Love-Letter (XLII)

Dearest,

'April is the cruelest month' poetry-readers have gone on to approve and over-use. April is ending here. Technically, in a matter of couple of hours. But the cruelty, I believe, would persist. The scorching, sweltering, sweaty sunshine, sucking in selfishly the precious resource of whatever little momentum we have in the name of energy -- this is not when I think of you. Only, that is. I think of you most of the time. But this time around, April has brought called for your attention in a more demanding manner.

You are hardly here. In fact, your absence is so unbearable, that I am afraid, longing is no longer pleasant. The hours of the days are long and unwanted, the nights seem unending and, to top it, the evenings mask your announcement, which inevitably reveals itself as a lie. Where are you, when you are much awaited here? Do you ask for prayers? Do you need me to beg? Do you want me to sing in my rather uneven voice? What would yield a visit from you?

We have never much paid any attention to the month of May, always knowing that we will escape it somehow. The preparation is enough to sustain the criminal heat. But this time I look up to May as the metaphor of Hope. That you may happen. That you may arrive. And when you do, you may stay. If only I could rename May as Will. No amount of will, unfortunately, is able to do that.

And thus I return to the letter. Please. Just please. Without you, I cannot even. Just cannot even. You know the rest, don't you? What good does it do to your already towering ego that it needs me to yearn for you? Why cannot you love me back, for once? Without a planned visit, a surprise shower?

I have always loved you, Rain. I will. 

Come,

K.

Head & Shoulder

No. This is not about the shampoo. Certainly not about that. I had my interview earlier this morning. You know for an internship. The last few months have been very crucial and pressing. Entrances, preps, applications, decisions, answering curious relatives, exams, and finally doing infinite rounds for an internship opportunity. I have been inducted today at the factory of String Weaves. It is a three months paid course, and they really appreciated my new ideas about textile and design. Fabric is the king, I stressed. I guess my belief won me the chance. They have asked me to join from Monday next and report at 10 am sharp. I will not die before that, if I can help it. My first job! I am excited! I have so much to show and express!

While I was on the bus, back with the good news in my bag, I never thought I would write about it. But how can I not? You tell me. This is the story of Komal Sahay, an ordinary girl from an industrialist family background, who want to get me married off in another month if they could. "This is just a pass-time" they say. Well, if only. Fabrics are my passion. Since the time I can remember, the reassurance of that tactile moment promised comfort, they would curl up to my fingers and benumb me like the tracing of a mobile phone, which rings to delight, when heard from the other room, you know? When you think you have lost it.

As I was planning on what to do once I was home, I fell the slight weight of sleep on my eye-lids. The AC bus was pleasantly comfortable. I put on my playlist instead of changing radio channels on my earphones, and thought of how my family would react to my internship. I was looking at the hoardings of boutiques that would open in a week, or a sale that would last another three days. I recalled how my Bong friends would inevitably yelp at the sight of the big biryani store, standing proudly on the main road. The heat had not hit my head, and the music was soothing. That was the last thing I remembered.

And then, all that was, was a bed of linen. I immersed in a farm full of cotton yarns and strobe light stitches for effect. I was drowning, deeper and deeper. The smooth fall was like they show on the TV shows of how an egg white is whipped till it became a ribbon. A ribbon that would take the taste of any essence that would be put into it -- chocolate, vanilla, coffee, strawberry. I landed next, smartly, and settled on that ethereally comfortable bed. Surprisingly, it smelt fresh too. What was it? I knew it. Caramel? No. Citrus? No. Musk? Yes. Jovan Musk. Who sprayed that on the linen? I questioned it and held on to it. I opposed the idea but could not refute it. 

I was open-mouthed when I woke up on the shoulder of the passenger next to me. He got off two stops before mine and God knows what he must have thought during the ride! I am ashamed to have slept so deep. I admit I was tired, but he must have been scandalised! Now that I write, I cannot even call to mind if he indeed wore a linen shirt, or the musk fragrance. Was it him or my dream? It was the best sleep I had in a long, long time.

My head on his shoulder. 

Horrorscope

He didn't have a single ring on any of his fingers. Inside the shabby lane, within the shabbier building, stood out his chamber -- a delight made out of newspapers, for his name plate, which colourfully, a little unreliably gave out his name -- Vinayak Gupta, Astrolger -- in orange. Underneath it, a tinier sentence followed in green -- "No computer." Strangely enough, he was rather famous, but without the degrees to bestow him the amount he could charge a reading, he was average in monetary matters. His interest in the stars came from his love from Maths and combined with curiosity, he set out on his own, without a care for earning. No, this would be wrong to say. His interest in astrology came from the prediction of a palmist of his lines. That palmist had guaranteed him a life off others. He did not know then what it meant, but gradually the lines of his learning became clearer, combined with planetary positions and topographical placements.

He would end up with a decent amount daily, which ran away rather fast in tending to rent and living. But that never deterred Vinayak from the diligence with which he was putting in an effort to fortune-tell. He enjoyed the content on his client's face when he would reassuringly inform them of the success in a new venture they would want to undertake. He was equally grieved when he had dark times to unveil for his next client. Thus went Vinayak's days. His nights, however, were not as sketchy as blinking stars. They were as clear as the full-moon.

When he began this journey to foretell, he was already aware of his own. That, and the palmist's prediction came together to give rise to the scheme against the stars. Those were his nights -- how to defeat the future. All he needed was a topaz, which he could not afford. The colourless one, that is. Without any impurity. It would act and react with the planets' plans, and give him the name he had always longed for. And thus set with determination, he made a pact with RK Jewellers, to whom he would recommend his clients for their diamond or emerald. A percentage from each sale was building up towards his Topaz.

The horror came when Vinayak woke up one morning to the newspaper section which declared the Jewellery Shop Strike all over the nation. Immediately, he called Radhakant Babu. The call went unanswered -- for days, not mere hours. He could not concentrate on the day's readings. A walk to the shop only validated the shutters pulled down. But he could sense trouble. Foretell.

Vinayak commissioned a local thief to burgle out only his portion of the savings from the shop. As luck would have it, he got caught and spilled Vinayak's name almost immediately. The topaz never made its way to his fingers. But his name was all over as the "Man Cheats Man. Gets Caught by Destiny." Inside the lock-up, that night, Vinayak finally smiled, after all his cellmates were done with their future unfolded by him.

He knew this would happen, a mishap. This too shall pass. He left the jail in five day's time and came out a surprisingly fresh man -- more confident than ever. He went straight to RK Jewellers and invested in a Topaz.
It did ensure him name.

In two days' time, he left his shabby chamber and went live with his computer programming of predictions. Maths always fascinated him. The permutation and combination of this and that, guaranteed there would be curious hits on his name now, more than ever. Correct that the palmist remained, Vinayak lived off others.

His website opened to a tangy voice saying "Welcome to Horrorscope. We alter future." As a testimonial, Vinayak proudly put up the story of his life.The stars shone bright on him. Till this day though, he is unsure though, if it indeed is his calculations or the credibility of the topaz.

He could never gather the courage to remove it from his finger.

Basic

The year was 2014. Jingbang travelled to Darjeeling. I was still basic, especially with a basic phone and without a camera. Photography and photographers have always been heart-breakers, I am tortured and terrified. I had a Samsung Primo, more because it had a stainless steel back than its 5 mp lens. Having said all of these, I still return to these three photographs, captured one after the other, by me, rather nonchalantly, and they remained non-filtered. I may have been a little high on sorrow and weed. If I ever own a house, with walls bare even after paintings, doodles and posters on them, I will put these up. I know I can never return to that moment, when the clouds swam inside our car through the window, but the serenity will be enough to remind me that basic is beautiful. Very, very beautiful.

"Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike" Sylvia Plath.

Tripping with the Clouds

Intensely Infinite

Yes, breathtakingly beautiful. Thank you.

