Letter to You IV

Hi!

Numbers have never been my thing. Letters have. And how could I not have one for you, this ugly year of sad tidings and great disappointments? The year has flown with the swiftness of striking off twelve months' names. Grand ingredients of quest and victory sat tight at the bottom and flavours of trials and change lent a sense of movement, while travels garnished the year. Contrary to the last two, the count of reads offered to you, was very, very low.

I am sorry. I have cheated massively on you as well on myself, and this is undeserving. So, whether it matters or not, I promise to be true to us in the new calender.

We could both do with some stories, right?

Some that show you, you and some which show me, me.

Here's to a fulfilling 2017 :)

K. 

A Play, A Life

CHARACTERS

You: an exceedingly nice, too good to be true boy.

I: another girl. (Is also called ‘me’, ‘my’)

ACT I

Yesterday; at my place I was wondering how and why communication between you and me was straining. Before that, you and I have established a relationship which calls neither for nomenclature nor categorization nor definition. You and I, both, known or unknown, to ourselves and/or to each other, happen to be panelled and layered. But, both enjoy each other a lot.

Scene I

I am thinking, thinking hard, how to manage time. There are two hundred and one things that need to be done. I get tired sometimes; play acting between two active households and staying patient - with others as much as with myself. And then I rudely shout, or, ironically, ‘rudely’ shut-up. I do not know what you go through; you have never been much expressive in any case. You only story-tell, you teach me to see beyond the obvious, you love me, scold me, pamper me, you sweet-talk and strangely you do not talk too. And with you also I have shown my patience, sometimes with a genuine smile and sparkle, sometimes with gritted teeth and clinched fists. I owe us this patience not just because I love you, but also because I am aware (though vaguely) that you are not always in the correct circumstances to be doing all that you want to, and, because, a little bit of patience does no one no harm.

Scene II

You have been unwell, making me anxious and afraid. And never talking consistently, it’s always been an extreme with you. Top: the most caring and endearing, bottom: a formal “hi, hello, how have you been, bye.” And so I give a damn. After all there are the two hundred and one things still pending. So I go about it, one by one, and right at the start you are there with your presence in my earphones. My eyes are constantly aching nevertheless I am enjoying the evening because I am with people I love the most. Strangely, at some point or the other, most of them are inquiring after you. And you are still silent, wherever you are. I return, and on my way back there’s ‘Closer’ playing.

Scene III

My eyes are not letting me sleep. I shut them in spite of them. No dreams. No pain. And there you were! With your specks on, in a house which I knew existed only in my dreams, each detail was done to the dot. And you were correcting some scripts, giving me an all-assuring, ‘you-have-been-foolish-once-again-but-never-mind’ smile and saying softly “Stupid Girl! Open the curtains, c’mon” and I obeyed.  

ACT II

Today: I have been so irritated with my eyes and the recurring cobwebs that life seemed a maze, until a butterfly fluttered past my indecisiveness of whether to have tea in a red or white or yellow cup. Butterflies and you were almost synonyms because you fancied a marriage whenever they were around. It brought back dreams of the night. When I had obeyed you and opened the curtains.

Scene I

The curtain itself was one I was once asked by you to design. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Beyond the curtains was a sight I always thought was only as perfect in dreams. It was a mountainous range, brown and white and distant olive green. And you were correcting illegible Physics answer scripts on my other side, enjoying my state of perennial amazement and disbelief.

Scene II

I was so-so-so what is that feeling? Glad? Relieved? I had no idea how I landed there, by your side, with my neverland-type yearning heights on the other side. But it was true. The warm-burn of your big tea mug was real enough. The way you finally laughed aloud and ruffled my hair was real enough. And lo! You had more to offer. A sack from under the bed, out of which came out a brownish-glassy big-eyed puppy! The loud bash I got on snatching the TV remote out of your hands…yes all of them were real. And then out of a showdown that I was sad, I turned to the other side and fell asleep, overhearing you turn pages.  But when there were the fear-full dreams I found you right beside me, distracting me away from them by telling me smiley stories. Or were they not?

Scene III

Was it yesterday, today, everyday…I have lost total track of time. That one dream has made me let go of my entire vain ‘damn you’ attitude. I read in the mail from you this morning that you were holding me closest to your self last night. Now you tell me how not to believe that you are a bundle of magic? That you are you, no one like you, at least the way you are to me?

PS: I have no idea who I am; am I the author of this dream-drama (since you always consider everything I do as drama)? Am I the narrator? Am I the character ‘I’? Am I? 

Whoever I am, I know I love you and I know of dreams that heal and make me a better me. Sometimes I shut myself up very tight, away from everybody, that’s when I am afraid of the dreams that would never come true. But the intense dream that I lived yesterday, would last me a lifetime.

There are very few people in whom you find a combination of many befitting roles. You have been a strict and patient teacher, a passionate lover, a considerate friend; you are the one, as I always say, without a second, full-stop. And I am ‘lucky’ (a very light word for the feeling) that you are so many things to me, mean so much to me, so mine? 

In life, as much as in dreams; for, finally - “it’s a life to dream and a dream to live.” 

I went through old pages slowly browning in an old diary which I stumbled across unwittingly. That was me? Funnily, it does not feel even sad, the truth around past. It merely feels funny! As much true as feelings back then were, not having them anymore is a reflection of the changes in the individual soul. I am glad such loves are out of my life. There was too much plurality for comfort. Singularity, you may argue, may not be a nice place to reside, but it has taught me to come to terms with my sanity. 

"Insane!" had you not said? What was my fault? Smitten whispers? Comforting dinners? Edgy threats? And why not? You lied. You lied to me! You scheming man with your mansion, you let me down! How many highways I have had to cross to find you, do you know? Those as far as dreams. And "insane" was all you went on saying. That is what you are, actually, quite insane.

If I had your heart in my hands, I would refrigerate it forever, and pickle slices of it. I would have also strewn some bits on the roadside for the strays to chew upon. And you would neigh and you would caw and you would make sounds that ants do when they are smashed. Negligible. Unheard. You would die. And die again.

If it were not for stitches that are to be made on clothes here in the prison, they would be all over you.

Kanishk Thakur believed he penned his masterpiece. Locked inside his room, he refused everything that the world had to offer. He play-acted each moment living it "a life to dream, a dream to live."

Social Commentary V: Appearance

When I went in to take those impromptu classes at JDBI, to prep the students interview-ready, I have a fair feeling I was possessed. You know, good-possessed. Some fairy sprinkled a kilo of confidence-dust on me, and polished it with a sharp tongue which yielded the choicest words benifitting the matter. So, when my students claimed they learned a lifetime from me, believe me, they listened to that appearance, the snappy, jazzy, sometimes kind-mostly mean-teacher who wore that cloak of power. And boy did it good to her and her students!

Of the many golden one-liners I pelted, one was "you cannot change your look; but, but you can definitely change the way you look!" Really, on a given assignment for any pep-talk, or for content writing, I could have never come up with that line. Sometimes, those lines feel to have become inked on my soul. I often find my patronus in a smart person addressing a room full of people, complete with aura and all. And when I am out of my reverie, back to my pajama-clad self reclined on the sofa, I thank my patronus -- the appearance.

It is a nice thing, to stay true to your self and all, but this world understands the words you speak and the way you sit. And they really look low upon someone lazying on the sofa all day, changing channels on TV. So, I decided to gift the world an appearance -- which I will not describe now. The world I find loves that appearance.

It includes little things like putting time into my mousepad and ball-point pen, and not just my shoes and bags. And that, readers, doesn't hurt. Yesterday, I came across a meme which had a black Santa and which proclaimed that it was to reach shake every racist brat. It was well intended, but not quite well recieved. While purists would go on to point out about the nature of mankind and xenophobia which reigns sublime, if I am not too incorrect, the real reason it did not become popular was because of the terrible yellow font which spelt juvenile all over the picture. And the noise on the superimposed photograph -- all in all, it wasn't quite a presentable photograph. I know you are screaming at my "do not judge a book by its cover" philosophy. I did though. For, I remembered a book by its cover and colour. The komola boi  would forever be my nightmare book of literary theory.

There have been many like me, the mass actually, who care only for the appearance.

