To Own You

Over a period of the last eight months, the person closest to me became a person I now want to know. Someone who writes. Writes to strange things and stranger people, about strangeness. I try to identify this person, locate her. She appears out of nowhere on most nights, out of words actually. Or on morose mornings, as she tries to come to terms with her various masks. Like the soft mark left on a stack of hay that has been sat upon, she remains on my mind -- a mark. As I took my late shower, I tried to locate her. I needed to know her -- the person who writes, and is the real recipient of all the accolades. I explored a little longer than I usually do, and there she was, an off-white blur slowly becoming curves.

She was no longer the person I considered being the closest to. She differed from everything I ever have been. In her walk at dawn, while breaking the waves, she looked to be in control, absolutely aware of each of her step. There was a happy feel about her entity, one that you would wish to surrender to, believing she would hold your hand and take you onwards happiness. And she was sexy. Very. Her long hair lashing her cheekbones lovingly, her senses devouring each moment with a self-belief, her clothes tenderly fondling her. Her gait impressing as if she owned that place. I stalked her back to where she belonged.

Uncannily, she returned to where I lived, the same room, the same bed. Which when occupied by her looked so different, they enlivened with her spirit. There was an eerie sense of connection she made with each thing she touched or looked at. I walked alongside her, back to my head. The colours she created turned chaotic. It was a mesmerizing mess of me-ness. And it was killing me, this uncertainty of a beautiful being.

I ran back to my room through the mirror and looked to see if she was still there. She was, and this time, extending her hand to me. While I was hunted down by my shadow, she basked in her own glow.

To know you is to own you.

A Thin Story

Having been done with stories of size, I now wish to move to those of shapes. One another for the daughter. The size I want to be, the size she is. Thin.

Five Fat Friends,

A, B, C, D and E stuck together.

Played too, danced on sticks, 

Happy beats,

Your dainty drum-kit.

A told B, "Let's give the little girl a gift".

C agreed, as did D and E.

They decided upon a song, a song for you.

So when you sit with them

And don't get the tune you were looking for, listen.

Five Fat Friends sing for one.

A song for you.

My daughter is the kind who gets restless very easily. I believe in her sense of rhythm and don't want her to be angry when she can't reach up to the cymbal. Her beloved Aunty-L gave her a pretty drum-set. I completed it with giving her a naughty idea of scribbling on the drum-tops. Over eagerly she walked to it this evening, "Tucker, I have new dum-kit. You don't have, um-hm."  

Hope she listens well. Hope she finds a melody of her own.

What Happened Next

"This is how what happened next. How you came into being, Before you were."

I had often rehearsed this line in my mind, and in many intonations, of when I would actually say it to you. Perhaps in one of my letters I have. But I did not go on to tell exactly what. Well, this. This, that when he left, he left behind not one, but the two of us. 

His car had made the same screeching sound when he reversed to park it impeccably outside my gate, and when he had locked it, as he rang the bell on my door. He entered with the same smile he came each night in, his shirts stressed and his shoulders too. It was a daily drive of around two hours. I remember what I had made for dinner -- a simple pasta with chicken and mushroom tossed in olive oil, spiced with herbs and chilled mojitos. We hadn't had the white rum in a long time. It was raining, slowly, constantly. The lights of the roads and on them were blurred and the sight from my balcony of the ninth floor was washed. Like a lullaby.

As we settled on the couch with our second round of mojitos, he locked me with his legs and begun kissing me. As usual, I was perched on the floor and him on the sofa. His stubble caressed my concern and dimming the lights, we made tipsy love. Soft and wild. The sound of rain was persistent, soft and wild. We were happy, like children, and as he spooned around me, I told him. That you had happened.

We slept. We woke up, he made me my favourite breakfast of a mushroom and cheese omlette and apple juice, had his bath and left for work. I received a call from him before lunch where he asked me to abandon you. Because he loved us too much the way we were to have a you around. To Abandon You. Or he would move away. And that, love, is what happened next.

He left with a note on the fridge. He must have come in when I was out for the monthly supplies. I had earlier disagreed to abandon you. The note neatly said, "Meira, It saddens me that we have to end this way. You, us, we will always be special. Do not call me. I will not call too. We will get used to the blank just as we got used to being together. Nikhil." We had bought the violet notepad some months back, and he used one of the sketch pens kept on top of the fridge. He selected the dark blue to write it.

I sat with the note clasped in my hand. Just where we had made love the previous night. Had I known it would be the last time, I would go on endlessly. Soft and wild. But it ended. Restless and cold. I do not remember what I drunk myself to wake up really late the next morning, and I do not remember how I ended up not making a single call to him thereafter. But that afternoon, as I emerged out of the bath, I dried myself with thoughts of you. You -- cocooned within me, settled in my soul and living it all. 

You are a being of love. I embraced the thought and took a step back to looking forward to loving you. Ever since, life has been a series of what-happened-nexts.
Till you are. When you are.