If EAF Wouldn't Be

The language called English, found its way in my life through -- would you believe -- a battle of words, how funny! Between my father and mother, I am glad to announce that my mother emerged the winner and put me into an ‘English Medium School’, which has, in turn, also become the punching bag for everything she wishes to blame me for – my manners, choices, opinions, oh, and certainly, my poise with pronunciation. Yes, ‘English Medium School’ has made me a horrible person (don’t you dare doubt it) – uber-liberal, commitment-phobic, and with a twisted mind. Oh no, that her highness separately assigns to my father’s lineage – “they are cunning, calculative, narrow-minded, limited, and we are straight-forward, short-tempered, fun-loving and risk-takers!” There you have it – your author in a mess of genetic diversity, convent fed habits, self-taught perceptions – with an unavoidable affection towards her friends – the twenty six characters of the English language.

Your author is a mess alright, but you have been with her for so long, that you must have be believing in some kind of charisma that works for her. Hey, if you don’t, please, I would like you to believe in it. Why the effort? Because of friendship, why else! For what am I without A to Z? I now have my Nobel Prize award receiving speech ready, “I would like to dedicate this award to the first friends of my life – the English Alphabet Family!” That’s rather novel, what do you think? Well, we will see if we can work our way to upgrade the speech when I get a confirmation of being nominated for the Nobel. Till such time, let me take you back to EAF. Sounds a bit like an UFO’s code, but it is just the acronym for English Alphabet Family.

Childhood memories often live in the form of scars and jars. I have a stitch on my chin to prove I was always athletic (or, restless, in the least). Barring that, I carry memories of slaps and whacks for ruining walls and befriending any stray piece of paper. Writing instruments fascinated me. To keep me chained all that was needed, was a pen and paper. To have a child like that in today’s age must feel like a blessing, but my mother disagrees. Excess – her term being ‘oti-oti’ – of anything is bad, she still insists. Mothers never get to know when their daughters outgrow them. The EAF caressed me like a lover, kissed me with the possibilities of their fonts, cuddled me by building garlands of words in various combinations. I took to them like a fish takes to water. And the water was so luscious, so delicious, so engrossing that, as visible, I still haven’t quite been able to come out of it.

And here I swim, backstroke – looking up at the sky where members of EAF take turns in playing hide and seek with the stars and clouds, I try a dive and EAF here gets inside the bubbles that I release in a laidback delay, and with open eyes I see them transform into grasshoppers and mermaids. While I turn sideways in doing freestyle, my buddies tease me with ripples that whisper myths in my one-side open ear. And I swim.

EAF has not only been my friends, it would not be wrong to say they are family. They are twenty six shades of me, out in the open. They are not just my first friends, now tied fast, but they are what we call, in no-Queen’s English, “Friends Forever”. 

If EAF wouldn't be, there would be no me. 

Oh Baby!

All I want is that skirt. That straight skirt, slightly slit from the knees, meant to be worn to the movies, where he would softly touch my knees. The cry of the baby woke her from her conscious slumber. She was breast-feeding while pretending to listen to her cousin, who had ritualistically come over to pay her a visit. Priyankshi smiled and admired her cousin's clothes -- the fitted cropped top, loosely hanging over her slit skirt -- casually, like a shirt on a hanger, but well protected. She was yearning to get in those clothes, having been stuck to her maternal apparels for the longest time she could remember.

If only I could get one day of her life, now. By God, I would resist returning to my job, and live the life of a freelancer -- travelling at someone else's cost, writing because I want to, driving endlessly. With her hair, and charm. She placed the baby on the oil-cloth and pulled back her attention to her cousin, who was playfully bonding with her son. Her husband came in just at that moment, and Manjari was delighted to inform him of the IPL clubhouse tickets she had got passes for. "I have four passes, wanna come?" Priyanskhi's poor husband was at the ruthless mercy of her blank stare. He knew what it meant -- something in the lines of "You are not going anywhere, till I am too!", or, "He is bloody your son too! Why should I be the trapped one?"

"No, you go ahead" he meekly replied, passing a pretentious smile of content to Priyankshi.

"Sit here for a while. I am coming from the loo" she said, to which Paresh obediently acted. As soon as she closed the bathroom door, he let out a sigh of relief and looked at Manjari and said, "Mother hormones, man! Don't ever become one. It kills love. It finishes freedom. Which match are you going for, by the way?"

Inside the bathroom, Priyankshi took all the time in the world to have a good poop. No, I don't want that skirt. I want a capri and a shrug and the open sea. And I want no one sucking at my breast. And I would smoke a joint and drink litres. And may be, dump Paresh at his parents'. No, poor man. What fun would it be without him getting to know my value. My curves would call for hoots. She touched a layer of fat on her upper abdomen, the happiness disappearing immediately. I could always exercise and get back to shape. But how could I? Bloody baby. His shots, his playschool, his pre-school, his school, his pick up and drop, bloody his life! Why the hell did I decide to have him?

Under the shower, she shook herself as if in a manifestation that it would slide the guilt of her thoughts off her. Paresh loves me, I love him. Once Manjari leaves and Om sleeps, we will make love. Like the first time. Like we were discovering each other. Today I will seduce him. Back to me.  

She came out, smelling of the extremely non-sexy Johnson's baby powder.

A Bored Story

Of the many additional responsibilities a single mother has to cater to, willingly, and on most times, much unwillingly -- are slippery things as decisions -- which could alter the daughter's lifeline. But we are not going to discuss such somber issues. A single mom is also, most times than not, on the uneven scale of whether to pamper or punish. This too, I shall not elaborate upon. With the onslaught of vacations, perhaps the greatest threat is to counter the daughter's "Momieeeee, I am boreddddd! What to do?" Right, what do mothers do? Maybe send her to the aunt or uncle's, or grandparents'. But with the many baggage that a single mother pushes into the loft, one certainly is an ego, that which came from disowning her decision, of disapproval, and hence sending away the daughter to a family vacation, for now, is out of question. So, I thought, I will write her yet another story, maybe build a structure which asks for her participation for the plot to proceed. I try:


"What are you?" asked a scratched Black Board, to a shining new white one.

"Why" replied the White Board rather sharply, "I am a board!"

"Ya, and I am Jerry!"

The White Board was thinking that the Black was definitely out of its mind. "Well, hi Jerry, but I do not have a name, like yours."

The Black Board was convinced that the White Board was a dull person, who was unable to grab its intelligence. "May I ask the reason why you are here, then?"

This time the White Board was convinced that the Black Board was definitely ageing. "Just the same reason as you, Jerry. To be written upon."

"Really?" chirped Black Board. And with profound gravity, added, "And who are your buddies?" indicating a box full of coloured chalks as its soulmates.

Daintily, the White Board showed off a duster which held two markers, black and blue. It next pointed towards another, with red and green.

It was now time for Black Board to be concerned, very concerned. It thought, ah! so it has come prepared with allies and all! Putting up a brave face, trying to cover the dark feelings, it asked, "Well. Lets see who gets bored first!"

"Why the heck would I get bored?" asked White Board.

Walking up to it, Black Board aimed at its polished finesse and said, observantly, "I see you have no Memories. If you see, I have them in plenty."

White Board was completely puzzled. "Memories?"

"Memories" said Black Board authoritatively. "Look at you shining white, without a trace of anything ever been written on you. You have no history." It paused deliberately, giving chance to the White Board to take a glance at itself. "Look at me carefully. Even when I am dusted, traces of jokes and theorems, geometry and sentences remain." Black Board was almost dancing in his mind. "I am never bored. I play with Memories." And finally, with an adept sweep towards its corner, it asked in a shrill voice, "Where are yours?" It laughed a deep laugh of victory, "Erased, eh?"

Poor White Board was uncertain of what to respond. It still could not decide if Jerry was insane, or was it doing all this purposefully to drive it crazy with boredom. "Fine. I have no Memories. But what's the big deal about creating some now, at this Moment?"

"Well" the Black Board now snapped his fingers and inquired, "and how would you do it?"

"Jerry! You live with Memories, I live in Moments! There is nothing to be bored! Grow up."

Black Board was visibly edged and his scratches no longer shone on him like an ornament. It quite admired the cleanliness of White Board. Thoughtfully, he resigned, "You are correct you know, lets not get bored by creating more Memories in this Moment."

