Private Parlour

Beauty has always been contested so heavily that Angela's ambitions paved way for her desires. Her 'Christian' name, and 'Chinky' looks added to her benefit. She knew the clients preferred someone unfamiliar to the commoners. This particular Saturday snoozy brunch-time, Angela was waiting for her the bleach on the extreme right hand chair's woman to dry well, as she tuned the radio restlessly. Anamika was waiting for her turn eagerly, soaking in the scene. This was where she used to come ten, may be fifteen years back, when she was a student and had to save up to get a haircut. Things in the city were way more expensive than in the outskirts. Today, she could afford a private wax, but that needed an appointment, and by instinct, she decided to stop the car in front of the shady "Angela's Parlour".

The insides hadn't changed much -- the wallpapers were reeling, but the posters of Sridevi and Madhuri were replaced by Deepika and Katrina. For the sophisticated streets, Anamika was inappropriately dressed in a loose t-shirt and very short pants, which she wore to sleep. "Sorry, I am not dressed properly" she declared herself into the age old familiarity. Angela hadn't aged. Others around her did -- her team of commoners, though Anamika realized their sorrows remained stagnant. She sat on a high chair, at the back of the three other occupied chairs. Bored of the phone calls, reporting the same things she had done and were to be done to different people, she put it on silent and decisively put one leg across the other -- exposing her unabashedly hairy thighs -- and like a queen sat to observe her surroundings.

One of the three chairs was a rectangle of white plaster, on a dark skinned woman's back, who was sleeping open-mouthed, perhaps snoring, as the mirror showed. Angela was attending to her, and in between, Anamika had a casual chat with her.

"Remember me, Didi?" Angela smiled and didn't care. It was obvious she wouldn't remember. "I have a problem, apart from the waxing I need you to solve a problem." Angela came near her. She touched her hair with the same luxury of a demi-goddess, as if she owned the place. "Too much volume, Didi! Suggest something." Something eerie happened. Anamika felt all eyes upon her asking the same question with their expression, is she crazy? She wants her silky hair reduced? The silence that followed was solemn. Anamika was on the edge of feeling guilty and had to take charge of the situation. She quickly added, "Chill Didi, some other day. How much longer for the wax?"

Momentum returned. Scissors snapped, threadbare eyebrows were perfectly arched by deft lips. Anamika went back to taking it all in. Hmmm, thankfully there are wax-sheets now in place of those used pieces of ragged clothes! Angela woke the woman. She seemed to be disturbed to get the massage. Perhaps she was enjoying a lovely dream, a break from all her duties. As her massage began, Anamika noticed the fifty-year old notice the length of her hair closely on the back mirror held firmly by feeble hands. "I think we could go shorter by another half an inch." Really? Half an inch? And what is that colour, woman? Bright red? Such a contrast to your faded indigo Fab India kurti. Why are you here? Is your college salary not enough for you to go to a better place? Or maybe, she was miserably fighting to pay-off her son's education loan. In the next chair, plumply sat a near-forty woman, now trying to find a fault in the pedicure. Bitch you want another five minutes of feet-help, don't you? Anamika was having a blast till she was told that it was now her turn, and they would begin the wax process there itself.

Though it caught her off-guard, she smiled. "Here?" Getting to know that 'yes' would be the answer, which no one would utter, she pulled her short pants even closer to make it look shorter, well, scandalous. One leg was done, along with one song "O maajhi re..." At the point when Anamika was told to turn sideways, facing the entry door, she saw a young mother and her tiny daughter enter. Her attention was no longer on the songs. "Just give her a trimming" the mother demanded. She was dressed in a desperation to appear urban. A denim, an okay top, married valuables dangling all over her wrists and verifying on her hairline. "Do you think she needs a shampoo, she just had one yesterday."

"No need" said the woman, disinterestedly, in charge of the daughter, preparing her for the slay, covering the tiny body in an austere white cotton sheet. Anamika was certain that she heard the mother leave a sigh of relief. As she came to sit and watch the daughter getting groomed,  Anamika passed her a smile. "It doesn't hurt?" the mother suddenly asked.

Anamika smiled back and said, "Na, I am used to it." After a long pause she added, "You have a cute daughter." She looked at the mirror and saw the little girl smile back at her. The woman getting the massage was making sounds of relief which distracted the girl and she turned to her side. Her head was forcibly made straight and within another two minutes, her hair was trimmed and Anamika's other leg stood shining smooth as silk. "No moisturizer please."

The daughter's mother went near the hair-dresser and slowly asked, "What is the craze for waxing full arms? And for a face massage?" By now, the daughter had taken the mother's seat and was taken aback by the sight of Anamika's bare legs which stood like proud pillars. To ease her, Anamika said, "Hi! Nice bag!"

"Thank you" said she and coyly opened her backpack, rather unnecessarily to look for something she didn't know what.

