Preface

Nandini Sen belonged to that group of women who knew their business well in life. She hated housewives, activists and teachers and held them guilty for the downfall of women's social image. She was a manufacturer. First generation. And she was, as her very name suggested, very dynamic. That was the word, and that was her business. Her company was unanimously loved by men and women who took to the convenience of frozen chapattis. It was called 'Matters'. And it made profits. 

She lived in an apartment high enough to smell of her success, which came rather fast her way. On this Sunday afternoon, Nandini sat down with her books after years. Bookkeeping kept her busier. Each first page had scribbles of a time that belonged to the past. Of deaths and decisions. Of contacts and commitments. She outgrew all such emotions to become this compassionate, aggressive woman of the now. All such boundaries of memories that could have trapped her, she made sure were dissolved with the competition she lodged herself into. Today, those side torn yellowing pages seemed unfamiliar. But they called out for her attention.

To the many friends she had then, not one now. To the birthday parties gifts by educated relatives, who were all settled in their middle-class acceptance. To the inspiration she was, which she retained. To the one particular book, The Fountainhead, which had the inscription which said: "For, The person who is all that I wish were mine. Happy Birthday. From, Whoever you wish me to be." Nandini paused. She had read that book some few dozen times and each time she took to it, this inscription made her go weak in the knees like the first time. She knew who it was and hated the fact that he never gave in his name. But the same namelessness led her to a lifetime of wonder. Where was Manab now? Was he a college professor lecturing on Marx and Engels and Woolf and Millett? It had to be either Sociology, or Literature that would shape his life. It had to be language, not love.

Nandini caressed her hand over the tattered cover of The Happy Prince and other Stories. This came to her from a student of hers, when she gave tuition, who went on to take up language too. Language, she thought, became her nemesis. There was something indistinguishably harmful about it. Wilde's stories remained in her mind even as her own disappeared. Such was the charm of language. The student may have ended up marrying Manab, concocted Nandini, and fight frequently over refined oil or mustard oil and quote Keats in between. Or Coleridge. Who knows. She never liked the Romantics. Or Manab, or her student well enough.

Nandini Sen only had one unrequited love in her life -- language. 

                                                                                                                       Manasi Roy, 2015.

                                                                                                      Chairperson, Home Solutions.

                                                                                  Writer, Part-Time Wife, Full-Time Mother.

Letter to Destiny

Respected Destiny,

You urged me to do this, and thus I succumb even as letters are fewer these days. How does one reach a letter to you? Forget that, how does one even frame one? "You are destiny's child" one hears of a faintly successful life. That way you aren't exactly my parent even though I am mildly successful too. At least in terms opposing to the world's. You are that indicator which steadily sways, leading me to all the elsewheres possible, everytime.

In Bengal, and amongst Bengalis, the boat is an epitome of something that I do not understand. Perhaps it signifies the pensive journey of life, perhaps it evokes waves of romanticism. I think of paper-boats and their end whenever I think of you. You, like the boat, so heavy, so full of incomprehensible meaning; while paper-boats are completely different, lightweight and rudderless, on a fanciful journey, not even necessarily on water.

And creepily, that, is what you have become in my life, my paper-boat. You have made me embark on a journey without direction, but with a lot of love and concern. It would be such a pain to shred such a thing away, but what a waste it is anyway! You never specify what I am meant to do, or be, or reach, but the folds are made with the attention of an engineer who takes pride in the 'parts'. 

You have fooled me with pretty flowers on my head when all I want is the diamond around my neck. Yet here I am composing a letter to reach you maybe someday when my paper-boat reaches a forest-path by the river leading to the mountains shining under moonlight. If you open the letter, don't be ashamed that you couldn't give me a shape. Shadows cannot be chased, thank you.

You have led me nowhere, from the beginning, and made me change in between, and never allowed me an end.

As you chose me to be, I remain.

Consistently inconsistent,

K.

Train Tales

Naina looked out of the local train window, the stark sun had begun to set and the people were out of their homes in flocks. Nothing interested her -- the outstretched sameness of the lush greens set against puddles of litter, the huts along the tracks with dingy clothes left to dry on the borrowed stones, the women fetching lice on each other's heads in a line, men playing cards in their bare bodies and skimpy towels, children playing with other children, and young men reclining on their bikes and exchanging the day's dealings of pride, which possibly could include a couple of blows, or a rape here and a brawl there. Or, of when they would make it big in the city, as promised by their immediate employers. Some young girls looked into yellowed pages of hand-down books, while others looked at the trains, longingly, with dead dreams in their eyes.

This was a customary noticing of things, as they were, everyday, when Naina returned from her college in the uptown suburb. It never seemed unnatural that the train flashed past by each sight in under a second. She was gifted with the pleasure of timing, and could unfold an incident belonging to another in as quick as a whiff. She seemed distanced today, indifferent. She returned to the tracks after a span of having changed tracks. The familiarity annoyed her and the earphones could not shut out the impossible overpowering of the sense of waste that the cosmetic settlement brought along.

Nine months. What did it most signify, this phrase 'nine months'? A time-lapse of turbulent growth, perhaps? Of self-discovery and travels within. What did it result in, the 'nine months'? A life, and a lifetime of tailored nurturing. Naina wasn't pregnant, but she felt so. Pregnant with ideas and a ruthless need to give birth to all of them in a creative impetus. She looked out of the train window, and tired out of the celebrated poverty and settled her sight inside the compartment to look for the man selling cheap packets of digestive lozenges. She couldn't digest the fact that her PF-cheque came so quick and easy. Restless, she went back to her deepest within, and traced the route the lozenge would take to find its way to her stomach. She was undergoing a rough patch of wishing to tell, and not being able to. She shun alcohol and the rationality of senses did not help either.

Her thoughts were punctuated by the approaching station. As would happen in a movie, the little girl, not so little any more got up with her school bag, which would hardly close with books spilling out, and smelling of municipal classrooms. Naina always gave her whatever was at her hand, whenever they met. Someday it would be a slice of guava, other days it would be the spiced puffed rice. She even passed on spare notebooks and half finished ball point pens, without ever knowing that she would come in that day. And when she had resigned, she did not get to share it with her either.

"Didi!" screamed the girl on seeing her. They had never spoken a word before this. As they spoke for the first time, they spoke like age old maids, who exchanged pickle recipes over evenings of pushing off hoards of mosquitoes over their heads. And with the suddenness of remembering chores, the maids parted ways into their respective homes. Naina was still in the train. Very pregnant.

Nine months had rolled out, without the promise of a new life. Old stories however, always returned.

