The lift

 It was a routine day . The bell of the lift rang , people trooped in , ringing in their floors , one by one . Then the lift slowly shut with a decisive clang and slowly descended . 

Everyone kept their eyes down , one boy , who appeared to be a delivery guy , kept up a low toned , almost inaudible conversation . Others checked their phones .

The lift halted at 16 th floor , and  an anxious, slightly hysterical  mother , her hair dishevelled from running around in haste , midriff wet from early morning cooking and bathing kids , nailbeds still white from hasty atta kneading for tiffin paranthas , rushed in . She was clutching a pink satchel full of books , with Princess Elsa from the Frozen movie smiling slyly from the front , while gripping the left  hand of a small girl , roughly 6 years old , in the other hand . A hastily swung water bottle still dripped drop drop on the lift floor , a coquettish Elsa smiled over her shoulder , through the thicket of her white braid , even on the water bottle . 

The girl , clad in white shirt with the school’s logo embroidered over the right breast pocket , and a crisply pressed blue skirt , fiddled with a gel pen in her right hand . 

In the quiet of the lift , two sounds were distinct , the steady drip-drip of the water from the bottle , and click - clickety -click from the child’s hand. 

In one swift , wild movement , the mother snatched the pen from her daughter’s hands , and tishtened the screw top of the water bottle , silencing both sounds , simultaneously . Shaking her head with an unspoken warning , and a stern look , she handed over the pen back to the girl . 

The lift stopped at ground floor and  the harried mother exited quickly , hair flying , literally dragging her daughter behind her , for the fear of missing the school bus . 

The delivery boy was still on the phone , the other people also filed out one by one . 

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It is the diwali night . 

the building society has organised a “Ranga rang karyakram “ ( colourful cultural function ) 

Again the venue is the lift . 

A lady in black enters , filling the elevator with  large clouds of cheap perfume , just like a car belching exhaust . 

Her black saree has a thin gold border. in turn bordered by a large lace , intricately designed , also gold . Her ears are adorned with black beads dangling from a large circle hoop of pur gold , and her sandals are black blocks with gold straps . 

She seems to have come upon all this wealth , suddenly , and quite late in life . Seems to be in her sixties , wrinkles adorn her neck , there were dirt filled cracks in her heel , and patches of gry hair had escaped henna application at the back . 

She had along with her , a short stocky person , carrying a sack of potato chips packets and biscuits . He wore a black sherwani , adorned with shiny sequins , and a thick gold ropy chain around his neck , almost like a dog collar . The gold chain barely had any place to move , nestled as it was in the fat folds of his neck . 

“Aaa gaya sab kuch na ?” The lady asked , deigning to do a half turn towards him , blasting us with a fresh wave of the cheap perfume , and revealing a black velvet purse , with gild bead trimmings . 

The man nodded , in agreement , a bleary moist eyed look and a nervous twitchy demeanour , pointing to either substance abuse , or a mental deficiency . 

Rich relatives are known to keep poor ones in their homes , using them as domestic helps , in return for bed and lodging . 

Soon , the ground floor arrived , and the couple departed , leaving traces of jasmine on the air . 

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It is holi and we are barricaded inside . The lift comes , opens , and departs . Screams , shouts and snatches of drunken revelery can be heard . Girls scream , men laugh , and the world looks the other way , for this day of colourful celebration , often turns into bawdy gross behaviour from even the genteel folk . Once in a year , disinhibition and chaos reigns everywhere , from the gutters to the tallest skyscrapers . 

Common and good sense flees , to hide underneath beds . 

The bell rings . Once , twice . Short rings . Third time it rings loud and clear and for long . 

 It cannot be ignored . 

The spy hole reveals an unknown face , covered in black paint and few splotches of pink colour . Only his eye whites  and teeth remain uncoloured . 

Reluctantly , the door is opened , an inch . A brazen foot enters the doorway , jamming the narrow space in between the door and the wall . His accomplice , another human blackened from head to toe , balances on the stair railings on all four , and hoots like an owl, alternately chattering like a monkey , a feat achieved only by gymnasts , or the fully  stoned .

Panic rises . A valiant attempt is made to dislodge the foot , a woodland suede covered in three shades of gulal , impossible to clean and thereby ruined . 

Finally I succeed . Slam the door and lock it. Quickly dialled the building security . Bawdy songs are heard in the background . 

