Acid House.

11: 20 PM: Brittany and I drove to a party downtown. It’s Saturday night, forty minutes to midnight; the night is an infant, and the morning far away. The limo sped down the highway, the roof was open. We swayed our drunken heads to expensive music. Champagne flutes tossed on the floor, we drank from the bottle. We turned our heads, stomped our feet, shook off sleep, shut our eyes and let the wind sweep away beads of sweat. Lip gloss, Hermès shirts, Ferragamo shoes, vintage Gucci, Manish Arora scarves. Brittany kept playing with her hair; her high heels were her best friend that night. I lit a cigarette, we both shouted and sang happy and free spirited like the pelicans and the unicorns.

11:58 PM: The limo stopped at a long, dust track. The chauffer held the door open. We adjusted our visions, aligned our steps, and walked till the road met the magnanimous pillars. The sounds of psychobabble engulfed us, we stumbled greedily to re-fuel and dance under the moonlight.

12:09 AM: I was pinned against a brick wall covered in indecipherable graffiti. My legs were wound around the waist of a strange man, with neon blue wrists, orange hair, a fake mole, a rather tight black vest and a caustic tongue. My hands grazed against cement and stone, my lips bruised, make-up smeared, the heaving man licked my neck. I was drunk but claimed to be awake and alert. Moaning contentedly, as my waist band was loosened, and a singular hand crept inside. I needed alcohol, I pushed him away. I steadied my step as I began to walk, but turned around, grabbed his tie, pulled him and kissed him, a kiss that would make him come back home with me.

12:17 AM: The Bar, strobe and laser lights played magical tricks on our head. Pulsating dance floor, bodies and limbs moved in faultless harmony to the music. The tall bartender, a part-time porn star who paired up with the cover girl of a Brazilian fashion magazine and an upcoming male model pulled my left shoulder across the mirrored counter. Sly, long-haired, tattooed, he offered me two dew drops of purgatory, I pulled out dollars, stole my drops, kissed him on the lips, grabbed an energiser, I needed to find my friends.

12: 22 AM: Brittany: Smoking with strangers turned friends, eyes moist and crimson. She dances with Joe, next to a table laden with equipment. Cigarette papers, and hash, unite to save their night. Her long golden hair, made my eyes swim towards her, I extracted her from Joe, she inhaled and smooched me, an insane amount of sooty hash, made my lips burn. I kissed her back, she turned and slid down my body, her head kneading my chest, my belly, my crotch, and it did not loiter! She sat on the floor pulling me along with her. I resisted, while Joe obliged, I took two long, deep, soul cleansing drags from a passion joint.

12: 41 AM: The music was purple, the floor green, the roof was white, and the ocean breaks got in touch with my ears. I walked into the mass of bodies, I was embraced, I closed my eyes, and let the music encompass me, like basic instinct the crowd moved, each had space to breathe and yet feel one another. The colors were exquisite. The smells fantastic, no emotion obscured the mind. We moved, mentally. I concentrated on my feet, the world swirled, kaleidoscopically. The mirrors on the wall haunted me; I licked my lips, to moisten them.

1:18 AM: Atif held my waist and rudely pulled me into his shape. I kissed him. He held my waist as I arched my torso backwards, my head moving slowly, with measured sways. He drew me up, his elbow holding my neck in place, his nose grazing mine, the room froze, the lights went out after an instant returned, the music broke, we levitated, I looked into his navy blue eyes and we kissed, his tongue swooping through my mouth, his lips gliding as intelligently. The music drove us insane. Like an infection our bodies spread over each other.

2: 03 AM: I turned around, to see Brittany inching her way towards us. She’s in-between us as the rush comes, she gyrates against Atif and I, we kiss, she unbuttons the second button of his shirt, her hands in the air, her hands return to the third, they graze his cleavage, the fourth, his chest moist her fingers up in the air. We fit into each other, like a mug in a dishwasher.

2:37 AM: I held their hands and dragged them towards the hay filled bath tub. I saw mountains and cheese we fell, each neatly on the other. There were white beam over our head, purple cushions under us, stray hair around us, warm sensations inside us, and disarrayed clothes upon us. Atif’s fingers ran through her hair, while mine dexterously undid his denims. We heaved, we savored the moment, and the three become singular. The music peaked and so did we, we fell back each on their back, spent, but ready to re-start. We lay there as the music dips, becomes haunting, mellow, serene, lonesome, the beats suddenly start quickening, the crescendo heightening, the rhythms pounding, the incessant note not ceasing, the waves rising, and our feet involuntarily moving.

3:49 AM: I went back on the dance floor, it had fewer people now. The night sky had turned a shade of greyish blue. The birds were rising. The candles were burning low. The mystery man re-appeared, walked purposefully towards me. I scanned the room with blood shot eyes, my hair and clothes are dishevelled. The man dances with me. We don’t touch, just dance beside one another, inching our way towards the wall of pulsating speakers.