Husky Dusks

The last time Meira got wet in the rain, purposefully, was when she was a student at college, behaving as excited as by the visit of an old friend. Ever since it was always getting wet by the way, never deliberated by a chance or an occasion. Never for the joy of it, the joy came from a distance. The rains were romance, and there was no two way about it. She calculated the deadline for the submission, went out and opened her arms in the common terrace garden.

Her lime green t-shirt soon became a body fit from a comfort one, and the pajamas were clinging to her as dearly as her hair, in a wet conspiracy. But best of all was her sight, rainwater ladled. Her specks were a part of her, since the time anyone could remember. She disapproved of lenses even though they brought to notice the brownness of her brown eyes, and the evening became a Renoir. Love found her one such evening. Left her too.

She came in to a long, relaxed bath, freshly invoking memories of rain splashes. As she dried herself, the bell rang. The maid came in and uttered nonsenses of authority over Meira, that she should not have got wet, that the AC would work adverse and that she should take more care of herself. Slowly, she lost touch with the voice and made her way back to the couch. The dusk was falling slowly, like a painting. Nikhil never mattered on such evenings, they were so complete. Ounces of sadness made those dusks husky. 

Meira became no one but the person she is, to herself. 

A Long Story

I yearn for stories, from anyone I am spending a night with. I yearn for one, into which I can swim and stealthily look into other lives. I yearn to write one, a long one. There is no dearth of stories around -- at the cubicle beyond, in the car next, inside the softly lit coffee shop -- yet, they all seem incomplete. They are clothed in a sense of being unauthorized which I cannot pull the strings of. So, I turn to try the thing I enjoy most, tell one, to the in-vacation demanding daughter. I tire out, but must, for, a half-baked story is better than any anime on the TV, or, staying glued to the laptop and/or phone screen. This:

This is a tale of twins - Fit and Wit. As you know, most twins are supposed to look similar, if not same, but, Fit and Wit were of the other type. They did not look alike. Fit was fat, while Wit was blunt. All their life they were cursed for what they were not - slender and sharp. On their tenth birthday they promised each other a makeover true to their name so that the world would come to love them. 

Over the years they set on a regime of physical exercises, fresh fruits and fish, to hone the muscles and the funny bone. They stayed away from chips and custard, and cakes and chocolate, and started asking their friends to do the same, who of course thought the twins were mad. One day, as they walked dejected on the road, Fit and Wit met me as I was trying hard to park my car beside a van near a small shop which sold the kind of pickles and candies you want. They looked up to me with exact eyes and said, "Excuse me Madam who are you buying these for?" Taken aback, I mentioned you, my little daughter, and silently erased mentioning myself. "Look at us Madam. We have no friends because we were fat and serious. Would you want your daughter to face the same fate?" No, certainly not. As I was about to run away from the weird pair, something struck me.

"Where do you live? With whom?" They had no answer. I offered them our mezzanine area which they willingly agreed to take up. I spoke to them on our behalf and want you to be a lovely host to Fit and Wit. Fit is going to tire you out when he takes you along to swim and cycle and play badminton, while Wit will make you rack your brains in playing Chinese Checkers and Chess and Cards.

Fit and Wit not only stayed true to their promise to each other, but also made us healthy and happy. They are leaving tomorrow for Make-Up where their proposal for Fitness got approved. Don't you think we should plan them a farewell party? Perhaps we can take them for a tickle-trip down memory lane, and sprinkle them with few casual calories?

They want you to play puzzle and swim regularly and told me to tell you that once you are ten they will give you a prize. What? Whatever you ask for. The Kingdom of Make-Up are offering them a fat salary. Fit and Wit are worth it! And when you miss them, you can look for them between these lines, loved, as they wanted, back from birth. 

I was going through a creative low and even as I rolled out a bunch of witless words with a bad back, I severely wish for all little ones to befriend Fit and Wit, even if that means few chocolates and fewer chips.

The One who Writes

Nestled in a crisscross of restless scribbles, someone comes out of the shadow and takes a shape. She isn't me, no. She is power, she is powerful. While I am enmeshed in longing, she flies in love. She is Meira, Nandini, Nirja. She is Nistha. She goes back only to return with a new name. She is infinitely kind, for, each time she leaves, she empowers me with attention, like the deep smell of spilled ink. 

She is flamboyant and fearless. She wears belief not different from a button. She comes like the regular visit from an unknown, who fascinates, invigorates. She leaves me wondering. Who is this then, who writes? Who is this who forgets what is written? 

I become her story. She subsumes. She is my story, too.

She, too, is my story. 

Forecast

The bed was hot from the unforgiving roof on top, seeping in the sun rays from the sky. It was utterly unromantic, this heat. People wrongly adjudged April to be the cruelest month. In Calcutta, it is May. There is a kind of lull in the air spreading on to the collective psyche, as if ennui were a disease. The windows begged to remain unopened, and the curtains forgot their playfulness. If Nirja could have it her way, she would read out the weather report like this. Instead, she unwittingly read out about the monsoons being hardly anywhere in sight of the coastline, while the pollution adding to more mercury. At the back of her mind, she was wondering if the stars felt hot in the sky. 

She did not know how she landed up with the job she was in. Wanting an escape from her plaguing household she had applied everywhere. She felt trapped within herself and ran away from others, this was her pattern. She finished her shot. After some more time at the office, she left for home. She would return to a lovely house done up in beautiful taste. There was an eccentric poetry about her movements. Perhaps it was her mind. 

Hastily, she turned and stopped from the signal at a corner plot, which always held her attention. A man sat there, prescribing what a future would be. On other days, Nirja's skepticism would make her wonder how this man ran his family with this unstable, unreliable, unsteady source of income, but today was not that day. With the air of a professional, the man said she would outlive her miseries, and sufferings. Success would follow suit, even if the heart would not. And life would be comfortable.

Nirja was restless and craved for some calm. The bed was hot from the unforgiving roof on top, seeping in the sun rays from the sky. It was utterly unromantic, this heat. She was disgusted with herself on the road, allowing an anybody to see what her future would unfold. As if he could. Right. Could he? She had to be the winner, she decided as she picked up a leaf of sleeping pills. She rejected that option because the movies always showed them to fail. 

The neighbours reported to the police next day that there was, indeed, an unwarranted amount of noise from Nirja's flat last night. Loud music; perhaps she was dancing. She died of ecstasy, some said. Others thought she died accidentally.

She would have liked them to believe she won over forecasts.  

In Good Company

To think of you is to think of a very faraway time, which you do not remember. 

To think of you is to be happy in your achievements and reside in my ordinariness.