Assisting an Author

This was a sensational Saturday when I was driving back like a maniac, home to my daughter to ensure her safety. We were hit by an earthquake. It was a quality quake, arising fear and anxiety. And some hours after the weather was pleasant we walked the evening, had ice-creams. She was beside me with her nonchalance about whatever happened, when she asked, "Can I write on compewturr today?"

I opened a new word document, and more than willingly put the laptop on her lap which could hardly hold the Sony and watched her as her tiny little fingers popped out of her full sleeved night suit and as the light of the monitor glowed on her face, she typed out:

iuuuganb tyqwer ,jadgibxfl 

\=12xmfb lef jsHFEFUY kjdHG

HADGuqy hjggeflkhwceqweqerer

782809junsgsrwREWRJK23543

/.,/.,JKHAJHJHFGHSDGFhbjgjg

lolipop

"I will write what happened next tomorrow." Yes Ma'am. Please. Whatever you say. I am glad I am alive today to be around you and when you win the Nobel Prize for something, I will, in my warm apartment, smile at the TV monitor declaring it. After all, I assisted you in your formative years, formed of such Saturdays.

And now, as you hug me so tight with your soft little arms and your fingers clutch mine, and your legs weightlessly wrap around me, I am blanketed in this extreme comfort of being. Carefully, I turn the overhead light off, turn your side, peck you endlessly and one on your chin that lingers a little longer and go to sleep, not very afraid of the quake earlier in the day. Like in my childhood I was, of its aftereffects.

When I cannot sleep twenty minutes later, I access my mail from my phone, in which I have saved your first story as a draft, and read it. You are my favourite author and I love your stories. Tomorrow is a Sunday, and I must tell you the greatest story of your life -- of how you were loved before you were born -- and what happened next.

Assist me.

Life-Wise

The air-conditioner was set to sixteen since the last ten minutes, the microphone checked twice in those ten, the lights dimmed and the stage set. It was an inconspicuous day at work for Meira. She was clearly detached from all the excitement and activities with her efficient handling of people as much as her pallu. As everyone around her awaited for the guest to grace them with his presence, she got ready to blindfold into a world of cartons of answers, brown box upon brown box soundlessly revealing all that was ever concealed. Inside her mind, her heart. Her many wishes that she lived in moments adopted for acquired pleasures. Simply.

He came in, an unassuming presence. Five minutes after Meira's vacation had begun in the auditorium, while she listened to him, and doodled in her notebook, she looked up. There was something about him, that unassuming speaker. She shifted her attention on to the stage, on his watch -- nice, clean. His belt -- very subtle details, his shoes -- polished, sharp. The shirt was well-ironed and the suit could be one of the many emerging out of an airplane, but set apart because of the pen clutching the pocket, the unmissable white star on the black round. She hoped it would be a fountain pen as she put back her pen into its cap to listen to him. Surprisingly, he was speaking simple sense. Simply.

Her saree was wrong today, her watch worn-out, her hair a bit of the Wednesday-hair, and her earrings did not call for special deference. But her answers to his interactive questions were bang-on, complete with her smile. Their ordinariness was unexpectedly agreeable. His speech ended with a shameless eye-contact which lingered for a minute longer than customary. It was customized to convey. Simply.

As she walked him out while he spoke with them he did not want to, she quickly interrupted him with her genuine 'Thank you'.

He extended and followed it with a firm, warm 'Nice of you to take your time out.' And after a pause, in front of all the people, as he held her hand still, 'Don't forget to send in references. I am staying at the Hyatt till tomorrow'.

She smiled, genuinely. And turned back towards life. Walking towards a round of activities waiting to unfold and asking for her undivided attention. 

She consciously gave it only her divided attention though. And made it a point to be wise about the other side. Grabbing a coffee on her way back, she decided to get herself a new watch this summer, the colour of wood. And went on about being life-wise.

L fell Down!

I bought a car with "not a single benefit from old parents, nor one from new job". Sometime in November. Strange, I do not even remember the date. I used to drive a manual M-800, and on weekends a power-steering Esteem. That was about seven years ago. And I was not confident -- either about parking, or reversing.

Owning to I's insistence, I went for a new car. Two weeks later, I wished to take it out to the city. We needed couple of L's on the back and front windshields. I was staying at EC, and went to my aunt's room, took out couple of white soft cards and a big tube of Artist's Carmine, and a nice thick sable brush for the purpose. As my aunt watched some random songs on TV which bored me, I took to the glorious enterprise. Voila! Some twenty minutes later, we had two beautifully carved L's. Formed without the ruler, the lines were seemingly perpendicular. And the carmine set out against the dull white. We got one of the security guards to help me stick the L's to perfect order of synchronization.

The first L was removed in a week's time from the front windshield when R was in town for I's wedding. She drove around the car and she is a fantastic driver. According to her it blocked her vision and without consultation, she tore it off. I stayed on with the L behind.

Weddings and city trips later, the L remained. R left for her city, and I, hers. The L remained. It gave me a sense of security, a buffer that other cars would be cautious about mine. And yet it was scarred and dented. The city roads have become a regularity, the congestion no more a problem. I graduated into driving other cars and others' cars (without L). I park decently, and reverse remarkably well. I play music and constantly change channels and see sights. I think a lot of this has to do with the fact that some of the people I like a lot, sit beside me, and I cannot but be safe. And rash driving is so passé.