"Two sixty full arms. Three hundred with underarms. Four hundred full legs. Two fifty face massage" said Angela from the other chair, like a boss. Well, she was the boss.

"What was the price of her haircut?" the mother indicated towards her daughter.

"One twenty" replied Angela.

Anamika could hear the young mother calculating impossible amounts as she settled in the chair previously held by her daughter. One of her arms was complete. She sat facing the mirror, behind the mother's back and could see her image. The song playing was, "O mere sapnon ke saudagar..." Blast from the past, what a song that was. How I liked it!

"Give me the face massage and the full arms wax." Pause. "Could you please give a discount of twenty rupees? I will need that to return home."

Angela was mechanical as ever, "Don't do underarms. No discount." She went on with her massage. The woman assigned to her asked her why she was hesitating. "Actually my husband is returning this evening and..."

Anamika was done. She got a great water rub all over her arms and legs and smiled at the daughter who was fascinated at her mother changing into a flimsy nighty. Or is she shocked? Man, the husband is in for some shock today. "How much, Didi?" She paid her amount and thanked the entire parlour party, waved a bye to the little girl and went out to her car, more confident than ever in her flimsy shorts. As Anamika started the engine, she continued thinking. No. The husband wouldn't even notice. He will have the sex in dark, and next morning note it when he would be clarifying the monthly budget and how it was spent. He would be disgusted at the unnecessary expenditure. The turn to Anamika's home arrived. How does it matter? She decided to have a good time. I will have to park in the shade and go have a shampoo before thinking of writing it all out as a story. 

Anamika's unhooked her hot pink bra and came out of her black panty to stand under the shower, rinsing off the fragrance of her Japanese Cherry Blossom lather. She was back to her bare senses when the cold water touched her skin. Did I just have another hallucination or was that a creative frenzy? She checked her arms and legs. Strains of fresh hair confirmed she last went to the parlour two weeks back.

The door knocked incessantly. "Anamika? Anamika? Are you alright?" Bloody Arjun and his affection. She came out in her yellow bath-robe, sexy as ever, wet hair clinging to her jawline. "Relax Arjun. I am just three months pregnant."

Arjun left. Damn Anamika. I just picked you up from the parlour. You are not pregnant. "Come, Anamika, lunch is ready."

After another fifteen minutes she was found at the laptop, furiously typing away.

Time-Out Tw/oo

Whereas fairy-tales promise happy endings, reality gifts us beginnings, all the time, all the while. Just when you thought things could come to an end, and in fact they actually quite do -- it is yet another beginning, an invite. I met a little girl, couple of years back, when the doors were closed on me. I had to earn better, and to earn better I had to teach, the easiest gateway. An austere gathering with her as the only open window. Chhuti demanded attention with her dignified reticence, and grew up to become an author's favourite metaphor for that one thing yours truly loves most -- holidays. Given the author had to work with things that weren't exactly colourful, and mostly monotonous, Chhuti gave her an address into which twenty one letters have been written to her, by now. I kid you not, yes, twenty one.

We have a tireless author then, who does not get replies, but keeps writing letters. She built a house of hope around holidays in absolute truth and nothing but truth, and yet, one fancies fairy-tales! One fine day, as couple of those Chhuti years passed, the author decided to take a call. No more replies, no more letters she thought. But who was she playing the words with? In the last vacation she got, she realized, she always had Chhuti within her. She needed no time-out to be with Chhuti, she needed no Christmas, or Chicken-Pox either. To have a time-out is like a foreplay, especially when you are in the midst of heaps of ugly work.

Am I spoiling the sanctity of a holiday with words like foreplay? You can leave then. Because I will tell you what it feels like to be in extreme pressure, and people screaming at you, and you zoning out with your attention entirely on the given person. I think of non-linear, irrelevant things at the most -- a delicious dinner, the feel of a linen jacket, the fragrance of fuel and thinking what bad sex the other person must be having to take it out on me. Trust me, that is what my author does. 

To have a time-out is to unbutton, to bring to fore all you ever want to be. Imagine yourself swimming in the sky! Chhuti has been my partner in this venture. Even as I heard the TV, and worked on editing, I would smile at the invisible people around me, some asking for signed copies of my bestseller, chefs asking for my preference, and stylists devouring my under-confidence. Are you thinking who is the author and who am I. I am too. I like penalties, while she informs she loves sixes.

Time-out is a bulging brownie, hot and oozing, and a heavy scoop of vanilla melting it away. Volcanic? You never watched it with enough time. It is, indeed, orgasmic. Like a soothing massage on a bad back, a dreamless sleep, an appetite too large without the overwhelming fear of gaining weight. Lazy mornings with Chhuti, sleepy afternoons and long nights -- you would think we were lovers. Who knows what we are. 

Take a time-out. Befriend Chhuti, in work, in words. See beyond the visible. Bewitchingly, I wish to work. I now know I am not desperate for a holiday. Life is a holiday, check your pockets. You still do not know what I am speaking of? Well, well.