To think of you is to accept that neither differences can, nor blood, ever unite.

Even if you were not my cousin, we would never happen, and this is, perhaps, the saddest thought of all, when I think of you.

Vaani, on a rare morning of heavy clouds, in the peak of summer, thought of Siddharth, with the same longing she had for him, some fifteen years back, when she returned to her hometown after her winter holidays. She forced herself to believe that such an irrational infatuation would certainly subside by the time school re-opened. It did not. Nor did it as she went to college and then to University. It stayed on -- stable when her marriage stumbled, consistent when her career crumbled. It stays on now, when her profession pays well and her heart gives away faster than she would like it.

Everything was prosaic about the day, yet thoughts of him overhauled her senses in a manner with which everything else went off focus. The idleness of hours, the endlessness of boredom, the uselessness of existence loomed large, like a chaotic palette, untamed splashes. It was always like this, unannounced, that Siddharth consumed her soul, with a bang no one else ever had, and as Vaani believed, ever could. She often smiles these days at those childhood tears she spent on silent terraces, breaking down, when he would make a brilliant entry and walk past her towards hoards of other cousins. They were connected closer, she would console herself.

Siddharth went on to become big in life, the type of older brother the rest of the lot are taught to look up to. But what Vaani liked about him was his voice -- gruffy and husky, his smell -- woody and citrussy, his shirts -- holding his arms and abdomen in a sexy embrace, his watches -- always correct for each occasion, his presence -- towering, commanding, and his eyes -- elsewhere. Right now, he was perhaps in one of the glamour capitals of the world, making work out of his passion and hardly having a memory of Vaani, yet here she was, pining for a life with him. The impossible.

For all that her name meant she was decidedly reticent, especially about this one dark circle of her life, and she had come to live with it. With an amazing grace she exhibits to herself, she shifts back her attention to the road, and moves on about life. She is happy to think of him, invisibly. He lives with her, and cannot go away till she wishes. He dwells in her and is what he is not, in her dreams. 

He is.

A Tale of Transfer

She sat outside the "Recruitment Room', as part of a group which shared a debut nervousness. This was their chance to make it to the corporate world. They had all worked sufficiently well as interns. Shuvangi wanted the placement be made in Hyderabad. That was where Arshit flourished in his late father's pearl business. She met him online -- blackpearl73 -- two years back, and like in an era bygone, they decided not to meet till they could be together. It was not that she had never seen his face, or spoken to him. They just did not meet, ever.

When she was placed for an internship at Delloitte, she chalked up a plan to togetherness. She slept with the boss. Gradually, and regularly. And each time she did, she saw Arshit's face making love to her. Defying all distances, truths and norms, she delved deeper in her act. The boss was a charming bachelor, who never got into an earlier relation, no one understood why. But Krishnammam's solid shield could not resist Shuvangi's appeal.A fresh face, buzzing with ideas, her pixie-hairstyle exposing an elongated neckline, in harmony with her waist and legs. She seemed a creature out of a graphic novel, with a taste for clothes which never failed to be noticed. In fact, nobody could believe they did not know a thing about her. She hid well. One from the other.

Outside, at the waiting area, Shuvangi knew the job was hers. Wisely, she had kept herself away from Krishnammam for the last ten days, but been deliberately dirtier over the phone. She casually slipped in, 'The night after the interview, when I am happiest, I shall make you happiest too." Krishnammam used to ask her why she wanted Hyderabad when he could arrange for her to stay on in Chennai and work along. "Oh Krishna, distance will make things more exciting", as she ran her nails, softly, over his ankles.

As expected, she got the job where and how she wanted and assured Krishnammam she would return to their pact of convenience whenever they would be in each others' cities, and would keep in touch. He did not seem convinced.

Arshit was there to greet her. A flood of love swept over the virtualness of their beings. He took her straight to the house he had set up, meticulously, for her and served her succulent mutton biryani. He informed her over their intense coming together that in two months' time there was an auspicious date to wed. Next morning he left for his shop leaving Shuvangi wrapped in the smell of newness.

She moved around the cozy flat in her Tintin bathrobe and coffee. She opened the window and put up her dusky, unending legs on the parapet. Everything was happening in a super-fast movement. She decided to pause for a while and take in the air and relish how things fell in place. Arshit had nobody in this world, and her parents lived with her brother in Pune. She was financially independent and could fix a decent dinner if she so wished. She was at home with the comfort of love, and luxury. 

As she pulled down her legs to realize she had fallen asleep, she made herself another cup of coffee to return to the same position. All episodes fitted well. All, except one. And no amount of re-calculations could bring forth where the error lurked. 

Last night when they melted into each other, and made wild love, it was Krishnammam all over.

Cloud-Garden

I decided to take C shopping, and wanted her to learn something from the experience too. She, on such visits, is neither excited, nor energetic about it. She prefers making herself home in the trolley, even though I try and explain she is too big for it. So, last night, I asked her to make her own list, as we would bring home only those.

Diligently, she sat at work with her green notebook and blue top-chewed pencil. She even took seat at her designated and much ignored chair-table, accompanied by a glass of cold Bournvita, complete with shards of cherry she herself got from the fridge and put on top. It was a building block like structure, one each designed for one each of her favourite persons. This is what her list said:-

One for Naani

septipin

vicksh

caik

Two for Granny-D

paaan

pen

copy

cofi

Four for Mommy

daimon soliter

anclet

oranje

choshmaa

chewingum

Five for Aunty-L

hanky

bloo umbellaa

stickar

Six for Granny-B

boil egg

seven for Tucksh

NO

Eight for Aunty-G

beloon

pencil bag

Nine for All

perk chocklet

Ten for Me

potato chip

tang

borbon bisceet

churi

ghori

suming cap pink

OK BAI!

Needless to say, I gleam with pride. Chinky has exhibited an unparallel gift of generosity (even though skipping number three), and desired to share at an age I did not know anything about it. Her list also depicts her acute and accurate observations. I do not know if I will actually ever buy her all the things or not, but I will surely show the list to each member of the building block. I must also ask her if Tucks gets nothing, will he also not be entitled to the Perk that "All" get.

Chinky is a lesson in living and in love. To that, I will get her ears pierced tomorrow, so that mom and daughter can kill the rocks! Solitaire or not, we will buy two same pair for us, only the size of which will differ.

Such are the times spent with Chinks -- she conjures an occasion out of the mundane, an eternity out of nothing, a masterpiece out of her mistakes. A cuddlepie of mischief, she is the cloud-garden of my life, our lives.

