BLACKSHEEP: November 2015

11/30/2015

On a Roll

"Today, we are going to learn how to create an authentic Indian bread we call paratha. Note down the ingredients, please." Rudraan quickly dictated the requirements and measurements. God, she is beautiful. The person in question was Natasha, one of the many resident Indians, settled in the Great Britain, who are sent for an annual brush-up with their roots, beginning from the kitchen secrets. Must have a marriage fixed, possibly with a banker here. Bastard.

He straightened his apron, on which was written in colourful stitches "MAN CAN COOK" and smiled at the lot of women from eighteen to twenty two. Most of them were keenly interested in the learning, while the fingers of the others gave way to the restlessness of the compelling nature they were habituated to -- of scrolling down on their smart phone screens. "To knead the dough well is essential." Oh for the thousandth time, how well this will turn out, and how well they are gonna be amused. "In a bowl take whole wheat flour and add salt, oil and water. Mix these into a smooth and soft dough." He looked at Natasha. How I wish I would be able to knead your arms instead. He cleared his throat. "Adjust water if required and keep it aside for about half an hour."

How on earth am I so smitten? "Are we ready to roll, girls? Gimme a loud yes!" I think I will indeed approach her. He shifted his attention to turning towards Natasha. "Come on now, each of you roll out a medium sized ball from the dough. Let me see, let me see, who does it best!" Strategically, he shifted next to her and took her portion on the lightly dusted board to perfect it to a round. Oh man touch me! You smell of buttery steam. He took her hand on the rolling pin and rolled it out then, "like this, girls" as he demonstrated a round that could compete with a globe. The girls began giggling in awe. "Brilliant!" some exclaimed. "Oh my god" the others. Natasha didn't say a word. He continued, "nice and easy, girls. Dust some flour lightly to ease the rolling." By now, Natasha knew he was stuck to her.

"Uh, excuse me Rudraan, I need to make a call" and moved out of the room.

"Sure, Natasha." Like hell you do. Bitch you like me touching you, don't you? Lets get you jelly. On her return, he moved towards another girl and began, "heat the tava on medium and place the paratha on it." He touched this girl's elbow as she was pressing it downwards. "Once the paratha begins puffing up, flip it." He glanced across and noticed Natasha coming up with the making of a perfect paratha already. "Spread the ghee evenly, girls." Even before he could finish attending to each one of them, Natasha came up to him with hers.

"Have mine!" she said excitedly and presented to Rudraan her plate on which sat the glory of a ghee-clad paratha.

"Sure will" and paused to glance into her eyes a while longer than necessary. He took the first bite and it melted into his mouth, the softness and the texture. It felt like a kiss. "Excellent, Natasha!"

Two months later, they were pelting out rolls from a corner in the market-place. The learning institute gave in to this counter where the profits soared like emotions did, on watching Bollywood movies. Inside that little room of theirs they called work-place, Rudraan and Natasha rolled out one delicacy after the other. It was, after all, love at first bite.

11/29/2015

Show-Off

"I don't know", said I, realizing again how this phrase dominated my verbal vocabulary. You see, my name is Sweety. Right you are. I curse my parents each time I have to introduce myself. I mean what kind of people keep such a kind of a name? Over-obsessed with loving their child types, perhaps. Sweety. And the heavens were just against me when they came out with that horribly popular song, "Sweety, Sweety, Sweety, tera pyaar chahida..." My brother has a sensible name, Prateik. I especially adore that spelling. When Ma and Papa denied me the rights to change my name ("as long as we are alive"), I requested a change in spelling, only to satisfy myself with the knowledge that there could be none.

I have been asked to write an essay by Prateik today. I do not call him bhaiyya. On the condition that he would include me in his invention-time tomorrow. "I don't know", I said. He said I had to include in it the fact that he was on the verge of becoming a great inventor. I am not very sure. Of my essay, that is. That he is a great inventor already, I have no doubts about. Why, only the day before he shared with me the water-proof incense stick he developed out of something-ium. I don't like Chemistry, but I like my brother. He is really cool!

Should this piece of essay / personal memoir be lost (and revived from the depths of a ship wreck, in a mason jar, eons later), know that Prateik has already invented the straw which can be reduced to the size of a nut and can be carried in our pockets! Isn't that amazing? What more but the tremendously amusing key-locator. He has linked it with the user's spectacles, so that 'it is never out of sight!' This is his tag-line, and what a fabulous tagline!