However, I received my updated driver's license some days back, and the L had to go. I could not. It made me feel protected. I could not explain how it just felt a part of me. It made me feel powerful, immune. At the same time, vulnerable, because I would be living with the falsehood of it. So, just like Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall and had a Great Fall, my Ring-a-Ring-a L-Roses, windshield full of poses, fell down!

I drive, pretty. Pretty possessed.

A Short Story

Following A Tall Story, something within me had been wishing to tell her a short one. Having studied English Literature and taught it too, for most of my teaching years, the genre of short story was quite known to me. It had introduced me to Oscar Wilde, to Kate Chopin. I had taught George Orwell, Joseph Conrad and of course, Katherine Mansfield. But to mason one, for a daughter, is a pressure that no teaching assignment had ever had on me. Not even like the one when I taught Alice in Wonderland to students pursuing Masters at Presidency. Twelve hours of nervousness before the class, and two minutes into it, later, things were just wonderful. A class apart.

Writing a story for a daughter, however, means you won't be marked on your presentation skills, you will instead, be believed, for life. Telling, or reading out to her the same wouldn't assert your prowess over the language or your agile movement with the plot. It would be a grand bestseller the day she asks for a second telling of it, or asks out a continuation the next night. You would become a storyteller in your own rights when she would begin living with the characters you tailored for her. So I tried one:


A Matchbox has one hundred soldiers, all cooped up inside a box, eager to light up, anything you want them to. Paper, cigarette, fire, gas-burner, incense stick -- you name it. Petty lives, they came for a change, collectively. One of them, Will -- his name, wanted to live longer and not burn out for someone else's useless cause. So, cleverly, Will rubbed against his friends in a manner that his edge became blunt enough to not burn. 

As expected, when Mom took Will out to light her cigarette, it failed and then, disgusted, Mommy threw it carelessly into a dustbin. Will was delighted. In his previous life he was a boy who had studied "Where there is a will, there is a way". 

Will made his way into the trash divider and got selected for the "Recyclable". His curiosity was dismantled when he saw a world of differences ahead of him. Nothing he knew became what they were. And while he was trying to calculate the differences, he felt a fan and fell on a mass of other Wills and shaped, he now serves as part of the new Do-It-Yourself craftbox.

We do not know if Will is happy, or not. Will wants you to find a way.


With this, I ended. My will to win is limp, as opposed to my will to delight my daughter. And I have played it safe. As the story ended, it timed well with her fiddling with the box of crafts that Grandma-B had sent her.

My daughter, her grannies, my many loves, and my friends -- people are the best short stories of my life.

Crimson Kingdom

"Me? I am a procrastinating perfectionist." 

That is Zara. And that is one of her outstanding one-liners. 

She is a slender woman in a wheatish complexion and shoulder length waves. She is tall and most things about her fits like a dream -- the clothes and their cut, the sedan she parks, the golden fur-ball she walks. She has the face and personality that would demand you to notice her and leave you thinking, "Wow!" Except for her heartaches and heartbreaks, most things worked out well for her, like work. Each time till it became dirty, was beautiful. Like the last time. 

This time there was no breaking of glasses and slitting of veins. No pills either. There was a princely silence instead. And an insanity whose knowledge made it impossible to survive. She no longer planned to elope, having always hated the word for its longing association to run away only for the sake of marriage. Extremely delighted at having inherited a fortune and not having to think what to do with the immediate immenseness of life, she sits and runs her fingers through the cool night sand which is crimson in shade, and has conversations with creatures of the sea. "Procrastinating perfectionist? Does that even make sense to you?"

This too was Zara, in one of her mediocre moments.
She ran away.

By herself. From herself.

Letter to Chhuti & Chinky

Hi little ones,

I have been writing tons of letters to the two of you, spilling my heart all over, and deceiving even deception. Fabricating a quilt-world to inhabit over that of barren truths. Over six months of story-telling, and I have come to believe in truths of managing curls and the possibilities of backpacking with half-sized people with double the enthusiasm. I promised many promises to self, and many more to many others, each of which became a part of the procrastination. I am totally unnerved, entirely unsettled, and completely unsure of myself at this moment to have your companionship. It feels I will contaminate you both too, with my many doubts. 

I do not know a second person who lives a mask like the back of her hand. It is like playing half-widow to half-truths. I feel like the bird who visited this campus in December and watched the manicured badminton court around which had happy faces who sweared under their breath. She returns this summer morning to the same place, unkept and untended. There are too many un-s already. Too much doubt to not crossover to you pure hearts. 

I was going through my letters to you both, a testimony to lies. Things that you should not be reading, things you need not know. Things that aren't, quite simply, are not, right? We need not list them. And put a fancy label like 'Have-K/Nots'. I would rather have you both have friends your age, fighting over who had a chewing gum first than dealing with a person who does not even believe in herself. Someone who believes in the arrested world of words rather than in their tangibility. Someone who cannot bear to give away her sad eyes and sadder smile, but sadly does not know how to deal with either.