And thus, the Boards became the ultimate instrument of defeating being Bored. Years later, Soft Board joined them too, as did Hard Board. Together, they offer us a treasure of Memories built in the garden of Moments, and the more one indulges, the more one take to their open-armed friendliness. Embrace yours!


I have in store a set of Boards bought in for my daughter today -- Black, White, Hard, Soft. Some to scribble on, some to erase from. Some to stick on, some to pin upon. And, truly speaking, to save me from the embarrassment of being unable to answer her, innovatively, each time she declares, "I am Booored, Momie!" I have the ready answer, "Bored? With the Board?" And trust me you, such a joy it indeed is, such tremendous relief of a joy, to see the bulb in her light up on her face, glow in her eyes, as she takes off with immediate speed towards the Boards. Did anyone say anything about being Bored? 

The Mason Jar

You wouldn't believe my name. Nor did I when I came of age. Of the zillions of names my parents could have thought of, they decided on Sylvia. As a name I have no quirms, I quite like it when my buddies call me 'Hey Sylvie!', has a certain touch of flight about it, a feather, a leaf, perhaps because of the closeness with Sylvan, but point is you woudn't believe how the name ruined my life. I was born to my parents Jeremy and Emily Matthews, out of love. Somewhere down the line, their love lost its meaning, and I was taken under my Mum's custody. Being a strong Market Researcher, and having the will to consume life, rather than it being the other way round, her first step was to return to her maiden name -- Plath. You got it. In turn, I became Sylvia Plath. 

That would not have been too difficult either, except that I am a perfectly average, happy person, heavily invested with the Marketing Skills my Mum possesses. Each time though I fill up a form, or introduce my name, the curiosity inadvertently takes shape -- either in the form of raised eyebrows, or in the utmost enthusiasm to nullify it. To make it easy, imagine your name to be William Shakespeare, instead of William O'Connor, or Christopher Columbus in place of Christopher Marlowe, or Robert Cruise and not Robert Frost! What if your name was indeed George Washington? Because of someone before you who has completely taken over the collective consciousness of humanity, the chances of your existence becomes a) either hilarious, or b) controversial. Is it justified? You tell me.

I mean people ask me, and I know it is done jokingly, "Name?"

"Sylvia Plath".

Here they look up trying to hide a smile, and continue, "And you write. What are you doing here?"

I wish I could tell them if I were indeed a writer I would be at a publishing place being rejected, again on the same account of my name, than standing in front of a renowned blue-chip company submitting my CV for perusal. 

I never quite understood The Bell Jar. It is obvious, isn't it, for me to look up who the grand Sylvia Plath was? Quite frankly, it is a free-willy report of a talented person, who got lazy and used her life to turn to content. Anyway, thus I write this, The Mason Jar, my version of a happy-drinking-preservative jar, what I stand for. Nothing seems quirky within, nothing feels curated. I am what I am. Sip me and you will know how precious I am.

Unfortunately, I am Sylvia Plath.

(An imaginary column submitted by Sylvia Plath, quite understandably, rejected). 

A Model Piece

My name is Anisha Mathur and you must be knowing my name well. Why, I am the lips in Lakme, the shoulder in Liril, the shining teeth in Colgate and of course, the wavy hair in Sunsilk. Yes, you must be thinking this is a joke -- these being brands represented by Kareina and Preity and Juhi and whosoever other star. Also, I am the one doing the actual eating that Alia does of Perk. So, to return to the point, I understand you may not know my name, just like you do not know my parts, but you should be knowing (because it is time you know), and hence I would like to deliberate an introduction.

My name is Anisha Mathur. I know, I know, I mentioned that first thing, but what I am trying to say here is, my name has not always been Anisha. I am Asha Mathur, from Rajkot, who has been changed by the model-industry to shape-up and re-size into becoming Anisha. It is a certainly not a model industry, and may be that is why it is aptly costumed as the fashion-industry. So you see, frankly, I am non-existent. Neither my name, nor my existence is true. And they say I am a resplendent substitute model. How do I explain? I am a 'model' model. Just like it would come off a grammar book. Replaced like it should be. 

Day after day, slot after slot, I am worked upon without any say. As I am put on the chair in front of a eye-shatteringly, loud mirror, ornamented by make-up bulbs, the make-up artist dabs multiple layers of powder on me, to make me fairer, changes shades of lipsticks to suit the role. Yes, sometimes they do hear my opinion, but they hardly listen. They are trained to overlook and are specialised in overhearing. Each of my phone-calls are meticulously registered. These, in turn, make up for the content for the next edition of gossip magazines, or the most read columns of newspapers. 

I usually do not complain about my life. I mean from Rajkot to my own little apartment in Mumbai, I have made quite a name for myself. Except that I haven't. 

I am not a model. I am a model mannequin, designed to obey. I am Anisha Mathur. See?

A Sea-Horse in the Sky

I am not drunk. Not on an emotional or alcohol excess, nor on any other kind of substance abuse. But I am high. Certainly. Happiness, perhaps. Inverted nervousness, probably -- the progress of my thesis is in shambles. Humidity and future plans are on either ends of a fine balance, constantly altering their plane. The contest between 'what-I-wish-my-life-is' and 'what-life-wishes-me-to-be' weighs unevenly at chance and opportunities. I wish I were blindfolded instead. But like most things I wish, I took to the terrace. It has been a rather calming breeze, as announced by the curtains.

Inside five minutes of attempts at exercising, I began visualizing my dream house. I sat down. The floor was hot. Now, unpredictably, I lay down, completely, hair open and slippers too. The moon shone softly, misted slightly by the choicest of clouds. It was a bright dusk, almost electric, with patches of load-shedding in the shape of Canada, or Australia. And then there were the special effects -- the glitters called stars. I counted four. And thought of Darjeeling, where the four could easily be forty. 

A flight's light was flickering and I tried to understand if it was taking the heights or descending. I wondered when next I would be sitting inside another flight. August? October? December? Would I be beading city lights into anklets? I followed the flight's direction till I could see it no more. The breeze was so lilting that I looked the other way, hoping for the flight to emerge. What I chanced upon instead, was nothing short of a surprise. I began counting -- five, six, seven ... twelve, thirteen...and wait, what was that?

A wafting line of three little stars swimming towards another. When I say wafting line, I obviously mean the line is non-linear, but together. They were swimming, oh I already said that. Now they were gliding. I was on my left side, reclined now, commanding all my attention. Long ago, as found in comics, illustrations of the wildlife revived. Yes! Jackpot! 

It was a sea-horse, in the sky, wandering. Or who knows, trying to reach dark Canada, or darker Australia? I longed to sleep on the terrace tonight, to remain in the trance of the sea-horse. May be, it would be dawn before it could catch a glimpse of moonshine amidst the grazing stardust. 

I am high. Sea-horses in the sky are rare. And precious. And any treasure is not worthwhile unless shared. Take the stairs, go out. Look up. You may chance upon it too. Even now, as I put an effort into studying, the words took the shape of the sea-horse, swimming, gliding, lilting...

The Art of Anonymity

Deception (and theatricality), according to the legend of Batman, are 'powerful agents'. Powerful enough to turn him into a Superhero. But we will not speak of him here. We will return to the first word -- deception. Most hero figures have it in them to either vanish, like a whiff of air, or escape, like dust in the eye. That is, they take to invisibility as an inevitable, enviable armour.  Let us come to terms, we are no heroes, forget aiming to becoming superheroes. We live in an age of devastated hopes and speed-breakers for ambition. Why, have you ever wondered, do they wish to disappear?

Appearance is an art. Sometimes it comes in making a late entry, or an early exit. Sometimes, it tells nothing about your mindset, only about your costume, which you carefully draped to veil your truth. You succeeded. At other times, your appearance is all over your face -- you detest your very existence in the moment. These are moments we wish to elope like Spiderman's swift jumps, or drape around Harry's Invisibility Cloak, so as to become Hamlet's being, yet, not being. I know the phrase says, "to be or not to be". Why, don't they mean the same?