Metaphors are for you to unveil.

Menu-Card

OPTION 1:

Cheese Broccoli Tandoori

Fish Finger

Fresh Lime Salt & Sweet

Iced Tea

 

Caesar Salad (Veg & Non-Veg)

Grilled Fish in Lemon Butter Sauce

Roast Duck Slice

Mushroom Pasta

Garlic Herb Mushroom Spaghetti

 

Black-forest

Hot Brownie & Vanilla Ice-cream

 

 

OPTION 2:

 

Palak Paneer Kebab

Chicken Reshmi Kebab

Ghol

 

Roomali Roti

Chicken Rezala/Paneer Korma

Mutton/Veg Biryani

Chicken Kassa/Dum Aaloo

 

Firni

Paan

 

OPTION 3:

 

Money Saved

Wedding Planned

Groom Decided

Bride Eloped

Menu Drained

 

OPTION 4:

 

Money Saved

Wedding Celebrated

Life Begins

Toast & Cereals

Honeymoon Had

Grocery List

Guest Visits

Love Lost

 

OPTION 5:

 

Registered As Legally-Weds

Mated Beds

Love Bites

Grocery List

Out to Work

Back to Home

Where You Are

 

OPTION 6:

 

Chemicals Bloomed

Emotions Groomed

Friendship Fantastic

Space Shared

Meals Made

Together



 



 

 

 



I See You

Since a remote time that I cannot remember, they have been calling me a winner. It is strange, not to feel happiness even though they report that I am a timeless survivor. How could I? Through tireless time, adamant sense and holy smoke, all I have been able to see are the changing faces beside me -- fragile, attended, neglected -- bored of competing. They say, we all have fighting spirits. Spirit, that's all I smell, all the time. Tied to tubes and fed on chemicals, I have been winning. Winning, yes, in spite of myself. I fail to recognize whose they speak of -- theirs, or mine?

A week back, I had come to open my eyes to a young girl opposite me -- broken to bits. I thought of when I was that tiny, playing with my plaits following me on my back like a friend; and I looked at her, neat plaits on her shoulder, lying as limp as her. Her poor parents come in routinely, touch her, and shed routine tears. They ask the same questions to those in white, medicated coats. I am sorry, I don't know if that was a week back. Before (or, after?), there was a really haggard looking man, complete with frail hair, and incessant coughing.. I saw him suffer, while all around, everyone clapped as more stories about him unfolded through graph charts. 

They keep us as protected objects and stitch us with their disinfected instruments. And then other faces who claim us to be their own, hanker with each other whether I should continue the race, or not. Who are they? Who am I? I am no more the me I last remember of myself. Actually, as I began, I do not remember anything. My life is this bed, and its overdone whiteness. My life is the constant beep over me which disturbs me. My life are the people who clean me and call me Amma, Aunty, Aai, and sometimes 245, my bed number. 

Sometimes, faintly, I hear them whisper to each other that I had a bad accident, and a massive cerebral attack. They do not know I can hear them. They think I am as deaf as blind. Yes, I have heard them call me blind. I am inside this place they call ICU, and they call me a survivor. Who do I call ignorant? Them? Me?

If only I were not mute enough to say, "I see you."

Over the Moon

Over the Moon
Too soon, too soon
Let love bloom
Garbage the gloom

"What the hell is that, Aulina?" Kriya's face was covered in complete disbelief. "Two days of time-out, and this is what you come up with? This?" She shoved the paper on her face. Aulina looked through her, her gaze distant, "Put in the chords first. It will sound fine."

"Get the fuck out, Aulina. Don't teach me what is fucking gonna sound nice." Kriya was agitated and it was showing. Restlessly, she dialled Nikunj's number, as her feet wouldn't stop tapping. Pick up you stoner. "Lyrics in?" asked a sleepy voice.

"Yes. Had she not been on the bass guitar, I would have fucking choked her on spot" replied Kriya.

"Don't exaggerate. That bad?" now he sat up on his head and started to stroke his stubble. It was two-days old. "What, she brought in Daddy's Diamond again?"

"No, Niks. Worse. Hell why can't you write something? Why can't I?" Kriya was desperate.

"If you are at 16, I am coming over now" Nikunj started his way towards the bathroom.

"Come. Fast. We have to submit the new single by tomorrrow, Niks."

As he lathered up his chin, he tried to take hold of the situation, "Relax, the score is ready, Kriya." He picked up the razor, "We just need to place some words next to each other."

Aulina started her car and after a ten minutes drive, banged on the horn. Nikunj came out, looking as glamorous as ever. He waved at her, and as he got inside the car, "Screwed it bad, did you?"

"Honestly babes, I could be better at being worse." They laughed heartily.

"Oh, just one thing babes." He speed-dialled Kriya, "Sweets, I am having to go somewhere else. See you in the evening!" As simple as that. He hung up.