Till then, C & C, grow up confidently, for that is sexy. Grow up knowing how to face verity and not to chalk an escape route around. I will not promise you further letters, for I do not know where I will be next, but trust me, no one will be happier to know that you are receiving letters, than me. I do not know where I am writing this letter from, and I do not want the next letter to be the same. May be we will meet again. In times which have more light than now, and are not so deep in anxiety of the unknown. Where clarity is not to be sought, but to be lived in. When fancy becomes fact.

And in it all, then and now, the only surety of my being has been that I love you, the most uncontaminated.

K was a garden that blossomed, went wild and finally withered.
Of wildflowers.

Letter to Chhuti IX

My Love!

How stupid are people, and their questions, who ask me to choose between you and C. You create me, over and over again. Just the other day (and where did the calender new year vanish?) it was the New Year, regional. And you were absolutely nowhere in sight. My team and me were working like impassionately disinterested robots, functioned to perform even on rare Sundays. All the while, I was longing for you. Just you.You had earlier brought to book, how you can make mundane lives illustrious. My little muse, you made me a digital author.

Time has made the gradual progress into scorching work-days. Which I want to turn into happier days, by practical rejections of perhaps, impractical plans. Where a day could have a bit of you, you in your two side ponytails and your smile through your chewy-teeth and your occasioned high pitch voice, serious. I am going to spend some time with you today. Just you, just me. And I will really write all the plans that I intend to take with you. All the places I want to visit, all the lives I want to live.

I want you to know of all those itineraries that weren't, of all those characters who aren't and all those holidays that won't be. At least I would have shared about them with you and in those moments, surrender to living the itineraries and characters and holidays for real. Like now, where I believe you are reading this letter on the dining table off my kitchen, your size, still tiny but understanding all that this letter unfolds. And as you read the letter, I am in the next room, setting myself beside my new drum set. We would leave later tonight, for a backpacker's trip to Australia and New Zealand.

Official dignitaries there have invited the author and her Chhuti, you see.

Help me fix the real, unreal and surreal,
K.

Homestay

We were brought up with the notion that 'home' is a word for the family in a house.

My name is Nuryn and his, Aaus. I bumped into him as a habit when I returned to Bhutan for the second time. Each time, each place, a new name. This time I was on my own. A little more edgy, a little more relaxed. My return tickets were undone the moment I courageously stepped in the Paro-Chu. I wished to travel further than Bumthang this time. So I selected Lhuntse and Yangtse. And called upon the old driver, Jacob.

But, by the time I was in Bumthang, I was in love, again. With the quaintness of the place, in which I put up. Wooden floors, the sound of nature seeping through. Three days, and I met Aaus. A very non-chubby young boy, with sad eyes and a happy-nature, keeping the evening cash at one of the local bars. Relatively rich and suitably sensitive -- expressed very well in his combined careful and careless nature, respectively. The only thing I did not particularly like about him was his name. And there was no way I could shorten it into something different. 

We hit it over being the only customer who asked for pegs of single malt. We hit it over irregular wins at the casino. We hit it over coffee after regular losses.

He helped me hire a car for my stay there, and get into a home stay. It was a nice place of warmth and adventure. It was off the museum and marketplace, in one of the roadways beside the river. It was one of those rooms that invited a stay into being longer than what it was initially intended to be. It was a room that required solitude, and enjoyed selective company.

It was a room with its own wants. Reflective and easy-going. Like the stories that yielded unto my mind and the love that got made on the soft bed. It was a room that turned into a home in the six weeks that I was there. And in the six million memories I selfishly collected. Of the walls that delicately held my make-to-do posters of Richard Gere and Roger Federer and one tattered Life is Beautiful. Of the window that opened to sights of the mountains longing to meet the river, and the longing for Aaus over the day's end.

Did anyone care for the home that I returned with in my heart? No.

They got busy with the death of one Aaus on one of the morning's. Overdose, they claimed. Yes.

I stayed on without Aaus. The homestay no longer the Nooraaus that he referred to it as. With coffee stains, with suspended stories. I returned. With coffee and death stains, and suspended stories left incomplete forever.

My Daughter's Diary

From her stay with her favourite granny, C brought home a handful, if handful were ever a measure of what is immeasurable, innumerable and bag-popping. The granny in context is a serious mad woman, renowned for her professional progress and unprofessional, unconditional love which never recognized bloodline. I cannot begin to list the things which comprised the five letter word, tucks. We have a golden retriever by that name by the way, derived from Tucker. Size -- same as C. She was sadly, and dutifully dropped home to me last night, and though she was super sad at having to let go of her mad Granu, she was even more excited to show off her loot to me.