Beyond the Horizon

Her sunglass was glamorously large and her saree was seductively sitting on her curves. She was at the race course, in one of the premium seats, sipping deliciously tangy wine and puffing clouds to her vision. She smelled like a secret, giving rise to an overpowering desire among the explorers around her. She smelled like layers waiting to be touched. She had placed her bet on Blueblood this evening.

Evenings in the Calcutta Race Course were a sight to behold, with the sky as attractive as the people who made it there regularly. There was an old world charm of sensations igniting the air. And it was not just the pulsating hooves of the horses that evoked it. Today it was the man in the denim shirt and khaki trousers. His RayBan just enough to accessorize the carved chin. He moved in an aura of affluence. His cuff links glittering the right amount to glisten an attentive eye.

With Blueblood trailing Cruzer in the first two rounds, the crowd dispersed for a bite to the conveniently placed buffet area of interactions. Pallavi was relishing the cold mushroom and chicken salad by herself when he walked up to her counter and asked, "Tastes good?" Not used to explorers flagging their discovery immediately, Pallavi smiled. He repeated, "Tastes good?" This time clearly indicating that her answer would help him decide on what to put on his plate. She demurely replied, "Well cooked, yes."

"Thank you. It is no good to have well cooked food alone. I am Siddhant, and I would love it if we spend the evening together." Within, he was all but his name. His senses overtaken by her sensuous presence, his discreteness giving away to a blunt outpour, he knew she would be wild, this woman. Intellectually, as much as she seemed physiologically. She was irresistible. Not waiting for her response, and allowing some kind of magic to work on him, he led her back to the seats. Graciously, to hers, and joined her. Enjoying the bit where she was not refuting either, he allowed his prowess to progress.

Pallavi was too stunned by such an advance to know how else to react. She followed. As they settled down in their seats with their wine glasses, she asked him couple of questions and got to know that Siddhant was a successful gentleman and outrageously attractive. The intensity of the unknown air was so tight that there were gentle explosions. Blueblood came second, but that did not matter. What was more unbelievable was that she asked her driver to take her to the address he had slid in her hands. There was an adventure in this unknown, and she was party to it. 

In the club, she made it to the room number he texted her, and entered in a soft lit spacious room of wooden sofas and a queen sized bed. As he made her a drink, they revealed their past lives of being together. How far in the past was that? Ten years? Twenty, may be? As they spoke of what went wrong, she felt his eyes undress her and her entire being glide over his. They mumbled some sentences of jumbled meaning and lost complete control of themselves as they coiled into each other. They blossomed with sheer outrage, distasteful decisions, some lost love and a lot more lust. The bed came to life with their unending, inexhaustible catching up with time. And then they coiled back to comfort. The comfort of the known.

Through the length of the night Siddhant, like a champion discovered each of Pallavi's layers of smell. Her secrets dissolved in his arms. They kissed like the meltdown of a sunset on a sea which loses track of the horizon. On and off they went, till dawn finally asked them to sleep. Her alarm went off at 6.30 am, bringing back to her the wasted time of her life till now. She looked at the face buried in the pillow, remembered how he had given up on her for a petty thing like expectations, and smilingly went to the bathroom. As she washed her face, remnants of his hickeys on her earlobes and neck screamed back to her the helplessness with which he returned.

He could never forget her, and though he lived a life where his workplace showed off a happy photo frame of his wife and son, he missed the love she gave her all him life, he missed the passion she gifted him last night. She smiled.

She gifted him revenge. For the rest of his life. 

She went back to call for tea, and asked him if he wanted some. As she consistently refused any further touch, and coldly placed a bet on Blueblood for the day, she calmed her aching heart and devoured the bittersweet victory of pity for him. She was a body of love, which could justifiably punish too. She dressed up in front of him, he lapping like a drooling dog, knowing what he could no more have. She ruined him.

"I hope your wife touches you half as well as I did." And she left. Beyond the horizon.

He would die a daily death, desiring her.

Letter to Chhuti XI

Dearest Chhuti,

Summers are here, in their complete glory, and everyone is having a slice of you. But not your K. I am having curd, lemonade and watermelons instead, all the while pining to share some with you. Wishing we could swim together, as dusk greets, or even, sleep a little longer in the artificial atmosphere. Wishing nights were not filled with demons of Past and Future, but were a whirlwind of Present ease instead.

Summers are here, loveliest, and they are nothing of what the English poets claim. The only possible way of greeting the sunny competitor would be if I were smeared in you. You know, you make me wish to do stupid things -- like take my Little One piggy back, and dump her on the bed for a longish noon nap. You make me wish for ice-creams (no, that I wish for all year round), and puppies. Yes, you heard it right, puppies. Who yelp joyfully when scheduled times of departures are not adhered to. You make me drowsy without a drop of alcohol, such is your charm.

But these are all the things that aren't.

What is, though, is me and such scribbles of quicksand escapades. What is, though, is my longing love for you, and all acts of our togetherness. What is, though, is, painting thoughtlessly, and washing off the colours under the shower, seeing the blue desire drink up the red passion and a violet ecstasy appear on all possible whites.

From that land of colourful white lies,

K.

a story to(o) many

one:

a genuine disinterest provokes my protagonist from giving her best. as a result, she fails as a professional, but her arguments to herself help her live it through, guilt-free.

two:

she belonged to a netherworld of characters and plots. she exhumed an otherworldliness. she loved. she feared. she lived. she was a binary of excess. perhaps a natural. all her life, 'being' was her favourite subject, while she spent becoming it.

three:
she took the grandmotherly pace to arrive at what she was meant to do -- thankfully, she also liked to do it. and with that grandmotherly air of assurance, she cultivated the faith, sometimes far-sighted, at other times, blind. but a grandmother always has the grand enemy of time. she too did.

four:

my protagonist had a super-active heart. it went wild -- galloping over anxiety, chasing sweet nothings. it was an organ of fascination, sometimes even challenging the decorated mess of her mind. the only concern was that it ran too quick, and left her breathless.

five:

a choc-a-bloc of fancy, an armory of aesthetics, a procrastinating perfectionist, a rubble of remains, a fair of affairs, a garden of wilderness -- my protagonist.

six:

now. now was the time, where she, like me, aligned with the essence of detachment. now was when she walked back the tightrope towards them, them who she created, them who puppeted her movements. now.

now was a never, forever.

Dribbles

There was a time

Called You.

There is a time

Called Now.

Between the two,

Nothing loomed large.

Nothing called today,

Nothing tomorrow.

Just some words

Of everlasting Thens...