More monkey chatterings and scampering of feet heard from the landing, even as the lift opens and security guards come out brandishing truncheons . 

The owl hoots one last time , trailing into a whimper . Truncheon blows land on certain body parts and the duo are bundled into the lift, one guard pressing g for ground , and talking to the other on phone , presumably on the ground floor , ready to apprehend the miscreants . 

The bell rings again . 

It is the security guards now . Colour splotched uniform , stupid grin on the face , lecherous look in the eyes . Absolutely inebriated. Asking fpr bakhsheesh . They have left their own celebrations to come “ save us “ , a price will have to be paid . A single drop of saliva dropping out of the open mouth , like a salivating hyena , spotting the prey . 

No option but to slide a hundred rupee note through the bottom of the door . 

In a world full of coloured zombies , we are the sane ones , caged in . 

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The neighbours cat leaps into the hurried , noiseless , brightly lit and air conditioned comfort of the lift . Before I can .

One step on the threshold , I try to cajole her to come out . SHe looks at me defiant , perplexed . 

Defeated , I have to draw back and let the door close on the feline occupant . I cant travel with a stray cat . 

Strays win . again . 

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Sabzi Wala

At 12 sharp , on most weekdays , my phone rings . Even before I pick the call , I know who it is .

The local vegetable vendor . He doesn't do this for lack of customers . He does this because , he doesn't want me to be deprived of the freshest watermelon , the reddest tomatoes , and the firmest bananas. For , like a true gentleman , he doesn't stop his customers , made up of a motley gaggle of housewives and house helps , from squeezing , sniffing and holding the merchandise . Then abandoning the pale , the squishy , and the spotted , in favour of the firm , the shiny and the blemish free . 

Survival of the fittest at its best . 

 Most of the people who flocked to this vendor  are elderly . The "online-ly challenged " , if you may . No , it is not an insult . 

I consider myself to be a part of this breed of humans , rapidly vanishing . An endangered breed who still like to haggle the price of lauki with their human thela vendors , and not order it at thrice the price on some faceless app . The possibility of being saddled with a rotting cabbage , and having to wage a time -consuming , and soul-crushing , online battle , for a refund , and an apology , is very real . Not worth it . It is easier to let the black hole of the online world consume your hard earned 50 bucks. That too ,  for a cabbage that your vendor would charge you , possibly 20 rupees for . 

 The pluses are many . You ask your regular sabzi vendor , if his mother was discharged from ICU . He tells you , she has "passed " , while passing his own hand over his recently shaved head , indicating the funeral of a loved one in recent past . You tut - tut , keep silent for a moment , then launch into a tirade over rising prices , wretched politics and the sticky hot weather . He matches  you , word for word , shaking his head , nodding vigorously , speaking up when needed , and winding your interaction with a bunch of dhania and a fistful of green chillies , thrown in for free .

 He even lowers his prices , and his guard , in criticising the ruling party , for you are that item , the "regular " .

For years , I have known his sons , his wife and him , as they take turns to run the shop . His sons are in college and high school and I keep forgetting their classes . I am scared to ask too , as I know that most of the time they are busy measuring out merchandise , and handing over the patrons their bags bulging with spinach and gourds , onions and tomatoes , the coloured and the green . All that work must leave little room , intent , or interest for scholarly pursuits . 

Last week , the vendor took a loan from his bank , and bought an electric powered mini truck . It is shiny , white , new , and has immediately raised his status , both in other's eyes , and probably his own . Old friends , gardeners , masons , odd job boys , drop in , touch his vehicle gingerly , and ask him how much it cost ? Where did he buy it from ? The gas cylinder supplier , having an old petrol driven mini of his own , offers suggestions as  where he could have gotten a better deal from , etc etc . All this has raised his self esteem in the eyes of his erstwhile friends , who probably don't consider him  equal any more . With a single material possession , he has elevated himself , in ways , in which years of slogging wouldn't have . 

Of late , as a sign of prosperity and good business , he buys large transparent bags of strawberries , kiwi fruit . musk melon (an exotic variety called "Bobby ") ,  button mushrooms , and a crate of alphonso mangoes . 

These are expensive and fragile items and have , what is called a "niche market " . 

Despite catering to a certain income group , it is interesting to note that there are some people , who have more expending power , even in the "earthy " realm of vegetable buying . 