Kriya was stunned and ferociously making calls trying to delay deadlines with agents, and work on how to pull the strings on the budget.

Meanwhile, Aulina and Nikunj went to the office of Music & More. "Our first single together as Duet, yes that's a brand new us, and we are calling it Over the Moon" said a coy Aulina. "Perhaps my best lines to date."

"Could you give us a glimpse?" asked the journo.

"Nikunj and I have decided to only share the first four lines."

"Sure, let it out!"

"Niks, would you like to hum it?"

"No, babes. Kriya is gonna come after us with a gun!"

Aulina began:

London straight-razors,

Slitting New York noons,

Singing in Milan blazers,

Yes, we are Over the Moon.

The journalist begged them to open the rest of the score but they denied all requests and review-bribes. They got back to Nikunj's house, hand in hand. He opened the door to find Kriya smoking, one leg over the other, a definitive look of betrayal shining in her eyes, a sharp straight-razor in her clutch, and the lyrics of Over the Moon in the other. "Welcome home love-birds. And Aulina, I have a key to Niks' house same reason as you. Dumb-bass player."

Aulina went white. "What is that thing doing in your hand, Kriya?"

"What do you think, love?" she got up. She opened the razor and traced it on Aulina's jawline. "Gotta say, you have a good one." She turned to Nikunj and touched the razor on his jaw now. "Oh, you don't need a shave, do you, evil boy?"

"Take the song, Kriya! Go solo" screamed Aulina.

"Never" said Nikunj softly.

Kriya slit his throat finely, only to hurt, not to kill. "Yes, never, dearest." She took Aulina by her hair and shouted in her ears, "Touch his blood! Touch it!" Aulina agreed. "Do you smell betrayal? Double, triple betrayal? You wanna do something with it, sweetheart?"

Aulina faced her now, blood-smeared fingers, eyes giving nothing. "Yes". She snatched the lyrics from Kriya as she stood beside her. "Sing along."

"Good decision, Aulina. What do we call our two-woman band? You are the word-queen."

Nikunj was alarmed at the turn of events. "Girls, what are you up to?"

Aulina decided to over-hear the last remark. She was thinking. "I have a name, Kriya."

"Bring it on, Aul."

"Slayers."

A Sound Noise

While certain sounds classify as music, comfort and therapy, others fall apart as noise. And it is sad that my day begins with one. Are you thinking alarm clock? Wrong. I have carefully selected a soft tone, which works contrary to what it is supposed to do. I sleep deeper. Then comes the noise. In a routine series. 

Dear god, the noise! Initially it would be the irrationally harsh knocks, sufficient to give a feeble heart like mine an attack. Then when I survived it, and muffled the slangs into my pillow to try and get back to the exact point of the dream, started the clamour of the mother with her "programs" for the day and other blahs that went on irrespective of whether I would listen or not. The stupid good person that I am, I would of course. Plans drafted when she finally left, declaring tea is on the dining table, I turn my side and try harder to sleep a ten minutes duration. Hell, just when the slumber would be on its way, slowly, came the woman's pressure cooker whistles. How I detest that one noise. My mom has said when she dies I should make sure that we give a pressure cooker along, so that she can go up (up?) and cook and feed her father and uncles. I don't know how much I would be able to do that, but I will surely not miss that horrifying hiss. Or, will I?

You thought twas over? Oh no-no, no-no. Then I wake up completely to the sound of my car being taken out for a wash. The only point when I detest it, and its squeaking sounds. While father listens to the TV in which a lady would melodramatically sing lullabyish and pessimistic Rabindra Sangeets, mother's choice of songs on the radio, from Rowdy Rathore to Dil to Pagal Hai creates an absolute commotion. I escape to the loo. I return to father's TV playing headlines, which sound the same every morning -- a telling remark on the state of our state. And finally, on days that I stay home, if you had thought the day would melt away here, stop.

My parents are, in their own way, unlike me, unexpectedly loved and well, unexpectedly loved. Which brings in, what? The door bell. G-o-o-d g-o-d o-f m-i-n-e, even when we pretend to say that we aren't home by hanging the lock from outside, the bell keeps ringing. People have gotten used to it. Mama and Mami are available. The daughter is a door-keeper. Sad life? Yeah? Wait.

My mother is a social well, if not butterfly, certainly firefly. Her mobile phone rings ALL the time. Yes, I deliberately wrote that in caps. Thank goodness she is not patient enough to learn of the smartphone, else the notifications wouldn't cease. And when by chance her mobile phone does not, gosh, the landline. It rings out a hostility in me, which I subdue by not taking the call, which further irritates me, because then it would not stop. 

And then, the plans. I cannot even. The "to-do's, what-if's and the after-that's". The fish brawls. The sundry brawls. Of course, the silent afternoons followed by the over-bearing music instilling disgust in my system from the other room with father watching one bong soap after the other. To be taken over by mom's one hindi extravaganza after the other. Finally the house goes to sleep.

