Talk, baby, talk

*picture from abortioneers.blogspot.com

The whole world is talking.

About what, you ask? Well, anything and everything. The statistics about people becoming less concerned with fellow beings be damned – the world around me seems more interested in everybody else than ever before. In such circumstances, the dear souls who find engaging in small talk tedious have never had it so hard.

So, I am one of the most keep-to-myself people you may find. While that may seem odd, considering how I talk about all and sundry here at P&P, it is the truth. I am a talkathon with Mum, R and the best girlfriend. The rest usually label me as the sweet introvert. Well, at least I hope the ‘sweet’ comes in. For ‘attitude’ is another ‘in’ noun to attribute to people like me.

One of my life’s biggest contradictions is how I adore public speaking. There is something magical about being up on the podium, talking nineteen to the dozen about a subject you are passionate about. Or delivering a presentation on *insert subject here*. But when it comes to replicating the err, charm, in social circles – more often than not, I don’t enjoy it. There seems to be no dearth of reasons I can cite for not indulging in lunch-table chatter, bay banter or pretend-you-are-enjoying-the-party merriment. A smile seems sufficient to me on most occasions.

Sometimes I feel I have missed a generation. Have I grown too ancient? Why do I not enjoy the constant connectivity of the BBMs and the WhatsApps of the world? Why do I relish the shock on people’s faces when they find out I am on neither? Why do I detest the Long Abuse List that has something for every situation and cringe when people around me use these once ‘uncool’ err, multilingual adjectives, so fluently in speech? At the risk of being labelled a prude, I trudge along a path where on most days I find very few fellow travellers.

“Live and let live.” says R.

Indeed, that’s what I do. It would all be very well if others would do the same. They are free to indulge in as much small talk as they please. When I am not harming my skin or theirs, why can I not be free to dive into my computer screen? Or my books? Somewhere down the line, that statistic about individuality is starting to make sense. I often get the uncanny feeling that this increased need for gregariousness stems from paranoia. At some level, the reliance on virtual connectivity, the constant need for reassurance/appreciation and the urgency to appear uber-cool is making it difficult for most to sit quietly by the window and look at rain. Perhaps, we are increasingly afraid of our own thoughts. Perhaps, we prefer filling in all empty spaces with blah.

Plus, who says I don’t talk? For all we know, it could be a sound-frequency mismatch error.

Growing up with Mum

*picture from lifeofcarl.co.uk

When I was in senior school, I once had the responsibility of escorting a neighbour’s little girl to her nursery class. All the way to her colourful classroom, I would be in awe of the large fish and butterflies drawn on the walls. She, on her part, would be busy trying to cry. More often than not, actual tears would fail her, and she would have to make do with howls-that-make-your-hair-stand-on-end. I was curious to know if the howls resounded in all their glory in the confines of her house as well. I spoke to Mom about it one day.

“How did you manage to stay sane when I howled?”

“Thankfully, you never did. You enjoyed school too much to howl.”

Aha! I went up in my own estimation. Mom got back to spring-cleaning the teddy by the window – the one who was a prominent figure all through my childhood, with his silent observations on my growing up days.

That was before I was enlightened to my inclination toward err, in-house camping. It seems that, inspired by the Famous Five’s caravanning and vacationing in tents by the lakeside, I wouldn’t want to be left behind. So I would handpick Mom’s select dupattas, clothes-clips and the largest umbrella I could lay my hands on. I would then proceed to install a fine tent in the middle of the house. Mom would be my tent-mate and give me company in its rather claustrophobic interiors. Everyone would need to pass through it to go over to the other side – much like a toll plaza. To say nothing of the number of times they barely managed to avoid tripping over one of my tent’s pillars. Mom would put away such hazards as the side effects of camping and bring me hot pakoras to munch. So much for not howling.