Withheld Dialogues

The car slid between others and waited at the stop light. She rolled down the windows and looked to her left. Nothing interesting, except for the jazzy red Merc before her. She looked right and saw same sights of poverty making the sad most of children. Thoughtlessly, she changed the track. The next song in took her years back, to when the song had most impacted her. To a time from where she could not move ahead. To words she could never speak out.

"Nirja."

She would have replied, had he bothered to ask for her name amidst the pool of glamorous faces, all in their pretty black dresses and long wavy hair, sensuously dancing to the latest pop hits. He was from the boys section of the same Alma Mater, and the Best Athlete during their time. Nirja had eyed him for the three years of college but never quite made it to go up to him and speak. And he, he did not seem the type who would care for the college magazine's editorial board. This Reunion was a joke of sorts. The faces were never friends when together, but in separation a virtual bond tied them.

Her car sped as the lights turned green. Impulsively she swerved to the left lane, and decided not to go to work. The traffic was thickening as she realized what she had done. Calling in sick at her office she took to the way of river, pulled up her windows, increased the volume went out of city limits and slipped into a near past. A space of nothingness that she filled up with meaning. She landed at an unknown location, civilised only in its various shop boards, the familiar franchisees from her city. She settled down for a cup of tea which took time to arrive because it was tailored sugarless for her, in her car, overlooking the brimming river. The dialogue continued further back:

"I had to procure the passes for tennis finals with great difficulty. But I wanted to watch you play."

In his charming best, he replied, "And?"

"And, you were fabulous. And I would like to have more comfortable conversations with you."

He was pleasantly surprised and immediately gave her his mobile number with the unfailing hint of flirting, "All yours." He went on to invite her for a neighbourhood friendly he would be playing that Sunday. Nirja was overjoyed. She returned home to songs which seemed to have been written for her flighty situation.

She went in her casual best, and looked quite attractive. He lost the match and proposed a brunch. Over the loaded sandwich, he managed the crucial, "I lost because I was distracted." The timing of the sentence brought to life the butterflies in her stomach. She could neither chew, nor gulp. Till Sunday, Nirja and Aniket had spoken a hundred words lot over text messages. They were bordering on the dangerous line of giving away the moment the other did.

"My parents are off for the weekend, would you like to come over?"

Having taken her time, which was no time, she yes'd. Yes'd. Yes'd to him, his invites, his touches, her desires.

Soon after, they had nothing to talk.

Deep within, Nirja knew this could only go so far so she never went up to him. That way, beautiful words remained hers, for as long as she wanted. Beautiful words with him, on such days beside the river.

The sound of the streamer joined the sound of children getting off to run to the local school. She came back to her senses.

A mess of miracles. 

Love Song to a Stranger III

Meira was on her usual cleaning spree when she chanced upon a wry piece of paper, sitting meditatively inside the deepest corner of her chest of drawers. She read out the song:

Your eyes made love to me,

Your shadow touched mine.

Songs flew,

As did we,

Together to the clouds.

A stranger, my stranger.

When the smoke rises up to the clouds,

And returns to the river,

They become you,

Waves and Breezes you,

A stranger, my stranger.

I sing no songs of time,

None of this world,

For you are not.

I sing one of love, to you.

A stranger, my stranger.

It suddenly became the kind of day one does not wish to face alone. She remembered Nikhil and their hideaways on such days. She went out on her terrace, with her coffee and cigarette, shred the paper into bits of anger and burnt them with the fire of hopelessness. She cried like she hadn't in a long time and tried hard to remember the tune as she walked back.

It was a day one cannot live alone. Meira lived it with her memories. Of songs, and strangers.

Letter to Air-Conditioner

Going by 'what's trending' on a spread of any virtual social-feed, I should have had just one word in this letter for you, with a hashtag of course -- saviour.

Dear, dear, oh loveliest dear AC,

When you whined last night, I knew nothing was wrong. It was just your ingenious plan to address my fleeting attention towards the fact that you are yet to receive one. I am sorry, dearest. You know how I become with the soaring temperature, don't you? And in that one moment of madness when I return to my most cozy spot in the world, it is you who relieves me of my ostentatious insanity. And thus the 'saviour'. 

Over a period of time, I have come to terms with certain things I will never understand. Like, the construction of a bridge over sea, or the workings of a constant fountain, or, if you condition the air, can you also work as a heater in winter? No one takes my inquiries seriously. Perhaps they feel I fake the concern. Well, I am a lazy person, and it is arduous for me to lie. To lie is to remember, and continue a lie, which is outright difficult. And with that same bluntness I avow my love.

When you were a commodity of luxury, dear AC, I used to gape in amazement at your constant fanning and cooling in the homes of the rich relatives. You stood out as an ugly instrument of intriguing delight. The noise incurred at your expense brought back memories of a broncho infected childhood. Your wonder was more wondrous than pretty toys or flashy report cards. It feels silly now but I have had so many study sessions day-dreaming about you, involuntarily. You felt like a space exploration.

Slowly, your commonness grounded your need, and thankfully as your presence multiplied, so did your beauty. I remember getting you for my room -- my specifications loaded with clarity. You needed to be a certain shade of grey, unassuming and classic. And you must come from a family of expertise, blueblood. As you were being installed, I could not come to terms with the explosion of emotions within. I was swelling with pride that I could finally afford you, but I was also flying like a child, happy at having waited long enough for an entire childhood and finally being able to exercise my control with the press of a remote button. You became one of those rare things that made me pleased with myself. 

And then I bought one of you for the folks. You opportuned for me to provide a certain level of comfort to them. How amazing were you. Today, you are, and I am not exaggerating, a part of me. You understand with the silent finesse of a friend, you comfort with the competence of an athlete and most importantly, your solid standing fills me up with a supreme happiness. Like most of art, I cannot explain the why, perhaps it is just an emotional connect.

Frankly, I do not care about environment issues. This letter goes your way to thank you for all those months of sweltering humidity that you made possible to live through. This letter says thank you in the most genuine manner possible, and this letter hopes to convey what you mean to me. Without you, I am just a staling, stinking bundle of flesh. In your compact care, I regain my soul, my taste, my existence.

You are the Coolest!

K.

Lollipop!

Wishes are strange things. Sometimes they come true without you wishing enough for it, while at other times, they just make you wait endlessly. I was making a plan of how to teach my daughter to better her spellings, and was wondering if letting her play with this notebook would be a good idea. I was eyeing the alphabets on the keyboard and trying to make reason of why they are not placed in alphabetical order when I chanced upon the area 'Lollipop'. The other day my daughter only managed to type this word in as she sat to write down a story. No wonder. I-O-P-L, are the foursome who make that word, and they are beautifully placed in close quarters. 