She got a new Simba & Nala school bag, filled with a Sinchan tiffin box (trust D not to have any standard about the animation generation), which was further filled with a packet of dates and one of roasted cashews. I am going to thug it sometime soon. They would complement the Laphroaig I have just opened, well. The bag also had a grave green handmade paper notebook on which Granu had pasted the uneven letters "MY DIARY", taken from monochrome newspaper and glitzy magazines. It also had a translucent Bambi pencil bag, needless to say filled with many pencils, red and black stripes, pink flowers on white, solid colours. Were I given such a gift in my childhood, I would be in a state of happy shock for so long that I would not move on to sharpen them. Her new sky blue Adidas bag (with three fluorescent stripes) was brimming too -- with storybooks, magic colour books, a new box of 64 sketch pens from Faber (at this point I am severely angry with D) and chewing gum, and chips and all such things which delight a child to the core. Another way of putting it by replacing the word delight with spoil.

However, what pacified me this morning was when I was rummaging her loot and settling them down on her desk (oh yes, she has a separate one for herself, complete with a chair; which she, like her Mommy, hardly uses), was the green notebook. I opened it because it bulged with one of the new sketch pens inside it. The page was a mess quite obviously with felt colours on handmade papers. She wrote nine lines in nine different colours. Here goes:

1 (red): This is my green copy.

2 (dark blue): This is my blue pen.

3 (light green): I am riting.

4 (yellow): Tucksh is eating chips wich i gave him to tayst.

5 (orange): I have many gift wich i will take to school on Monde.

6 (sky blue): I study in Obon Haaus.

7 (dark green): Granu sho me Layen King cinema. wow.

8 (black): Mom and i see many movie in big size and eat popcon.

9 (violet): Mom rites with compewtur i rite with pen.

I would like to mention, of all the mistakes my daughter made in spellings, I forgive her for the name of her school. It is ridiculous to name one "Auburn House". But it is a good one. And I have no idea if kids her age can write better, but I am glad she does so without me hankering after it. I will not make public her other further entries, without her permission. I am gladder she does not play on my mobile phone, so what if that means engaging in foreboding and reflective conversations with poor Tucker.  

Madness is inherited, that is all I can conclude.

Whiskey Lullaby

'What did she drink?'

'Whiskey, boss. Neat. She was uppity, made a remark about premium ice, and chilled water.'

'Hmmm.'

'Held the glass as if she didn't approve of it. But drank it down like a pro.'

So that was how she was discussed as. At bars, where she left a mark, probably how glasses without coasters do, on the table. She always sat at different tables, and always wished it was the same one, by the counter. She always had whiskey, even though sometimes wishing for a vodka or a tequila. She always missed the love, though she trained herself to believe otherwise. She was unpredictable in a predictable way. She made one think after she left. And that made her think how it was possible. She was ordinary, everyday. 

Today is exactly a year after she had called Kshitij, who as usual returned the call in a tardiness she was used to. They had had a cold conversation. The tears had felt warmer, livelier. Moistening her pillow and deepening her eye sockets. 

Today, Kshitij called her. And demanded the friendship, some sensitivity and some more attention back. Today Kshitij sounded agitated, interested and happy to blurt it all out. The voice was earnest. But she believed that all Kshitij felt was an emptiness that he didn't know existed in him. She built it. In him and also within herself.

She is complicated, this whiskey woman. Sad, that she can't return when she yearns to. But happy that Kshitij is a bit sad too. She doesn't know which weighs heavier. She counts the change, adjusts her watch to just where she likes it on her wrist, and leaves. 

She gets home and calls Kshitij back, as promised. 

He does not speak, as promised.

Kshitij does not return.

My Daughter wrote me another Story

Nomygod! This was not happening! I woke up this morning fighting against my biological alarm, a little late. Sloppily, over an ignored tea and a random movie on TV, I moved on to lazily do the bed. C has left for a short stay with her favourite granny, D, last night. Two days of no Vitamin-C I had thought would do me good. Plus, I liked my privacy sometimes, not just for ignited sharing, but also for insanely silent solitude. As I pulled up the pillow, out came a hurriedly done white envelop, quite obviously one of mine, in uneven stripes of a thick headed black sketch pen. A box supposed to mean a square had the words "Zeebra Pos". Either she forgot the t, or she needs to work on her pronunciations too, along with her spellings. Another letter, another story:

"Mom, you are Deer Mommie. I am laytaa writing to you beccause you like laytaas. And becaause when you will be alone in the night please suwich on the good night you can read this laytaa which you did not write. I am going for holidae which you want to go with Chhuti. She is not my frend. But I will go if you will go too. Why is there another spelling of to? Not two, three. Momm when you will read this you will be thinking that I am here only but I have packed my new bag with old pencil box and when I come back we will play carrom, ok? I will practiss to put the pink in.

Mom what do you write in laytaas? I have nothing to write. So you can teach me when I am back from school and we will not do homewok and have fun. OK I will live you with a story. One day there is a smart girl called Niharika who loves her Mom and she has a dog called Tucks who chuz her hairbans. One day there is another girl who is little and liked by Mom. So Niharika goes to grany house and aks her who Mom loves more. Grany says, 'You!'