With time, I failed to acquire most of Mom’s natural empathy and affection. I had none of her finesse in social circles or a heart big enough to appreciate without competing. Delhi, however, managed to lend me truckloads of cynicism. I would find faults in the grammar in a pamphlet, the pretentious accent of someone who called us for dinner and how they had lied about their last European holiday. When Archies would make a big hoopla-ho about the unceasing number of special ‘days’ in a year – ranging from celebrating your pet to the first time you had an icecream – I would gag. ‘We are minting money’, the gifting companies would grin wickedly at me. For Mom though, I would paint a handful of dahlias on chart paper. She loves flowers.

One Mother’s Day, we went to the cinema. She enthusiastically got me the overpriced popcorn and Coke, despite my feeble protests about how it wasn’t Children’s Day. Her eyes sparkled all through the film and continued to as we came out in the glorious May evening. Dad has never been a film buff – well, maybe not never, since he can still declaim a Raj Kumar dialogue with unrehearsed elan. But thanks to the hard-core engineer that he is, much of today’s mindless cinema doesn’t appeal to his sensibilities. And the loner that I usually am, going to the cinema with a large crowd of people isn’t either appealing or very practical.

“Thanks to you, I get to see the latest movies!” Mom announced as we hailed an auto.

I smiled. That should have been my line.

Mom has always made possible for me what at first seemed too fantastic to achieve. A scrapbook we filled with all types of leaves to be found in Delhi (well, most), a cozy bed under a starry sky, an A on my History project. Unlike me, she manages to see the silver lining and the sun hiding behind the clouds. I, strangely, notice only the blinds on the window. She lends a patient ear to all the tales the world has to tell. And then, from these, she hand-picks the best ones for dear daughter.

I shout at her when the cupboard isn’t shut. Or sleepily brush her off when she claims I have snoozed the alarm three times already. When the world gets on my nerves, I sit her down and vent. In complete smoke-comes-out-of-the-dragon’s-nose style. So you gather, she has to play quite the hit-me doll who needs to bounce back each time.

Mom, you have no idea how much you have done and continue to do for me. Trust me, you don’t. I too have no idea if I am worthy of your selfless love or it’s a karmic bag of goodies that has landed in my fortune’s path. No matter how life pans out to be, the stars you put up in my room’s ceiling, painstakingly stretching your neck, will be the first ones I will remember when I look up at the sky.

And oh, notwithstanding all the fragility of today’s times that is fodder to my cynicism, we will always be the best of friends.

* I am writing a Tribute to Mom in association with Parentous.com

An Early Spring

Spring is nowhere in sight. Delhi is reeling under raging summer winds, with mangoes and watermelons trying their best to ease the heat. But the good God up above has brought in a whiff of spring early for me this season. Here’s how.

So Spring Tide, an Indian youth magazine, collaborated with Parlance Publishers to host a short story writing competition called ‘Kaleidoscope’. Being fresh to the industry themselves, they invited entries from aspiring writers of all age groups and geographies. And now it seems, yours truly has actually made it to the top 5 of the final 25 entries. Unbelievable? Yeah!

The final set will be published in a book that releases on the 26^th of May, in a book launch event at Jaipur. Among the stories will feature the tale of old man Harilal whose house has lately started behaving in mysterious ways. To read about the workings of “The House”, you can even pre-order a copy from here. Yes, so P&P reserves the right to endorse its dear own D.

Needless to say, I am pleased as punch. Though this is merely a teeny-weeny peg up the ladder, it gives me the confidence that the day I dream of will one day be here. I would like to thank the sponsors of the event for facilitating such a platform and wish them luck in their future endeavours. On your part, dear readers of P&P, how about showing some love and sending us a few hugs and high-fives?

Woo-hoo!

The Sign-Board

*picture from http://www.simplyrest.com

He walked past the board every morning. It was on the way to work, standing in all its freshly-painted, large-visual glory. He would stare at it through the corner of his eye, as his car halted at the traffic light, and then proceed to indulge in a breakfast of vegetable patties in the cafeteria. The food-vendor ensured he made them with extra oil and potato, just as he liked them best.

It had been several years since he had joined his current company as a software engineer. He wasn’t keen on jumping onto the management bandwagon; the truck seemed way too full anyway. Coding still enthralled him and he beamed when he solved even seemingly mundane problems in innovative ways. Back at home, his parents would sigh. How do you manage to sit at your desk job every day and not grow plump? He would laugh about his amazing metabolism. The truth – his ever growing err, tyres, and slightly protruding belly – remained hidden under well fitted clothing.