And that is when anonymity comes like a handful of edge. Your absence propagates a presence which you could not have possibly faced yourself. It comes is daring to write letters, and in sending threats. It rages while love blossoms and blows in the form of an unexpected inheritance. Why, it was even in the golden days of our black telephones, which would not disclose in its display which number was calling in. Anonymity's art lies in its theatricality, indeed. The curious curve with which eyebrows arch, the rumblings that crunch the insides of the stomach, the overpowering desire to know -- it all comes in the package of deception.

Imagine yourself without a name, or even better, a surname. Think of the possibilities that would welcome and lure you to embrace them, which the sur/name stood as a wall up to. I have always wanted to curse aloud. Trust me, anonymously is hardly near satisfaction, but hell, its safe and works. Powerfully. On both the receiver and the sender.

Try it! It hardly takes courage, you see.

Meet my Mates

This post is due from October, 2015.

I will be back to my bed in some hours. People close to me cannot understand how is it that I am so chained to my room, my house. I do not too. Given any opportunity. Even with it being a small little place, I prefer it to glassy cafeterias (I have a sound coffee collection) and lounging publicly. Anyway, so the point is, I am headed towards the airport in sometime and will be home soon! Home to some cold white rice and hot mild fish curry. I will have unpacked and sorted out the things that need immediate attention from tomorrow. Tomorrow is such a tiring concept as opposed to yesterday. And I will miss my mates from the last ten days. So I thought last evening, as both of them dozed into each other's heads in the cab, they deserved a paragraph each, at least.

Elkay: She is a Marwari Jain. Her family has been residing for a very long time in Chennai, and thus she is now prrropppper Tamil, the spelling pronouncing her accent. I met her at Gandhinagar, Gujarat, at a Seminar. We clicked immediately. Some people do. To an extent that when I could not believe that we share the same birth dates, and demanded to see a proof, she, rather obediently, even though a good five year older than I am, brought out her passport for verification. She discovered a milk booth in the dry state when I was dying of the divine thirst. The rest, as they say, is history. Or, in our case, geography. Yes, we met next in Calcutta, after about four years, where she was attending a Refresher Course at Jadavpur University, uncannily and fortunately, just the time when I was attending the Department for my Coursework for my PhD. We attended many classes together, hopped to landmarks, and ate to our heart's content. Oh, she has some sweet toothaa. Enough to put a Bong to shame.

The next year I asked if I could visit Chennai during the Pujas to go and stay in Kodaikanal. She agreed. With my immediate excitement that I would be getting a drop in temperature, she dampened my spirits, that it would be on the contrary. So I asked her is she would like to visit Sikkim. She agreed. You see? No hitches. She added, "Lets add Darjeeling also, aa?"

"Why not?" the ambitious adventurous in me replies.

And the next day, just like that, came my question, "Elkay, wanna go to Bhutanaa?"

Pause. "Chhalo."

You know who is a perfect travel buddy? Someone who is a vegetarian, a teetotaler, a migraine patient, and yet asks you to have chicken, drink beer and take the front seat. Someone who understands silence and screams at waterfalls, and who slams me, when at night I am crossing level after level of Candy Crush. "Gossip illai?"

We had a hit trip, one remains my personal favourite, having travelled to Phuket, China, Dubai, Turkey and Europe before it. I owe it to Elkay, as much as to the mountains and the waterfalls. The next year, we went Southwards and had another mate. Here too, she had one and half litres of puuuuure cow's milk, making the entire bungalow smell of it and we were at our Elkay-Kents best -- scooping unknown fruits, taking random destination decisions and drinking water off waterfalls. I look forward to a hat-trick with her this year. That's my Elkay.

M: This one joined in the journey Southwards. Being five years younger to me, and hence ten to Elkay, she was scandalised when she had to bear us scooping unknown fruits with unwashed hands, taking random destination decisions with neither prior booking nor the possibility of finding one, and completely horrified when she saw us dangerously drinking off waterfalls while dancing a step or two! Introducing a borderline OCD woman -- M -- a friend I have known for a very long time. Ten, perhaps, eleven years now, yet someone with whom I could have never known a journey would be such a fun. Primarily because we bullied her. Respecting ragging rules, there indeed is a joy in bullying. And what a joy to tease a buddy on cleaning a knife with her hand-sanitiser, when water is not available. We bugged her to come out with her sad love stories, only to make fun of them, and were overjoyed to find her enthusiastically finishing thalis, when neither of us could. This one too, did not provoke a nose towards someone else smoking. You have a problem, you leave. Why ask the person concerned to leave? Between the insanity that Elkay and I shared, she was the balanced moderator. We have really benumbed her with walking backwards uphill, and laughing about silly things like sleeping in the car if no other place could be found. And oh yes, was she speechless when Elkay instigated me towards finding Magic Mushrooms, when all the while she was trying to make me forget about it. M is one person I would love more travels with, she is such a sweet caregiver. She is such a cute care-asker. Her luggage had more that the two of us had for Bhutan. You name it, she has it -- tissue paper, hand sanitiser, scissors, plastic bags, knife, band-aid, and oh lord, the amount of clothes -- enough to furnish us another vacation. I mean, being seasoned travellers, we do successfully, somehow, manage to forget essentials, like medicines. Trust me, she would not.

M is Hermione's Bag -- the least of unexpected things can come out of her -- anger, laughter, chocolate, coffee sachets, tea bags, safety-pins, optimism, and definitely, an endearing tolerance -- to be able to take the other two's in-sync insanity.

I am profoundly lucky when it comes to friends, and duly accept the phrase which said something like we are lucky to choose our friends, because we cannot choose our family.

Here's to Elkay & M. Here's to more travels. Oh, how I wish all three of us were here to clink on our glasses -- Elkay's with milk in it, M's with juice and mine with whiskey. That's tolerance, folks! 

Surprise Packages

Over the last three days, I have been surprised. Even shocked, to some extent. I write, so I am. And hence I will discuss those discoveries, post-surprise. And why should you be listening? Well, don't. A friend has enlightened me. I am only articulating my perception, which to your jurisdiction, may absolutely stand as a heap of rubbish. 

The Trope of Parenthood: Who am I to be lecturing on a pious subject as this, that topic which has halo'd jewels attached to its crown. In that case, I tell myself, who am I to be lecturing on standard Shakespearean tragedies, or for that matter, the most subjective thing called 'art' -- in whichever form. 

To be specific, allow me to narrow down the trope -- the idea of most Indian parenting. How and why do parents give birth? My knowledge says, a) as a result of mutual, sexual desire, or, b) as a compelling societal pressure to continue a lineage. Before you shout at me, I bring back to your attention the use of the word "most". It did not necessarily mean you, or, rule out me. Good, if you decided to bring a life to this world. If you did, and those who conformed to the previous two categories, I have a question. Did you give birth without any expectation? I will help you here on what are expectations: "My son will be a doctor", "I will play with my daughter and make her wear short skirts, which I could not", "My son will become an engineer, just like us", "My daughter will have a doctorate degree", and hardly rarely, "My children will look after me". My first objection is to the lack of "us", if it is a biological, or mutually decided upon, adopted child. If you are a single parent, "my" suits perfectly well. These, thus, being expectations, you are bringing up a child, with the other part of bargain in mind -- to be looked after, when you age. And when you aren't, you are disappointed, heart-broken and put up a face that bravely says, "we could not parent well enough". That is, if the child is born of love and desire. What about the life which came upon as an exercise of power? Unconcerned souls, born out of sheer one-manship? Did they ask to embrace this world? Did they ask to be born? Have you loved your child enough to understand that s/he may have preferences which your world does not approve? He may wish to stitch his shirt, tie his hair and sleep beside a man, while she may love leather-jacketed trips, on a motorcycle? She may wish to sleep with her uncle, cousin, boyfriend, girlfriend, or even a stranger, on that solo uphill travel. Will you be able to take it all in -- your child's opinion? Teaching will definitely be yours. But will you allow the child to further, grow branches out of your tree of knowledge? Risk is, it might stand out -- as ugly, or too beautiful.

Why, will you be very happy if you daughter was the country's champion sports person, but failed her marriage? Or, if your son, lost his life for the nation. Will you not regret pushing him to a noble profession? Your child, the child, is an entirely different entity, a being who may, scientifically carry your chromosomes, not necessarily your choice. 