Granu is laaiaah. She loves Mom most. So I will not aks her. But this is only a story for you Mommie. Haha. You are my best fend. Don't be afred when I am not in hause. There is jiraaf and fone. I will miss you. So as gift I want laytaa from you and all my ansaahs. I will not have too many chips, pomiss! And one day I will write story like you. Write also another spelling. Right. OK. Bye, Chinks."

What does one do with such a treasure? I think she will grow up into a Mathematician. She has logic. And poetry. My day has been full, and now that there is the implosive silence I so desired, she has filled up this space. I think I must contemplate deep about beginning to write a series of stories for her, or may be record our exchanges. It is demanding -- this madness, this other worldliness.

I wish I could play around her wrong spellings. It is as difficult as it is to do her curls. Or be without her.

Date Night

I am single. And so is she. That make us a pair. Me and my toddler. Growing up together. She wants me to buy her a new school bag. From a shoe store. The three fluorescent stripes on a sky blue bag -- bigger than her -- impressed her heavily. She didn't ask for anything in a long time, nor did I have the time to think and gift her something, just for nothing. So, after three days of her asking for it, and having scribbled the stripes all over, I took her out tonight. We drove straight to the store and surprised her to the core. 

She has not stopped smiling ever since. We returned home after her favourite chicken sweet corn soup and cheese sticks. I had to tempt her to an ice cream. It seemed as if she was rushing to return. And then I knew why. She quickly changed into her full sleeved white night suit of Tom and Jerry running after one another, without my help. 

I had settled down on the bed in my usual pose of working on the laptop with a drink by my side. She joined me solemnly, gift in her hand and many things popping in and out of it. Having adjusted her blanket and dropping her goodnight kiss on my cheek, she sat to work on her bag. She took out her many comics and arranged them height-wise and put them back in. Next in line were her notebooks, and then her pencil-bag. Her Winnie the Pooh pencil bag with her coloured pencils and sharpener and ruler, of which she has no use. She pulled back the chain with the authority a bank manager has with the lockers.

C then placed the bag to one side of her pillow, diligently, and patted it as if it were a pet. All this while she was convinced that I was not looking. And finally, holding the bag tight, she fell asleep. Possibly, for the first time not on my side. I wish her dreams tonight. That she can travel worlds with her bag. And worlds visit her from her bag.

I wish for her to sleep on the other side and not feel alone.

Letter to ____ II

Hottie,

Hi! To write this piece, I had to change the music. I needed to break the static sadness that governs us all.

You called me twice today, before morning was born. Like it was, when we were a secret. When we had sultry afternoons. Set to motion by air-conditioned inertia. Shall I tell you the truth, love? I miss missing you. What I most miss are those fingers, intertwined with mine as we filled up the blanks between the lines of our palms and spoke of silences. They were very sexy afternoons -- youthful and stealthy. I loved how you dealt with your many phone calls, mostly rejecting many and lying to others.

I never thought a day would come when I would not take your call. I was your at-your-beck-and-call person. I sincerely loved you. And there is no fancier language in which I can reword it. But, I did. I miss you still, sometimes. I think of you, often. I wish the best for you, always. And I do all of that for just one reason -- you. And that I loved you. I come into your picture, however, only with reasons. It is terribly and incredibly sad.

Time came to a fantastical standstill of time-tripping. With you. I sit here now, working in an imposed sense of purpose. How can I possibly forget those afternoons. You made me cry. You still do. Yet, I can't come to terms to accepting that I hate you, Perhaps, I never can. I don't really need to. I don't see us return to any of those sultry afternoons. It is a new year after all. And of course it can't have us.

We moved on, away, with each other. And yes, you are again addressed as the dash that you had a problem with. But it is time I did it my way. 

Like I caressed your hair, and bit your earlobes and loved you forever.

Missing you impossibly,

K.

Letter to my Daughter IV

Little One,

When will you read these letters, love? Here at work I sit in a shared cubicle and look ahead at a small coral and shell decorated rounded mirror, right into my eyes. They are deep down in buckets of shoeshine, especially so in their stark contrast to the silver streaks over my temple, stealing all the attention. That's all I can see in that small little mirror. If not for these two elements, I think mommy could pass off for a fairly young person. Giving suitable competition to the didis she teaches. But I also see that you have the mommy-eyes, brown. Like wood, or soil -- encompassing stories. Baaun aaiiz, yes.

The only probable difference could be how fresh yours are, as compared to how aged mine are. While yours stand for inquisitiveness, mine accepts. From this point I will try and answer, "Where is Daddy?"

Niharika, Daddy is a good man who does not stay with us. Daddy is a gentleman who left me when you came around. Daddy couldn't own me with you. But we won't blame Daddy for that, right child? Of the many kinds of people in this world, Daddy was the type who couldn't stand up for his choice. Or, be strong and stable. Daddy couldn't fathom what it would be to love you. I did. So now, when we are on the terrace and having deep conversations about finding a solution on how to manage time, and how to manage you, we will not be disturbed by whether we have a Daddy to pull us through or not. You in your hot pants and spaghetti singlets sipping some kind of beverage and your black mickey anklet popping golden eyes at me and me with my drink in my loose whites and a darn brass anklet looking back at you. We don't have one, you see. But you have me. And me, little one, I have you.