“I think I will skip the gulab jamun, tempting though it looks.” His brother-in-law made a rather sorrowful face as he pushed the tray aside.

He had always been a funny man – too uptight with his dietary regulations. “Really, calling you to meals is pretty useless.” He sighed, picking up the rejected gulab jamun happily.

“Diabetes, no less. Add to that a serious cholesterol problem. I cannot afford to play around with these credentials.”

His wife nodded furiously, glaring at him. “It wouldn’t do you harm to adopt that kind of policy. Anyway,” she shook her head, “you don’t get any exercise.”

Really, when the two got together, he almost felt as if he was back in school.

Come to think of it, he used to live a ‘healthier’ life. Every evening after school, he would rush to the cricket ground. The green grass would get tremendous thrashing until one day they disallowed playing in the park. In college days, he had even joined a gym. But those muscles never shaped and his enthusiasm waned after a fortnight. But it was primarily after starting work that exercise was erased from his schedule.  Packed hours and insane deadlines, after all, don’t go well with fancy buzzwords such as work-life balance.

These days he had heard, there was a solution for every ailment. Even for the dreary cancers and tumours which had destroyed several households over the ages. Modern healthcare brought to people cure and care, and packaged with insurance and sensible savings, in a manner affordable for the masses. Amidst such advancement, the problems his sedentary life posed seemed too trivial to acknowledge.

*

The brother-in-law was ill. He lay prostrate in a hospital ward, a tiny potted-plant lying beside him on the mantlepiece.

“A sudden cardiac arrest,” his wife sobbed, “while he was peacefully watching television.”

“How is he now?” he asked hesitantly, unwilling to look her in the eye. If the brother-in-law with his school-boyish dietary regime and impossible restrictions could fall prey to trouble, he was a prey asking to be hunted. He saw his wife continue to sob and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. The nurses were busy, so were the hands of the large clock on the wall. Much of the world continued to swipe in and out of offices, cognizant of only the evening and the weekend to come. He, however, was on leave today.

The next morning, his car stopped by the board again. The road was abuzz with rush-hour traffic, cars honking away to glory. He took out his appointment diary and a pen from the bag.

“Billion Hearts Beating” he wrote. This morning, instead of using the quiet morning hour to delve into an oily breakfast, he would call for an Apollo Health Check Up.

*written for “How does Modern Healthcare touch lives?” contest by Apollo Hospitals and Indiblogger

To read more about modern lifestyles and healthcare, go here.

 

A Bundle of Dreams

*picture from flickr.com

“How did the blue shirt get burnt?!”

“The iron must have been too hot.”

“Oh? And your attention of course was completely unshaken.”

Ram Lal didn’t respond. His wife’s fluent Hindi rattle continued to be heard outside their little hut at the end of the road. I slinked away, deciding to return the following morning with my little bundle of clothes to be ironed.

The two of them lived on ironing the neighbourhood’s clothes, and that is how they managed to earn two square meals a day. Also in the hut were their two children, the elder boy, Munna, close to finishing school. From what I had heard, he was a bright chap, with an inclination towards art. It was about his future-to-be that the household was perennially at loggerheads. While Ram Lal aspired to create for his son, a life of dignity and contentment, his wife panicked over how their dreams overreached their means.

One summer evening, his wife came along to our house, with a bundle of ironed clothes under her arm. She looked tired, her face drained of colour.

“What is the matter with you?” I enquired, offering her a glass of water. The heat was nowhere close to diminishing, even with darkness rapidly approaching.

She gulped the water in one go, visibly thirsty. We had known the couple for several years now; Granddad had seen Ram Lal as a little boy holding on to his father’s arm.

“Memsahab, do you think I don’t care for my son’s future? Every night, I pray to God that all my husband wishes for him, comes true. But how can I turn away from our reality?

I refilled her glass as she paused for breath.

“Today, I delivered clothes to one of the houses we have been serving for years. The lady told me she wouldn’t need our services anymore.”