The child does owe you respect, because you are responsible for the upbringing.    

The Trope of Defence: Is winning worth the fear? Can political boundaries stop global warming and more earthquakes? Invent and indulge, not in the name of nation, or religion please. I rest my case.

How can peace harm?

The Trope of Choice: It is difficult to even imagine that I will contest to write something on choice. We are so conditioned to doing things the naturalized way of doing, that we aren't even aware if we can think otherwise. I mean, I have nothing against the legal system personally, but really, who the hell is an institution which empowers its authority over my choice? I was taken aback when I came to know that suicide and euthanasia are criminal offences. Forget the terms, come to the basics -- my life. I may choose to do away with it. Now, whether that labels me as a coward, selfish, escapist or foolish, really does not matter. Where is the legal system when I am caught on the wrong side of an accident and my manners have cost me a pocket-full? 

If I have the right to live life, I have one to decide whether I wish to continue living or not.

I have never been fond of surprises. The probable dismay is not worth the glory. It is funny how the word 'trope', by the end of this piece, reads like 'trap'. Those who read till here, I wish to sign off with my knowledge of self, which owes a revelation to you. First, I am a writer. Second, an aesthetist. And finally, a human -- different only from the wild, because we are blessed with reasoning and language.

Well, are we thinking enough and articulating enough? 

Letter to Daughter XIV

Beloved C,

There is a reason I document these overwhelmingly motherly moments. There is a reason you are, in spite of people's speculation that I keep you hidden somewhere (how funny, are you a magic lamp, or a genie bottle that I would?), open in the safest place. Here. In concrete clouds of irresistible illusion. So many complain about me not bringing you out of a white page. Well, C, how could I possibly explain to them that the white space is enough for us to make it our own, with whichever colour we choose, whenever? That we do put paint on zebras, tie clips on Tucks, go for picnics on flying carpets and take punishments with a dash of lime? 

Why would I bring you to this miserable, miserable world of ours? It would be terribly, terribly unfair of me and unjust on you, to give you a smokey world with smokier people, where air no longer smells of first rains and wet soil. I will only be giving you a similar looking stainless steel life, of insurances that cover no nature's might and art which is no longer passionately true enough to be art. I rather have you gleefully spell wrong (no, that I wouldn't mind you to work on), spill milk powder, cuddle into me on wintry nights and splash your powdered limbs on me during summer naps. I rather have you popping me a chit or two, once in while, some with considerably good content, and others with atrocious demands, which I faithfully do not have to comply. 

Am I escaping in the veil of keeping you safe? If yes, then alrighty, I mighty well am. For I do not wish for you to be growing in this notorious world where words like rape and trauma are disastrous to dreaming. Where fear treads in the name of fate. Where love comes with conditions, like those attractive deals underneath which, a tiny asterisk would slyly say, 'conditions apply'. Yes, living in this nasty world, I cannot promise you utopia. I could possibly promise you courage, but you see C, I am blessed with common sense and practicality, which forewarns me that single-handed courage will soon perish under the umbrella of corruption. Forget family, I cannot even promise you friends. 

What I can do instead, is give you this playground, for us to play, for us to jump and fall and get up. And you can give me a playlist back. Why, you thought only mothers had the right and liability to give? Mothers love receiving too. I would love a shepherd's pie baked by you, and a glass of whiskey on the rocks served by you. I would love to see you inheriting the skill of sous-cheffing, and surpassing that to become a masterchef. I would die to see you become a renowned cover-designer, but then, who reads books anyway?

I would, oh I would, if I only could. But I can't. My hands are tied to this keyboard. Thankfully, it gives us liberty to live. Just the way we want. And so we live, here. With each other, safe and cosy. 

I am, because you are. I am selfish and I am angry with this world of ours. I love you too much to lose you. Even if that means not giving you a life to live. I rather die, and carry you along. To animated clouds that would carpet our lives.

I love you,

Momie.

Apply Now!

Going through the various little boxes of WANTED, Pankhuri desperately circled the ones she could apply to. Knowing well she did not need to, what with her parental business awaiting her takeover, she had only one ambition in life -- to understand suffering -- undergo, actually. This was rare, such a wish, but who could say anything about human character. It certainly has more shades than a tree's leaves, more hues than the sky's meta-play, and yes, more depth than one could think of the sea to hold, a secret with layers of layers. One such layer, possibly, is our Pankhuri.

The first box she had circled wanted a work-from-home data entry job. The updated CV set on the desktop, she immediately mailed it to the concerned mail id. The next mail was sent for the post of a Montessori Teacher, and the third to a receptionist's at a corporate broker firm. There was no pattern, if you were trying to find one. Perhaps a distant one, that of a lack of logic. Tired of attending girly-parties, and reasoning withing herself if she had mettle outside of just carrying out the apparel industry, Pankhuri decided. And has been on it since the last month.

She paid Ganeshan, the driver an extra hundred each day to leave her to the bus-stop and not to report back home that she was on her own since then. Bus-rides took her places -- dingy crowds, dirty lanes, soothing riversides and similar offices. She was offered nine jobs, which she diligently rejected, hoping to suffer, from hopelessness, if not that being not chosen. What could one say, she always was. And in this way, thirty days were over. Without an iota of suffering.

Having mailed the CVs, she picked up her phone to call the number in one of the relatively smaller boxes, "Special Services". She knew she would have to be willing and audition to be an escort. The call came through. "Tonight, Great Eastern. Room 511. Client will handover the concerned envelope. Say 'Way'. Client will reply 'Ward'".The call ended without Pankhuri able to make any entry into it. She dressed elegantly and decided to take Ganeshan all the way to the place today. As she made her confident way up to Room 511, she was happy. And angry that she was happy. She wanted to understand sadness. There was nothing that did not go her way since her birth. She was good at her lessons, manners and games. Too good sometimes.

509. What if I enter this room instead?
510. Let me ring the bell on this "Do not Disturb".
511. Pankhuri rang the bell, ready to sell her soul. It opened as fast as she was blindfolded.

"Way!" she screamed.

Now she felt the blindfold opening. "Ward" came the voice from behind her. The room was full of maps, codes and ciphers. Transmitters were lying harmlessly here and there. She felt the fingers trace her nape. "You are attractive."

She looked back. It was no one she knew, but she knew it was a face she could never forget. He held her the envelop. "The delivery date and time will be sent to you in due time." Pankhuri had no clue of what was going on. She took it and left. Why me? She called for Ganeshan. Delighted with the dilemma she finally had, on whether to open the envelop or not, she was smiling in sadness. Undeserving, yet, as fate would have it, she became the chosen one who become part of a project, of which, even she was not aware. With her home in view, she received another call. "Hello."

"In forty minutes. Apsara Cinema. Hand it over at cash. Mention his code." The call went off. "Ganeshan, Apsara Cinema, quick!" She tried to appear calm as she neared the cash. "Ward". The man looked at her from his little peephole and swiftly took in the envelop. He gave her back a ticket. As she tried to settle on the seat, there was an announcement of immediate evacuation. Like the rest, she queued to leave when some masked people came and started a wildfire.

Pankhuri never lived to know what suffering was.

The Importance of Weekend

Disclaimer: This is to alert those concerned, the likes of who disagree with the concept of a weekly dissolution of routine -- that this piece, like the earlier ones in the series, would seem like a mere rambling -- which of course, would result because of their weak constitution, being quite unable to soak in pleasure in the name of resolute nothingness.

Weekend is the celebrity couple, no secret to anyone, comprising the Sloshed Saturday and Sleepy Sunday. What ensues episodically are the definitely unwanted Days. However unfortunate, the process being well internalised, there is a reduced intensity in the guilt and pain about the Week -- as the Days are commonly called -- afresh, week after week. Having said that, one cannot completely call off the sorrow the time after Sleepy Sunday follows. Subtly, it lingers. You could say it is the guilt of over-doing. But then what is life, if not lived to the fullest, and Weekend sure knows how to do it best.