When we return from one of our movie-nights, or are bored with one while at home, and move on to Daddy-talks that have substantially infested your curiosity, I shall brave the story. But till then I have to tell you that no Daddy could have eased out this feeling of uselessness I often have, while at work. At least I have you to write to. He bloody did not even leave a trace of an address to follow. Chinks, we will return to "Where is Daddy?" on a better day. When the trees are lilting wistfully in a soft breeze and the evening is slowly melting, and leaves like an orange candy, all over your fair face.

I love you,
Mommy.

I saw a Fish fly

I love a good fish fry. Beer battered, crisp, kindly seasoned and generously couched between greens. I really love it. I also like slender fish fingers. And a good grill washed off with a better drink. But I think I like fish that fly the best. Don't you know what they are? They are once in a lifetime moments of utter disbelief turning into amazement. They are golden wings that swim in transparent plastic water bags cheaply tied to a rope between bamboos. They appear to fly across the blue moods of sky patches and white fluffy clouds. 

I saw a fish fly. In a dimension of five plastic centimeters it fell in love with another in the next plastic bag. Together, they flew apart in joy and came to a concurrence of utter submission to fate. So close to togetherness, yet births apart. 

They were uprooted so they could fly. 

I was reminded of my last life. Some years back. Anything intoxicating and blurred appeared newer and clearer than norms. I was a fish out of water. I was decked to be sold off to the highest, and most caring bidder. But he clipped my wings. So one day, I grew it secretly back, and took off on my flight. People said it didn't suit me, flying. Fish are supposed to swim you see. Be in water.

I grew wings instead. And took to the sky. With words.

In the Name of Coffee

"Maconna."

"No, it's Mo-co-na. With a double c." I was completely put off at having to correct his pronunciation. And with such filters working in my head all the time it was outright difficult to be pleased with anyone, at least for a long time. We had already spent many hours 'knowing-each-other'. Yet, I couldn't see how this was progressing, and where. Here he was, nice and cute and better than many, but not-me. And here I was, tolerating, tailoring.

It was an evening of classic thundershowers. We had started off on one such evening. Over coffee. In one of the those coffee chops which basically sell time and space, over good coffee. We hardly enjoyed the coffee. At least I didn't. I was instead yearning for a slow shot of whiskey. I didn't know what I wanted. Except from my coffee. It needed to be distinguished in smell, and black in taste. I wish I knew what I wanted of the man instead. Whether for him to be my companion or for him to be my daughter's Daddy.

He was a nice man. But not what I wanted, if I knew what I wanted.

He had once come inside the apartment. And what happened next was what had to happen. Average. I remember the next morning better. He strolled into the other room through the other bathroom door. I was in it already. It opened to a room with a corner devoted to an untouched basketball and a crayon coloured football and a softball and a tennis ball with two eyes, and a pingpong ball coloured blue. His gaze moved to the next corner of colours creeping onto the wall. He then walked towards the desk which was his knee-sized and pulled up a copy and opened it to pages of wrong spellings and sketches of fish that fly and ice cream that didn't melt.

I couldn't read what was going through his mind. He smiled and asked me, "You are a mother?"

I am, yes.
But did that disqualify my right to choose a man for myself? Not that he seemed eligible.

We had a nervous breakfast together and I was glad I refused to date him further in the name of coffee. No one messes with my coffee. Or my life.

When it Rains

Neil.

Me.

And the rains.

Stolen, we stayed spooned, showering upon each other light nibbles and deep kisses. It had to be you. With your unassuming manners and unexpected flowers. Your stripes and my strokes. Together, we made a canvas. Made many canvasses actually. On such thunderous evenings gallivanting into the night. When each ear-piercing thunder pulled me closer. You came in through the door in your non-slogan, non-striking t-shirt and very well fitted denims. And smiled as you heard me. Over dinner off the same plate. Poured us our drinks. Your water and my ice-cubes over scotch. And smiled even more when it was a bottle of Glenmorangie I could surprise you with.

You brought relief to my sweltering loneliness in your crisscross of feet over the sofa armrest, and erased it when they sometimes casually slipped onto my shoulders and teased the collarbones which ached to come out to appease you. You didn't care much, or so you said. You only cared for the rains. To remind you of me. And declare, "I have been dying to kiss you", as you did.

You left with the rains that year. Like the rains. Undeclared, unceremonious.

And you return each time the rains do. Undeclared. Catching me off guard, as I uncharacteristically am reminded of you, and brought back to senses with the sound of the keys I hit -- they have the same rhythm as our chemistry did. Gentle, like a lullaby. Potent, like a volcano. Sad, like most perfect things are. I return to our daughter purring in the next room, as she makes a sound quite obviously not used to the sky screaming. As I tucked the quilt into the space between her shoulder and chin, I am lost in making way for her eyes to dream, pulling her curls to a common point. She has a you-chin. Which neither of you know.