As someone wise had noted once "Men are created equal , but some are more equal than the others ". 

Bird brains

A pair of pigeons have been scouting my balcony for a place to make nest for the past two weeks . To discourage them , I planted petunias in my pots , and placed them directly in the path to their dreams of domestic bliss . 

I had rolled in pots inside wrought iron stands , like mounted cannons , ready for war . 

 But they out witted me . 

One night I heard lot of flurry of wings and feathers . I knew they were conducting nocturnal recon and attack stratagems . 

Next morning I found my beloved two toned petunia blossoms licking the floor , as their base had been flattened by avian diligence , splaying the green shoots , now wilted, and the purple and white fine petals , grazed the floor , pitifully . 

I removed the said pot .

The wounded warrior was replaced by a sturdy rose plant  , with little or no girth . The pot and the plant were both slim, like a ballistic missile  . The stem was sturdy , almost wooden , Trojan Horse fashion . The plant was armoured with thorns .

Hah .Beat this , birdbrains !! I exclaimed , in my mind , like a triumphant mammal  .

Next morning a flimsy , but sturdy bed of twigs emerged , balancing itself on two pots . One rose plant , two the fallen warrior , petunia . 

The twigs had been sourced from the dried branches of rose , de thorned , possibly by sharp beaks . The nest was taking shape , despite my best efforts . 

The maid refused to throw the nest and thereby " destroy someone's home " , an age old superstition in Hinduism ." Lest trouble befalls the thrower's home "

So the nest stayed . Precarious , and porous , and fragile . 

Next day  , two tiny eggs appeared .  Tiny , white , fragile hand  grenades . Not in the nest , but on the pristine , tiled , swept and mopped floor . The tiny circle of twigs had given away , under the weight of the next generation , and had parted . 

Loopholes . 

We both looked at it warily. 

My maid picked up the eggs, gingerly , and placed them gently back on the ressurected twig bed .

They promptly  fell through again , this time , with a tiny crack and splat .

The yolks run pitifully out .

The pigeon parents watched from the sunshade , red eyes locked onto the human balcony , cocking their heads , in disbelief and disappointment . 

They thought to themselves " Another one bites the dust, ehh, another one gone. " 

Together they flew away , never to appear again . At least , for now , they had surrendered . 

My maid , playing the Sherlock Holmes , rationally concluded that the eggs must have been laid on the floor itself . The twig nest having been demolished by a rival probably . 

In the end , in this war of wits , our birds had probably been betrayed by friendly fire . 

Billowing Curtains

 Billowing curtains have quite a story to tell. 

Billowing curtains  , as  my scaredy self learnt today evening , means simply , that I have left my  door open , while watering the plants outside . That the neighbour's cat has quietly slunk in through  the main door , and is busy sniffing my bedsheets in your bedroom , while my back was turned . It was a mild progression from the last time when she was found perched on my bed , licking her undersides . That , however , didn't imply that she remembers my hastily thrown bata chappal from the last time .

Billowing curtains throws me and unwary people like me , constantly , into hot water . 

I was , at a certain chaotic period of my life , constantly in and out of the house. Told a guest's wife on phone that no , he wasn't in yet . I was standing in the balcony , talking to her , happened to glance in the direction of the guest room . The curtains were , you guessed it , billowing . So , the ceiling fan had been switched on , (it was summer ) and  he was in . I told the caller so much and had to spend next half hour explaining and "apologising " for "lying " to her . She , most definitely , smelt a rat . Still does . Well , can't blame her . I would have too , in similar circumstances . The culprit , in my opinion , were the blissfully , gloriously , billowing curtains . 

On another occasion, I was video calling an elder , who saw my curtains billowing in carefree abandon of the summer breeze tempered with cool blasts from the AC . Commented on how shabby and faded and thin they looked . So , I was "gifted " a pair that has double layered protection against the sun , and has an outer layer resembling a tarp that had  been laid over a freshly cemented pathway , with workers stomping down it . Grey  ash , brown , thick and with criss cross pattern on them . They are called "Total blackout " curtains , and they do anything but billow . They now stand stolidly grey , in neat folds , staring down at me like nuns from my high school . 