They generally do not follow a pattern, and that unpredictability sets their structure. Anything may happen, or better still, nothing at all could happen. Sloshed Saturday probably is a continuity of their youngest child Friday, running into the wee hours of the dawn, only to wake up late to a disastrous hangover, much invited. Wait, much invited? Why, you would say. Why not, I would. Didn't you know the best way to do away with hangover (truly) is not only lime and water, but also (more truly) a welcome shot of alcohol. As the saying goes, iron cuts iron (badly transliterated from the Hindi "Loha lohe ko katta hai"), the same applies to alcohol, or the unbearable beauty of watching movie after movie, or driving from no way to highway. Sloshed Saturday has one certain trait, much loved: Do - Repeat. Now, that 'Do' could be anything, including the exquisite doing nothing. And that is the wonder of 'Repeat'. With Sloshed Saturday, the essence is an illusion of a never-ending holiday. An illusion, as we by the way well know, is hardly real. But is there any harm in believing in eternity for a while? That is what Saturday does -- imbibes in us a conformity towards an elasticity that time travels, never stops. Like the tension of the elastic, it does come back to where it began, but the journey, as all of us will willingly and lovingly agree, is nothing short of a high.

With Sunday, sense slowly slithers its sensible way into the soul. It shows us that the real is only an illusion, and the understanding of that short span of time -- of knowing and disbelieving, is surely surreal. It is abundantly taxing, especially after all the relaxing that went in the previous day. And to do away with the iron-curled strong nerves, which refuse to open up to the truth called Week, sleep puts us on a hammock and often drops in a lullaby or two such that we swing back, ever so gently, into the harsh generosity of the Days. Sleepy Sunday tends to have an enticing affair with Depression, but its celebrated true love with Sloshed Saturday is too dense to allow any distracting depression to delve into. 

On that hammock, Sunday thinks of Saturday, and even as Saturday was right next, it suddenly seems Days away. The rest we know, don't we? The universe conspires to bring them together soon enough. Till then, they do not fail to teach us the greatest importance of their being -- togetherness. For what is One, without the Other? 

The Importance of Weekdays

Disclaimer: Those of us fantasizing about life being an unending weekend, as the quote runs "a weekend wasted is never a wasted weekend", may find this piece a mere rambling -- which of course could be an after-effect of their not realizing the misappropriations emerging from a worthwhile week. 

Primarily, we must understand, a week is born weak, which is a result of being the unwanted produce of the celebrated weekend. Named almost as casually as a hat would drop on a breezy day, they do not have any similarity except their surname -- Day. I mean, see for yourself -- Mon, Tues, Wed, Thurs, Fri -- do they feel like daisies of a same chain? But Sat and Sun, oh they do. However, we are not here to bring out their beauty, but to prove (somehow, and admittedly, quite difficult that it may be) the importance of the weak week siblings.

Monday: Rather unfortunately, it has been associated with a suffix so much so that, we cannot but begin the story without saying 'Monday Blues'. The first child comes with the greatest of all expectations, that which the remaining must look up to and pursue. It is made to go against its grain of being laid-back and fight -- that is what it stands for -- putting up a fight. Fight the procrastination, fight the hangover, fight the backlog, fight the unwillingness to begin anew. This fight chokes the blood out of it and turns it a soulfully sad blue. It is disturbing to even explore Monday's sorrows. I thus end.

Tuesday: The second child is predominantly seen as the one who would ably fit the elder child's shoes, especially when the elder one has not quite been able to leave its mark. And thus, Tuesday too, continues the mechanical steps towards continuity and cycles the same way Monday had taken. Tuesday becomes the epitome of braving -- brave the uniformity of boredom, brave even more backlogs, brave the burden of being a successful successor to what Monday could not be. Tuesday is truly torturous. Notoriously, it parallels Monday.  

Wednesday: This middle child is a kind of charmer. Having a name which rhymes with 'bed', Wed naturally has same genes, but it is blessed with intelligence. While the earlier two were pillars of obedience, Wednesday has a way around them. The pillars, I mean. With the inherent zing it is born with, it breezes in hope -- hoping that some of the work could be eluded, hoping the week would soon be over, hoping for a return to the homeland of Weekend. Knowing well that hope is not quite a bankable, believable element, Wednesday charms an illusion of it. Something like, "two more days", "diet cheat day", or  unnecessarily whipping up a potion of cheerfulness with things such as flirting, drinking, binging, shopping. I told you, Wednesday is a charmer. It throws up a question to Illusion, "Are you not just a Delusion?" Intelligent, yes. 

Thursday: If Wednesday is the charmer of the lot, Thursday is well, yes, you are close, the calmer. It brings back to table the perspectives of truth. In many ways, this is the ideal child of the week. Being a natural weakling, it does suffer from the deficiency of standing as tall as its elder siblings, but Thursday does have a soothing voice. It irons the creases of a routine, it soothes the strong fibres of flesh and caresses the soul. I will try and give you an example. With Thursdays, you will know when you open a completely unknown person's drawer (the furniture, not the apparel), you will find something exactly that which even you did not know you wanted. Say, a gun when a thief is around. Or, a b(l)ank cheque which needs an immediate deposit. May be a reminder that strength lies in truth, not in lies. Thursday is just the throwback to reality from which Wednesday distances us. 

Friday: The youngest child. Enough said, I believe. Friday denotes anything that spells fun. It is pampered to an extent where it is borderline spoil. In fact, sometimes one would disagree that Friday belongs to the same family tree. Speaking of which, Friday is about making you want to believe that you are on top of one, with a drink of your choice in your hand. How do I elaborate? Friday is the advanced version of Wednesday. It does not merely charm, it hypnotizes. Fridays make you believe life is worth living, because strength is just around the corner. Friday gives us intellectual liberty to 'switch off'. Friday gives us push to indeed switch off. Friday is fun. It takes merit to be a Friday.

These, then, are the weak week siblings. They are each other's strength and while themselves taking it from each other. Each day leaves behind a message -- everyday is different. For survival. For what is life if the we do not arrive at the Weekend after a while? The weekly wait makes it endearing and that, in my esteemed opinion, that is the most important aspect of Weekdays.

Together, they teach us the art of waiting. 

The Importance of a Sunday Sleep

Disclaimer: Insensitive souls who do not understand the sensitivities attached with sleep, may find this piece a mere rambling -- which of course would be an after-effect of their not realizing the misappropriations emerging from a routine lack of sleep.

Scientific studies have already proven with adequate examples and evidences, the necessity of sleep. Newer studies have spoken about how creativity may be linked with the differing sleep patterns of non-nocturnal beings. People have often been divided mostly into two kinds -- 'morning', or 'night' person. So I would restrain from delving into the facts and instead, try and highlight upon the topicality of my concern -- THE SUNDAY SLEEP.

It is a Monday morning, lull with the external noise cancellation, thanks to my earphones. Luckily, the humidity has not caught up on me, owing to this heritage building in which I sit, mostly by myself, and write. But I am lethargic, unusually so and yawning rather unprofessionally. To a certain extent I also have a nagging bam-bam at the back of my head and I long for the respite that my room would offer me -- dark and cool -- when I return. Is this because I have nothing to do, I reasoned. No, I have a thesis to complete, for Christ's sake. Is this because I am hungry? No. I had a fabulous breakfast of cold rice, home-made curd and jaggery. For a while, after having done with replies and ticking off the lists, I stared at the white space on the monitor. And then it came to me, the importance of a Sunday sleep.

The week, like the egg, has a question without an answer. Who came first? Monday or Sunday? Hen or egg? Most of us have been conditioned to believe it is Monday, today, that a working week begins. Some people work seven days, and it would stand of no value to them, what I will try to explain. They just would not have the time. However, most others, work six days and get the Sunday off. Even privileged ones get a weekend to themselves. We have this misconception that Sunday is 'our' day, 'my' day. It ends up becoming the day circled with customary familial feelings and 'together' meals. The overhead light has been switched on. Some of my lethargy feels having received a kick.