“They might be moving…” She cut me off before I could complete.

“My husband burnt a blue shirt of theirs.” I almost nodded in remembrance. “She told me it had been a cherished gift and I had burnt away irreplaceable memories. All because of my husband’s single-minded attention to Munna’s studies. How am I supposed to answer to such situations?”

I told her to speak to Ram Lal about being more cautious with his work. But I also told her to acknowledge the effort he was putting in for his son, despite all odds.

The next time I passed by their hut, the coal-iron was nowhere to be seen. In its place stood an electric iron, in all its new-package elegance.

“How did this come about?” I smiled to his wife, who seemed in a jolly mood. Her younger son giggled at me, busy playing with a plastic car.

“My husband has been working a shift in the construction those builders are doing across the street. He got this from the proceeds and guess what,” she said happily, “we have had no burns ever since!”

I was astounded. Ram Lal had been forever lean. With increasing age, he had shed further weight and on an average day, walked about with visible collar bones. “Exactly what sort of work is he doing there?”I asked hesitantly.

“Oh, he has learnt to read and write from Munna’s school books. He has been staying up at night practising. Those people have given him the task of adding up every labourer’s daily wages.”

Ram Lal came in just then, wiping sweat off his brow. His satchel had a thin notebook, a pen and a sheaf of what looked like college brochures. He smiled when he saw me.

“Hello Memsahab, what clothes did you need ironed?”

His wife winked at me, whispering into my ear. “After I told him off the other day, he has this renewed interest in our business. The only part I don’t like is his staying up late nights. I am afraid he might fall ill.”

The two sat for a quick lunch as I walked ahead to the market. I could hear them discussing how they would buy cauliflower for dinner. It was Munna’s favourite vegetable.

As days went by, I saw Ram Lal work triple shifts. He would iron away in the morning, emptying the bundle of clothes. In the afternoons he would proceed to the construction site and come back before Munna returned from school. When I would walk past their hut in the evenings, Ram Lal and Munna would both be poring over books, with his wife cooking or ironing in the background. Within each day that passed rapidly by, he managed to accommodate all he cared for: his daily income, his family and of course, his son’s education.

“He would know best, Memsahab. He is an officer.” Ram Lal’s wife said to me one morning, out on her daily collection rounds.

One of her cousins was home for a couple of days, complete with his descriptions of the hard realities of life. According to him, there was no point allowing Munna to pursue a career in art. “No money in all that, sister. Tell him to run your business better!”

For days in tow, there was a lot of animated chatter when I would go for my evening walk. Much of it, I thought, reflected Ram Lal’s building irritation and his wife’s building agitation. In the meanwhile, Munna’s board results came out. Ram Lal rushed to our house that morning, a little packet of flowers in his hands.

“Munna topped his class, Memsahab! With the highest marks in Arts!”

He met Granddad and offered him the little packet of flowers. “I went to the temple a while back, Sir. It is all due to God’s blessings.”

“And your hard work, Ram Lal. Don’t let yourself be affected by what the world says. Your son must do what he has a gift for.”

“Oh certainly, Saab.” He winked. “I managed to err, remove all disruptive forces last night. I said something about bringing the coal iron back and setting our cousin to work. The poor guy vanished at sunrise!”

Granddad laughed heartily and Ram Lal looked pleased as punch.

Today, Munna is a fully-grown lad, with a lovely wife and two children, who wait each evening for him to come back from office.  Ram Lal is as lean as ever, his collar bones still visible. The younger son is now in high school, eager to learn. Though Munna tells Ram Lal to rest and move into a pukka house, he will hear nothing of it. However, he continues to practise reading and enjoys holding the camera Munna bought for the family last festive season.

In making time for all that mattered most to him and working harder than ever to fulfill goals that the world thwarted him against, Ram Lal continues to inspire me. On warm summer evenings, I still trudge out for a walk in the park. Amidst all the pomp and show in the city, there is little as comforting as the glow of a tiny reading-lamp on Ram Lal’s jute bed and his freshly-ironed bundle of clothes.