But you guessed it right. By this time I am so used to the noise that the new menace called Bigg Boss has entered my room, by my choice. I am sober that way, ignoring WhatsApps and continuing with the same tring-tring for a ringtone, since I got a phone, about more than a decade ago. All of these dissolve. Till I can hear the leaves swirling outside my window. Till I can hear the hourly bangs and the night guard's whistles. Till the insects and air come alive. I am sleepy by then.

Only to be awakened by the voice in my head. It is a sound, a disturbing sound, a noise. And it refuses to leave. That sound noise.

What Brought the Drought

Its a rainy day. It has been raining since the morning, in pockets and patches. Political wins have showered their respective colours. Emotional waves sent sultry messages to the clouds. And thus the drought is finally drenched. The day turns to a breezy dusky silence. Hints of more showers come in faint grumbles. Hints, like hope, are pathetically misleading. 

Farmers commit suicide in such situations of drought. Writers do too. But then, "wait", said Pollyanna to yours truly. "You are a writer, not a farmer. The farmer has a plough which digs out his soul, you have a fountain-pen! A fountain. Water, culture, sow, give birth, nurture, live!"

This did not happen in a dream, nor came through the closed windows. Pollyanna pierced through my pen and made shapes in my eternal wait. We ought to give it to her, even though she failed since the last week, she persisted, and here I am, watering the words. To think of it, a writer is a farmer who cultivates ideas and observations. The soil sometimes does not complement the imagination and the plough finds friction against a rock, a block, a writer's-block. But hey, there ain't no such thing as a writer's block.

I have been occupied. Nothingness is a great reservoir of all things dark -- endless hopes, ambitious dreams, useless anxiety -- it is vicious. The darkness is deep, like poetry, only less elegant. It is closer to suffocation. In a lifetime of impulses governing the rationale, the senses have hardly been so active. But I am tired is no excuse. This is all I do, I reminded myself. Not just what I do. I write, of course. And look, Pollyanna smiles. Have you ever wondered how a smile differs in victory in loss? It is the same smile that questions the self-esteem. But I promised you, there is no such thing as a writer's block, didn't I?

Look. Take a bulldozer, and plough through. It was a matter of time that I would return to the same keys which made me tired, to rejuvenate me. Like the smile. 

Drought, you thought? Hang on, there's going to be a flood. And the ship will set sail on it. Away.

How to Build a Sand-Castle in the Air

DISCLAIMER: Recipe Books are dangerous objects. One could get fat simply flipping through the pages.

Of recipes that water our mouths even before they have been tasted, one delicacy is "Castle in the Air". Now, just like a chocolate cake would be all the more irresistible if it were to become double chocolate one, I am going to share with you the refined version of the Castle. Yes, kind people, today we are going to learn the step-by-step procession towards building a Sand-Castle in the Air. Compare it to something like, cherry on the top. We begin:

Step 1: Location, location, location. Remember, where we are going to build the castle? In the air. It needs to float innocently, to be seen, to remind, to make us eager to touch it, make us want to have it.

Step 1a: We are building a sand-castle. So, an ideal place would be a beach, don't you think so? Complete sense with sacks of sand. But wait, here we want you to think. Wouldn't the waves distract our view of the suspended castle? Sigh.

Step 1b: Sand found? Keeping it undisclosed to launch a massive appeal to the viewers later.

Step 2: How about spicing things up a beat by whipping a couple of hobby-rooms? I mean it really wouldn't hurt to have a room to watch movies, or one to play carrom-board or playstation in. See? Yes. So, we put those secret ingredients in. The space to unwind.

Step 2a: It is important here to note that the space cannot be an overbearing one, one which makes us guilty of not attending it frequently, like a library, or one which has its own mind, like a garden.

Step 2b: Mix the space with the sand. It will have the effect of what yeast does in contact with air. Blows up. And isn't what we were looking at? A castle in the air? Good. Let it rest.

Step 3: We can now see the towers and chambers in our castle, right out of nothingness, like a conjuror would have brought a rabbit out of his hat. And such a warm castle -- spacious, ambitious and own.

Step 3a: Now for the ornamenting. We took the castle to the desert of course for even more sacks of sand. Heap after heap, casually aim at the castle.

Step 3b: Uh ou. Has the sand fallen back in your eye? Is it disturbing the sight of the castle? Well, wake up then. Shake it off. Some streaks are stuck on it, see carefully. Sand-castle in the air accomplished.


Those of you who disbelieve the process of seeing clearly after sand hits the eye, don't go to the desert. I have thought of another place for you, where you can build such castles.

Grab a dessert. Anytime of the day. While we are here to fight fat, we cannot escape the fact that to be able to build a castle in the air, you need both dopamine and depression, children of fat. Don't make them fight! And oh, certainly not in that sand-castle we just built!

