What is Your Name?

You will not believe how difficult it is to live up to certain names -- especially when you do not associate yourself with the characteristics of the meaning of your name. I have a valley of wavey tresses, and am happily Kuntala, as is Jayasri, my aunt -- Goddess of Triumph -- she even walked the Lakme ramp last evening and completely killed it. The name Neil may have zero meaning, but it has a zing of charisma, even in the way it is spelled, and so was he...

We are privileged to be able to smile when people ask after our names. I knew a certain Rupasree, and I do not intend to belittle her looks in any way, but the pain she went through, each time she had to pronounce her name, with that distinctly displeasing face, was visible from miles. So suffered the friends who had sur/names akin to celebrities: Lata, and not be able to sing; Sachin and have no relationship with cricket and Kapoor, neither with a business sensibility nor with enviable curves. Some are tired having to call out their own names with the volume of commonness attached -- Debashish, Debalina and Sharmistha. While some others are laughed at because of an unbearable reality their parents had named them with (mostly found in Bengali) -- Zidane and Marx. Blessed are those with a touch of the unusual or beautiful in their names: Basudha, Basabi and Manjima. The novelty in these cases wins. Though the last one being a soulful feminist, faces my daily joke -- "You have a 'Man' in your name!" 

What do you think Monalisa does? She is disappointed when she cannot comprehend certain words of my writing, and certain ways of her life. She complains to some she can open her heart to, and perhaps has no idea that her etymology sits in the Louvre, sighing at each shutterbug. She outlives the mystery of her smile. Many a times surely the smiles must have faded, it is the law of nature, erm, colours. And many more times she has been touched up to become as good as new. Nobody really notices the difference, year after year after year. She waits at her admirers tirelessly, she takes in the anger of her critics, she looks after and upon generations. Who knows with or without interest?

And Monalisa smiles. 

A Naughty Story

My daughter has caught up with the business of peek-a-boo into my laptop, especially when I am typing at such a speed. She knows I mention her often, and craves to locate her name somewhere on the screen. On days she does, rarely does she wait to scream, and the indelible words that follow are, "Yeah, yeaaaa, yeaaa, Momie writes me! Yeaaa!" Yes, the disturbance is bold, but palpable. To teach her a lesson that it is a bad thing she does, stealthily stealing into another's space, I will now change the font to grab her attention:

In a little town-land called HahaHeehee, lived Chimti and Khaamchi. No, no, they were neither friends nor adversaries. They were two sweet sisters with a pair of talent to their names. While Chimti had an appetite for anything round, Khaamchi adored lines. And the pair functioned like a swarm of bees, each ornamenting the other’s moves further. It was a happy time in most families of HahaHeehee, whenever Chimti and Khaamchi put up a performance, sometimes under the polka-dotted umbrella, and sometimes over the striped table, mild leftovers which would annoy the aesthetics of the place.

Are you thinking why did they have such names if they were so sweet? (For the uninitiated, in Bengal, the two words/names refer to pinching and scratching respectively.) The story is rather dark. The words found the meanings from a not-so-sweet act by the sweet sisters. It so happened that one ancient day, when there was neither cable TV nor computer games, the two sisters, of their own accord, went out to collect the fallen leaves from their house to the Palace of KhikKhik. While on other rainy days the game was not possible, this sunny afternoon, the sun surely went the wrong side of their heads for them to fight it. 

“The winner will make the loser a garland of the leaves!” said Chimti.

“No-no, the loser will make for the winner a garland!” retaliated Khaamchi.

“No, Khaamchi” with sheer control over her voice, Chimti continued, “the leaves are fallen!”

Khaamchi, the more birdbrain of the two, meekly nodded, fully unconvinced that her sister wasn’t fooling her.

Once the two were back, their hands armed with umbrella-cloth and table-bits and some leaves, the two sisters exchanged their wares to begin the count. The sunlight had eaten the mild intelligence out of them, for they both took the game more seriously than any sportsman. Chimti had counted 2-17-37-68-82-53, when Khaamchi asked her to recount. “How can you have 53 after 82?”

“I never uttered 82! I said 53! Run and buy me some onion pickle. I have already won.”