***

*written for Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul

I wish to get my story published in Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul in association with BlogAdda.com

A Capital Ride

*picture from articles.economictimes.indiatimes.com

She reads a few pages of ‘The Sunset Club’ every morning. The twilight cover of the book stands in contrast to the bright morning light coming in from the window, as the train chugs along the rather monotonous Gurgaon route. Each time the train halts at a station, her book flips several pages. Mentally, she curses the number of people the capital has. And, occasionally, also the passenger who cannot stand without treading on her newly bought shoes.

Next to her, another passenger fiddles with her purse, debating if she should risk bringing out the novel she has painstakingly carried from home. Somehow, she lacks the confidence required to read in the metro and is afraid of getting jostled over and hurt. She gazes enviously at a contemporary – cozily seated and browsing through the evening newspaper.

In another corner of the coach, two women get into a squabble. I get into the women’s compartment to avoid being jostled and pushed.  Like I come here to listen to your temper, screams the other one. Phone networks act up, leaving conversations unfinished, often misunderstood. 

It starts getting dark by the time the train leaves Gurgaon. Lights come alive in temples and restaurants, as also on the roads, as cars rush home. Someone calls up her mother-in-law. I will be late tonight, she says. Don’t worry though; I will manage dinner in time. Subsequently, she stamps over the feet of someone reclining by the door. Can you not see how this place is far too crowded for you to doze off, she replies to an indignant cry. Someone’s box of grapes collides with the floor, while another hungry soul continues munching potato chips, just about obstructing a “No Eating or Drinking” board with her handbag.     

At Hauz Khas station, the queue to exit seems far too long. There are several happy faces, pleased to be going out into the evening. They call friends and make dinner party plans. An elderly lady struggles with the ticket slot. She can’t quite figure out the coin-shaped token needs to be dropped in, much to the exasperation of people behind her. They scowl and groan till a helpful official shows her the way. She laughs at herself, making a comment on how silly she was, unmindful of the sighs of relief that go out behind her.

It would be daylight in a couple of hours. Another day would begin. The metro would again embark on its lonely, traffic-free route, chock-full of people chugging along in its air-conditioned coaches. When I walk out into the rapidly descending night however, that’s not what I think of. I breathe in, pleasant thoughts of food, soft sheets and people waiting to listen to how my day was filling my mind.

No matter how exasperating mornings can sometimes be, in times like these, I feel truly blessed.

When Timmy went to Shimla

A narrow gauge train is cool stuff. I have travelled with the Bhattacharjee family often enough to know a good trip from the rest. But every time I have been en-route Shimla on the cute little toy train, I have been charmed. This time lived up to tradition. As I sat gazing outside, my wooden nose scraping the window, I saw the hills change colour. From dark brown to mustard yellow to a shade of green D calls jade. Notwithstanding the ruckus that a particularly overactive family in the coach created, my heart sprung with joy.

Talking about that overactive family, well, I have my own questions about their attachment with the washroom. Whether it was due to the gallons of soft drinks and juices they were consuming throughout their journey or whether they had diabetic strands – I will never know. But every now and then, the breeze brought stench to my nose – emanating from the washroom in whose vicinity, sadly, my seat was.

I met some of my seniors in Shimla. They were of a superior pedigree, to say little of training. If I am good with philosophy, they can smell a rat and a bent character with equal ease. The one I saw near Indian Coffee House, for instance. The epitome of serenity! As I walked past him, tucked in D’s bag, I reflected on how I have to work harder on my own personal habits. For starters, I need to learn to not make a face when bystanders comment on how my face is much bigger than the rest of my body.

The Bhattacharjees are early sleepers. They snuggled into bed despite my will to spend the night walking in the valleys. I longed to admire the million jewels that the skies adorned and tune in to the melodies of Shimla’s nightlife. The dogs there howl better than the ones in smoky Delhi, as do the crows caw. The guards huddle by the fire and cook themselves a meat of amazing chicken. I could smell the stuff from the window back in our hotel but had to be content with what was ordered in – milk and dog biscuits. Duh!

