's soft bed, drunk but not dreaming.

A week later his secretary moves into the house. Marquez watches, horrified, as she puts away his ninja turtles, train sets and computer games into boxes that are taken away, and clears for her own daughter. Pink dresses, barbie dolls and coloring books appear in Marquez's closet. Marquez's father begins to feel happy, although he slams down the phone when his ex-wife calls to invite him to her wedding, and tells him that she's having a baby as well. He thinks of selling the house, every room is host to old, sad memories.

Marquez is angry because he realizes that they are beginning to forget him.

The house is sold to a bald Russian mafia man, who pretends to be a grocer. He likes to wear his designer sunglasses even at night, in pitch black darkness.

And Marquez is forgotten.

Sing Goddess, of my accursed and rather pathetic wrath

The Third World War broke out in my living room today. Apparently the cause of all the world's miseries, wars, conflict situations, oppressive and totalitarian regimes, inequalities can be attributed to the condition of my hair. Yes, Ladies and Germs, my devil-may-care, unbrushed (although frequently shampooed) hairstyle has been a major pillar of support for Saddam Hussain, George Bush, Halliburton and all other evil (or vaguely evil) regimes.

At least this is what my parents claim. My father insinuated that my hair was the main reason why I left my last job. When I tried to suggest that there were other, far more pertinent reasons; he seemed to imply that my hair was the root of all the world's evils. Outraged, I flung a book at him (Richard Dawkin's The God Delusion - not the most compelling read). My wrath threatened to exceed the epic proportions of even the Illustrious Achilles (recorded dutifully by Homer in the Illiad - "Sing Goddess of the Accursed Wrath of Achilles), and prompt yet another Trojan War (fortunately there are no more Trojans nor any Helens, there are only Turks today). I stampeded out the room into my father's study, where I promptly hurled more books and performed unimaginable, deranged acts of violence on a poor, innocent ashtray.

O poor Ashtray, victim of my rage! O poor innocent hair, unjustly blamed for the world's many problems!

My hair is blameless. My rational analysis of this situation suggests that this a conflict not about hair, but about value systems. My parents secretly want me to be a smart, well-groomed hi-flying corporate executive type, donned in murderously expensive Gucci clothes, driving an hideously pricey car (preferably a porshe). Unfortunately, I have other aims in life that include renouncing the world, becoming a cynic-like Ascetic, wandering in the wilderness.

Alack! Alas!

OJ Simpson and Alan Greenspan

Here is a hilarious conversation between OJ Simpson and Alan Greenspan, on the art of writing, published in the New Yorker

Coming Home

The sky is the color of ash, a shade reflected in the muted, dull face of the daily wage worker sitting next to me. His head lies against the windowsill, half-asleep. I'm perched precariously on the other end of the bus seat, scared to soil my new, expensive ADIDAS tracksuit against the grimy, paint-besplattered clothes of my neighbor. It's 6 am in the morning. He, presumably, is on his way to work; I'm on my way to the gym. As he flickers in and out of sleep, he mutters incoherently. Is he drunk? No, he's merely dreaming.

The bus driver turns on the radio, full volume. Gwen Stefani screeches lustily about being a rich girl. The half-asleep passengers on the DTC (Delhi Transport Corporation) bus mutter grouchily. I laugh a little - Gwen Stefani is out of place in the kitschy, colourful bus, something I wouldn't have expected the bearded, slack-jawed bus driver to like. It's a scene out of a Tenessee Williams play.

But this is India, not Broadway, and this is really happening. I'm here in it. And even as I realize this, it strikes me that Stefani's song has taken on a metaphorical meaning - I'm a rich girl, on my way to walk a mile on a newfangled treadmill for an exorbitant amount, in a bus full of construction workers.

Am I rich, or am I middle-class, as I like to believe? What is India? What does it mean to be Indian? Is there such a thing as India and being Indian - in a country of so many stark contrasts; of fluid, moving chaos?

Flashback.

A ten year old girl is shrieking and writhing in my lap. Two lab attendants hold her down forcibly, and a third advances, masked and gloved, holding out a syringe with a long, menacing needle. Mehnaz, struggling in my arms, is crying - the heavy, gasping weeping born of shock. I hold her head against my shoulder, stroke her hair and murmur gently to quieten her. As the needle penetrates, Mehnaz silently shudders, suddenly submissive.

My heart is breaking. I know Mehnaz because I am working on a documentary about her elder sister. But it's Mehnaz who has stolen my heart. Sometimes she is bright and gay, clamoring for attention. But other times I find her dull and listless; some unknown malaise seems to affect her. And that's why she and I are here at a Lab Test center, getting a liver function test done.

She's still crying a half hour later. I take her home, back to the broken-down haveli in Old Delhi, where she, her five siblings and parents live in one room, the size of my bedroom at home. Her mother frowns, worried, as Mehnaz tumbles into her arms.