Khaamchi could not take her sister’s wrongdoings anymore and pounced on her bowl of chopped pineapples and drained the juice on her head. At this, Chimti, now furious and fuming with anger, went inside their room, collected Khaamchi’s jar of two butterflies and having opened it, covered it immediately with one of her umbrella bits. The butterflies were suffering and flapping unbearably. Khaamchi removed the cloth and saw her butterflies fly away, in relief and sadness and then turned her attention to Chimti. She could not think of anything to do that would match her sorrow to be given to Chimti, so she punched her and bit her and pulled her hair. Chimti screamed aloud in pain but Khaamchi wouldn’t stop! At this point Chimti somehow managed to pinch hard at Khaamchi’s elbow which took she a while to realize. Once she understood, she screamed back, “Whatever you do, I will do more!” and attacked Chimti with all her fingernails.

By evening, their house was a mess with shattered jars and battered pillows and violence writ all over the sisters’ faces. They lost the game, the butterflies, their appetite for dots and stripes, but most of all they lost love for each other. And since that day, to warn everyone of the Grand Battle at HahaHeehee one just had to slightly pinch another. Needless to say, it would be countered by a very severe scratch.

Thus the people of the little land decided to do away with the sisters. They also created invisible boundaries among the rest of the children, so that from a very tender age, they would know better not to peep into that line. But the people were dumb and could not respect the invisibility, and thus today, HahaHeehee stands as a testimony of all the scars left behind from Chimti and Khaamchi.

Who would remember them as the two sweet sisters in their pink frocks and frilly rubber-bands? We do think of them in pink marks and band-aids. 

Do not be naughty dearest to Tucks or me, and learn to count your numbers well! Hopefully, having got/seen the message she decodes the keywords as things we must not do. But who am I fooling? Even as I ended, I knew I brought upon myself a sleepless night of  “Momie where did Chimti and Khaamchi go? Momie, what happen to them then?” 

Momie retires, baby. To kissies -- Chummiiis. On your softy, plumpy cheeks.

A Ladle of Moonlight

With my barren eyes I could see the barren trees feel the barren moonlight wash each leaf many times over. Through that myopic vision I came to know that the night sky is not always meant to be dark, like the shimmering smile which does not reveal the bitterness of the stepwell-mind. The other day, which in a moment seems just yesterday, and in another, eons ago, I am reminded of the crescent from my fifth floor balcony -- a welcome little amidst the amply lit stairways of the surrounding buildings. And here was this night, with the full moon following me into my 2nd AC coach from Maharashtra to Delhi -- a scanty sight out of the predictably dirty Indian Railways' window. I was transported to Thimpu and Shillong and Goa and all the other places it has been travelling alongside, a lifetime.

The first rains have many associations of an itch to dance foolishly on the road, under the concrete sky, the ensuing cold, and finally warming up to a deserving nap after a sumptuous lunch of khichudi with or without ilish. The moon too has, I realized -- of a continuity of change throughout life, courageously. It allows you to grow from the rabbit of the Cartoon Network to the rabbit in Wonderland. It hops around you all over the world, although it belongs to a different world altogether, other-worldly. 

It touches lives, and leaves. An entire plateful of emptiness is served with a ladle of moonlight to an endearing foolishness of believing in the truest of lies. I hop with the rabbit, into lands beyond reason. It calls for a glass of golden liquid held lovingly in the hand, with music which needs no practiced ear to involve itself in, and the company of one's own self. 

A ladle of moonlight touched everything it fell upon, much like my sight which sits stupidly on anything and everything. And it touched me, like a pleasant breeze making me aware that I have beautiful hair, things irrelevant logically, but profoundly deep otherwise. Does it make sense now that with my barren eyes I could see the barren trees feel the barren moonlight wash each leaf many times over? Is it true that you tend to lose yourself when you bathe in it? I soak in the indefinite pleasure as I struggle to keep my barren eyelids close. Till the light takes over and you are lost in the untold barrenness of what a ladle of moonlight could hold...

Shades & Shapes

"one of the best beginnings i could have asked for from this year, one of the best continuations...one of the best progressions and gradually, one of the best moments that have turned into some of the best memories ...

like - rain, sudden or planned...and clouds with their own stories...and skies and birds and roads and rooms...like - a very dear song in a very favourite version...like being tucked in a warm corner with a soft blanket and softer sunshine and sweet oranges...in happy tears and sad smiles and some memories that were, some that could have been and some more that can never be...

from january to june...and the sundays in between..." -- Yashodhara Mitra somewhere in love all of '14!