Wait, have you caught some sand in your eye? Told you! Clarity is rare these days.

Write Time

What does it take to write? 

A room, Woolf immortalized. Defeat doubt, wrote Plath somewhere. Put them together in a ceramic cauldron and bring to boil. You will surely have tasted dissatisfaction in a cup. And that makes it so irresistible. This quench for the perfect taste certainly outruns the dearth of that infinite thing called time. You brew and you drink, your brew and then drink some more. Repeat. To finally arrive at Bradbury's "You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you". Strange how Bradbury rhymes with Cadbury, and makes the potion feel like hot chocolate.

It shards and shreds the soul to keep writing, but once I do, I know I have that soul to build back, sweat by sweat. I know I am alive. That takes the salt away and makes it sweet. Away from the words, feels like disowning myself, like I have not been fair.

I wish I could rewind time and stop myself from changing channels or crushing candies, and command myself to write. Of course it would be a command, one that says, "Yes, its the write time!"

If only life was Hogwarts.

If only spoons circled themselves in the hot chocolate.

It would then be blood writing all over. Painlessly. Feather light. 

It would be the write time. 

Like now.

Letter to Daughter XV

C,

Thank goodness you are not having to compete in this race of celebrating Mother's Day in the name of Facebook posts. For that, I hereby introduce you your first slang -- MOFO. And please know on this day, as usual as the rest of our days, that whenever you are mad at me, you can scream MOFO. I wouldn't mind. Motherhood is over-rated. There is this bond which is biologically bound to love and there is that beyond biology. I mean, as your Momie, why do I write to you? Years later you would be calling me a weirdo. But I would still be loving you.

These "Days" are so powerfully pitiful, overwhelmingly boring and threateningly over-rated. I am sure you have understood nothing. So go ahead and say "MOFO". It wouldn't mean you are demeaning me. You are just my little one repeating a slang taught by her Momie. I will take the blame, I promise. Because when anyone shouts at me at what I have done, I would give it back to them that it is your choice to pick up, or discard, what you are taught.

To love me, you have to hate me. To laugh with me, you must fight. To live your life, you must leave. And that, my little C, would make me happiest. I do not need your FB post declaring I am the world's best mother, but it would be great if you would call me from far off Warsaw someday, when you are young and I am older, to say how it feels like to be there.

My darling, I have chosen to live with you, love you and not bring you to this world. Forgive me for that. But should I do, you are on your own. You will be loved anyway, near or far away. Would you be able to deal with a hippie of this Momie? Even if she can't promise that she will remember to wish you on your birthday, I swear, Momie will give ask you about the local liquor in the land you live. 

You have made my life by not reducing it to 'a' day. Thanks, honey.

Momie. 

Love-Letter (LXIII)

Grumpus,

"Is this enough for a love-letter?" you had laughed off when I had asked our friend to use the tissue paper to write one. Those are the moments I am caught off-guard. You do have a shining sense of humour. Like the diamond beneath the coal-mines (which you ought to explain me how) it needed a revealing -- your chance to laugh, and your right to remain happy. This is not a love-letter that would mush up like a silken mashed potato scoop, so, don't expect the exaggerations.

This was needed because, you are so full of poetry while all I am in prose. So, in the plainest of words I would like to convey that your being is not just strength incarnate, but also virally contagious. All along, I had only known an image of you, your words and your voice as seen and heard by others. But I would duly take the credits of being the sandpaper which helped me fetch the anchor that love could be. Perhaps it also helped you fetch it for yourself. It is so easy to love you, even though our splurging varies on varied occasions.

You made me see the sides to Picasso's geometric angles -- the actual example of the many faces of the same person. You made me see myself -- in an appreciative manner. You made me see life -- in an aura that was so long unknown. We have become habits, haven't we? What is the fun in seeing a plan being planned meticulously, and unplanned immediately, without the alarm written all over your face? What is it to discover that madness is beautiful without your unbeatable logic? I guess poetry and prose need to come together in the makings of an unread, un-thought of novel.

While you unlearned to love blindly, I learned of the passionate palette of life after being blinded by it. 

Wait for me,

Happy-ness. 

PS: This much could have been written on a tissue-paper.

Stitching a Story

In a year's time, Shikha hadn't been so much at home, and without. But as luck would have it -- just as ice-creams melt unannounced and perfectly made tea goes limp -- in spite of eons of attention and a moment of neglect, her life changed. Long ago when all her friends had shunned her for either being reticent, or their understanding of what over-smart is, she had befriended the noble company of virtual friends, in animated characters. All day long, whenever disengaged with the work at hand -- she was meticulous with the needle -- she would return to the amiable affection of the colour bursts and the accomplishments of levels. The cheer would sound melodious to her, and the skill made her believe she was a champion.

