That Match!

Even as the internet turned into a debris of the much anticipated Fedal blast, accept it, there was the excitement of embracing the familiar in the future. While I wouldn't dare to desecrate the match with my laymen commentary, I would certainly love to share how important it was for some of us, off the internet!

You see, some of us became a fan of Federer exactly a decade and a half back, and that decade, when the internet was yet to catch up to our palms, we sat glued, atleast four times a year with peRFection, which allowed us -- willing suspension of disbelief -- such was the grace in his game, the fluidity in his talent and the display of his artistry, all of which were real/time. But all these have been already spoken about. At that time, I was much married and the Grand Slams were attended to after the domesticities were duly served. Though I should have ideally awaited them for my quarterly escapades, I actually looked forward to them like a diligent admirer yearns for a magic show.

At home it was a mere betting upon "who-would-win", while on the phone I remember exchanging notes about some shots -- worthy of an MA-level answer. Ten years since those shots...

It is now ex-husband, one friend lost in miles and another to death.

Time stood still as my fingers itched to type to AM, about those surreal cross-court angles off Roger's racket. Alas that fantastic man in his pink YSL shirt who gave me my first Pelican fountain pen, is no more. Time stood still when I wrote to AC that I miss our joyous screaming into the phone "Oh, another Ace!" Time also stood as a morbid reminder when I received a message from the ex-husband -- in yet another of his ambitious sentences in which he must have tried to evoke memories -- that thank god for good decisions.

Life really gets as complicated as a tense five-setter with beautiful language meeting not-so-beautiful truths: the articles and the articulations, the sport and the athletes who outgrow the game itself. What a match it was!

I think more than anything I was happy to have witnessed history. Roger Federer winning his 18th Slam. Against Rafael Nadal. At 35.

While friends go and friendships stay, that Grand Slam held time tight, and I held a time-travel clocking lifetime!

How I Could Almost Become a Doctor

Speaking of sweetest songs and saddest thoughts as the rebel within the poetry book suggests, Mom & Dad, won't it be the best music to your ears be when you could proudly hear your son being addressed "Doctor" Himanshu Mathur?

Our saddest songs are often a deeper journey into our fanciest ones...

I could see myself writing this to you on a prescription pad which upheld my degrees on the letter-head. Mom & Dad, that makes me happy -- the paraphernalia surrounding the "Doctor" -- the shiny silver stethoscope, the crisp white coat, and being able to supervise the welfare of a sick body. Just then my poetic self tries to remedy the language, "sick body, or sick soul?"

There it is, my advanced acceptance in curing ailments and not in the healing. As I find you both completely engrossed in the success of my Entrance Exams, I cannot help but feel sad about becoming impersonal towards the nobility of the profession. You could safely say that Poetry ruined me, perhaps add Cinema too, and may be go on to blame my Friends...I do not know how to get you to see my case.

Except that not only do I not want to study Medical, I should not be studying it too. Reasons being:

a. Money invested in the wrong field, even if it yields profits, cannot beget happiness. No, not in buying muffins or vacations either, as, being a Doctor I would know having many muffins would be bad for my health and going on too many vacations would not be appropriate.

b. Should I not be able to live up to being Dr Himanshu Mathur, how bad could a Prof Mathur be? Or something else?

c. Especially if I crack other Entrances and win my way with a full scholarship? Or try to.

I leave my further step to the faith on your clinical judgement, and rest my case,

PS: I have attached, as evidence, my results of the Law Entrance too.
Forgive me if I may have proved you wrong in blaming Poetry after all, Mom & Dad, Reason is the reason.

Of Undoings

Far off, somewhere at the foothills of a mountainous range, there was a blue house which seemed carpeted perfectly on lime-coloured lush green grass. It stood out amidst its rather rural yellow ochre neighbours. There were some stray stone cottages too, appearing as if time had decided to shift slides between England and India. The blue house was circled by a knee-height yellow fence. Inside this house was a stark white room with rich wooden interiors and bronze statuettes and one kitschy couch. On this tic-tac-toe of patterns -- some bits of mirrors and some pastel rugs, some jute stitches and some velvet stamps -- reclined Apeksha, with her thick glasses perched on her nose as she chewed books, the finished ones making up for most of the flooring. Opposite the couch was a fireplace the mantelpiece of which held shining trophies.

It was another thing that she could completely command this scene to her comfort, over and over again, whenever she was by herself in her nothing-much-to-mention room, in a sticky city by the end of the day, and had no breathtaking views opening out from her out of the mills check curtained windows. She tried to remember something from her past, with so many from the present convincing her that she needed to. It was true, Apeksha could think of no name, or any face, nor had any recollection of the documents which said she was Apeksha Anand.

How long has it been she often thought on cold nights and on hot afternoons and sometimes on mellow rainy mornings. It was a matter of time before the people who often visited her, visited her scantily, or, no more. Of them, she had taken a liking towards the dimple-cheeked handsome boy, Billy. But like her past, as they pointed out, this slice of present top faded away. Apeksha had nothing to look forward to and learning anything skill-based at an age of seventeen was taxing. She was made to volunteer to sit with the oldies at the home and she was quite adept at the proxy care service.