In hospitals , it is a given that the wards should have cheerful cotton curtains . Cheerful , so as to cheer the inmates , who are in pain , obviously ; and cotton because of its breathable quality . So much other life saving and ailment relieving activities go on in the wards that little or no attention is paid to these linen fragments flapping pathetically , watching the ebb and flow of life from top of the window edges . 

Once upon a time , a VIP's better half fell sick . It was a minor ailment . Possibly food poisoning  at one of those gatherings , which the services are famous for . Well , a normal individual would have taken an antacid , laid in the bed , and would have gotten up ,next morning , fresh as a daisy . 

Not for our protagonist here . She had to be admitted into the hospital and all the big wigs ,came to see her , read her case sheet , fussed around  , and declared her gravely ill . Everyone took turns to take care of the lady , to their best possible ability , and servile subordinates slipped in and out of the room , bearing trays of succour . Looking grave and unctuous . 

The lady , during a gap  in her incredible and ceaseless care , took a breather and looked up . Possibly heavenwards . 

Somewhere in between the pristinely painted white clinical ceilings and the glory of a manicured garden, outside, lay a vast expanse of a fabric . A fabric that was possibly , as old as the hospital . The large maroon roses had turned an evil shade of brown and the fabric , almost threadbare , let in sunlight from in between its fibres . The thin , almost translucent cloth moved , and dust motes danced gleefully in the stream of a sunbeam cast upon crinkly white , new bedsheets on the bed . Someone had hastily pulled the curtain , that was so unused to being pulled , that it had practically disintegrated . One sunbeam danced on the patient's hastily moved legs and another smote her directly in the left eye , blinding her for an instant . A scream followed a madly ringing bedside bell , and an army of nursing staff raced to address whatever emergency lay unfolding in the VIP Room . 

Needless to say , the offending curtains were removed , trashed , replaced pronto , by grey and brown "total blackout " double layered curtains, that added to the grim efficiency of the hospital. They also blocked any cheerful view of the garden outside  . They didn't billow anymore . 

The tiny stone temple

 The wind felt chill , almost immediately as the sun dipped. 

Standing on the terrace, looking out at the erstwhile green expanse , shrouded in darkness and mystery now. 

It was the same , just a few trees that dotted the fields had disappeared. It was just another expanse of flat land , made easier for combine harvesters . Earlier ,the land border demarcating each field would be a hard ridge, grassless from being  pounded  by so many bare feet. Hard worked souls rested beneath trees to  catch their breath, drink water, eat frugal meals, catch a nap . 

I looked out towards the house. The golden tips of trees from the fading sun melted swiftly into the darkness of the sudden night you witness only in villages.  Air becomes crisp and cold, a soft breeze blows , softening the heat of the day , and crickets come out . 

The well , at the back , now with plaster cracked at several places, even the chunks falling in , barely standing. The stone temple , dark and mysterious , beyond the wall . 

I remembered the day the wall was erected. Hastily, irreverently, angrily. Grandma had cradled her in her lap and had wept . 

Her bony knees poking through the pale whitish saree she always wore . The smell of cardamoms and cloves emanating from her . I remember looking up at her face and hating the person who made her grandmother weep . 

I  had barely seen this person . But I  had promised herself that l would hate this faceless person, and I had held onto the hatred, like a comforting thought. 

Everything that lay beyond that short wall was hateful . 

Except for the dark stone temple which was in the family for generations . 

I remembered my grandmother telling me that it was the most ancient thing in the family . Made of a black stone, with a tiny window, and large iron door .  The room was ritually purified , cleaned up and pooja performed every year during Durga Puja . 

Once the ten days were over , it was locked and we went back home walking on a tiny stone path , carefully closing the wicket gate behind us . It was this wicket gate that was removed and a brick wall built hastily to stop us from " trespassing" into his home. The nerve. It didn't help that he was the son of my grandfathers younger brother , my father's cousin , and would have to , perforce, come and touch my grandparents feet at every vijayadashami evening.

We kids were herded into rooms , while these deplorable people were being served tea and sweets. Ladoo and khaja from my grandma's secret larder . Stone faced , head covered , she would hover in the kitchen. She remained stone faced even when the young upstarts came to touch her feet. 

My grandfather did all the small talk . Grandma watched the charade from the distant safety of her kitchen . We just heard snippets of conversation from faceless voices , locked up in our rooms . 