Actually, I could go on about his dexterous skills, but often it is difficult for me to understand, too, what he wishes to convey. People call him 'special' in a tone I do not think is special at all. He paints these 'science stuff' and on evenings when I am back from school and Ma isn't around, he shows them to me and convinces me easily. I overheard Ma-Papa discussing last night about giving him away to a special school. They were speaking of references from Doctors and others. When I discussed this with him, he asked if I would write him one too.

This is it. Prateik is a great inventor, my brother and friend. On rainy holidays, we go up to the terrace and he misbehaves slightly, dancing and all, yet, he is a very nice boy. I will miss him if he is sent away. Oh, he also knows that I do not like my name. I will miss what he calls me (I dislike it too), "Pratty".

-- Miss Sweety Sharma,

Class VI.

11/26/2015

Bond-ing with the Best

I was thirty one. Am. At thirty-two, Sylvia Plath died, I often remind myself. Since last year, as if possessed, a voice takes me over, almost everyday. She compels me to write. "Like Ruskin Bond!", one of my readers chirp. "Like Ruskin Bond?", I ask back, unsure, if it is a compliment or a limitation. She scowls back, "Like Ruskin Bond. Haven't you read him?" Uncertain if I remember the right things about him, I reply in defense, "Couple in the syllabus and couple from stray corners", I confess.

I have procured two of his collection of short stories now, and gone on to turn the pages to check on the size, slyly. It made me happy. Very short, indeed! Finishable, I thought. Very happy. Something about him seems very enticing. His titles, his fascination with the mountains. "I want to buy his house and live in it when he dies!" I declared to anyone who cared to listen. Having heard myself, I am convinced, insanity has found permanent residence in me. Plath died in the house of Yeats.

I am no big-hearted fan of James, and Ruskin sounds a sweeter bet. When I am in his house, working in my kitchen, a cup of coffee to have, over my evening short story, you can come in and share a cup too. And then when you leave, you can reiterate about having bonded with one of the best.

Telling Tales

Like it would sound from the Park Street pavement in the late 80's, the chaos of the synchronized trumpets made their presence felt in an unlikely melody, sometimes matching the bang of the cymbals, sometimes not; distant, but present. The lights seemed faded too, but lit. Many millions of lights, perhaps they formed her upper eyelids. Mrignayani shut her eyes with the determination of a PT teacher, to get the best out of his cadres. She wished to get out of the car, breathe in some dust-filled, non-airconditioned air, she wanted to take in the season. Not that she was away from the city, or was back from a travel. She just needed to do it.

Her book was rising on the charts that mattered. Short-listing, long-listing and a whole lot of first page signing were a part of her day now. She was crossing College Street, its similar turtle pace bringing unto her her salad days. Tired, ambitious shoulders of students giggling over street-food, some seriously haggling over second-hand books. Mrignayani asked her driver to park the car and got off. Wishing to take in the melody of the bargains she was out of touch with, she pushed her front flocks with her big sunglasses. The glamour quotient immediately came down a notch.

The first touch felt like returning to an old friend, who was once an infatuation. It was an Enid Blyton, on a stack of Enid Blytons, the once bright of the yellow on the cover now only a brown crease, garlanding the loops of her signature. They looked sad, the collection, no longer on a child's pillow-side. The Jeffrey Archers and Paulo Coelhos were shining, well-read and much read, clean and sturdy, reminding her of the lot of Archers she had bought off some of these stores. Some Shakespeare tragedies, were tragically covered by the hardbound cover of Art-Books featuring Monet's Lilies, or Picasso's faces. A God of Small Things lurked out dustily, even though plastic wrapped. She picked it up, removed the wrap and opened it. The smell greeted her. It was Kerela coconut-water and her room back from Assam. She had not understood a word of it then. The Chamber of Secrets was calling out to her now as she put it back. A row was devoted to J K Rowling -- brand new editions, hard-bound, followed by cheaper, pirated copies and finally columns of second-hand ones, loved and desired perhaps, coveted too until owned. She picked one up. It sent unexplained shivers through her soul. Mrignayani Pathak was an upcoming author in her own rights now.