2014. What a year that was! The amount of affairs I had and the clarity of closures. Look at me now. I write like an author, with proper punctuation even in utter thoughtlessness. And am I glad that I have made the "i" redundant. I am glad I was your lovingly loved whore. I found shades to myself and tried various shapes. From 2014-2016, and the hours in between that I have always been, Yashodhara.

The hasty clouds are chasing the lightning, while some stars are still shining. The day is done like a burnt out cigarette end. Dunhill Switch. Press the switch to alter taste. All my life, all of now, I am changing. Look, the elephant does have wings to fly to the duck which swims in the sky. You don't believe me? How could you. If only you looked carefully, my plaits are etched with memories too. In one hand I hold an aim, in the other a duty. My danglers make me no less different than the dots on my ears, yet I do not care if the smoke kills me or you, it makes me feel alive, the cigarette between my fingers makes me gorgeous.

A neatly dressed man came in with this diary, claiming to be my husband. I smiled. That is where the Mitra must have come from. I spoke to him cordially about the bitterness of medicines and the sweetness of sleep. He seemed disturbed, touched my plaits, and left. I cannot decide if my Doctor is no less my husband! Yes, you see, I am funny. Tomorrow I will draw some shapes and paint them in shades. Of my life. Is this that life?

The only time I have gotten angry is when they engage about me as 212. 

I am Yashodhara, 2016.

Stuck in a Jam

Dearest Kush,

With a humidity of over 89%, and an over-priced mineral water bottle inside an Uber, I am stuck in an unending jam. For some reason, I decided not to devote my attention to the new game I downloaded the other day. Instead, I looked outside the window. The sights weren't new -- endless cars with endless scratches being subjected to endless begging. I laughed at the person right beside my cab, at his wheel, constantly consulting his watch. Thank god for Amma to have taught me the importance of not looking at time when one runs late.

Do you think these perfectly strong mothers begging with a child knit around them, are actually the mothers? Do you think the dates are actually from Dubai? Do you think the smell of the yellow roses will last till the ride? Do you think those happy balloons would be happier left in the sky? Remember, when we used to court each other, we bought balloons and left them from the cab? It is a different story now -- we have our own cars and absolutely no time for frivolous thoughts as were cuddling and looking forward to a future.

Finally, we are here, in our desired future, but hey, where are we, Kush? Is this the present? Where I look out and try to feel happy about newer courtships in other cabs? Eventually, it is overcome by a sorrow. Of a customary regularity of work-hours and non-work duties. Yes, that is what our life is divided into now -- of PPTs and deadlines from 9 to 5, and of chores and insurances in the hours outside sleep. Even our breakfast is curated by the stories of others.

Yet, I dare to hope. I have not played a game, but written a mail to you -- even though I doubt if you would read it -- for all the thens when we thought of our nows.

Even though you are right here, beside me, love, typing into your laptop and rescheduling meetings, I don't even have the space to inform you that sending the cars for servicing at the same time was my idea, thinking we could return to the comfort of the back-seat of cabs.

Alas, love, along with us, our love too has taken the back-seat.

Parchhi.

Topic of Cancer

When I was very, very young, Cancer was just another docile, uninteresting zodiac sign. Then I got to know about the imaginary Tropic of Cancer. And finally, when the family was hit, I was abreast with Cancer. Honestly, with all the "bad habits" I have, in the amount I have, I never thought it could be something that I would be facing. In fact, I quite loved the fact when my most favourite person in the world braved it, rather nonchalantly, while I in all of my dramatic excess made it to her in a literal cinematic style.

What is your opinion about the abundance that is being shoved into our entertainment/knowledge domain, in the name of awareness? Not only is it not impressive, but also the fact that people are so disgusted by the images that I doubt if it succeeds in inducing any kind of fear. Not until you feel the sudden growth of a lump somewhere in your body, like an unwelcome guest who loudly declares him/herself into your house and that too, right inside the kitchen. That is when these awareness images come alive -- the darkness of the dark tunnel after a stretch of sunshine when you do not know whether to put on the lights of your car or to drive on, straight.

How is it that Cancer has become a universal enemy of anatomy, just like terrorism of humanity? We let it flourish, that is why. The economy has allowed it to get under our skin. No one else did, no one else could. 

Why am I suddenly pensively ruminating over this topic? Because, unfortunately, it is not the imaginary Tropic of Cancer. It is the very real, very dementing disease Cancer. 