4:14 AM: Joe and Brittany were on their knees, worshiping an invisible god. Their bodies moved in perfect semi circles. I saw them rise, I saw smoke, and I saw another burning joint. Mystery man is removing the straps of my vest. I want him to have more of me. I feel hot and claustrophobic, thirsty, I kiss his mouth, a long wholesome kiss, and it does not satiate my thirst. They music grew louder, stronger, and gothic. The sky turned dull silver and then cobalt blue or Manhattan white.

4:51 AM: The limo, Brittany and I. Cold water, empty bottles of Champagne. We sat nestled in each other’s arms. We needed a smoke; we smiled as we crept towards the grand finale of our night.
5:01 AM: It’s raining, as I walk into the gold lattice archway leading to a marble waterfall, chandeliers lighting my way to the reception,

5:06 AM: “Good evening”, he’s expecting you, this way please”,

5:11 AM: Carlos smiles as his robe slips to the carpeted floor, I don’t scream, but I cry, Carlos is on top of me, he can’t see my tears.

5:39 AM: Spent and satiated he slips off and falls asleep.

5:44: I pick up my shoes and the envelope, shut the door behind me. Never a word, always the envelope, always the five thousand dollars in crisp hundred dollar bills. My daily bread safe in the envelope.

My only client, my only sin. I don’t know that I’m alive, my only indulgence, but not my only source of income. “Carl speaking, 11:45, the Meridian, D will be there to pick you up”. Double whisky, one, two, three, four, I’m nearly there, two more. D, one arm supports me while the other unlocks my door. He knows I’ll be fine from here. I sleep. Whisky and toast. No time to cry. Under eye makeup and I’m at work. I’m no longer dissatisfied with my job. I’m indifferent.

My knees cave at the altar. Tears flow, its only here that I surrender, “make me believe, make me believe” is my song. Gucci’s hide the shame in my eyes. The clock strikes twelve. Mid day traffic drowns my thoughts. A black bird flies over the rafters. I light my cigarette. I walk and I cry. “Double whisky please”, I sleep alone that night, again.

I like standing under the hot shower. For a very long time, till I get wrinkles on my finger tips. The water hot, steamy, battering against my body. I close my eyes and become one with the sound of the water on my body. My nude body and soul are ignorant of shame. I bleed. I cry. My bath water treats blood and tears equally, washing both away. I tremble. I stretch my palms on the steamed wall. 

Dear Imagination

...The children did not quite know who their Imagination was. Since they didn't understand Imagination, how could they know its power? Its ability to transcend all barriers, to transport them to another place, a separate reality. Fighting daily realities, made them unaware that they too could partake of a future of opportunities, wealth and possibilities. And dear imagination was going to show them how. So on a bright sunny day - the kind of day which made Imagination rather spirited. Imagination wanted to play. But none of the children around her, Imagination's darling playmates, knew who she was. So she became gloomy. 

All of a sudden, along came fairies. They wanted to introduce Imagination to the children. These children, however, were extraordinary children. Even though they didn't know who exactly Imagination was, they all had their own Imaginations bottled inside of them. Though they were completely unaware of that fact!

How could the fairies show the children that Imagination resided within them, and how could they make Imagination happy again? They thought, and thought.

They needed a key - a special key. They scoured through their secret treasure troves and scavenged through the thronging marketplace. The fairies realized that the key lay in a very simple thing - Art. Delighted with their discovery, the very next day they went into the streets, armed with paper and outrageously-coloured crayons. Little by little, children began to gather around. Their curiosity was awakened as they eagerly received Art's accompaniments. 

Some children took to Art immediately, though they'd never encountered him before. Right after getting to know him, they recognized Imagination - for Imagination and Art always saunter hand in hand. Other children were a bit more cautious, but soon cast away their inhibitions and unleashed their imaginations from the hidden caves of their souls.

Now, when Imagination is sad, she dims and fades away. In contrast, when she's joyful, she brightens up her surroundings with her ebullience. As the children coloured, they became comfortable, and Imagination lost some of her erstwhile lacklustre and began to brighten up. While they coloured some more and started taking risks, she positively glowed.

The fairies saw their beaming faces, their joyous hearts, and wanted to help more. They decided to use what the children had made and exhibit, sell and auction them and with all the money they raised give it to other fairies who work relentlessly to ensure that children are save and that every child in their land is given an excellent education. 

The Dindori Shiraz Suite.

…”make no sudden movement and no one will get hurt”.

Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc, Santé and the earthy smells of the vineyard, crystal and pewter wine goblets, men and women swirling wines like their lives depended on it. A private tasting, vanilla in a cup, a red spoon and scallops in wasabi; My sixth glass of Merlot and fourth glass of a 1999 Cabernet Sauvignon. I’m laughing as are my hosts and random people. The photographer touches my elbow, I take twelve seconds to respond, he clasps my elbow, and I turn. My resplendent smile, his nervous banter, I excuse myself.