So, when I could not accept my Return of the Native cover, I put one from one of my coveted calender pages. Oh, did I return to it then! And yes, my copy of Glass Menagerie it is so sexy, that I put a transparent cover over it; it shines. To end it, I am not speaking of brands, I am endorsing taste. So next time, do not take out your pen with a chewed cap in front of someone. Please enjoy the liberty of chewing a pen cap, in your entitled solitude. Please have the good sense of not bringing out a copy from your bag which has run out of pages.

That is all. 

PS: Proposed appearance of this post: Wisdom > Wit.

Social Commentary IV: Cinema

My stint at the School of Art & Aesthetics, JNU, challenged my understanding of Cinema. I was a regular Festival-going king till such time, and knowing Bergman and Kurosawa were mostly a part of hanging out with interesting friends. At JNU, I was fresh out of a tragic-situation, most part of the coping the was done by shutting mself inside my room during the day, curtains drawn, no inch of light, watching movie after movie (Ray, Majidi, Polanski etc), and continuing into the night. By the time I came to JNU, my eye-power had drastically increased and my Compaq had justifiably crashed.

It was a new time, in more ways than one.

I was not prepared for that matchbox of a room at Yamuna, as compared with the large foresty expanse of the campus, I was not prepared for the 7 am January cold which could not be beaten even with turtleneck, sweater and coat -- worn one over the other, and, I was so not prepared for the study that went into Visual Arts and Cinema Studies, which I was then auditing, along with being an RA. The Cinema Studies classes began around 1.45 pm and went onto 8.45 pm (inclusive of playings and discussions). It was exhaustive, did you think? No, no. No, no, no. Not as much as the material that was given for studying (thank goodness I did not have to). Barring my neutral observations and love for binge watching, I was minus on cinema knowledge. I almost began to feel like hay. Like, whatever that is.

Cut to now. I watched Chalk and Duster last night. More like listened. And, it was a JDBI playback (except for the ending). It is true, I do not remember the name of the teacher who taught me A-B-C-D, but I do remember all the things I have learnt from the movies -- my greatest teacher -- not in the craft of filmmaking, but in the art of life and living. Isn't it true, how cinema has conditioned us, for good, or for the large part -- for worse? Yet, like teachers, who have their flaws, cinema too can be forgiven for not being perfect. Those flaws, in turn, become perfect material when needed to mimic upon.

Just how important is cinema to our lives, we can never truly acknowledge. The breakfast toast hardly gets a toast, you see. As I was cooking the rich chicken today, the tedious constant stirring felt nothing as I heard SRK claim from the other room about "the common of a power man...er...power of a common man!" It does not require study of structures and powers, to laugh along the swaying colours.

I am no longer ashamed that I could not study Cinema as a subject; it is the friend, philosopher, guide one passionately loves, even while they disagree, and, the reassuring presence of eggs in our fridge. Or, of teachers and parents in our lives.

Letter to Daughter XIX

Dearieplum-butterytoo-munchykins C,

Such an exhaustive exercise this -- figuring out a means to reach to the loft and get your suitcase of woolens -- but endearing nonetheless, especially when left out open under sun -- feels like you have suddenly turned silent under the comfort of the sun, lapping it up like the wonder of a finishing cone of popcorn. Your holidays are here and it is hectic to plan up a day of activities for you for all the time we aren't together. It is also slightly disturbing to leave you behind with your (child's) knife, as you play LEGO with carrot and cabbage -- and build a castle -- the thought of cleaning the mess of the house.

Seeing you on stolen work days makes me think if I were such an impediment too, and I would like to believe, no I wasn't. However, for the exclusive success you have had over conquering the knowledge of Roman numerals, I write to you, to keep you company for one such day when your toys aren't good enough for you. I would like to tell you of a recipe which you can share and a secret, which you cannot. 

Recipe:

I know what you do when I snore on Sunday afternoons, stuffing yourself with that horrible Nutella. So, next time, take a bowl and put two spoons of Nutella into it and beat it with a little warm water from your flaaksh and when it arrives at a smooth ribonny texture, put a spoon of milk-powder into it. You will see white volcanoes bubbling alive and spitting little white milk-lava into the chocolatey mass. Into this break your Snickers into little-little bite size and put in and decorate with the colours of Gems. Now, put this back in the fridge and come back to sleep thinking about how it will taste in your dreams. When you wake up, Momie will slice out your first cake and for all you know, it will taste like a picnik -- packed! You must remember that while creating this entire recipe, you must make sure that there is absolutely no sound -- even while you beat the Nutella mixture. I know darling this is tough and can be tiring, but this you must do for the Cake Gods to bless your first cake. Else their friends, the Maggi Gods will be unhappy too and never let you cook Maggi in more ways than one. And, if you fail in your attempts to do it noiselessly, honey, you can always come back under the blanket and sleep off to dream about the taste. Yes! That is the best part, even if you do not make it, you can still dream about it -- the carpetty silk taste of the warm cake, prepared by you little-little hands. If you do not sleep, however, the Cake Gods will also steal your (child's) knife and you can't make more shapes on clay. So, little one, why don't you simply give everything a rest and just come and sleep with Momie?

Secret:

I bet as I was beginning the recipe, you did not need any Good Cake Gods to be excited about doing something new. Here is (to my disadvantage) the good news. Even if Momie, or Cake Gods, or anyone, inhibits you from trying on/out something that you are excited about, just do not, yes DO NOT listen to them. So what if Cake Gods do not put your reference to Maggi Gods? Trust dear old Momie when she says that you can always win Maggi Gods' heart with your own mischief, and if they still do not, you will always have Top Ramen Gods' blessings. But never let your excitement dry down because someone scared you with Big Fat Lies or Bland versions of Truths. Taste failure if you must, but taste it first hand, like your Dream Cake. 

This, hotbun, was all I wanted to tell you. Life will always give you two options, completely different in their offerings. Overthinking will never help you decide. You want your knife, sleep. You want to bake the cake, you will have to find another time. That's a bit of this and a whole lot of that put in to disturb your innocent lapping up the winter sun and spilling orange seeds on knotty woolens. Hope you have a happy holiday season doing things you love doing!

I love you, even though at times I cannot take the sight of you!

Momie. Your Momie.

Six Digits

Life sucks. I am depressed. I felt the same -- unfeeling -- even as an important exam would close in, when I struggled out of my winter afternoon blanket. Just plain cream-cracker bored. I do not remember any of either panic or anxiety that my friends would report on the evening phone calls. With the finesse of a memorized answer, I would try and feel sorry for myself, but something inside of me refused. I tried my creative best to whip up situations which would allow me self-pity. Things life, "I can't concentrate; I don't like to be chaired to studies..." unfortunately, none of these ever affected me. I mean, it was natural, not to be interested -- I had just one attachment -- boredom. Who was I joking? I was far from depressed, and life was nice -- I didn't have any expectations from myself, and far too many people believed I could not do much good in life.

One such night, deep into the Symbols of Chemistry, I found out what interested me, momentarily. I opened the last page of my notebook and wrote down the phone numbers I could remember -- about six or seven, six digits each. And finally, I started adding some and substracting from another -- as if the result was a magical number, an assigned amount of love between me and my friends. Life was really easy, and interesting. There was nothing dark to write about. Nothing dark was right.

My Maths Sir once happened to open that page by mistake. Like a dentist with his torch, or a warrior and his sword, he reached for his shirt pocket, took out the red-inked pen, and circled a garland of reds around the results of love. What initially began as laughter, turned to disbelief and finally into a statement, which, I did not register. I was by then thinking about degrees of punishment and wondering why it was rated in degrees, like fever.

Later that evening when Sir left with my mother ruminating over his statements, I decided I wanted to become an inventor. "Who thought of Au as Gold? Or is it Ag? Why do we agree?" As I waxed out the candle, I thought of what other kinds of candle could be made. No. I cannot think of creating a candle. I will be punished for never becoming an inventor. I played with the digits again, adding substracting and making ducks out of the dashes. How to become an inventor?

 I wrote a sentence: Six Digits of Shame.

Social Commentary III: Songshaari

Songshaari: I tried to find a befitting English word to replace it -- homemaker seemed too professional, domesticated sounded dominated and homely, was well, it did not live up to the grandiose of "songshaari." Now, "songshaari" is a Bengali word and must not be confused with the much in vogue Hindi "sanskaari." While the later is a dictionary in itself, full of convoluted meanings, "songshaari" is a favourite word with the Bongs. 

