Letter to You IV

Hi!

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

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

We could both do with some stories, right?

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

Here's to a fulfilling 2017 :)

K. 

A Play, A Life

CHARACTERS

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

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

ACT I

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

Scene I

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

Scene II

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

Scene III

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

ACT II

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

Scene I

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

Scene II

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

Scene III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Social Commentary V: Appearance

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is all. 

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

Social Commentary IV: Cinema

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letter to Daughter XIX

Dearieplum-butterytoo-munchykins C,

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

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

Recipe:

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

Secret:

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

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

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

Momie. Your Momie.

Six Digits

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

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

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

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

 I wrote a sentence: Six Digits of Shame.

Social Commentary III: Songshaari

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The House is a Home

What makes a house a home?

People, you would say.

People, I too would,

Couple of weeks ago and hopefully, away.

But today, oh dear today,

It is the TV in sight,

And the channels playing right.

The clever use of corners,

The workmen and their manners.

A working internet connection,

A store-room garbed in fashion.

The plastic in the bin,

Collected in the dim.


People, did you not say,

Made the house a home?

Why, yes.

The distinct step of the maid,

Choreographed with the son of the said,

Who cleans the car,

Followed by the putting of the

Healthy water in the jar.


And sounds, yes them,

They too, quite make a home.

The remarkable snort of the refrigerator,

The grinding in the blender.

Calling bell and phone rings,

And how the induction oven zings.



And once dinner dishes are done,

Stacked and settled,

The home waits on in alarm,

For the next day to succumb,

In the steps of the same.


Some invitees are awaited,

The green plants nicely potted.

And magazines in the loo,

How homely they make you feel too!


People didn't you not say,

Make a house a home?

Of course, of course,

Tomorrow it is the carpenter,

Day after, the plumber.

Mrs Mirinda Sen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Social Commentary II: Nationalism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Social Commentary I: Who Can Comment

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

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

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

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

Allow me.