First, let me bring to you the glory of the revered Sunday special lunch -- a delayed, elaborate, heavy and grand one. Whether a dessert follows it or not, a sleep must. Should. What happens is this: Because it is a Sunday, we tend to wake up late and have a 'different' breakfast, followed by the general gossip exchange, and the challenge of taking a bath before lunch, while it is being prepared. Something happens on a Sunday, where, even the bath takes a back seat, but once it comes to the front, it is again, a long one. The week's dirt get their due attention and seep off with a mighty mix of shampoo and soap. We switch on the TV and complain about it, while the simmering of the smell of perhaps, mutton, wafts its way into our senses and we suddenly make an attempt to get everyone else, who has not had a bath already, have one. The lunch is done to prim perfection, bones chewed well and cook complimented -- Lord Brahma's meal has been voraciously consumed by Lord Ganesha -- nothing could possibly be wrong with the world. And then.

It is now that it is of prime importance, to my esteemed opinion, whether curd, cigarette or paan follows or not, a sleep must. Why so? Well, read above. Everything we have done till now, has been a participation of many, as I had introduced, the 'familial'. We cannot help it, even single people, who may not want to go out, are taken out by their over-concerned friends, or even worse, forcibly come over. Sunday has this impenetrable essence of 'no-work, all-play -- together'. Sleep is the only time, we are actually with what Sunday actually signifies -- 'my time'. It is important we shut out the world, pull the blinds, switch on a familiar film, and sleep to its lullaby. A slight snoring would ornament the soul and a leak from the mouth, would bring to us the fascination of doing things we do not remember, which pleased us the most. A good example here would be switching off the mobile phone, or in earlier times, keeping the phone off the hook. No intruding notifications, nothing that is not 'me'. For a conjugal couple and those with children, or with ailing parents, my sympathies remain.

We sleep without an alarm and thus, over-sleep. Caught in the guilt of having over-slept, the horrid proposition of an approaching Monday veils itself, slyly. We are ashamed of our bloated faces, and being late for redundant coffee dates, but are we? Ask yourself. That nap, IS THE BEST. If not for self, give the roads, the settlement, the city a break. Bring down the shutters on yourself, and listen to their joyous shower of levelling with the ground. We prepare for the next day, try and have a proper dinner and once again, it is necessary to sleep quicker than the rest of the weeknights.

When we wake up on Monday, to the alarm, definitely saddened that your sensors are activated and you are in an inevitable trap, walk to the loo, and look into your face while you brush, without effort. You have had not one, but two Sunday sleeps. You were with yourself then. The dreams must have paid you a visit, lest the plans were droopy too, with all the food that we consumed. I am sorry, I am sometimes using 'I' and sometimes, 'You'. I have meant this for the entire humankind. 

In conclusion, I would like to emphasize upon the necessity of being oneself, with oneself, which one hardly gets to do, even on Sundays. So, sleep becomes the ultimate apparatus to remain true to the self and indulge in the luxury of having to do nothing. Contrary to you thinking it would be a heavy feeling, it quite lifts us up. Remember that guilt I mentioned earlier, of having over-slept? Did you? It is the most dynamic guilt ever. Opposed to making one feel heavy, the equation somehow inverses.

Perhaps, the universe conspired. Perhaps, Sunday did. Sleep, and let it sleep. It is essential for the functioning of the following week.       

Why, even Sunday needs a break! 

Letter to Colours

Hey!

Your call always immersed me in a different world. A world of abstract dimensions that came in concrete sizes -- long, square-ish boxes of pencils, singing their sharp point straight out; in bigger boxes of crayons, with blunt melodies but more harmonies and of course in rectangles of pastels that did not generate any excitement in me. And then came the tubes. They were the best. Though, like everyone else, I too wake up to a tube of toothpaste, your variety watered the germs of excitement in me. "One green has three names?" I used to think. "One tube of that specific green can give me more greens? Wow." Later that turned a fascination towards the additives -- linseed oil, kinds of brushes, quality of paper etc.

Then I outgrew you. Suddenly. Like the snapping off the umbilical cord, and there I was -- out of all kind of boxes and tubes, in love with you, around me -- on walls, in landscape, in tiny things like colour of my toothbrush and that of the eraser in my pencil box. Your play with absorption and contrast mesmerized me. I could not 'draw' like my family members did. No one understood that pain but you. I will forever remain grateful to you to return to me in the form of lettering, in which monochrome and shades of grey, dance to delight. And now, when you have taken the form of words. Articulation needs colours, and you are my entire being, if I am anything. That straw I choose, depends on you, that comb I brush my hair with, the dial and the hands on a watch, the inner of a bag, the piping of a lingerie, the bottle I drink water from, the basket I keep my medicines in -- as I see, I hope you do too; what an extraordinary bond we have.

To be growing up in an ambience of artists is rare, and I agree, I am privileged. But you must equally agree when you see I can do no 'art' with you, how devastated I am. Another turn came, with charts. And crafts. These brought out my best Neem-toothpaste smile, dazzling, pristine. Doodles, that may have more space than design are precious moments. All along, much unacknowledged, you are, indeed, my lobster. And since lobsters exactly aren't my thing, you are my single malt. My perfect sunny side up. My companion for life.

You are invaluable, because you are mine. You are priceless because I will never wish to discard or sell you off. You are the turquoise of my earphone, the grey of my socks, the lime green of my toothbrush and the hot pink of my binder clips and Nike tick. You are the royal blue of my favourite t-shirt and the saffron on my kurtis. You are the French red and white stripes on the cloth I clean my silver pens with. You are the English primrose poise on my comforter. You are the American Rosewood table of my dream. You are the white dot on my Sheaffers and the jet black of the Noodlers with which I doodle on the beige pages of my Gangchill notebook. I could go on. And on. Like neon.

You are the colourful soul in me, from which, like a palette, sable hair fill themselves up, and paint my nude entirety.

Aesthetically yours,

K. 

Grandmother's Secret Recipe

The red light lit outside the glaring green curtains contrasting the antiseptic, once-white, walls. The family was informed. It was a girl. The Chatterjees were happy, soon to be marred because the daughter had a slight nerve problem which led to a limp, later to be operated upon, and rectified completely. In three years time, the blue light glowed. The Chatterjees were immensely delighted. They had a son this time. The family felt 'complete', whatever that meant. They shifted from a small town to a big city. They were growing, monetarily, with clever and ruthless ambitions rather well-executed. The siblings grew too, and apart. From each other, as much with their parents. Nobody complained. Mrs Maitri Chatterjee always wanted to be a singer, a vocal artist of repute. Chaitali, her daughter, did not benefit from the gene or habit. She managed a manageable corporate job, while her husband was biggie in his electronic field. Mr Ramkinkar Chatterjee was a fitness freak, whose son did benefit. From both of them. He was an athletic artist, who was earning home the big bucks, Samrat. 

Mrs Maitri Chatterjee was very happy this morning. Chaitali gave birth to her first born, a son. She was happier though, when he was sent to the Emergency for some complications that developed, but were under control. As she left the glittering nursing-home, spic and span and smelling nice, she entered home straight into the kitchen. Breakfast needed to be prepared for every happy face, who expected her to deliver. But none of who remembered that she had a local program this evening. In spite of being happy for Chaitali, she could not but feel compelled to regret the moment when Chaitali went into labour. Did it have to be today? It would be another of those evenings, she thought, as she put the pan on fire and circled the oil on it with the back of a spoon. She was elsewhere -- neither on the phone calls, nor at the eggs, nor under the weather. She could not stop herself from thinking how nice the evening could have been, as she flipped one omelet onto a plate. One day it could certainly be possible that she would be recorded by a drone, her voice sounding huskier with the applaud of the audience. The second omelet was flipped onto the second plate. 

The evening visiting hours collided exactly with her program. She didn't feel a thing for the new-born. As she beat the third egg into its fluffiness, she thought about how much she had to go through with her first-born, Chaitali. They wore her happiness till they found it with the birth of Samrat. The fourth beaten egg found its way to the now burning pan. She pulled out her best smile, a platter of toasts and the omelets for Chaitali's in-laws. Hospitality could not be compromised upon, come what may. Maitri, your daughter just had a son, look happy. As they exchanged sighs of relief when the call from Samrat confirmed the safety of the child, out of Emergency, Maitri wondered if it would really look bad if she made it to the program. Anyway, there would be many visitors and the golden son would be in his corner. 