Mornings in Shimla

D told me Shimla rejuvenates her. The winds sing, the trees whisper and the birds delight with fresh tunes. The Bhattacharjees spent the weekend strolling on the Mall Road – reminiscent of old English lanes, shopping for gifts and memorabilia and talking their hearts out. I sat covered with quilts and a pretty white woollen-cap. Removed from the strain of daily work, which involves waking up to the mewing house-cats, I was quite at peace.

Back home, its summer already. Time for mangoes, afternoon naps and sitting by the air-conditioner. I will also need to return to mentoring D as she prepares to spend the summer here. She says she has got used to Pune, where the winds never disappoint. She tells me stories of green hills, animated by-lanes, bakeries and R – not in that order.

Oh well, Delhi has its own charms. Maybe I should just tell her to breathe and get me some hot chicken tikka.

*Written for P&P by D’s very own Timmy

Of Glories That Can Never End

*Prize Winning Entry in Women’s Web’s Celebrating Girls, Celebrating Women Contest*

*picture from http://www.sitwithmeinmygarden.com

“Don’t be too late coming back.” Mom says over the phone when I go to work every morning. I tell her I wouldn’t. In the course of the day however, tasks pile onto more tasks and before I know it, the clock strikes a less-than-welcome hour. When I trudge back home, tired and sleepy, I have little motivation to appreciate the night-blossom that grows pleasantly by my window or listen to the cricket shrieking away to glory. It is a world I hadn’t envisaged growing up. Just how I graduated from walking on dew in the park to being unpleasantly mindful of stress, stalkers and fear is a transformation I am still unsure about.

Grandpa taught me to bicycle. With extra care to protect me from falls, bruises and tears. I would return to freshly made Glucon-D – the “orange flavour!” of course – and at night, would slip into dreams of lakes and hill-towns. I don’t bicycle any more. The streets overflow with way fancier vehicles to accommodate my bicycling skills. Moreover, I can no longer enjoy the freedom of focusing on the joy of pedalling. There’s too much that is wayward: traffic that cares a penny about you, constraints of time and the ever-impending deadlines, the kind of men who paint a poor picture for the clan. All, that stayed conveniently tucked under the sheets when I was learning to colour lions with golden hair.

When I get to go home, I explore every nook and cranny from back then: the lemon tree with the divine fragrance, the monsoon windowsill which fogged over each June, the terrace with glorious sunshine. When I delight over raindrops, my arms outstretched, it pours harder. The lamps on Diwali glow brighter when I put in a word to my favourite God. Sometimes, with a stray gust of the evening breeze, I realize how I am still me. The very person who would squeal with joy when Dad got home a jigsaw puzzle.

I wake up to the sound of wind-chimes in the morning. They dance lightly in the morning air, indifferent to the disharmony of the cell-phone alarm. On the duller of days, I tune into my cherished music. I put into words all that is grey, greasy and gloomy – and interestingly, I feel calmer. When stuck in a helpless situation or shocked beyond coherence, I give myself breathing space. I ain’t one of those hit-me-dolls who will bounce back to normal each time you shove her in the face. But, assisted with a little treat – a holiday, a chocolate, a pat on the back – I try. And sometimes, that’s the best anyone can do.

My world may have changed. Instead of a cheery bicycle-honk by the corner, life now springs up complications. Barring mechanized anniversaries and birthdays, a lot of my erstwhile ‘world’ stays lost in oblivion. There isn’t the glee which came with toffee being distributed in class or the bell ringing the end of the scary History period. But, there still is the comfort of proximity with the ones I love, of starry dreams on Christmas and the aroma of a good night’s dinner.

No matter what the winds of change conjure in my existence, I will hold on steadfastly to the joy of living. The celebration, as they say, will go on. 

*Written as a part of Celebrating Girls, Celebrating Women on Women’s Web

When Three Ain’t a Crowd

“Three is old!” claimed P&P this morning. He looked all worked-up, his brow laced with sweat.