Let us see, vaguely, what it implies: If you are "songshaari," in all probabilities, you are a woman, fair wrists complete with red and white bangles which jingle as you put the bottle back in the fridge and place the glass on the coaster when you serve it to someone. You see, it is a combination of knowledge, common-sense and manners, but somehow, it is perceived as the paanch-foron (five spices) called, "songshaari." It is the knowledge of handy things conducted in a dainty supervision. I will give you some examples. You see, a "songshaari" person will somehow (experience, or inheritance, not magically!) know, that there is only one way to place the bay-leaves box -- next to the dried red chillies one. Get it? That all things tea, are clustered together in either an ascending, or descending, or circular, or modular way. Draped in her taant (Bengal cotton), bathed from the morning, khunti (ladle) in hand, when she says that neem leaves and napthalene balls inside an empty suitcase keep it from stale smells, we tend to fall in love with her modus operandi.

It is another thing altogether, that someone like me, let us examine -- clad in a hoodie which either reads the lyrics of a song, or the name of the institute which made me "otiriktto shikhhito," (excessively educated) moving around in my cargos, complete with socks and Nike, and the watch (in place of her pendant), hair roughly pulled into a top bun, and the earring bang on its place -- does the same. You see, there is hardly any presentation. Huh. I should have known that the mutton I cooked tasted better in my wedded status than in my divorced one. Why? Well, I honestly don't know. In fact, now, I even heat the mustard oil better. Shrug. 

It is also another absolutely different thing when a man of the house is adept in the dainty supervisions. He, as opposed to our fair woman, should not be. Simply. A man should not (not cannot) be "songshaari." It makes him interfering, womanly, irritiating and well, unmanly (which is not the same as womanly). Somehow, the fair woman, alright, she too can be in her comfort wear and not so fair demeanour, takes to it like a bee making honey -- she is the queen of her little world of four walls and the kitchen is her sanctum sanctorium. 

Often, it is quite relaxing to have such a woman around, who gets things done without you even asking for it. It makes me wish for a maid (did you think wife?). But she also claims (perhaps correctly), that there is a difference in how things are done by the maid because she told her to. Right. Such cases make one long for a wife, who, like the successful event manager that Mr Banerjee, or Events Anytime is, can whip up any occasion from chandipaath to, you know the rest. Everything about her is acceptable, and why not, who would not like to return home to a steaming dinner? Except for those (as she would say) "forgivable" moments when she chooses to place a red mark on my "shongshaari" report card. She and other olders of her kind approve of my diligence in getting things done, and "Why not? She better! She is neither married, nor has any responsibility!" 

True, and alarmingly so. If I choose to remain clean, why should it be anything else, but because I can afford to devote the time to it -- because I have no other responsibility? When I make my own tiffin, of course, that is only because I have no child to rear. When I fashion my life insurance, I do it purely and precisely because I do not have a husband's shirt to stitch buttons on. Things like queueing up for banking and cursing in traffic are my choices because I did not invest in becoming "shongshaari." And oh, paintings on my wall are absolutely not because of my aesthetics. They are there because in-laws are not.

Strangely, as I write, I know what "shongshaari" readers feel: "We have so much to do in the mornings, breakfast, run after our children, follow the servant, that such frivolities do not find time in us!" Thank you. The rest of the readers, beware, you are reading -- in an age when reading has faded, taken time out to indulge in a piece of an unknown, unpublished person/woman, who rants -- it speaks a lot about your levels of your being "shongshaari."

PS: You are welcome to my house anytime I am home. Even if I won't be able to cook you a lunch comprising five items on the menu, two will be enough to satiate your hunger and soul. And the rest of the time, you can encourage me to write better over the cup of tea we sip. What would you like? Honey-lemon, milk, rose, ginger, jasmine, mountain-flowers? I have 'em all, "shongshaari" or not.

The House is a Home

What makes a house a home?

People, you would say.

People, I too would,

Couple of weeks ago and hopefully, away.

But today, oh dear today,

It is the TV in sight,

And the channels playing right.

The clever use of corners,

The workmen and their manners.

A working internet connection,

A store-room garbed in fashion.

The plastic in the bin,

Collected in the dim.


People, did you not say,

Made the house a home?

Why, yes.

The distinct step of the maid,

Choreographed with the son of the said,

Who cleans the car,

Followed by the putting of the

Healthy water in the jar.


And sounds, yes them,

They too, quite make a home.

The remarkable snort of the refrigerator,

The grinding in the blender.

Calling bell and phone rings,

And how the induction oven zings.



And once dinner dishes are done,

Stacked and settled,

The home waits on in alarm,

For the next day to succumb,

In the steps of the same.


Some invitees are awaited,

The green plants nicely potted.

And magazines in the loo,

How homely they make you feel too!


People didn't you not say,

Make a house a home?

Of course, of course,

Tomorrow it is the carpenter,

Day after, the plumber.

Mrs Mirinda Sen

If you are thinking that you read the name wrong and I misspelt Miranda, you are wrong. You would not be incorrect though if you thought, "Hell, Belinda would be a better name!" Of course! Like I never chewed over it -- Belinda Sen, Proprietor -- how terribly fancy and fitting. But, as luck would have it, our names, like our lives, are not our choice. It came down upon me from my parents who, in this capital city were elite owners of the house I have inherited. They were colonial travellers from the east who decided to settle down in this glitzy, opportunistic city, but in a centre of their intellectual own. Most of us are Bengalis here and we love our fish. You know, the smell feels like the music off a snakecharmer's pipe, we are inherently drawn towards it, sucking in the idea of fulfilment. Anyway, that is not the point, though I am longing for lunch already.

I want to share with you, today, bits and pieces of my illustrious life, especially now that winter has dawned and there is a general celebration in the air, and what better way to feel lusciously rich than sipping my warm milk and storytelling under the sun? My father was a civil engineer and my mother, a teacher. They were lovely people, and one will be cruel to complain about how much they loved me -- a tad bit too much -- how else would I land up with that fizz drink of a name? Dad would play with nuts, bolts, screwdriver and wrench, while Mom would teach little children the tedious angles of geometry. Me? They made me undergo the no-school schooling. I am self-taught, and I credit my observation skills heavily. Erm, I forgot to mention I can't speak, perhaps that was one reason I was not put in a regular school. But one good thing that has happened because of it is that I always end up having a good laugh. Like now. Are you wondering where is this story heading? Look who's dumb!

When I became Mrs from Miss, it was legendary, our union. And when we had our children, our neighbours' eyes glistened in envy. We have triplets -- Mimi mirrors her mother, Mickey his father and the youngest, Mini, she resembles neither. As sole proprietor of our esteemed location, ever since the uneventful death of my Mr (aging is natural), I rent out our house to various sort of people. They think landlords are demons, or, in my case, because I cannot articulate, that I cannot see beyond the obvious, what they think, how they act. 

It was just eleven months back that a full-bodied man took up the place. He was, unlike what he looked, very generous. But he kept the house quite unkempt and at the evil hands of the maid. She would keep the air-conditioning on all day through and bribed Mickey and Mimi into silence, to be with her all the time. Only Mini has got my brains. When the man returned in the evening, the maid would often also share a part of his dinner with my children. As if I was keeping them unattended! Mini stuck to me in our first floor marble glory. Who needed artificial cooling? He would have his morning tea in the verandah as Mickey and Mimi would play there and smile at them with the look of their old father. 

I did develop a crush on him (sshhh!), he was quite nice to us too, Mini and me, bringing us gifts now and then. However, he liked to call us (for reasons one would never know) with sounds. Perhaps he thought that people who could not speak understood only sounds. I must confess here, an able-bodied man, with pumping muscles looked rather funny cooing sounds of childhood. There, the laughs I had promised you I had in my head! However, the crush on him gradually disappeared when he kept leaving the house dirtier and dirtier. I barred Mickey and Mimi from entering his premises and everything because suddenly sour. It was enough, and I decided to get him out and over a period of a month, paved into his window a horror story of sorts. How else could one get a perfectly-paying rented person out? Get into his mind, attack there! With Mini's help, we made various noises at peak hours past midnight and it was such fun to hear him on the other end -- calling for help on his phone. He left, the generous man, fears intact. My son and daughter on certain evenings miss his snacks, but a couple of renovation duties later, they have outgrown their love for him, such delight!