I called her and showed her my new purchase. She was not as impressed as I thought she would be. I opened her a page and asked her if she would like to Paint. She refused. "Would you like to type like Mom?"

"Ya!" And she sat, with her sleepy eyes fixed on the glowing monitor. After a couple of hits, she said, "Sunday is Mother's Day. I don't want to write. I will buy you lollipop. From where?" I was taken aback. The entirety of the statement just stunned me into a zone of happiness I never knew could exist, since the man with whom I made her. The man who loved lollipops. The man who left. She reminded me too much of him each passing moment.

I shut down the system, put her to sleep next to me, told her we would buy the lollipops from the store downstairs tomorrow and hugged her tight to smell in her innocence. As soon as I was sure of her slight snore, I turned to the mobile phone, opened the text message option, put in his number, and sent the message to him. Just one word. Lollipop!

One cannot deny the distance we have, the distance which has outgrown the sorrow. But I still think of him. When I happen to drive past his old office, standing tall, or having made a perfect cocktail. When I bath in the D&G shower gel and wear his shirts and t-shirts and walk around in the house on Saturdays. And when she has a lollipop, just as naughtily as he did. 

I spoon into my daughter and try to sleep. 

I miss him.

The phone notified an incoming message. 

Thus Spoke the Lines

It was a palm like none that he had seen, he repeated. Unique. Soft, yet belonging to a sufferer. And the lines, he said, had the power to defy destiny. He held the palm in question with the care of a devotee. He rambled out more episodes of past and future, as Nethra silently listened to each word intently, with the look of a casual listener. What was prominent was her trying to figure out which gadget she would go back home with. Niharika, her daughter would be waiting. Her summer vacations had begun.

She was in the business of words, and ruled her editorial space with observant remarks on the Things. She was variously loved, and hated too, in between. Amongst selection and elimination, she did her own writing and curated the domestic duties. Which included managing her heart which slipped more often than she would have liked it to, and bringing up a daughter, mostly by herself. Her sense of style was simply impeccable and she loved playing a good game of Badminton. The editor sense in Nethra served her even in the selection of her socks, and the discarding of the crumbs of biscuits. She had an effortless air with which she kept the house spic, span, beautiful and surprisingly, warm. 

As she smashed a couple of shots, she thought over all that was told to her last evening. Success would be her middle name, and life would be lived much well beyond well-lived, but her heart would wobble. It pained her. It bothered her. It made her nervous. She believed she was born to love. How could predictions speak in such personal metaphors? It perturbed her to an extent that she lost four points in a row, to some random player. It was only after she lost the next point that she paid attention to who she was playing against.

She was a younger version of herself, perhaps like her, taking it out on the shuttle. A college goer, in her exuberant skin sweating profusely, her opponent smiled back. They came to the net for a break. Over their drink, Nethra asked after her name. "Nandini". She was tall, and very sweet, and very, very competitive. "I have always wanted to play against you." They returned to the game, which took over the tempo of thoughts of distorted story-telling. She was now lost in the girl. And somewhere in the process, back to her formative years. She lost the game, and after her shower, surprised at finding Nandini having a similar black coffee and club sandwich, went up to her and asked her where she lived.

"You can give me a lift. That is where I live." Nethra was not prepared for such a reply. As they slid into the car, Nethra regretted her decision because Nandini wouldn't stop talking. She found out a lot about her life, of her heartbreaks and of the neighbours' fascination with Niharika's single mother. She returned to her line of earlier thoughts. And just as she entered the gate of their building, Nandini bluntly put it, "I so wish to live your life! No, I wish to live with you. Free, and fearless."

Nethra smiled for a lack of dialogue. She had summed up her life well -- free and fearless -- just what the lines had spoken. She invited her for a Saturday drink and dinner, and as she went up the lift, she thought of the many hearts she broke, and some who broke hers back in return. The lines spoke of life, they didn't speak of aches.

A Fat Story

How could there not be one of this? This was due since the shapes came into play. When a mother is in a constant quarrel with all things fat around and about her, how could she not make a doughy story out for daughter dearest. One which would flake up to being a fluffy, chewy thing of beauty, and joy. Patches of pink, orange, yellow, and outbursts of indigo in a whiteboard. Of how to deal with those lovely little soft layers of delicious puppy fat.


Cheek and Chin were best friends. While Cheek was all about being extrovert and approachable, well, rather cheeky in a word, Chin was the kind that always liked to remain hidden, but could hardly be so. They lived next to each other and lived a life like lovers did. One's happiness plumped the other gloriously, while one's downfall was shared like a shadow which couldn't be distinguished between two close souls. 

Now, Cheek and Chin had a Big enemy who went by the name of one Mr Cheese. His main weapon was his bouquet of cheesy lines from which he was often found arrowing a line between the two, since he couldn't tolerate anyone in the pink of health, and happiness. A premium example of his lines, "Fat-Free Zone. Or, die alone!" Earlier, when he had failed in his extreme enterprise to divide the two buddies, he suffered reasonably from a lack of victory. So, he devised the age-old arrangement of building a wall to divide them.

All of them lived in a city of praises called Make-Up, which was, as seen from the above example heavily under the attack of the Cheese-Company. Gathering more alliances from the down-under region of Love-Handles, Thunder-Thighs, Muffin-Tops and Saddle-Bags, Cheek and Chin formed an army by the name of 'Full of Fat'. They were united in their right to exist. Slowly, in their counterattack, they turned into a huge round of unison. One couldn't even tell the difference of boundaries. Cheek and Chin became one, a conspiracy of cuteness. And, Cheese had absolutely no clue of where to build that wall. Their city was restored to the glory of acceptance, and not approval. 

A week later, Cheek and Chin were elected as the High Commissioner and Under-Secretary of Make-Up. The first agenda they took up was to create Fitness. So they drafted an open invite to anyone who could propose a plan for the same to be executed at the earliest in their beloved city. Two applications interested them the most: Fit & Wit. And till they decided on who would win the crown, Cheek and Chin digested the formula to live happily with themselves, smeared in togetherness.

Stories are such wonderful things, you can sleep with them. As I told this story to my daughter, she interjected couple of times - 

"Britannia Cheese? 

Double Chin that you have? 

If I play badminton will I be fit?"

I wish I could tell her just sleep a night full and fitness will be delivered made to order. Or, that we should not live along the lines of a story. It is, after all, a world of approvals we inhabit. If only we could turn it to self-approval. Perhaps, Fit & Wit will convey it for me!