Apparently it seems, P&P is under the impression that he is now getting old. All very well to celebrate first birthdays and second ones, for that matter, but when you are three, life ceases being romantic. You are then burdened with expectations to perform – did you get hits for your latest post? How has your subscriber base been faring? Are visitors looking for relevant keywords? Blah and more blah. Whatever then happens to all the fresh-to-the-world glitz and benefit of doubt is a story that is conveniently hidden under the bed-sheets.

So, anyway, I have managed to convince P&P that three is not all that bad a number. I mean, going by his logic, I should already be extinct. Since I manage to wake up to the dust and grime of life every day, I gather that phase hasn’t yet arrived. In fact, the two of us manage to delight over a plate of bhindi and aloo. Mom would gasp if she knew how I have taken to the bhindi I would once loathe. But you see, we all get birthdays.

Looking back, I think, P&P has had quite an interesting last year. He moved to Pune again, settling down into his native place snugly. Though I have not been able to give him time proportionate to the mind-space I have for him, I know he understands. He blames deadlines, schedules and the mean ‘corporate’ life for all that and appreciates how I am still the sweet girl who christened him thus on a hungry afternoon.

 I turn to him whenever life brings up a highlight. Whenever there is a rainbow in the sky, an owl by the window or for that matter, a damp squib on the floor. Though only three, he is capable of being my agony aunt as well as my connoisseur of art. Though he beams when a visitor comes by and leaves good-things-to-say behind, he knows that if none else, I will always be by his side.

We got late for the party tonight. But the birthday flavor has by no means diminished. We plan to invest in a brand new costume for P&P, several tales to light up the days to come and a promise of many more fun-filled birthdays in store. Do drop by to say hello. We would love to have you.

Happy Third Birthday, ‘Of Paneer, Pulao and Pune’! 

*picture from www.cupcakebusinesscards.com

The Owl by the Window

*Picture Courtesy: Rachit Agarwal

 He sits alone by the window. Rendered spouse-less in a recent accident, he has his own private grief to tackle. His former social club doesn’t interest him anymore, what with its recent spate of over enthusiastic members. They keep telling him to take it easy, the fools. As if life was only an ongoing succession of pointless nights spent hooting your heart away. That is another thing though. He misses hooting out to his wife when she would sit by him in the moonlight.

Inside the window is another world. It leads to what looks like a steel giant but apparently, girls walk up to it with empty water bottles. He can see the corridor lit up well into the night, its eerie glow enough to give him the willies. The girls walk past with notebooks and laptops, bowls with Maggi noodles and eyes full of sleep. She used to say his eyes looked perennially sleepy, his wife did. She was a mischievous one, a trick always up her sleeve. He still remembered the time she had scared the girl in the corner room. “Big eyes of solid gold! An evil written all over!” the young lady announced to everyone who bothered to listen the next morning.

He has no clue why his tribe has acquired the “evil” reputation. Surely there are other nocturnal animals – why, what about the jet black bat that hung upside down from barren trees? He prided himself, at a time, in being the jungle’s advisor in trouble. His big eyes and weighed communication made him very sought out when some animals got into say, territorial trouble. He would nod his big head and say “Now, this is a problem we can solve using human insight.” “What!” the foolish ones would protest. “Those incarnations of the devil who destroy our homes!” “Your excitability will be the death of you.” he would hush them up. “Ever heard of the Land Acquisition Bill?”The audience would look on in awe.

Up here by the window, he can see the morning sun rising. He occasionally misses life in the jungle but then, without his wife, he hasn’t the heart to stay there. The foliage, the wilderness, the dark…they all remind him of how they would stay up all night and wonder about the world. They would go on cross-country trips – he had even brought her to the window he currently sat by. What he sees now isn’t too inspiring. Friends today turn enemies tomorrow, yes the very girls who stop by to say hello at the steel giant of a water cooler. Some of them say nasty things about each other, poking fun at the ones who keep to themselves. He oversees them copy assignments, steal credit, compete for a better paying job at the cost of what their life’s passion is. He ends his day sighing. And thinking about the times he would giggle at the baby rabbits playing around.

One of these days, he will be no more. He will probably droop off the windowsill, down the hills of Pune. Nothing will change in the world he once inhabited. But the kingdom of heaven would look forward to a reunion of love.