It was a shame that when she woke up on certain nights alarmed by the severe memory of a ball hitting her at 165 km/hr, there would be no one to remind her that she used to be a sensational tennis player. She would then, to forget the feel of the pain, call forth the picture of a blue house which seemed carpeted perfectly on lime-coloured lush green grass. It stood out amidst its rather rural yellow ochre neighbours. There were some stray stone cottages too, appearing as if time had decided to shift slides between England and India. The blue house was circled by a knee-height yellow fence. Inside this house was a stark white room with rich wooden interiors and bronze statuettes and one kitschy couch. On this tic-tac-toe of patterns -- some bits of mirrors and some pastel rugs, some jute stitches and some velvet stamps -- she would be reclined, with her thick glasses perched on her nose as she chewed books, the finished ones making up for most of the flooring. Opposite the couch was a fireplace the mantelpiece of which held her shining trophies. And while all this would reveal itself, the music which played inside her soul, quite unknown to her, was the disciplined claps of the crowd which had cheered for her.

When all was back to blank, Apeksha would resort to waiting. While most of us awaited the future, Apeksha longingly looked forward to her past. 

A Silly Story

With age, everything seems silly. It is, as if, a haloed and supernaturally lit hand has blessed me with a greater understanding of life's philosophy, which counters all kinds of excess as unnecessary and well, silly. Almost. Certain things -- like still yearning for a Tissot, or a daughter's demands -- they can be treated as anything but silly. You better be armed with convincing reasoning or real-time, real-sounding excuses. You are silly if you are answering to her why she cannot play another hour into the dark winter evenings in the park, if you are saying "you will catch a cold!" A child of today, you expect her to buy that? 

On one such evening, when C was particularly adamant about following a tiny star in the sky to the point of "till it switches off, Momie!", I had a wreckage inside of me and could think of nothing but a pretty lame and airy alternative. "But if you come along right now C, I promise you, we will decorate your bedside wall this weekend." The moment I uttered it, I knew the damage I had brought upon myself. Inescapable. 

With the immediate stance of an angel, C's face broke into a smile, and she held my hand to walk back home. The weekend begins in couple of hours and my heartbeat is racing because I know she isn't the kind who would forget transactions of such high value. I am thinking of using a story to try and deviate her from one of her attacks, which could well extend to a mid-week sulk, or a strategic breaking of pencil whenever she would sit at her homework. Oh, C, she has done 'em all, "Momie! All pincil brake, no homehok!" You would think of asking her to find the sharpener? Haha, silly. Rest assured, the house would be bereft of one. 

In fact, I told myself, how drastic could it really get to paint a wall?

There was once a little girl, Lillie, who had a brother Willy. Yes, it is a story about them, silly! They were twins, you know, the kinds who would know the answer to the others' questions before they were asked. One evening, not finding their toys in the toy-trunk, they went to their mother's studio and looked for places where she could have hid them. To their delight they found her many notebooks out in the open and rushed towards the pages with the enthusiasm of finding a password to a treasure!

On opening some, Lillie found doodles and Willy found scribbles. Soon enough they begun joining the dots and framing the fantasy. "Willy! Come here, the dog is running, Mom wrote! You cannot colour the standing dog in the copy!" And she opened the scope of wall to her twin. With a gleam in the eye visible when meals are of one's taste, Willy took to the wall with great gusto. A rectangle and a small circle with two standing triangles for ears, made up for a dog, and Lillie dutifully added a linear tail to it. They screamed with joy. "Now Mom's stories will come alive!" They were on their way to build a far fence when they heard the bell. 

It was then that they realised what they had done. Their mom came in the room and was aghast to find her wall bearing the artistic overhauling it could have done without. She was screaming mercilessly, "Willy! Lillie! Come here! Now!" The twins decided in unison, silently, not to reply. To this, Mom was even angrier. "This was a white wall for God's sake!" 

At this point Lillie suddenly lost her game-plan and walked up to their mother. "Explain!" the mother said, pointing at the mess on the wall. "Yes Mom, I told Willy" came the reply. "It will be square for dog's head, not circle. He didn't listen, Mom."

Like cheese melts into a layer on a pizza slice, as sugar dissolves in a creamy coffee, the mother melted at little Lillie's resolute statement. And what do you know, Mother enhanced the running dog by drawing a collar with a bell around its circular neck. And they drew silly shapes on walls ever after, together.

Broken promises, without the backing of a severely sound reason, are inexcusable. I had to figure a way of pleasing my daughter and making it a slightly tough ride for her to get on to, too. So, we are facing the walls this weekend with the further equation of her learning what shapes are which. Now, it isn't quite a silly thing after all. So, whether or not I could buy the Tissot, time still flies by my Seiko as relentlessly as do a daughters' demands, and as fast as her eagerness to now sit with shapes. As long as the walls come alive. 