Could I ever hate you? You left with the rains. When we lived, we lived a dream. When you left, I remained with one.

Surprisingly for the cruelest month, it rains on.

Letter to Moon III

Dear Moon,

It now seems routine that each time I travel, you accompany. Whether you peeped out from the mountains in Punakha like a perfect moonrise, or raced with us from Shillong, or over the weekend when you played the perfect game of hide and seek as we lingered in the cinematic corridors of the Lingaraj Temple. You made that familiar appeal to me last morning when I couldn't decide if you were the sun or the moon.

You came across as a prototype of a perfect circle. Veiled with the clouds.What a beautiful game that was. Entangled, you stood out. Like a piece of music from a song arrangement that lurks in the subconscious. As if intended just at an individual listener. In our constant contention of who will be blindfolded, when I was, I did not miss your beauty. I could almost smell the orangeness of it. You appeared flawless, for a second, and then you were not. Leaving behind a trace of translucent clouds. Through which you could not be seen.

Like friends and friendships which are omnipresent even when not visited by the regime of quotidian ceremonies. Like that region of faith when one believes that our dearest ones never leave us. You are.

I wrote this letter to tell you I enjoyed your playfulness a lot. You seemed pretty solemn about it. And that is rather remarkable. Miles away from me through the month, how enticingly you return to each place I visit. As if you never left. Like hope which was forcefully strangled and boxed, and how it still emerges victorious. To surprise. To make me strong after the initial disbelief. To be veiled, sometimes in invisibility some other times in translucence, but all the while knowing -- you are.

Bewitched,
K.

Of Love & Affairs

I wish I could begin this piece with an 'once there was', but the dread of not being able to conclude what would happen thereafter makes me stop. So I wish to write out the story of Love and Affairs. Yes, them. At a time when mentalities were stooping low and opportunities were closing in, when men were few and boys fewer in between, Affairs began to crop up and came into being. Challenging Love in every which way possible. When it thundershowered and when it breezed and when there were lazy afternoons and lazier evenings, and Love got busy in the responsible living of life, it carved the way for very sexy Affairs.


In the smell of the sea, I found you. When I lost the ground underneath and tripped at the beer froth like waves around, when the moon played the eclipse game with the clouds, I found you. I gave in. To twelve continuous hours of unbearable passion and thirteen more of here-and-there heat. To plentiful kisses and the lack of clockwork. Me? My name is Love. I am fiercely unchanging and thus, may be boring. Sometimes, I imagine. Like now.

That I have Affairs at hand. Or one. Away from the compatibility of consistency, Affairs keep me happy in an uptight way. I am Love. I do not waver. Except when I am in the mood for frivolity. And have you in my arms. Melting and lilting and lilting and melting. When I touch your lips, slowly and surely and then suddenly with speed. When the night is new and the day is dark. When I have you away from the listing of groceries and the doing of home-works -- once in a while, barging into the routine of daily and charming your way out with unmanageable titillating memories. And creating new ones on window racks and kitchen shelves and secret hand holding and finger tracing of chin-bones. Toe-curling excitement and tearful demands. I am Love, I give in. Like now. I imagine. 

That when it rains, I am washed all over, like the mountains are. With Affairs.
Dissolving the dust of duty. 
I am Love. In love with Affairs.


I wish I could end this piece with an 'and they lived happily ever after', but the dread of not being able to believe in happy coincidences makes me stop. So I wrote of a chapter out the story of Love and Affairs. Yes, them.

Letter to Chhuti VIII

Dear Chhuti,

You know what? I am in the process of writing another letter (which I must complete), and a story-kind-of-something (which too I must complete), when I suddenly deviated towards you. I guess this is what we will call letter-pathy, if ever a word like that comes into circulation. I just opened another tab and started this. The qualitative nature of your elusive being is so alluring that sometimes it feels like a diabolic influence.

Times are bad Chhuti. Very bad, very unsettled. And very, very imposingly petty. It has engaged my involvement even without me willing to be a part of it. Times are such that there is this call for you from within. A call from the gut, and it believes that if you don't come along soon, I would rot. Yes, rot, not die. You are no longer just a means of wish-fulfillment, but you have become that fountain of love which keeps flowing and breathing life into me. And, now, the Chhuti-fountain through my veins that run is passionately deprived of you. In such circumstances, tell me Chhuti, how does one survive?

Come along, my bags aren't yet packed, and it will only take a minute more (or maybe couple more) to pack in your valuables -- your pretty pinks and your vivacious crayons and your precious water-bottle. I would love for you to mime the songs which I play and tap your feet to the beats across the rivers and tree-layered roads, glittering with white markers. No Chhuti, neither you, nor I can add whatever-we-wish to those white marks. That is not where we doodle.

Thank you Chhuti. In the span of a paragraph, times have seemingly changed. Some people are just meant to have a spoonful of you, and be vitalised. While for some other you appetize. But for me, you are neither nourishment, nor indulgence. You are the very essence of living.

Come along,
K.