Outraged and afraid that they would eat up all our beloved pooja sweets , we would emerge an hour later to find a relieved grandma smiling. 

We were given sweets too . Plenty were made during the pooja. 

A ritual that she never missed was the evening aarti . Standing at the well , behind the wall, a flickering ghee lamp would be waved in the direction of the temple and chants murmured . A head covered in white saree pallu , bowed in reverence, eyes closed , sandalwood smoke rising fragrant from her brass pooja thali . 

A flickering beacon of hope in a sea of darkness, a firefly, an act of defiance. 

That is when I saw her . 

At the well . Behind the wall . A ghee diya flickered. A head bowed. A pale white saree. A tiny sphere of unsteady light that attempted to fight the growing darkness. 

Then slowly, the light caved in and all encompassing darkness rushed in . A gust of wind blew away the lamp . Just the sandalwood fragrance lingered onto the air . 

I drew my shawl around me. Shivering . A faint smell of cloves in the air .

A voice shouted at me from the stairs , holding aloft a kerosene lantern. "Beware , the steps are broken."

"The deed is ready for you to sign " . "Buyers will come tomorrow, again."

" You are not staying the night are you? The car is waiting." 

I shook my head in negative. Not trusting to speak 

The  caretaker took a look at me and said " what? You saw her too ? Yeah. She comes very often at the well" . 

What is that white powder

 The burden of forgetfulness, which we often blame on genes, are , in all genuineness, an indicator of age . 

In good humour, it is just TMI . Overloading your brain with too much information. Like cramming your shopping cart with numerous useless items, and forgetting a really important stuff . 

The other day , I was unpacking my card board packages ,packed  a few months ago. Having lived a transferrable life , packing and unpacking seem as normal as having your early morning tea in the balcony . 

We are forever traveling, on the move, on the go . Though it may seem a headache to most people, and to even us , it becomes fun after some time. You stop crying buckets over broken crystal ware , fragile items or missing things . 

Going back to that day , I came across a medium sized , transparent plastic box containing a white powder . For the life of me , I couldn't remember what it was.

It could be spare from a packet of salt I bought to keep in its designated container.

It could be white watercolor paint which had dried up in its tube and I like a good Asian/ Indian, decided to rip the tube , scrape the paint and store it elsewhere.

It could be the white rangoli powder borrowed from my generous neighbour, on a haphazard diwali evening.

It could be bleaching powder which my maid had been requesting to be sprinkled over the open drain that led away from the kitchen and attracted arthropods of five different species .

It could be white cement that was leftover after filling millions of nail holes that the previous occupant of this house had hammered on the walls , crucifying his / her artwork on the walls . 

It could be white chalk powder.

It could be maida . Leftover after baking my last chocolate cake in a pressure cooker, whose bottom half got burnt and stuck . Thereafter eliciting promises of " never again" . 

It could be rice powder. Left from the time I befriended a Tamilian and she pointed out the inarguable importance of this vital ingredient in one's kitchen. I said " achcha?"to myself and thoughtlessly blinkit- ed a packet , only to realise the futility of the purchase. Lending it once to a Bengali relative to make alponas .

It could be atta . From the last packet of Aashirvaad. Its position having been forgetfully usurped by a new 5 kg  packet of Pillsbury. 

It could be dry dosa batter . Instant. Ready to use. As advertised on WhatsApp. Replicated in a moment of inspiration and almost instantly forgotten. Because someone bought a packet of MTR mix for me.

It could be glucose powder. Enriched with vitamin d. Taken from a cracking vessel and stored here.

It could be baking soda, baking powder . From the time I gave up baking. Turning up like bad coin , to remind me that my kids are going to be home shortly, and that I need to start baking. Again. 

Finally it was time to subject it to tests. Sniff test . No result. Finally taste test . 

The white powder clung to a few of my granulated tissue on the tongue and set it in fire . I spat it out instantly and rinsed my mouth, several times . 

Limestone powder!! Or chuna.

For the life of me I cannot remember when or why I bought it, or it was a simple case of " chuna lagana" ( cheating )

On buying eggs . During Navaratri .

It is eleven in the morning, sun is beating down, bright and hot. 

The vicinity of the milk shop always stinks of sour curd, despite all supplies arriving in sterile, leak proof , brightly coloured plastic pouches . 