"Wow! What did you put in the eggs, Maitri? They taste out of the world" complimented Shyamali, Chaitali's mother-in-law.

"Secret, Shyamali di" said Maitri and laughed aloud. "Just joking. Perhaps happiness you know. Shyamali di, would you come in the evening with me to the nursing home? Or would you like to rest? I would be going anyway." Maitri hoped against hope for the sentence would boomerang. In our times I did not even get to see Ram. Chaitali has Sudeep by her side all the while. What is the point of me going? Everyone is pleased with her giving birth to a son, at a first go, anyway.

"Yes. That would be nice. I will need to rest my knees. You go ahead and send Sudeep. I will make him tea and snacks before he has to return to the nursing home." These days, husbands are like goats. Led by a shepherd of a wife. Does Sudeep even realize how much he shelled out of his wallet in the name of a son? Stupid.

Let down by the reply, Maitri feigned her continuity of hospitality. She cleared the plates and went in for a bath. As she released the shower, she cried -- unbearably, irrationally, and understandably, perhaps. She would soon near sixty. She did not have the time and space that Samrat enjoyed. I had to make the breakfast, Ram. Not you. I hate you. She cried harder. I feel trapped in this prison called family. With her fingers she watered on the tiles the words, 'Complete Family'. Now she was laughing. Little Chaitali will have a tall son, like I do. She is a mother now. We are equal. Oh no wait, I am grand. 

Mrs Maitri Chatterjee emerged out of the shower, leaving behind a trail of jasmine and a roomful of her unsung words. In the evening, she hugged each visitor outside Chaitali's room, and shone in her brightest smile. All this while battling that Chaitali beat her to bearing a son, first. She looked appreciatively grand-motherly as she tenderly touched the chin of the infant. Everyone was happy. Everyone forgot about her program. As she took the child in her arms, she blessed him aloud. "May God keep you healthy and prosperous." You stole my show. All of you. 

And my grand-voice will now be used for lullabies.

Chartbuster

Shikha dialed her sister's number. "Divi! I have finally done it!"

"Really?" Divya was impossibly happy for her sister. "With whom? How much did they pay?"

"I'll text you everything. Don't tell Ma-Papa anything now. Let it remain a surprise, Divi." 

"Cool! But remember what you had promised? With your first salary..."

"Yes Divi, I do. You will get it. Now bye, bye." Shikha looked out of her one-room apartment window. It was there. The cuckoo. It was one of those rare evenings when Bandra's noise was superseded by the cuckoo's song. She picked up her long-due, over-chilled beer and went to the window and silently closed her eyes, taking in the taste, and the two syllable song of the guest. In another three minutes, she was transported. To all the advances she had had to counter, and all the expertise she had gathered, she thought of faces and moments. Some molten memories, some wrought. She started humming.

Shikha Punjabi did not know whether to be happy, or drown in sorrow. What did she have to tell her parents anyway? Or for that matter, when her friends would come over tomorrow to celebrate her first big-break, how would they receive it, the depth of greatness. She smiled. The hollow hurrays. She had to give up on the stainless steel genes of her family, which produced the best karas in Ludhiana. With her savings from tuition and some more from her Divya, her elder sister, married off to a wealthy family, she declared she would pursue her choice in Mumbai. She did not want those thoughts back, had a small dinner and went off to sleep.

That night she dreamt that she was walking the ramp in Milan as a showstopper for Cue's latest collection. Her built was perfect for their bulky puffs. She woke up. Tomorrow sat staring at her face from the window. She had no clue what she was about to do about her big-break. She just worked with Gulzar and Vishal Bharadwaj. Her life was set in terms of names. But Shikha chose the window to jump out from.

The song in which she sang, already topped the chart on the very day of its release. She could not come to terms with the fact that she only formed a part of the chorus. After two years of struggle, all Shikha could manage was a harmony of the refrain. And a series of "he-he-he-he-he, and la-la-la-la-la." She decided she had nothing glamorous to share with her well-wishers, leaving them with a voice that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Shikha Punjabi sang the song of her life. 

Love-Letter (XLI)

Ayushman,

I came across your contact in the back-cover of Mahabharata Revisited. That was a fabulous cover you designed. The usual Facebook stalking later, I find out that you are just the kind of guy I would love to love. Sexy, succinct, smart. I am a mere Chemistry studying student, working part-time at my dad's printing house. Your profile, however, released all kinds of chemicals in me. I especially love the tattoo behind your ear, subtly veiled by your hair. When would you go for a hair-cut next? I would love to sit beside you, and see the scissor snap a shape on your skull. Oh, I could kiss you. All over. You, in your clouds of weed and shower of colours.

These days, things such are these -- mails, mostly remain unread. Just like I am sure my FB inbox to you must have landed up in your 'other' folder, to be neglected. Perhaps, the person you commissioned to handle your mails and social identity is reading this, and even if s/he is, I do not mind. I am just saying. Similar to how you 'just express'. I cannot suppress this wish to know you, to be with you. In chemistry, we call it acidity. It needs to burp itself out, else it would end up consuming the system. 

Spend a day with me? No? Well, at least mail me back? Please? You, the kind person reading this mail, ask Sir to reply me, please? One Miller on me, I swear.

I feel like love. Just love. Hopelessly, with you. The two of us on...

Fill it up with whatever you wish,

Arjun. 

PS: I know you wouldn't be happier with a Amrita or a Sheila.

PS1: I have a tattoo too. You are most welcome to find it out.  

Join the Dots

This is a personal account. You could treat it as another case to pass a verdict on my articulation, or simply join me in joining the dots. I have never believed in imposing opinions on anyone. My name is Valencia Healy, and I am a terrorist. You read it right, in case I die before stopping you from reading my diary. I chose to become a terrorist. True, I have no ideology that I am fighting for, but I wanted to defy my family, who stopped me from taking up Defence Studies. This was the only way, I could learn about arms and arms carrying arms, in the veil of pursuing a Degree in Architecture. I must admit, Arch is quite fascinating too. It allowed me to understand building blocks on a varied extent. Why am I writing this down, you would be wondering. Well, I am in this make-shift camp where I am being quarantined for a period of fourteen days for having contrived chicken pox. Today is just the ninth. I am bored with cleaning and re-cleaning my pistols and sharpening my pocket knife. I also learnt about Gothic architecture from various websites. But I thought, I should be doing something instead too, rather than just learning.

I took the nearest tool, the Swiss Army Pocket Knife, and with it, and the conditioning of Gothic working in me, I started playing a game I used to play when I was young, on our Sunday newspaper editions -- joining the dots to complete a picture. I started joining one pox point to another. It was scathing, bleeding too, but it was novel and interesting. I also think the virus can come out with the oozing blood. It was fun, till the nurse-guy came up and screamed at me. As if I don't know my getting well quicker would mean much to the organization. They are using the fact that am a woman. 

Whereas my first love has been arms, I have quite taken to acting too. These terrorists masque terror. And mostly, we begin it with my slowing building of trust. The rest I must not even write. If I do, I would be vindicated for failing a promise. These nights I have questions waking me up if I done the right thing in taking up what I have, illegally, and importantly, unethically. That is when I put down my pistol and take up my pen and bleed on the pages. There are many dots to join. 

Who does what, when and why. One rarely finds a satisfying answer. Occasionally though, we live the mask and live it truly. The dots dissolve and become the image. I am Valencia Healy. And I have made it to the list of 'wanted'. The pox point bleeding is slowly swelling. The ink in the pen is fading. Join the Dots, if you can.                                                          -- Varuni Chettiar.

Goes without saying she came first in the list of Presidency College, Chennai, in the entrance exam to pursue English Literature. "What an imagination!" The Professors agreed, over their filter coffee. Little did they know she was covering up to revive the LTTE. Varuni was entranced with the bullet marks that the gate to her house faced. She grew up to be known as the 'girl from the bullet gate.' 

Now, join the dots.