Letter to my Daughter V

Lekha my love,

I have decided to take your 'good name' and not the quick easy one out, so that you understand how genuine these letters are. Good friends meaningfully ask me how I write, and from where I manage the time. Well, truth is, I don't know too. Especially, the why. It is a simple extension of the 'I-dunnos' that have been governing my life, forever. At one point, you stop getting hassled, and start living with them. Anyway, too much about me. I write this letter to you for a different reason altogether.

Little Chhuti is a little older now, and when she asked me yesterday, in her new haircut, "Plis hold my dis pen fo a while", I visualized the hands of clock moving at the pace that they are. She still had to be fed by me (yes, you are the best who can eat on your own), as she played, but her movements were remarkably pronounced of how time was flying. You are away, even while you are in my heart, and that is perhaps why this letter, but yes, you are away. Loved, way before you are. That must be a little difficult for you to understand? I think I am being too deep, let's change the tone?

Chinky, each time I find you lathered in the surreal love of the many real people of my life, I get an unreal shock. They call you by your name, they play with you and oh hell yes, they spoil you. Your amiability is so rare in the times we are in, that you connect us all. And thus your name. Will you forgive me that I went ahead and changed your name from Niharika to Lekha? Yes, you came like a comet in our lives, but you remain the most beatific writing, ever.

Also, given your affinity with spellings, perhaps you will only thank me over our weekend carrom competition when I tell you that this summer vacation, we will write a new name on the labels -- L E K H A.

Hope you write it :)
Momsie.

One for the Stairs

The jazz trumpets from the speakers filled up the accented blankness of the Linea. It suddenly boomed with the life of a Park Street evening of lights, in the rain. The lights were playfully washing one colour off the other, while the sound was of a nuanced melody which could only make its way to a tasteful listener. Quietly he parks his car in one of the underground parking slots, walks assuredly to his table and asks for his drink. The band playing on Thursday evening was "Streetfood".

The lead vocalist was a wayward looking young girl with streaks of fancy colouring her mop of hair over her sharp jawline, an offshoot fashionista of weaves, knits, patterns and stitches, and an authority over her lyrics which behaved as if they would only perform to her tune. She was all of twenty one, and five feet one. But she had a towering presence over her followers, and was well followed. Other members of the band included the drummer, Sandip, with whom she frequently spent her nights, and the bass guitarist, Zico, who was her cousin. This other lead guitarist who also multi-functioned as the PR of the band as well as the backing vocals was Gautam, in love with Sruja. They were Streetfood. A crazy concoction of people creating some of the most popular urban music and covers the city had lately heard. Success is sometimes very crucial to a blinding arrogance, as opposed to popularity which can lead to responsibility.

Tired of the toss between love and lust, Sruja took a break and proposed a new album of twelve gorgeous songs, one outdoing the other. Evening after evening she professionally performed to her sedated best and thus arrived at the same evening of Azaan's taste. She beamed in her off-white saree and almost blouseless blouse. She held the microphone with the beauty of her bangles and suavely headbanged accompanied by the diamond dots flashing their occasional presence past her wild streaks. Her heels gave her the height of confidence with which she chanced upon him. His look was straight, converging right into her soul, with his gaze -- piercing. There was something unputdownable about him, something that made her wish to know him, know him better. Nothing happened thereafter. She went back to the arms of Sandip with that alluring gaze all over her thoughts.

She ached for the next Thursday and prayed he would be there. He was. She knew she could not waste this evening of not knowing him and strategically sang of her most devastatingly beautiful lyrics at him, "Your eyes made love to me / Your shadow touched mine / Songs flew / As did we / Together to the clouds". And smiled. He looked back, clapped in appreciation, walked out. She was not used to such a kind of lack of pursuit and took out her rage that night on Sandip's affection. She was frightfully empty.

Two weeks later she bumped into Azaan in the corridor of one of the more dignified clubs. He was seeing someone else out, his glass casually lolling in his hands. She had come for a game of squash. And childishly, smiled. He came very close to her, and whispered, "You look good even in sweat". That was unexpected. She smiled nervously and popped a half-baked sentence back. He then came dangerously close to her, and lurking near her shoulders, whispered, "Your words sing". That was the heaviest compliment she was ever paid, and the most unnerving. He smelled of Talisker, and understood what effect he was having on her.

"Would you like to join me?" he continued.

Carefully, and with a poised air, she refused, and walked away. Feeling the sensuous weight of his looks all over her, following her. And somehow managing the battle of his overpowering senses versus her own slipping sensibility, she quickened her pace.

She wrote a song that night, "One for the Stairs". It carried their moment of smell. His breath on her, hers held inside.

Accidentally

I was driving my little, unassuming, grey bug-like car at high noon as I returned from work. It was also a time when people made to and fro visits on either end of the city because work had just begun for them. I was, however, very happy with the recent servicing of my new car, and the playlist that I could hum along with. I was a bit unmindful in my shades which had become loose. Adjusting them and adjusting the volume of the next track as I was in the first traffic signal, I noticed a face in one of the huge AC-bus windows. A face made to be lost in the crowd, but that was exactly what stood it apart. The face, unlike others around it, was not robotized into looking in the phone screen, he looked outside. As if meant to be, he looked straight at me. I was singing aloud. Quite unaccustomed to such attention, I zipped up as if he could hear the discordant tune. The bus took a left though it would also be going the same destination of the satellite area I was heading. 

Unfailingly, I was thinking of him, and whether he was too. Miraculously, I met the bus at another signal where city streets merge the joy and sorrow of homecoming and work-going. He caught me looking for him. It was funny, he was being driven in a monstrous vehicle, while I was driving my tiny one. At the next signal I could not locate him. I was surprised to find myself a bit sad. "He must have got off at the Porsche stop", I had thought. I tried to think like an ambitious author, cooking up a plot for an ordinary man in a bus, followed by the glance of an even more ordinary woman in a car. I was religiously unmindful, doubly unmindful. The mood and the music.

And then, I found him. In my rearview mirror. The same face, this time in a black Fortuner. In his forgettable stripes and memorable eyes which still unforgettably followed mine. He was racing to catch up with time and fate. We halted together, without one word exchanged, at the by-road of one of the city's five stars. I knew I was in for some serious trouble as I couldn't stop smiling. I was excited to walk up to the porch, gave a quick brush to my hair and dabbled my favourite perfume. Completely unmindful, I opened the car door, and got hit by a flashing red vehicle into a pool of happy red.

The happiness came from the last sight of him in my rearview. I had admired the fact that he parked behind me and that our eyes did all the talking. I was happy.

I write this from Heaven for that is where I am right now. 