Flawed Frames

Two years between two people could have never commanded for such a difference. Not in our times, no. People say two years mean generations away today, with the technological umbrella expanding into our global skies. But you, you were always the annual winter picnic! The perfectly bow-ribboned packet which came out of foreign-return relatives' bulging suitcases. You do remember them little, pretty joys, don't you? Or, have you really forgotten all the bygone years, like flashy flyovers forget sturdy surface roads?

When we were both growing up, apart, feeling love for you felt like owning a secret to the treasure of the ancient world. Perhaps it was merely the pickle your mother would fondly send for me, perhaps truly love. When you won accolades in academics I prayed to a God who never existed before my exams; and when you excelled in sports, I gave up playing. Things were silly, but rewarding in a self-consuming way. Rewarding, because doing something that I thought would benefit you -- like writing your name on the last page of my rough copies -- would switch on the glow button within me and made me feel good about myself. Love is a selfish feeling after all, isn't it?

You never spared me a thought, nor a conversation after the initial, courteous dialogues. You walked towards the prettier ones. Yet, I never let the complain reach you. Honestly, I had no right to. Stories of your spirit reached us ordinary left-behind ones. You were on the correct path of becoming renowned, not merely famous, and I, the loser that I have remained, felt content to count your success in the number of cars you now owned. Scribbling your name would now mean merely fan-girling and I was not ready to associate myself with a mass.

When we attended your wedding, only I knew what it took to me to smile through the mandatory handshakes, all the while stealing sly glances at how happy you seemed and how handsome you looked with your bride next to you. It took me approximately six pegs of vodka and uncountable spoonfuls of hot mudpie to drown in the suffering that you would not even ask about my life, not once. But such was life all through as I had known it.

And then we saw joyous photographs of your extravagant travels and thoughtful gifts with your wife. The family heaped praise on how well your business was booming, how flamboyant your dressing was. You were a star couple, till one day we got to know about your divorce. That gave me a slight hope, myself a victim of too many estranged relationships, that you would now counsel with me, but no, you took to more attractive means of coping with your loss. You championed cycling and chiseled your way into another girl's heart.

I have never been able to find a way to un-love you. Perfection, even when cannot be owned, remains admirable. Till I chanced upon your mail. I was shocked to read the mails between you and your wife. First I was saddened by the love you heaped on her, and then I was sad for you, for your loss. And finally, I was largely eased to find the fissure which red-marked your perfection. Contrary to how I thought I would feel, I was relieved.

I was relieved that I could now hate you for being a scheming, cold and insensitive man who did not give your wife another chance. I was smiling when you had no sound argument to offer for your silent separation -- quite obviously you lacked reason. I may have also whispered exclamations too! I was breathing like a person who ran into a new lease of life. I shut down the mail, victorious. But I had to return to this diary which has so long housed my emotions for you, to confess that it still hurts me that you do not see a find a friend in me.

I was overjoyed to find you flawed. And I hope it freezes all else that ever was -- two years, two cities, two lives.

Meira's Midnight

My dearest Nikhil,

It is remarkable how you still remain "my" and "dearest". The hours open into years and you age along. Our history stands like the exquisite uselessness of medals who adorn the shelves. What do we make of our histories, Nikhil? What do I do about it?

And I have nothing else to cook and no more to chew.


Midnights such as these, they are ours too. "Ours" is a difficult embrace to unembrace from. How I would love you to kiss off my unhappy thoughts after you, and for someone to write our story.

Except that you are perfectly hatred-material.

You remain the scar I like showing off,
Meira.

Fish out of Water

The Fish is such an interesting aquatic animal. I say this for the sheer lack of anything more respectable I could address it with. When I was a child I thought it is an overused artifact on canvasses and an overbought food item in our household. I could not understand any of the hype attached around celebrations, and sufferings, with the having and not having of fish. I could not derive the reasoning behind and over the grand debate of Hilsa vs Prawns.

Till the fish swam into my soul.

It often teases me, soft, slippery sensations of breathing in and breathing out. It wants to be something, and be somewhere else. It feels like flying while it is adept at swimming. It loves getting an ornamental make-over while it can tackle a bloodbath. "What about those who love the best of both worlds?" it eggs me, with that bulging egg-pack under its gill much alike my chin.

What about them, I ask. What about them, I think. What about them, I know.

I know a lot without my knowing. I know of rains when I hear them in the middle of a winter night, unexpectedly catching me awake, stark stirred off my deep sleep. And the sound is so familiar that I am overwhelmed. It sounds like a favourite song and tells me that I do not know of rains actually. They are mere arrows of water. What is familiar is the effect it arouses. The rain is beautiful because of the sensations surrounding it -- it has never been the rains themselves. It was always the tapping on the roof, the sticking of the clothes to the skin, the ensuing steaming cups of tea while taking a united, voluntary break. It was resourcing fine fish to be fried to bejewel the occasion. Whether the fish has been in water, in soup or caught in the net was something else altogether. It was time for a fine fish!

I know about the fish in my soul. It reminds me of all of us who want to be somewhere and are somewhere else. It reminds me of that rare breed of ambitious women who despise competition.

Day-dreamers who are sleep deprived. Day-dreamers because they are sleep deprived.