Two girls have joined in new. One of whom can't decide whether to like my children or not, while the other has again, whimsically begun to call them out whatever she feels -- Jelly, Julie and Pickle. Outrageous! I overheard the other one tell her, "Why don't you call them Jelly, Chilli and Pickle instead." I don't know how to react -- I apprecaite their distance, but such names -- they remind me the trauma of me being Mirinda. Our family sounds like a potpourri of on-the-table-top ingredients. But because they call me Mrs Sen and graciously allow me to be in all my silence, I have decided not to disturb them. Once I assigned myself to one of their blankets, unknowingly, I quite honour how they decided to give it up for my sake, as if I lack any. But true, anything new is more charming than the ragged rugs I have. 

From my new blanket I can understand as I oversee their settling down process, neither are quite adept at it (as they think of themselves), taking sweet time to unpack and contemplating more moves over endless cups of  tea and long, tedious discussions. Mickey (Jelly, Chilli or Pickle?) reported to me that she liked one of the girls more because she did not give her car a bath for three days now -- trust one robber to know another! I sit here, in their blanket and laugh.

"I don't like this house and the animals," said one.

"I don't like cat smell!" replied the other.

"But Jiggly-Wiggly look cute when they play, no?"

"Excuse me, that's Jelly, Julie and Pickle! And they trample on my car bonnet leaving behind kitten paw marks on the dust. See, star-shaped dust!"

"No, no. Jelly, Chilli and Pickle."

"This Jelly looks exactly like her orange mother. She feels like a 1.5 litre moving bottle of Mirinda!"

Girls these days are so uppity and non-loving of our furry feelings. I am giving in to their disregard for our kind just because of their blanket. And honestly, at this age, with a bowl of milk and fishbone being served during winter, I do not wish the girls bad. I will now merely sleep over the sadness of the smart one finding out why I was actually named Mirinda. Bong parents and their love, literally! But, Jelly, Julie and Pickle do sound kind of cute. Or, Chilli, whatever. Time to laze, meow.

Social Commentary II: Nationalism

As I have confessed in realms more haloed than Facebook about my lack of complete knowledge, concerning most things, most of the time, I will assume, most of us today, too, are not quite drunk in knowledge of a particular subject as much as how it used to be earlier. When internet was a revolution, ndtv.com was on my homepage -- I loved to keep myself abreast with sports and celebrity gossip, and swiftly glance through political headlines. 

Today, three decades into conscious existence later, I will tell you something most of us know but do not accept -- the "what's on your minds" are really, no more than the popcorn in your pressure cooker. It sizzles out after few minutes in the open. Yet, there will be RIPs and birthday wishes and check-ins and concerns about environment and demonitization like any expert would be put to shame (I am often a part of it too). To an extent that now Facebook is my news channel and I follow the #trending El Classico reports on it. The "National Anthem" issue too was one such. I read and I laughed at people's take on nationalism and jingoism (in my head), and I went off to sleep looking forward to today, the most awaited day of the week -- a Friday.

Ever since I have shifted, and have no TV yet, Fridays are all I have. And, how severely they have disappointed me is only a matter of concern I choose to overlook. All the movies are somehow disappointing and it ends in a good note with a disastrous intake of dense comfort food, which, again, makes me fatter, sadder. I was looking forward to Kahaani 2, what with Dear Zindagi killing my last weekend more than ever. Even SRK could not save the blah-blah-blah. At this point I think of the have-I-become-a-cynic or has-the-world-worn-blinds or what-is-wrong-with-me.

This weekend I am shifting to proper New Delhi, in the hope of discovering newer happiness in my beloved Delhi of winters and Delhi of traffic and Delhi of all-things-glitzy. Along with K2 being a thriller and a friend working on it, I was hopelessly eager and already braving packing and payments. The commercials had begun. What are movies for me? Not texts to interpret and analyse; more like siblings and friends -- they are there with their faults. And then came the declaration to stand up for instilling feeling of nationalism. I was on my momo, in the dark, making mental notes of how I which route I would take on Sunday to avoid traffic. 

Was the National Anthem never played earlier, you would ask. It was, at certain theatres. It wasn't everywhere. And as I stood, barely managing to balance my momo sauce from not spilling on my beloved bag, it began -- a condensed, rushed version of the beautiful song, which had for visuals a corny coloured flag waving relentlessly all over the screen -- which unfortunately finished even before I could stand in the constitutional position to honour it. So much for dis/agreements and rights.

K2 began but I was distracted. I was thinking of the cough syrup my mother had to force down my throat every night, and I resisted it so much that half of it always fell on my clothes. I used to feel victorious, "at least I gulped half of that bitter stuff!" My country is beautiful in its varied personalities and landscape, and I have my reserved feelings towards it. And that is it, my country. I don't find why my movie-time should be snatched to force feed me with nationalistic feelings. 

By the time the anthem was over, a bunch of boys behind me laughed at some joke, or maybe at someone's fat ass, the girls in front spoke of how disgusted they were about not everyone standing, and some senior citizens struggled to get back up from the chair they had cozily rested themselves on. Who, felt for the cause? Of they who smoke, how many have given up smoking with those attrocious tobacco-is-harmful visuals? We have just accepted it as one of the whims of the autocrats and pay no heed. One day old, and it is disgraceful that I am reporting that this is soon going to happen with the National Anthem too.

I think my country is beautiful because of the landscape. The people are well, losing it.

Social Commentary I: Who Can Comment

If I were ever to read such a title, I would initially stalk the pedigree of the opinion-holder and then question the merit of the writer. And were I were to read my name beside such a title, I would laugh in a dismissive manner, one that underplays "grapes are sour." It would mean something like Twinkle Khanna writing something on Poverty. I mean, I would generally feel and go on to believe, what would she know anything about it anyway. But then, I realized, she, like everyone else, if entitled to an opinion, or, a sense of her own understanding, whether or not from any attachment, or detachment.

To return to my title. Since I began this bout of blogging, the second semester of 2016 has been filled with drought. More than anyone else, I have not quite been able to look myself in the eye and there has been no reasoning I can rightly say is correct to my not writing as much. I have a trunk full of ideas for each beginning of the month. Couple of days back, I had a fresh idea for December, especially with the last December being such a fulfilling one. Since morning, one thing or the other has been responsible in delaying this post (not one greater than my not sitting with it though). I was really looking forward to my plan, yet, when I sat and opened last December, the Love-Letters had aged. I could do nothing to revive the lost charm. The plan is pushed back for a later month. For now, I wish to pen my opinions -- something I have been very judicial about -- especially because I am too lazy for such a strong stance.

And hence, my first post is a social commentary on the relation between the personal and the social. The evolution of the personal into the social and how, one inevitably affects the other. Who am I kidding? It is a piece which is an excuse or an apology to be one. Which will humbly, and sometimes funnily, try to say, try me. I am not a loud-mouth, nor a go-getter, but hey, everyone else is entitled to a sense of understanding, right? It is a commentary on how things around us look to me, how I percieve them, and what they eventually make of me.

In the process, you -- social element reading me, will also, may be, think some, reject some, approve much and find a voice that who knows, you too are too lazy to express with.

Allow me.

Who Won the Game?

I was prepared, in bed with a book. With fierce hope, waiting for a miracle to return like a dear, incomplete dream. Waiting for sleep. Fiddling with means to get it, mostly blank.

Tonight was special. Vaani got onto me with a decisiveness of a rider, aware of destination. She held a copy of Thunder and Soul which she has been spending sleepless nights over, without reading a single line.

I was prepared, in her clutch, waiting to be read. Hoping fiercely, that unlike most times when she left me incomplete, tonight she would see her through all the pages. I commanded attention in my name, Thunder and Soul, yet she would never. Maybe tonight.

Hope they say is like dope. Yes, I am. I am a severe addiction, driving one mad you know. I am happy. Tonight too, I would fail her. I will win.

They surrender to my embrace, fetching another world in me. I am sleep. I am elusive and expensive. You think I would reach her tonight? Why else do you think she easily replaces my name as a miracle? They hardly come true! Here, let me gift her an appetizier -- some fresh yawns. Look, she has even kept the book beside her pillow soaking up the empty yawns.