This place lights up in its whiteness. Right from the gateway of lilies and orchids, to the occasional orange of the tiny jasmine stems which marries the dominant orange of the marigolds. Together they evoke an uncommon subdued smell of familiarity. Heaven also has this explosive smell of sanctity. It wafts in faintly the fragrance of vevyter that I had worn when I was living, accidentally.

Had they Kissed

Mrs Bose was a fine, young, relatively attractive woman. Mr Bose wasn't. He was older, repetitive, had a defined paunch and declared himself to be liberal and progressive. And he had loads of expectations from his beloved Missus. They went to the club, he to socialize and swim, his Missus to down a drink and flash a smile. Often she had to drive him home to nights of snores, or being an indifferent whore. He was nothing like what she wanted. What she liked in Mr Roy at the club. They didn't know each other apart from their tables.

It was in a L-shape distance that they sat in, across each other, invisible to everyone's glance but their own. Both of them could look down at the same part of the noisy swimming pool, filled with excited yelps of learners, paused by the grace of the expert strokes. She knew his name because once they had signed in at the register together, she by Meira Bose, he neatly by Nikhil Roy. She adored the fact that he was a well-dressed man, reticent in his group, and a wise drinker. She often saw him drive back his own car too. He hardly went for a swim and mostly digged into a platter of steamed veggies which went past her to him. She was pretty sure he was observant towards her too. And each evening she decked up to appease the observation.

As she doodled, or won points over meaningless poker, he sometimes passed a smile when she screamed at a win. She immediately looked at him to see the smile. She knew how it would smell, distinctly refreshing the top layer with wood following the later. And soon enough she got to know she was correct. It happened with the suddenness of a storm. It was a sultry evening promising a lot of chaos into the night. He slipped a small "Hi" as they again signed in together.

"Nikhil Roy. Care for a drink?"

All her poise melted away at that chlorine clad instant. Kaushik was on tour and not coming to the club. She agreed. They sat in one of the card rooms, secluded by their whiskeys and stacking a set. Their conversation was quick, and the chemistry quicker. It was understood that he was single, while she was not. He invited her to his place to see his collection of paintings, an offer she dare not refuse, especially when most of Kaushik's friends would be too drunk by now to notice and slipped off in their respective cars. She felt as if dragons inhabited the middle of her anatomy, belting tumultuous amounts of fire.

They behaved like old friends, caring not for a second about how they must have looked to anyone who saw them. He fixed her a quick snack of cucumbers and peppers in a fabulous dip. They did not drink. It was a premonition of the night. They both knew. And without even asking for it, she stayed back as they watched a game of football into the hours. With each remarkable pass, their distance shortened, and sizzled. He offered her a change of his t-shirt and a short and changed into the same. Everything was happening too fast, too fast even for the word comfort.

As he stroked her hair, they were held in the indefinite moment of long, passionate heavy breaths running down each others' shoulders. Their fingers were circling the kneecaps and tingles of excitement made way into their hearts. The football stadium noise dissolved into the sound of the moment when their lips came in a sensational contact. And they kissed. And they kissed. Like they were born to kiss. They kissed like stories were exchanged, and discoveries made, and structures dissembled. They were filled with a rapture they didn't know existed. And they kissed.

Till Kaushik came by, held her waist firmly from behind and asked, "You know each other?"

Letter to Lightning

:)

Of all things that have ever asked to be written, you are perhaps the cruelest. In fact your audacity to ask for one rather amused me. Being well aware of what you do to me, it is unbecoming of you in your thunderous stature to ask for one. White light, you scare me. Your sound accompanist scares me further, and I could not have placed it straighter. Your lines travel right into my veins and create stories of distortion, envelops me in the whiteness of your being only to catapult me into closely shut eyelids of blank shadows.

Why do you exist? You break the harmony of sound, sight, smell. As I pull the pillow closer, or move away from the thought of you, hopelessly, I move into more hopelessness. The infinite forlornness of being. The infinite impossibility of desired possibilities. The infinite tangle between flesh and soul. And somewhere in between, the infinite moment of living. 

I feel like screaming, "Go Back!", and other such deafening remarks, but you blind them all with one ear-splitting nano second of shock. The insides of me are in a vitriolic excess, and they are manifested in a reticent profusion. In those moments you eliminate any scope of betterment and the only thing you seem to bequeath is bitterness. In those moments of your being, characters of friends, fade, and daughters, die.

Your firework in the sky is distasteful. You do bring in the rain to heal all the wounds, but it hardly helps. I feel as if there is a thundershower of thorns. I wonder if you have ever believed that you have such an impact on anyone. In fact, what would happen if anyone stole your thunder? Tonight, I cannot think of answers.

Scarred,

K.

Letter to Chhuti X

Dearest,

I like you, period. And I cannot have myself smeared in doubt and self-pity that denies us all the goodness of a you. As it is, you come and go, like storms, or all good things that do not remain. I like how you impress your authority over me, lazily, and make do for all the miseries that make up the mundane. I like how we are involved in our charming conspiracies and create a sense of celebratory dissolve for everyone else around.

Chhuti, much that you complete me, sometimes I feel bad thinking about your lack of companionship too. I mean, yes, you do have many people eagerly awaiting you, some to pull your cheeks, some to runaway with you, and yes, you have quite a handful with all your singing and dancing and doodling in my notebooks, but I feel an urge to see you with a smaller you. Smaller escapes. And we would call her Chithi. Chhuti and Chithi. Making you both inseparable. As it is you have quite become my identity, Letters to Chhuti. The sound of it is so chirpy, Chhuti-Chithi. Sometimes you call her, read her, and sometimes she does, when she is on her Chhuti.

The last letter to you and my daughter was a bad one, sorry.  I was completely devastated and did not wish for any of those fancy names of depression to cling on to me. I needed you, wanted you. And I got neither. But right after, I realized how mean I was in the act, shifting the burden of my doubts and darkness to pockets of sunshine and silver linings. I was selfish, I was insensitive and I am sorry. I cannot promise you the backpacker's trip anytime soon, but when we do we will have a good time, I promise.

We will be in C-Company, riding elephants and fighting over flavours of cakes. As Chinky digs into her ninth packet of chips, you and Chithi can pull her leg by sharing a donut instead. And we will be ready to take on the world, like a good dose of Vitamin-C, always essential for the proper functioning of the body, and mind. We will travel and eat and enjoy and laugh, and we may seem like a bunch of different-sized madhatters chirping incessantly, like little sparrows do, but it will be a chatter anyone who cares to listen, will enjoy. Like, you.

I am rushing now to get you your Chithi!

Love,

K.