Each paragraph began with a question word, "when", "what", "how", "why". I would thus like to end it with the only other:

"Where" the mind is without fear, it cannot bring unto you a tear.

Faking Fashion

Chances are, if you reside in Delhi-NCR, you will be using the metro. You could be one of those who thought that you would use the travel time to steal a nap. And then the truth hit you -- right in the general compartments. The hair you had carefully combed and the deodorant you had generously applied, all got lost in the pack of many others, just like you.

But hang on, spare a thought for the Grand Guccis and the Lovely Louis Vuittons and of course, our very own “Sabyasachi Sarees”. So many exquisite replicas have come up that it does not matter if you get off the metro with an LV (honestly, not possible). As for the industry, while they do have their loyal limitations to being an original (the B&L on a RayBan lens), or the inimitable white dot on a Sheaffers), the counterfeits most affects the desirability to own an original.

Like the concept of photography, a fashion fake now, is as real as the original. And more than the economy, it is killing the loyalty one had towards a given brand. What with online forums offering mind-boggling discounts, everyone wears Jack & Jones and Calvin Klein, but the fashion gets killed when the wearer takes upon him/herself to responsibly display the newest possession – more like a child with a new toy. Imagine your car mechanic checking your bumper and you get to see the bold and unapologetic misspelled “Calvin Klin” glaring at you from over his low-waist, torn, “Livice” denim.

Not to sound elitist, but certain things never run out of fashion. I would, for instance, any day prefer a mechanical HMT (Tissot would be better) watch over a flashy DKNY. No, not to set myself apart from the crowd, but because there is a sincere pride involved in routinely winding the timepiece on my wrist. It is not a collection of alphabets which defines fashion – it is always the attitude that comes along.

The fashion industry has never found much limelight outside of its own glamorous circle. What differentiated a garment from what is in ‘fashion’? Novelty? Acceptability? Absurdity? The industry must have devised the formula of a combination of all the factors, subject to a constant change. It is a matter of the great project, misleadingly called “Made in China”, otherwise known as “Locally Reproduced”. The original piece was a work of art, nothing can deny that, and come what may, you can always tell a print from the original!

Mass production has brought MK bags in the hands of college going first years. Michael Korrs would certainly not be too happy about it. Nor would Diesel see the reason behind a brand called “Petrol”. Sadly for the industry, the replicas have mushroomed, and not all are safe, as you know. It seems to have followed the tick of Nike too seriously to “Just Do It”, in the process, proficiently murdering the ‘why’ you would do it.

An August Age

If I were about to write my Boards now, tomorrow would not, in spite of my best bets, be an escape to start studying -- a Monday and the 1st of a month -- this combination is rare. But tomorrow will never come, because today I am writing life. Well I have had enough of June and July, and if anything, they are going to feel ashamed of themselves in this August Age -- where my words will flourish like flowers in first rains and flow like a gushing river from a waterfall. It is not a determination, if you could understand, it is a call. 

The distractions of procrastination and being busy with the chopping, cleaning, maid-supervising, laundry and ironing, grocery listing, buying and placing, is immense, to say the least. Apart from fixing a flat and life, that is. Some shopping, a good bout of eating and a deep spell of sleep later, I returned to Koffee with Karan. Glamorous gossip is the best potion ever. I was thinking of the time when I had seen the episodes on TV when they were aired and could not believe that I do not own a TV, yet.

Priorities have become a Signac painting (ref. Pointilism). Little dots of obstacles that need to be overcome to be joined with another and form a ladder. Or a landscape. The chicken I cooked was good, because I cooked it to wipe erase my fear clusters, but finally it tasted of inhibition. In an irrational bout of defeating such feelings, I looked out from my balcony. Everything seems Candy Crush-ish. Little boxes of life. And should you dare bring in Paul Klee and his boxes, I would like to inform you about the difference between playing and painting. But I will not. Why aren't you initiated to think enough?

Madness is a good thing. It unnerves and then comes to term with it. It is an August Age after all, where we are all running #dadading. And forget to listen to the lashing of the monsoon wind, because we are too busy listening to Honey Singh. Well, call me ancient, but there indeed is a charm in looking out at the midnight ornamental lights dimmed to function. And to take in a minute to find out where are the insects who make such uniform buzz.

I have had long breaks working and finding my way. Its time to unwind and let the road take me in. From tomorrow. Because today, I am writing life.