I am the boss. I am Dream. These puny pillows, and tall hopes, and giant sleep and rational Vaani they think I am otherworldly. I do not even laugh at their ignorance now. Such misery to believe theirs is the real world. Didn't you know? It is me, from the other side of the conscious moving the thread of what they call Life. But I am the real deal, and all that is without me, outside of me, is not.


Vaani chewed her bitten nail further till it brought out a thin blood-lined skin on her right thumb. Damn. What was I thinking? But I was not. It must have been a dream. The burning sensation on her thumb brought her back to her surrorundings. Were these speaking? She puffed up her pillow and rearranged her book. Somewhere at the end of her feet, Dream lurked stealthily laughing, "Of course they really were."

The Dubious Nature of Happiness

His shirt was a square peach, on which there were rail tracks, dropping sharply down the shoulder blade towards the cuff playground. Blue stitched rail tracks. Or, were they electric wires from which trams dangled? A double-queue of blue hem adored the peach landscape through which Bhavya's gaze longingly lingered on what lay underneath. It was Yohaan's hair which had first distracted her. They say smugly on his temple, like a stack of precious hay waiting to be grazed upon. And as Bhavya looked on, he blinked. Those felt like sun-kissed waves -- ones which invite you, and send you back with a warning that too much of the glance was harmful for the observer. She could not go beyond his hair and his eyes, and in exactly one week, this Monday, she reached on time to not allow him a moment out of her sight. Yohaan was new here, and she was already a legend. She knew how to handle the delicate measure of her desire and her reputation.

He was not there and the passing moments felt like a caged occasion. Strange, Bhavya thought, the last seven days passed in delightful patience and dedicated planning. For the next hour, Bhavya was at her juvenile best, lost about her next step, almost shuddering at the thought of not being able to see Yohaan ever again. She scooped her sentiments out of a rich mudpie and drowned in the notoriety of a calorie-dense coffee, when suddenly she sighted the square of Yohaan's peach shirt. Desire comes walking home.

As she longingly lingered on the possibility of what could lay underneath his shirt, not for a single second did she have to counter between the philosophical corrects and the comical wrongs. And I am a neat meat myself. He will recall this episode and retell it in heroic valor. She went forward and touched his wrist. "Nice watch, Yohaan." He blushed with the immediacy of a peeled watermelon. He fell short of words. Bhavya touched him from cheek to chin. "Tch, may be you would like to say a Thank You?"

"Yes," Yohaan braved up. "Thank you. My parents got it for me from their visit to Dubai."

"Dubai, nice. And where were you?" Her hands had swiftly unbuttoned his cuff-buttons and folded his shirt up. Yohaan was at a loss between what he could do, what he should do and what he would like to do. "Attendance will never be a problem. I am glad to welcome you to the Privileges of the Bhavya Goodwill Club. Not many are lucky to win an entry into it." She paused to close his exercise book and sat herself on the table. She touched his arms in a firm grip and commanded, "Please me."

The distance between Yohaan and Bhavya later that night was more than a seven hundred metres as in hostels, boys' wards and teachers' houses are located. If one could however encrypt their heartbeats, it would speak of a connection at the same source, the shine of a new excitement. Yohaan lay on his stomach, writing the details of his successful encounter to his older cousin who had attended the same school. This was the first choice for everyone's 11 and 12th. He had won himself not just the rights to drive around in the Audi of his cousin when he was next home, but also a semester worth of the blindingly beautiful adventure of being the subject of Miss Bhavya's interest. Several metres away, Bhavya lay content on her back, with her serene sense of understanding of her own smartness. And as such, silence will look after us. She closed her eyes and was sun-kissed by Yohaan's thoughts -- his delicious eyes all over her body.

The ancient holy books spoke of an incident about two birds. While one ate happily, the other was happy to see it eat. It was left upon us as a question, as to who was happier.

Who, do you think?

Writing a Novel

Two desks away from me, a girl in a black shawl with her hair tied in a rough, disgusted, careless bun has sat up on her 5 pm chair, and I can see that she is working on modern inventions. I...

Spending nights in strange towns with strangers sound so ethereally lyrical, like it were an endless adventure which did not deviate from its promise of being infinitely fulfilling... 

The blinds are not fully pulled down in the next building. I am lured by all that could be happening there, in the right wing of the office, right now...

There were a series of coughs from different points across the hall, a conspiracy, the sensible ear knew.

Walk past terraces, the clothes lined up are telling of the thread within -- some of the daily, disciplined, disinterested chores, some of intimate stains removed, while others, they were striving to survive the pangs of ambition, or indolence.

"My child would never get to perform like them," thought the sweeper, who hurriedly cleaned the stage after Act I of the performance as the curtains went down. He could still hear the claps, something he knew his daughter would never know -- how a clap could feel, how it could fill one up.

Six fantastic beginnings over a scattered timeline confirmed her brilliance, a brilliance which was mostly overshadowed by her consistent inconsistencies, failed promises yet inspired efforts. Beginnings that never found an end, beginnings which remained a journey to be explored. Finally they found their way at the end of a novel, someone else's novel. Between you and me, this timely cunning in me was a masterstroke -- I sold her unfinished first lines exactly as they were -- unfinished collection of first lines. Of my character.

And that is how she could not write a novel -- the novel way I went on to write mine -- Coming Soon.

A Fairy Story

The business of selling stories is largely governed by the desire to yearn for one. And sadly, it is on a downhill. Hence, I, like a responsible mother have had to figure out other unwordy (pronounce: unworthy) means to continue with life and life's various callings for short drives and crispy french fries. On one such weekend, I had the pleasure of finding my daughter lose one of her teeth to a soggy french toast. If you have ever been party to such an occasion, you must be aware of the consequences. To the uninitiated, let me politely put it across -- it is nothing short of an event -- complete with its shocking yell, the how-will-I-go-to-school-tomorrow on loop, and a general sadness overcome only by the mythical offerings of tooth fairies and wishes that c/would come true!

Amidst coloured papers, glue, scissors and a paraphernalia of stationery, I tried to cheer her up by taking her in my lap and forcefully charting a white fish and a white duck on each of her cheeks with the Fevicol tube. Having realised such petty wonders do not satiate children of the day, I whispered in her ears that we would have the tooth back sooner than the proposed date. I do not know how to, and now that it is almost time for her to be back from school, I am nervous. Nervous about a plan I do not have. I have cooked her a nice lunch of soya rice and egg curry and hopefully, this story will be sweeter than the custard:

The Tooth Fairy was tired of fulfilling every child's wishes. One day, tired of flying, she sat under a tree, and thought, "Oh, when will someone ask me if I have any wish?" In fact, she was so angry about all the children losing their teeth that lately, she was not doing her usual rounds of fitting them back. She contrived a delayed arrival and spent most of her time under the tree. Now this was a beautiful tree, having lovely gems and gums for fruits -- red, orange, blue, yellow. 

The green leaves spoke to her one day, "Do not cry, Fairy. I understand your pain. Tell me your wish. I will see if I can fulfill it!" The fairy was excited. In magical lands, normal was extraordinary. "Thank you, dear tree! Often I get lonely while travelling to children all over the world. You are my friend, and how I wish we could travel together! Yes, that's my wish!" 

The tree looked grim for a while. "Alas, Fairy, I do not have wings!" After sometimes, it rustled in excitement and shouted, "Oh! But I have a plan, I have a plan!" The Fairy loved this green conspiracy and asked after it. "Go ahead, have one of my fruits -- have a gum!" 

"The chewing gum you mean?" asked the Fairy.

"Yes, that. Tear one, chew it and finally gulp it."

The Fairy was surprised. "What will happen?"

"Oh, there will be a tree in your stomach after that! You can carry me with you and for a change, you can stick back the children's tooth with the gum!"

The Fairy clapped in joy and started chewing upon an especially fruity gum. Soon enough, she started yelling, "Tree, tree, there's some rumbling in my tummy!"

The tree replied rather grandfatherly-wise, "Why, of course! The fruits are making merry!"