When I ask for a tray of eggs , she winces, as if I had asked a wrong item. I notice that the heap has dwindled from when last seen. Then I realise that fresh supplies have been 

 stopped for Navaratri. 

I wonder if they are ok to eat. But I know the answer already if I voice my doubts, so I accept my eggs quietly.

Next on my list was a picture of the Goddess for my quasi devout Mom. She just wanted a picture to look at while she recites her prayers ( very audibly) every morning after bathing. My mother is 81 plus and is mostly stationary. She cannot indulge in the calisthenics involved in offering incense and flowers .

Hence liberating herself from the performance of rituals involved.

Lo behold. Right opposite the milk shop was a tiny shop which had put out a bench onto the street, arrayed with the pictures of the Goddess.  It is a framing shop , as I can tell . The framed white horses , splashing in pristine surf , jostle for space with the various Gods and Goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon . There are large Radha and Krishna paintings /prints , framed in gilt , and tinier Durga , astride the lion , wielding all weapons in a kind of halo . I have been asked to get one picture of the Goddess by my ageing mother. 

Not one to refuse demands from the elderly , I find myself trying to adjust the egg tray , on one corner of the bench , which is completely God free . A hysterical cry springs from the dark , hitherto , unmanned bellies of the shop . 

"Usko wahan mat rakhiye . " ( Don't keep it there ) , too scandalised to even name the eggs . I quickly pick up my offending item . This time I decide to hold it aloft , away from the human touch , like a shrine . 

An indignant face appears , smeared on the forehead with the tell tale red tikka , of the devout . 

One look at my trousered legs , and shorn locks , and he has already concluded my religious affiliation . Possibly christian , he is thinking . 

"Aap Hindu nahin hain ?" ( Aren't you a Hindu ?" 

"Bilkul hain ." I answer quickly . Why else would I be buying pictures of the Goddess , in the festive season ? 

"Isko yahan par mat rakhiye , I have to supply the gift wrapping papers to the temple . " He offered as a means of explanantion .

"I have to buy eggs for elderly at home . " I too , offered as an explanation . The same elderly , who has sent me on this ironical errand . I wanted to add , but refrained .

"Oho ? I see . Anyway , these ( pointing to the eggs ) are not fertilised anyways , so it is veg only . " He laughed , I could see two rows of paan stained teeth .

I laughed back in relief . 

Carrying the bag containing the goddess in my right hand and eggs held aloft in my left hand , I have actually run out of holding spaces .

Next stop , a bindi shop . For the very same elderly . By now , people have started avoiding coming closer to me . Women deflect the upper half of their body , so as to not be defiled in the presence of such an obnoxious item in my hand . 

I create a minor commotion in the bindi shop , which is narrow and crowded . Everyone skirts around my egg tray , and I have been asked not to enter the shop . 

After fifteen minutes of pointing at "Yeh wala " , "Nahin woh wala "  (this one , no , that one ) ,

I give up . 

The sales girl is new and she can't find any thing . Besides , the pooja rush ensures a thick stream of ladies asking for cosmetics , combs and other items , not only for the Goddess ka shringar , but for themselves as well . It is hopeless .

People are giving me disgusted and frankly angry looks . "Look at his woman , can't survive without eating eggs for even ten days , shame on her . " I can hear them think . 

On my way back , I enter a grocery shop . To buy flour , again , for the very same elderly . People look at me askance , wondering "What is wrong with her ?" 

There is an empty stool by the door . I ask the shopkeeper if it is ok to keep the eggs there . The shopkeeper , a fat Pickwickian personality breaks into guffaws . He nods , then offers me frozen chicken from his freezer .

"No , I just want a kilo of atta . " 

"Rice ?" 

"No." 

"Dry fruits ?" 

"No. Doctor has forbidden us from having dry fruits . " I try to joke .

"I eat medicines , and continue to eat dry fruits . A car needs petrol . We need fuel . " 

He is either a non believer , or a very good salesman . But I am thankful for him to have accepted my eggy presence . The atta arrives , I pay , and leave . 

Now , I have to walk with atta sitting on top of the egg tray in my left , and Goddess in my right . I have arms splayed , almost like the Goddess herself . Perhaps , in a twisted sense , I am carrying weapons . 

I make a beeline to the car . still holding my offensive cargo aloft , and people scatter .

I might as well be carrying grenades .