Till last week. It was then that Mother had made her promise that they would go out for a picnic, if she would uninstall one game from her mobile -- her favourite -- shooting stars. Finally, last night, she gave it up. And yet, after having given up, she could not believe she did so. All through the day, Shikha stitched impeccable floral patterns contrasting against a geometrical background. If the head scarf were to find its way, ever, to a Gucci, it would truly sell for many million dollars. Or, sold at a requested price, find itself dangling down the petite neckline of a Hungarian princess. It short, it was a skill rare in one so young. She was all of twenty, a rather smart looking girl, from a rather well-off background. Ousted from furthering her education due to presence of mind that one should display during interviews, she decided to sit at home and take the year off. As she took this decision, Dr Mahapatra diagnosed her fever to have triggered from the psyche. "It just isn't the weather for fever, Mrs Mohanty". This flush had revisited her for the second time, and with a harsher decision to linger, after it had first come to her when she had attained puberty. The prescription was duly met out. It did not say that she should be stopped from playing games. That was never a problem.

Nobody believed when Shikha gave it up. All she wanted in exchange, after a long while, was to inhale the landscape. So long she only re-imagined it on pieces of circled cloth wedded to the steel molds. Rest of her imagination was inhabited by her shooting stars and bubble bursts and the accumulated treasure chest of jewels. All through this morning, all that Shikha could stitch was a disarrayed assembly of her captivated, virtual, landscape. There were ships in diamonds, and pirates inside oranges. The sheen of the sea was outlined in a hem of red, and the trees were blue, one with the sky -- resplendent in lapis lazuli fruits.

However, Mother never took her out for the promised picnic. Shikha returned with a vehement passion towards her only solace, the needle. In my opinion, or anyone else's I am sure, who now stand at this unfortunate death of a precious soul, the piece she last stitched could be held priceless. As for the needle, a shot of air was all it took Shikha to break out of the asylum into her fancy dressed landscape. With plenty of orange juice in which she could swim.

I hope Shikha is hearing me. She would have appreciated this piece. Between us, we shared only mutual admiration, never competition. Goes without saying, I placed the injection at the right place, for the right time. 

This piece is priceless too. Would you disagree?

-- Niyati Gautam,

The Teresa Memorial Mental Asylum,

May Madness. 2016.

Letter to a Wish-Fish

If you are there, Hi!

Trees are ordinary to tie a wish around. Lemme try talking to you instead! Yesterday I saw the funniest of wishes written out in paper on a tree. Of which, safely, ninety percent said they wanted a son. Some wanted a job, others prayed for monetary success. The bland wishes around a big tree. But the devotion and queue was severe. Rather, ruthless would be correct, given the temperature.

Prayers, I thought to myself, what are they? A sanctuary of solace, isn't it? We put a name, a face, or an object and reveal our most heartfelt desires, wishes in it. If I have seen you flying, fish, I know you have something to do with a wish as well. Wish-wells and trees are passé, and frankly, not being fishy at all (I mean you even are quite straight about your bones), it is high time someone gave you the benefits of being the nutritious lean meat.

Wish-Fish, please listen to me. I only ask of you to do some strange magic and weird concoction, with which, my life will get its right direction. My biggest terror is to lead a boring life, which is perhaps why I still carry in my heart the memories of you flying. You know, the other day I wrote a love-letter to rain, and in three days' time, it responded last night. Wish-Fish, for the sake of words that my readers love, the characters my stories are enlivened with, and love that protects me like insurance, please ensure me fulfilment of what I wish. No, no, not wishful thinking. That is completely opposite to wish fulfilment.

When I was younger, I desired for a cooler temperatures in an European country in which I lived and walked in lovely jackets and brilliant socks. That is so gettable that I have let gone of it. Wish-Fish, do you remember, how I used to refrain from you earlier? Then you became my friend, when in the name of studying, I would waste hours on separating meat from the fine fence of bones you have. And now, how you have become a part of me since I saw you flying. I know it, Wish-Fish, that was what you wanted, to fly. And for someone to see it when you do. I did (hand up)! Then I told about you to my cousins and colleagues and relatives, and so many of them are putting you on canvas, with wings, that you owe me one. Honestly, nothing short than that. I gently demand that you look after my wish too, Wish-Fish.

Wish-Fish, see me fly away too!

And then, up there in the clouds of comfort and disrupt, we two unknown misfits would build a cacophony of company that others would be envious of! And how will we not? We drink like a fish! 

Wish-Fish, flap your fin, make me win! 

K :) 

What's on my Mind

 

advertisements

jingles

sound

images

meaninglessness

how to make a career

awaiting reading lists 

farhan's ponytail

isn't luck but chance?

i'll open a cafe

and look outside someday

when i am not chopping

when i am not writing

stuart binny is brilliant

why can't i be

i want to rewrite 

what comes out

of pandora's box

perfect sunny side ups

whiskey at the bar

erasers for schedule

driving a safe car

too much you think to ask

to day-dream, to desire?

new york, london

go ahead call me  

limited edition  .

