Who Won the Game?

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

The Dubious Nature of Happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who, do you think?

Writing a Novel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fairy Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fairy was surprised. "What will happen?"

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

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

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

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


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

T(w)o You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Have an Opinion!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frozen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Distant Thunder

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

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

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

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

I essay your shadow.


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