From that day onward, when you find a chewing-gum stuck to your bare gum, know that the Fairy has belched out a fruit. But, be very careful, should you gulp it, like her, you too will have a tree in your tummy. The Fairy won't be very happy, will not listen to you ever again and you will end up with a tree, not a tooth!


I must admit, hearing her slight snore from the hollow of her pillow is more of a relief now, than happiness. She readily said a "No!" when I told her that we could fix the bare bit of her gum with a white chewing-gum, crafty that I was! My daughter laughed for the first time since she lost her tooth and I can only hope that she is intelligent enough to understand that sometimes, just sometimes, elders tell a story to unveil the truth rather than garb it.

T(w)o You

"And who do you think looks better?" The voice was audible and pointed.

"Why, you think you do?" The reply too, was direct and heard.

"I want an answer for a question, not a question."

"You would look better if it weren't for me."

The faces smiled at each other. As one approached, the other neared. They collided in a soft diffusion of the steam of a hot tea meeting the specks of its drinker. One lit her cigarette only to find the other blow the smoke. She wore the smile of the person who knew who the winner was. But did she? No, she did not. The shine gave away like the steam. Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick, there were no more questions, mere glances.

"You need a good wash. Wash the dust off diversions."

"You need a good wash. Wash the dust off diversions."

On the surface of the mirror, they merged as one and emerged as two again. 

I Have an Opinion!

My mother is what you would call, "do not interfere with how I run my show" kind of woman. She handed down to me, rather non-lovingly, with complete no fuss, some real lessons about life, which, unfortunately, stand true. "Irrespective of whether one is a beggar, middle-class, or a millionaire, if there are two or more brothers in the scenario, there has to be a fight for the property." She is well-read in Mahabharata and has a family full of business-men brothers, which helps her to back up her conclusion with great logical reasoning from surrounding evidences and grand mythical examples. from her readings. Somehow, the nature of how the reasoning unfolds has become way more palpable now, than how it used to be earlier. It is undeniably alarming.

For reasons which include guarding my sensibility, I will not mention more of her fine observations (could not resist -- "be satisfied with shit if you aren't willing to move your ass").

Moving away from my more illustrious mother, I am what one would call, "I welcome your views (vocally) for my show but will finally run it (silently) my way" kind of woman. I avoid confrontation and find it extremely tiring and energy-consuming. Thus said, I hardly have any conclusions about life, always believing that everything is capable of a change. Even so, one belief has fatally found its step in my ideology, again, quite unfortunately. "Whether one is a maid, or a millionaire, these days, marriages fail." I believe I am a creator of fiction, so I would not rely one an author's expression for validation, but all around me, the number of women who are being subjected to a bad relationship feels like being audience to a deck of cards, rapidly sliding. The institution is evaporating, especially with women's rights and all. All that love and promise seem so superficial in the rage of routine monthly living.

So, what is it with the men and their handling of property and women? Was it not Mahabharata which became an epic over the possession of Hastinapur and the mishandling of Draupadi? Is it not your mother who succumbs to TV serials while she folds the dried clothes, trying to make sense or escape from her own crumbling world? Is it not your teacher who is charming and powerful, in whom you must have noticed the wrinkles of an abused past, or a silent, suffering present? Does your maid not show you proud marks of her husband's punch on her? And, well, most definitely, how many "educated" women around you are bearing the cross in the name of love, or living in a bubble of newness? It is sad how everything reduces to a rubble -- the honeymoon period, the everyday sameness, the framed photographs of happy holidays and the legality of togetherness. 

My family has a history of "bad luck for girls" -- another one from my mother's conclusions. While it surely does, and there is no denying it, I am so happy that yesterday's bad, failed women are holding the hands of today's smarter fools and have a fresh way to show them. I am glad that I can counter my mother's phrase with "self-made new luck" for the girls. We have accepted that acting like Sita and getting swallowed is boring. 

In fact, it is time we shun the Goddesses, and start living our human potential, our woman potential. I think, in this process I have somewhere written it all over that in spite of my best efforts to refuse it, I am, after all, a fiercely fucking feminist and it is time that you too, like the woolen clothes that need a reverse sunbath, bring out that humane self. Slay the devils -- it does not take a trishul, all it takes is one step, a decidedly determined step, to respect yourself.

PS: This is not my attempt to raise a slogan against men. One of the few people dearest to my soul, is a son of the family, and is more a feminist than I am.

Frozen

The woolly sheep's tail broke as it fell down with the exceptionally strong jerk of the closing of the door. Four years thought Paridhi, as she picked up one portion of the ceramic-woolen tail on the way to put the packet of sausage to thaw. It was quite sometime that they were shuffled, the various tales stuck on the fridge. When one broke its silence, the rest stirred up, as if part of a secret community -- initially in disjointed whispers and finally in a hushed unison.

Swiftly, Paridhi chopped the sausages, sliced the mushrooms and arranged the arrangement platter, with the same passion if one were to create a new flag of individual identity. Little coloured circles bordered the white plate, rings of pleasure -- green capsicum followed by an excited army of yellow and red bell peppers. Next stood the bright orange carrot cuts and following suit was a light pink onion concentrate and a tiny jeweled white garlic institution. They seemed to protect the not-so-sturdy constitution of the wily brown mushrooms, together, even in slices.

Once it was set to her content, she took it and placed it and out on the table -- partly out of her decision to not cook now and partly to appreciate her own efforts. The day had longingly begun to play around her puppeteer's fingers, as there were no deadlines today. In her mental list of holiday, today was one, and generally she devoted it to lavishly while away time, minute by minute. She took a sip of her strong vodka shot swimming softly in tender coconut water and looked at the woolly sheep's tail. It was not even ten in the morning, and she was ready to set sail on a trip by herself.

The room seemed to cater to her comfort and music swayed out of flowing curtains and distant cycle bells. It was a perfect morning to lament as Paridhi clicked on an instrumental playlist from her phone. As the flute began to mingle with the tabla, she took another sip and picked up the basket on which she had put together all the magnets and mementos which were stuck on the fridge door. She missed not having a cigarette around, and pulled out the green bar-man from Prague. How much did you cost, fat man? Nine euros? It is remarkable how I do not remember, but I do remember how much I had to haggle to get a dozen of your lot. Where are they? Do you remember them, or you too, have merely moved on with your ensemble company? With this, she put it back and took her time to decide between the Alpine rope-way and the Vienna Secession magnets. 'How many burgers did I give up to have you instead?' she asked aloud to the breathtaking design on the Secession souvenir. How badly I had wanted to kiss the red-head boy, with drooping eyelids who smiled as he understood how much I wanted you! She held it tight, but could not remember his face. She took her third, long sip quickly and fast forwarded the track to one on drums. How do I have a memory without a face? 

It was a rusty round badge-like magnet, cheap and devoid of its original Goan colour. We had finished that entire Absolut bottle. She got up and returned with a lit cigarette. Paridhi picked up the magnet once more. We finished one entire Absolut bottle, just as simply as our marriage. Were we merely drunk? She poured herself another peg and disturbed the anatomy of the little circles as she broke into the carrot cuts. Little chess magnets of a King, Queen and Pawns held up carefully selected quotes from TS Eliot. Oh yes, once I understood poetry. She looked deep into Klimt's 'The Kiss.' And art. As Paridhi looked out of the window and down into the lane she thought of the many refrigerators which had held such memories like a cold cellar which enriched their taste. Cellar, not coffin. 

The vodka had ignited her fingertips and the end of her hair. She felt alive with the ownership of many pasts. And as she curled up in her couch, she saw the plate of colours drifting away and becoming one with the magnets. Cellar, not coffin. Memories, not souvenirs. Frozen on the fridge. She slept with a smile, things around her diffusing their shapes and smell as she closed her eyes.

On the opposite couch, Paridhi sat, watching her reclined self. And how silly of you to have frozen over memories! She wore an aura of one who lived her life very well. Can you hear me, Paridhi? I can hear myself! And she laughed. Do not wait for dreams any more! Wake up. We have to construct a new future now. Away from our known past. She was about to lament when she seemed to laugh at her own joke. Get up, Paridhi! Time to get thawed!