The first page opened to scribbles. "This book belongs to Ishani Roy, Loreto House, Class IX". It was cut across by a swift line, and a barely legible sign, the 'Ghosh' of which could be understood. Having traveled through many hands, the book returned where it belonged -- to be owned, again. She bought it this time, for a poultry sixty bucks and walked to her car. She also bought a book on astrology and a copy of her own, "Telling Tales". Nobody asked for an autograph. The shopkeeper was, in fact, quite taken aback that she did not even attempt a bargain. Walking back to her car, she overheard all such composites that would make for her characters soon. Greedily, she devoured them.

11/25/2015

A Sum of Some Things

The floor was wedded to the patch of morning sunshine. The windows or curtains could never be an impediment. It came in softly, and stayed like smoke, refusing to leave even when you could hardly trace its many moves in the air dust anymore. The occasion was chaired, on that point of the floor, by the majesty of the local priest and his command over sundry items off the list. He sits there, often times, choosing to explain certain sections of the rituals, while at most, lost in his own trance of religious jargon. Beside him, an array of arrangements sat, lapping up the wedded sunshine. Forty minutes here and I can make it in the evening to the shop.

Far in the corner of the room, Anindya looked deep his laptop screen, unaware of all such things as are rituals. The only reason that could have called for his presence was a change in setting. He tried solving the equation inside his classroom, in the library, at home in his room, in the park and even at Vikram's. This morning as he sat at it again, his mother warned him of the many relatives coming in and a few remarks about his scholarship issue. He earned sitting at home, off his research in Mathematics. With the intuitiveness of a detective, he kept looking into the sixth line of the equation. It felt as if the solution lay there. He was certain. Till his eye caught the thought of the priest. You aren't even interested, are you?

His phone vibrated. Vikram. Son of a bitch, must have cracked it! He cancelled the call and sent him a text, "Calling in a while. Sms if urgent."

"Solved" came the expected reply.

A surge of restlessness overcame him and he could not wait to get out. Putting back his reassurance into a rucksack, he left without an explanation. Vikram's house smelled of desi ghee even before he entered it. They must have gone for the lungar. Raas-purnima, Guru Nanak. Vikram opened the door and smiled at him. "Terrace?"

"Later. How did you solve it?" as Anindya made his way into the apartment.

Vikram deliberately delayed, "Juice? Tea? Coffee? Beer?" It was rare to be on the winner's side, and he was enjoying each luscious second. Anindya went inside the kitchen and set up two cups for coffee. His silence threatened Vikram and he rushed in to fetch his laptop. The solution, indeed, was lurking in the sixth line. As they entered the enchanting world of equations, Anindya recalled the wedded sun-spot of his living room. The priest, his world, the array of things and the many relatives -- they took their place in the laptop screen. The lines up to the sixth filled up with the faces. The Maths of it gave way to the things left somewhere behind.

Even as Vikram and he laughed out the simplicity of stupidity, Anindya's mind filled up with the morning of his home. He wished to return and participate in the puja, have the sweets, and greet the guests. He did none of those. Together with Vikram, he planned to apply for a Post-Doctoral thesis instead. Some sums were solved differently.

11/24/2015

Letter to You & Me

Hello, You :)

Since this is what you believe I do best (and I do too), I write this letter. Yes, you have gone ahead and complimented me enough times to inform me that I have 'something' worthwhile, and am indeed completely a mad woman, yet it takes definitive visits back to August, 2014, to believe what I have done. Coming to which, too many questions around that, right? 'What are you doing?, What have you done?, What have you been up to?' are few variations. It is unnerving. What have I done, really?

Neither been to the moon, nor examined a lunar eclipse, neither dared to rob a bank, nor dared out of the 'security' of my profession, I have also, neither married (again), nor divorced (again), nor reared a child (once) to suit my interrogators with a befitting reply. Sad, I returned to write. Of course, this is what I have done. This:

Did you go through the entire list? Let me tell you, chances are, you have not. Yet, this is the very list of titles with which You & I have evolved and embarked on our special journey -- from very elaborate letters to very crisp stories. Relationships have changed, as have their statuses, ideologies have altered, visions have reappeared, some disappeared too, workplace lows gave away to workplace highs and over all, change is constant, such a cliche. But tonight, I am convinced. You are correct. I am mad.

Happy to be mad, happier to have You in my life,

BLACKSHEEP