I feel guilty. There were moments, as she struggled, that the experience took an unbearable, horrifying parallel to rape. I try not to think about it as I wind my way past the warren-like streets of Old Delhi, past the prostitutes standing in doorways between shops selling ballbearings and motors on GB Road, past the goats (wearing sweaters) and the little boys playing at Ajmeri Gate.

Later that evening, I accompany a photographer friend to a shoot at a nightclub in Noida. The nightclub is filled to bursting; because it's in Noida, technically in Uttar Pradesh, it's allowed to serve alcohol past the 12:30 pm curfew that governs Delhi's clubs and bars. Rich Delhites in skimpy black clothes recline on plush, stylish sofas. There's an insipid look on many faces. My friend and I feel out of place. There's something jarring in this extravagance. It almost seems like cultivated boredom. There's a deep desire, I sense in the vacant stares about me, for a new, thrilling, 'enlivening' experience. We don't belong here, this isn't our world - even though we can identify with the people here - they are the kind of people I knew at school. And as I guzzle down alcohol, watching thin, pretty girls sway self-consciously to dance music, I can't get Mehnaz's screams out of my mind, can't forget the feeling of her tiny body shaking.

It's schizophrenic. I'm losing my mind.

India is poised. India is shining. So our newspapers claim. I know that there is something happening that hasn't happened before. We hear of increasing foreign investment, of new companies and industries springing up every day. But I think, at times, that it may be brief, or false - a tantalizing vision that will elude grasp.

Should this happen? Is is ephemeral or will it last? Is this movement a good thing? But what do we lose when we modernize? What is the cost? Who does this benefit - you, me, Delhi Socialites or Mehnaz? How?

I dragged Mehnaz for a blood test that she did not want, but I thought she needed. It turned out that she was fine, the cause of her malaise lies elsewhere. But her visit to the lab test center was traumatized not just her body, but her spirit. Did I do the right thing?

The changes that sweep this country threaten to divide it further, perpetuate the schizophrenic contrasts that promise inevitable catastrophe. We need to ask ourselves - are we doing the right thing?

My high-heeled, shiny, black pumps get caught in the sticky, gooey mess that the rains have left behind. My cellphone rings - it's my roommate - she's spotted me. I hobble across, sweltering in the humid heat, and get into her air-conditioned car. As we navigate the treacherous traffic, past urchins plying magazines and beggars tricking for money, we exchange notes on the last couple of days. My roommate is back from a work trip to Bihar. She speaks of watching a woman give birth alone, amid piles of concrete and rubble in a half-constructed health center, because the doctor on duty can't be bothered to come, and there is no ambulance available to transport her to a working medical facility. I'm horrified. Yet we speak of this, while driving in her chauffeur-driven car, speeding towards some other upmarket nightclub.

Hypocrisy, in myself.

I'm drowning. I don't know where I belong, and I am forced to admit to my own callous nature. I want to think that my honesty releases me - that it absolves me off my insensitivity and hypocrisy. And yet I find this same callousness, contradiction, paradox and hypocrisy in the world outside, reflected in the silver-tinted car window, smeared by the touch of a thousand sweaty palms.

I look in the mirror, making sure that my eyeliner isn't smeared, wipe off the extra lipstick. I snap my compact shut, and look up. My date's here. I met him whilst wading through enormous puddles, on my way from the gym. He offered me a ride home, chivalrous in the style of a Bollywood Romance. I, admittedly ill-advisedly, accepted. And now we're meeting at one of the thousands of coffee shops that have sprung up in Delhi in recent years.

We don't have much in common, and boredom threatens to suffocate me. We start talking about politics, the conversation then turns to development policies. We argue. I talk of the lack of social mobility, the dehumanized treatment that is meted out to the laborer classes.

My date guffaws. "Dehumanization?! It's the lower classes who dehumanize us, the upper classes." He proceeds to relate the story of a Bihari Landowner, whose son was killed in revenge by the laborers who worked the land. The Bihari landowner turns out to be a crony of his father, a MLA in a local government. I discover that my date, to put it in his own words, 'is a liaison' between his father's political connections and industrialists. He doesn't tell me the complete story - there's a lot that I like to think he's leaving out, about his job and about the Bihari Landowner. I hurriedly finish my coffee and leave.

He represents all the things I hate about myself and the class that I belong to - the unquestioning fashion in which we accept, and uphold, the rights and privileges we are born to, what we read, see and are told.

I've been back in India for a year. I find myself becoming immune and inured to the inequalities that surround me. My once-frequent questions are replaced by a dogged acceptance. I find this frightening in myself - I think it's my duty to question what I see happening in this country, and examine my own part in this process. I don't claim to have found any answers - perhaps there are no true answers, but I think the act of questioning is a responsibility that we, sadly, fail in.

What do you think?