Distant Thunder

What is more distant that distance, the purpose of poetry and the meaning of metaphor? What is this sentence? It sounds, as the urban chic, my friends from yesterday would call it, "loaded." The last time I visited this notebook, I was few pounds lesser and some clouds higher. I wore off, sedated in the natural course of hard work and seduced by discerning charm. Like automated display boards which one cannot shun, other fellow maestros emerged. Their bright confidence swallowed my already dim one, their popularity slapped on me one sharp insulting wave after the other, and before I knew, I was caught in a deceptive whirlpool of fireflies, I had taken for fantasy.

These days the thick tubes and sharp needles don't hurt. Sleep does. Do you feel the vacuum engulf you? No medicines ever succeed to put me to slumber before I have chanced a meeting with the concrete emptiness. It is more mysterious than a magnetic force, and lesser demanding too. They try and tell me that I could be fine, that I should try, that I have a fabulous life waiting upon me. Sometimes I wonder if they are faking such conviction and such promises, merely to be true to their work. I remain wilted -- what was that writer-ly phrase -- "wisp of smoke," yes. 

Do you sometimes feel that you could belong to a cinema, with the perfection of a love or a tragic story taking beautiful care of you, just as much affectionate care was taken to drape you in the skirt you flaunted in rhythm with love. I wish I belonged to the roll of reel, frozen in a cyclic celebration, each lip-shade in sync with the emotion, without my having to take care of it. When I sit in the cold washroom, which does not even have a magazine rack, I like to believe I am part of a cinema, unfolding everyday with an audience awaiting to marvel upon my mediocrity. I suffer from it. I also suffer from a lack of ambition. How I wish the swing would stop suspended at either end of my wish, there would be a rain of confetti and the regular applause would make the scene extraordinary.

The cinema is so distant, indeed. Like distance, and the purpose of poetry and the meaning of metaphor. Loaded, is that what you are calling it? I had carefully intended chaos for the unwitting mind. Is that not how writers born? They build dreams and then those dreams begin breathing. Breathe in, breathe out -- how many times I have heard it. Each time to ask myself back, why am I hearing it. I am the song of the earth, the flight of the soul. 

I essay your shadow.


"And finally, I am pleased to call Miss Gaatha Purohit on the stage please" the sound-box boomed. Gaatha did not win the top three slots for best writing. She walked up, a little dazed. "Her piece, On How a Mad Woman Would Perhaps Write deserves a special award for..." the rounds of applause dissolved the word. They spoke about how fearlessly disintegrated her writing was. Later, she was informed that the jury were 'scared' reading it. As she stroked her trophy, Gaatha was still beaming. She could hear the thundering applause and the deafening admiration. They did not sound from a distant past at all.

The F Word

Well, if you thought this was a post about the most used F word in vocab or in thoughts or in action, it is not. I choose the second most used F word instead. When a person becomes fat, we blame one of the usual and general suspects -- eating habits, lack of exercise, questionable posture and sleep pattern. However, when a Bengali becomes fatter, we have the grand specific hurled at her, the eternal enemy, the crown on the plate -- rice. Tired of blaming my inactive and unhealthy lifestyle, I too, take solace in having the Rice as the Reason I have turned into this unattractive lump.

If you believe that body-shaming ain't correct, sorry hun and sorry bro, this is not gonna be a great read. Being fat is not just a social taboo, it is an individual battle. It is direct kilograms added to the invisible weight predominantly burdening the mind. In one life I have seen my body language sift through my face and fingers, from thin to fat to sexy to unfit. And each time, it inevitably clinges on that crown of confidence that refuses to show itself even to magic potions and pills.

What is it then, about being fat that makes me so uncomfortable? I do not fit into clothes that I feel I should be in, I am guilty to eat things I love to eat and movement angers me. Is this a life? It has only been about three-four years that I started getting compliments, it has been a couple since I was called attractive and charming, and it has been magical, knowing I am "lookable." So long, such were privileges other people were born with and fairer people had the undue luxury of. 

Have you identified your enemy? Is it the Chair you sit on for nine hours a day? Is it the Rice you gobble thrice? Or is it the Ice-Cream you cannot refuse? Congratulations. In my case, all of them and more. I tired out of trying the F-word on them, they don't wilt. You fish for compliments and there is only air, unlike the building army of fat around your waist. Is this a life? All that "your mind is sexy" and "your personality is sexy" is so shady without a fitted attire to shine out from. Does this sound demeaning and limiting? Well, Fat has fucked the fitness of my body and soul. Fat has stopped me from feeling fine and fat is here to stay. 

 

If you are afraid, for yourself or for me, please suggest a motivating factor on kuntalasengupta@gmail.com that would help function upon remedies and exercises. Else, all is but an F word.

 

#FatAF. #SadAF. #MissBeingSexyAF.

Colours of Chicken II

I am sad to have neither received any chips from any of you good souls, nor be called over for a drink. But I am tireless, and the coffee is good, hence I continue, for your pleasure only, since we have had the pleasure of having it already!

Day 3: Pissed with trying to avoid pizzas and not knowing how to live up to "good-food" I ran into the kitchen last weekend. The month had merely begun and my promised quota of chips was already consumed. I was in a foul mood as I put some extra chillies in the musur dal. This could not go on, this being deprived of entertainment and budgeting our days and falling into the habit of rejection, I thought, and opened the freezer to the rest of the chicken. This time the marinate was in grated ginger and onion. The rest as they say, is history. I used the dhania powder to great use and ignored the rest of the yearning spices and pining tomatoes. To this I added a secret ingredient (it is a secret, not aamchur or hing). I repeat it is a secret which I will not let out. Now readers, I am not beating my own trumpet, but really the Mother should stop saying that meat takes no calibre to cook. She cooks exceptional fish and paanch torkari and patient's chicken (a mix between stew and curry and soup), but I would willingly challenge her to making the meat taste so diverse each time. I am waiting to find out who cooks the mutton at Bhai-Phota (for 40+ people) this time. This wood brown preparation was nothing like what either of us had tasted in a long, long time. The nearest M said it reminded her of, was, of her childhood chicken, which is a huge compliment because I also have a soft corner, no, reverence actually, for slow cooking -- nothing beats it.

Day 4: Yesterday, the weather changed. One could see fog and feel a dip. It made me feel like this is the Delhi I always loved -- gently gregarious. It was an evening to slowly smoke on the balcony, which too I have almost let gone of. It was a lovely evening of welcoming winter. I had befriended the local vegetable vendor and got some lovely vegetables and beaten M to her wise measures. I forget! I was happy because I had the first orange! Yes, that must be it. This was the Delhi of long drives and drinks and wild lights. We had to prep today's tiffin and were done segregating the groceries when I said let's cook something delightful! M said she wanted a "light" chicken. I asked her if she would like a soup. "No" she said. Ok, light-coloured! How was that niramish (vegetarian) mutton made? Wasn't it draped in its holy off-white? I had thought of an alternative -- comforting, warm, white-ish, wintry chicken -- I could visualize it, but how do I do it? Once again, like a painter to her brush, I took to my knife and carefully selected the ingredients -- which, deliberately, I will not mention. I think I should have a testimonial here from M about how it tasted, or looked. I can still try and post a photograph from the remains after I get home today. The burnt red chilli and the fresh green micro-inches of coriander gleamed out of the pressure cooker. The chicken sat cushioned against a gravy of sophisticated off-white, garlanded by a rich spill of oil, ornamenting it like a neckpiece. It wasn't dhania chicken, no. It was just the kind which makes you feel you should be under the quilt, with the TV on, Harry Potter or some SRK movie running on it and soldiers of breadsticks to chew the gravy with. 

Gosh. I cannot work anymore. I must go home and eat. 

Gosh, I write palpably well. You are invited -- to compliment and come over for a meal! (Please do not forget to get a packet of chips, or a bottle of good whiskey along). I am tired of doing things for free.

Colours of Chicken

I have always taken outright pride in declaring that I am the sous chef -- I chop and I clean. I almost feel like a product with a tagline, guaranteeing an unfailing performance. However, this phenomena is on the verge of being challenged as I now, over a span of couple of weeks, have cooked something that is better than how I cook mutton. Most things are an accident. I took to the kitchen this time because I was dissatisfied with how my friend left the kitchen. Basically, I have been disgusted and dissatisfied with everything.