Objects in the Mirror are Closer than they Appear

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. The honking from the car behind was almost irritable. It broke her trance. As she checked in her rear-view mirror, she saw a red Kwid. She moved on with the next song on the radio channel, blabbering for so long. At the next signal, I shall look closely.

The next signal was, coincidentally, one-eighty seconds long. She increased the volume of the song playing and looked at the side mirror. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. What do they mean to mean? A strategy for safety? I am the one in the mirror, though, am I not? She was completely lost in, or away from the music beats. At a distance from the rest of the digital ticking numbers on the traffic post, she noticed the font of the words. White. Opaque. Glass. Opaque. So it is not meant to be transparent. But there! That's my silver hair, ruggedly stuck to the sweat on my temple. She wiped it with her handkerchief. Opaque? Or transparent? Transparent means I could see through the mirror. But the writing says it brings objects closer. Oh, appear. Of course.

Bhasha's car was third in line. The signal blinked and turned green. The honks distracted her. Without paying much attention, she clicked on the emergency button and continued to look into the mirror. The songs changed, and the next signal was also in action, with cars crossing her passing the beeping lights a curious look. Am I closer to myself in the mirror? Only in the mirror? Who am I that I need to be looked closely into? Why this close inspection? Why not? How close is closer? Rationally arriving at a philosophical high, she decided to look into the matter closely and not paying heed to her work, drove away from the busy road into a narrow, shady lane and parked her car under a big tree.

No unnecessary sound to disrupt me. Here, the ac is good, music good. She opened her seatbelt and reclined her seat to have a different look into the mirror. From further, how closer? Who is this who wants to be examined? Does she want the entertainment inside the car? 'Would you want a drag?'

'Would you want a drag?' she heard the reply. Echo and Narcissus! That's what these car companies have devised upon!

She pulled back her seat and looked deeper now, the sameness of the image bored her. It has only come closer. Damn! 'How I wish to look closely into you.'

'How I wish to look closely into you', she heard the definitive reply. Curious, she pulled down the window and touched the mirror. The object in the mirror touched her back. Bhasha you stupid girl, stop getting excited! You are feeling the mirror, not her touch. Bhasha brought in her hand. The hand moved away too. So, now, how are you closer than you appear? And what is this appear? Appear closer? With a sudden pang of the present, she looked into her watch, reversed her car and headed towards her office.

All day, all you do, is disappear. 

Made Servant

We have all grown up with stories of our ancestors sharing an egg between four (or more) people, haven't we? That suffering is necessary for meaningful survival, that experience is the real teacher, that language sets us apart from all that is inanimate, and / or uncivilized. Some profess the philosophy of serving in heaven while others rule in hell. To think of it, so many ideas govern our minds. Already.

What do you think makes us? We are Made Servants, of course. I am intentionally playing the pun with the word 'made', so that it is human-centric and not simply woman-centric. Humanity -- is inclusive in its noble attribute of catering to everything -- to the specific end that it, in effect, rises us over the rest, the underprivileged. I am in no mood to lecture, be with me in trust on this, all I am doing is loud thinking. Inputs (which hardly come my way, yes, because I am hardly a debater), are always welcome. I am beyond it, I guess. My mind is conditioned in a naturalized way to accept my perceptions about life, and hence so many things that cut across societal norms make me 'inhuman'. 

Education is essential, but does it really help to earn those dozens of degrees, if one does not have the mindset to offer a bottle of water to the man sweating his life to offer us electricity, while digging the ground underneath to find the fault. Forget water, even a word spared could perhaps mean so much to him, even in this heat. If I were him, I would certainly be delighted to receive a comforting word. Harry found his comfort in a giant-sized "Happy Birthday, Harry!"

Religion has tended to the occasion of concreting the abstract, absent solace, but look at what it demands. Devotion if one thing, and fanaticism another. Please do not have the superior head-up if you have a library consisting books on values, for what use is value on a page if not exercised? No, no, not on an exercise copy, in life you know. Life -- where I am thirty two, and have sufficient unintelligible queries which I am not ashamed to ask. I also have an overhead of knowledge, little things like a smile works, or that keeping a door holding for someone entering from the other end does. 

I am only ashamed of one thing, that I am at a loss of words when I could have perhaps been assertive, or logical. I am a Made Servant by the laws of life. I obey rules that defy humanity, I surrender to rights that are baseless, I write in the name of thinking aloud. I wonder if we will ever be able to get out of the periphery of narratives that have ruled our consciousness, and that of our parents' before us. It is a circle. Quite unlike the 22 degree halo of a rainbow around the sun that came out for half an hour. It watered my eyes, but then, the wonder filled it right back. There are rare instances such are these that help me look at the invisible. So much that is erstwhile unseen awaits to be seen.

By the way, who are you?