He pulls out a long filter cigarette. We find a solitary ashtray by the deck chairs. Promises made those which we shall keep. A rendezvous decided, a destination picked, purple scarves, vintage eye wear, smart black Marc Jacob shoes. That night after dinner; after conversations on real estate, golf, fashion weeks and philanthropy, I march to the Dindori Shiraz Suite. Hips swaying, eyes alert, chin up. Posture matters. As does the Pinot in my glass, we barely get through the third sip, he glides his hands dexterously into mine, I pull away, and modesty is damned. I need water. Pellegrino from the mini bar the end of my smoke between my perfect desirable lips; don’t talk too much. Don’t tell him your secrets. Lead. Pause. Smile. Then leave gracefully. He slams me against the suites vinyl door, one leg he wraps smartly around his hip, while his tongue swoops through the unknown spaces in my mouth. We peel of the excuses, we kick of the expensive shoes, and we inhale the perfume and the smell of the wine. He caresses, he taunts, he hurts and I reciprocate. We heave, we hold on and we consume. The frenzy I blame on the wine, the passion on the wine, the good fuck that followed I blame solely on that suave photographer who raided my personality for six hours.

I’ve fucked in candlelit bars, in swish apartments, in cabs and cathedrals. The photographer showed me dimensions, positions and challenged my anxiety levels all in those six hours. The sex wasn’t frivolous; it was a dialogue, a discourse, a duel and perhaps even a concert.

The four of cups, the fiend and the moon, this weekend your senses shall be tortured, said the tarot reader, before I drove to the private tasting.

The places you can go…

Would they let a 24 year old with no experience or qualifications as a primary school teacher into a Mumbai Public School?  Would the school management adapt to the radical changes that he’d bring, his fancy technology, his magical imagination, his burning desire to change every archaic thing from the word go? Most importantly would this 24 year old become more than a teacher, perhaps a leader to eliminate the most fundamental crisis in our Nation; inequity in education, where 1 in 3 children who begin primary school drop out before reaching 5th grade. Will this 24 year old be able to lead his country out of this crisis?

Two years have passed in two of Bombay’s worst classrooms where I worked full time attempting to amplify the potential of a group of India’s poorest children. While we had the extravagance of four walls and a ceiling we did not have an attitude, the resources or the desire to learn. We could not read, write or speak in English, our confidence was battered and our lives were stuck in status quo. We were more than four years behind our private school peers; we had a huge achievement gap that we needed to bridge. Where would we start? Where could we start?

We began with a sense of urgency. We realized that a mammoth world of magical possibilities awaits us. We understood that only hard work could get us there so we worked relentlessly. We celebrated spontaneity and differences, encouraged risk taking.

This was a challenging experience, to be patient and nurturing to 50 children every single day. To be humble around bitter school management and learn to control my emotions when I saw corporal punishment and various forms of abuse. To be resourceful when we needed a library or a field trip and to invest friends and strangers when I felt isolated in my journey. I also looked deeper within myself when my children were not showing progress, to re strategize when my class was destructive and disruptive. I persevered to understand that failure is so important, to re-evaluate what success means and to continually stay passionate and inspired. I learnt the virtue of patience and the lesson of never giving up on anyone; I learnt that my serving small serves nobody. I learnt the distinction between education and literacy; I learnt to walk into a slum over and over again to involve families, to invest them in their child’s incredible future. I learnt that change truly begins by re-engineering my internal dialogue, my prejudices and my limited mind set.

In my classroom I introduced my children to concepts such as love, peace, respect and unity, through art, literature, technology, out-door experiences or just by bringing the outside world into the classroom. The classroom soon seized to be an isolated space and it became a safe place to learn and play. Through this experience of enquiry, observation, discussion, demonstration and participation we learnt to balance academic excellence and holistic development.

Each of these children had one thing in common; they all had unconditional love. They live in Bombay’s darkest slums, amidst the sewage and the smell. They have families, large and bursting at the seams, where a patient ear, a loving word, a nurturing touch is a luxury. They see drugs at the curb, alcoholism in the house, they are victims of sexual abuse and physical violence, they see their grandparents being thrown out into the night and their mothers being mercilessly beaten, they use the same shoe for three years, they get the worst medical care yet find pristine joy in a one rupee packet of pickled berries. But just like the summer breeze blows cool of the Arabian Sea, after two years of intervention they’re definitely smarter and confident but most importantly they are beginning to trade their mediocrity for excellence, their indifference to education for the joy of learning.

Today more young leaders are walking into such classrooms, with their convictions intact, an immense sense of possibility and the honesty of intent, each day they thwart limited dreams, liberate our children’s ambitions, repair the lost faith in our country and truly ensure that one day all children attain an excellent education, because in our classrooms we don’t advocate discourse but we exhibit possibilities.

Abhik Bhattacherji