The heat of the stove and the piling dishes can choke the best of chefs, but in my case, I was glad to have learnt how to master dal and recollect Mom's dal and ideate what the recipe could possibly be. And I cooked Bengali chhanar dalna with paneer. It smelled very bengali and went down unprecedentedly well. Now it was the turn of the chicken. The chicken cooked at my Salt Lake house is generally very uninteresting -- a local tender hen (the star) cooked mildly (sets without shining). It bored me. I could not convince my mother to separate the kilos and cook them differently. She is not one to be messed with, who knows, she might have just flung the ladle or spud in hand at me. Now that the kitchen was kind of my kingdom, I did exactly that.

1: I followed M's instructions and cooked a luscious honey-glazed chilli chicken out of the beautifully diced boneless set. The prep time was longer than the actual cooking. It was a fiery maroon to look, and perfectly accompanied the deceivingly bland looking vermicelli we turn into noodles. A sight to behold, how those harmless looking little bits turned into mighty bites of flavour. The crisp of the onion slices made me believe that the way a knife runs through an onion governs the taste of the item. I thanked my good sense to not leave behind my knives home.

Day 2: Somedays later, with our boned chicken, I took one half and marinated it in a mixture of curd and various basic spices. With the sound of the tomatoes sizzling in the mustard oil, I realized this was up for another stellar preparation too, especially with the curry taking up the fragrance of the whole spices like a sponge to soapwater. It was marvellous and made us miss the ruti. What we get here is either the massive tandoori rotis which are too chewy after sometime, or the unnecessary Roomali, which I do not have any respect for. Anyway, the chicken was cooked thoroughly thick, and could easily classify as chicken kassa. By the time this slightly red-slightly brown chicken was devoured, a little sour and mostly hot, my confidence generated a glow and I took charge of the regular cooking. I teamed it up with a make-believe navaratan pulao -- nutritious with the colourful bits of vegetables, semi precious with nuts, sweet in its demeanour -- we felt like attending a royal's private invite.

The rest will follow in a different post. I can almost see you salivating. I had a slice of extra sweet chocolate cake (couldn't finish it) with an espresso, go, grab a coffee before you read my next! And if you like it (I hope you aren't listening, M), you can always courier me a packet of chips!

Hellhole

Creative needs and ambition can make one selfish, very, very, selfish. One is torn between living on either side of the wall that is home. While the trauma of being torn can turn into a habit, the tension never ages. And one sudden sunny morning, all modernist texts come alive with the groping question looming large -- what is the meaning of it all -- meaning of life, meaning of living, meaning of surviving and meaning of meaning?

A deck of cards set out to become a synchronised castle, stays so for a smile and then, comes crashing, uneventfully. Nothing happens, because it was meant to tumble. And eventually, even the fall is disappointing, a well of boredom. Yes, that is my arch enemy, so much so that I do not even feel vengeful anymore. I take it in, unlike Batman, who wished to get out of that well of suffering. I have grown a world within -- distasteful, disinterested and discouraging. How it stinks, boredom, with its claws scathing the soul.

People, places, positions -- everything seems to fall apart. Even, philosophy, and physics. And no, I am not playing with an alphabet, instead the alphabet is playing with me, without any purpose. I went in, brave and armed with a key, but the moment boredom got the better of me, I am too weak and unwilling to come out, to even reach for the key. So much so, that this feels home, except that that too requires emotion -- any attachment. 

It was then that a tiny little word with wings came my way, a blazing fire for its tail. It read "Hellhole" but it was anything but dark. I was now too devoid of emotions to be afraid so I held it in my palms. From a distant somewhere, a near future I could see. I was falling, and I was flying. I never recognised my ambition, but it was all that my weight was. It is just a word, look how Powerful! Strangely, the alphabet didn't seem to play with me anymore. It had a purpose. It has one.

Selfishly, I decided to do away with boredom and revisit the land of words. There they were, pretty little powerful things, amusing me. I could not believe I was at their helm. I was Batman and my rope was made of words. My world was made of words. My life is words. Hellhole brought back memories of a yesteryear I faithfully survived, with words. I doodled them then.

Now? Why, I write. Pure.

Letter to Chhuti XXIII

Hi!

Ambitiously, and thoughtlessly, regardless of what you may have to say, I had merely pulled the curtains on you. How happy I am to be proved wrong, to find you lurking, innocuously, like a forgotten torn button inside a pocket. And how faithfully you have stayed, an endless dreams where holidays never end.

The sturdy carrots that usher in the warmth of a sweet winter, the snacky oranges that unpeel last year's thoughts, the fog that stands victorious over the dawn, jingles that you are around. Sweetheart, there are hours at a stretch when I am not me -- when you are only to speed on a highway and cannot press the brakes -- such moments reveal a disastrous side of me, a bitter one where I yell and yield to things which have never earlier bothered me.

And then we are greeted with "alert." Such signals are strange Chhuti, they reverse the entire grandiose of embittered living. The absence of next is so stark that one gives in to the pleasant now. To think of it, how misleading I have been, to think that I have embarked on a new chapter of life, without you. I shied away I think, embarrassed when I felt the red pangs of my cheek to people's "You are on an eternal holiday!"

Bloody hell, yes I am. My unattended dark circles and long lists need not cancel that. The racing heartbeats too, can mute themselves to the banter of the crowd. I forgot I have you all the time and any time I wish to. It took me a while to go through all the letters addressed to you, which you may not read, to look for you in the lurks of the dust-borne curtains, and there you were, eyes shining like a reverie.

You were the past years rolled into a motion photograph, with the power to highlight in my hands. You are the past years rolled into a motion photograph, smiling out of ordinary frames.

No wonder, you never went anywhere.

Love,
K.

The Listener

Familiar voices pour into my ears and with a sizzle, rightfully touch the soul. They do not demand, do not expect, and go on being who they are -- performing for the dark space in which their listeners' faces linger. And I, I listen to them intently as if learning about their lives would sort mine. How could I not, it feels like an enticing, compelling sermon, like someone opened a window with a view of the gushing waterfalls in the distant, rushing towards life.

On multiple occasions, I have sought refuge in switching the TV on, only to listen to those known voices, replaying their lives and roles all over again. There is no adventure, because I know what would happen next, and to be able to forecast the future, who is not happy with that? While working on the laptop, I have Koffee with Karan or invisibly stay with Ghosh & Co. They go about running and hosting their houses in the background, oblivious of atrocious errors I clean. They dig out treasures all over their guest maps. This sharing, this fearless sharing, make them more own than concerned uncles and aunts and more dear than conceited evil uncles and evil aunts. 

I haven't yet bought a TV here, and needless to say the depression setting in from its absence is appalling. There are no irritating jingles barging into beautiful movies, no binge watching of Harry Potter and Grey's Anatomy and most importantly, no decided laugh that I can have over a justly categorised 'bad-movie.' They are people in my room who do not care whether I lie on the phone, or what and how I eat. They do not judge my severe thickness jutting out of doodled shorts or discoloured t-shirts. They do not ask me anything, anything at all. They don't even retaliate when I ask them to shut up and move on. They are my best friends.

This afternoon, trying to gather the shreds that people have turned me into and dispersed, and to forget even myself for a while, I invited Rituparno Ghosh's Titli in my ears. It was a thoughtless choice, but as they say, sometimes impulse is divine. The internet connection was powerful even with the introduction as the otherwise nyaka song "Megh piyon'er..." felt nothing inferior than a long awaited massage, thoughtfully gifted. 

The Sen mother-daughter began their impeccable banter, which frames the cultural crown of Bengali popular artsy movies. I could not refrain myself to only their voices, and opened the tab. I must have resembled a clinically ill person, smiling at the screen in the office. And then there was the mist of Kurseong and the thrill of the lyrical shot in which Mithun is shown to walk in, a silhouette taking slow shape right into the heart, till he took the shape of the heartbeat. My goosebumps made me realize I should stop watching it and go back to listening the movie. I did.

I am a very happy person now. I love the old Ghosh of Titli, Shubho Mahurat and Utsab. He explores the complexest of relationships with the effortlessness of having being through them all. The cross-hatch of his dialogues is a tribute to details. So many actors now seem orphan without him. Anyway, to return to Titli, I feel like I have just hosted a fabulous party -- and each one on the guest list was selectively catered to. I baked and cooked and fed and feel satiated myself.

I listened, I listened and I listened. Like it was all meant for me. I was home with the stars.