Rice

When I say rice, I don't mean the noodle-like pearly white kind. When I say rice, I mean the burly kind. Brown and par-boiled. Stored in sacks and mounted in the store room to feed generations in famine. When I was a young girl, that rice I couldn't swallow. It had a strong stench of the husk which had been boiled into it. And the grains were huge. That rice had no business being the center piece of my lunch plate. I loved visiting other people's homes, people who lived in towns and ate rice that came out of store bought pockets. Whiter, thinner, easier to chew. But within a few days I would have to go back to my family's staple. 

People I assume, ate rice twice. The women particularly. Water-rice for breakfast and fresh rice for lunch. The water-rice would be fermented rice of the day before, covered and kept in the kitchen corner, to gather tastes, overnight. A lemon would be squeezed into it and a chilly smashed. To be had with a side of mashed potato or a roasted brinjal. The fermented water was to be slurped right out of the bowl at the end. 

Women of the house would wind up the morning chores and sit together on the floor, chatty, with their bowls separate but the mashed potato in one common plate in the middle. For women who were in no way related by blood, daughters-in-law, married to brothers by accident, now spending their entire lives under the same roof and sharing mashed potato, every morning. 

When I was a kid in my ancestral house and the women sat down to have their breakfast this way, I slipped out into the neighbor's. The neighbors were of course, a relative, cousins once removed or so. And they expected me, almost always. An aunt by relation, who was closer to my age and was more like a sister, taught me how to eat water-rice. She didn't care for mashed potatoes, one bit. The women in their home would start their meal and aunt and I would start gathering ours.

They would give us a massive bowl of water-rice, of course. One bowl for the two of us. And we would roast a bunch of lady's fingers in the earthen stove. And char a tomato on the tawa, spluttering in mustard oil. I would fetch the tiniest of green chillies from their kitchen garden, as tiny as a grain of rice but so hot that it could blow your head off, hah. And we would sometimes, if we felt like roast a potato and a brinjal. All of it would be mashed in another gigantic plate. With chopped onions and a load of garlic. And eaten along with the water-rice. In big swallows and gulps. 

Sometimes, when we were in a mood, we would get the fishing rod and head to the pond. Sit there on the steps and wait for a catch. A fish or two would get hooked. Have I ever told you, how nice freshly caught pan friend fish tastes? Just with a splash of turmeric and chilly powder. Fish is the ultimate side-dish for water-rice, say what you may. 

After such a breakfast, we would lay on our backs on the courtyard and chat. We would forget lunch and its rice and wake up long past afternoon.

A Married Man

Certainly, there was nothing there. She knew this and knew that he knew this too. But somethings just are. What they are. Hence, they carried on, without necessarily naming it. Hoping it was a temporary dalliance or fling or whatever. It was hard to a find an appropriate nomenclature for such a thing. And neither of them had any sway on language. She was a woman of math. He was an engineer. They didn't even attempt to, because they never felt guilty, or anything that was its approximation. 

His wife had given birth to their son, three years ago and was stuck in a grim post-partum. It was nobody's fault. They had had the child unknowingly and too soon - he thought. Out of pity for their unborn - they wouldn't have it any other way. His wife and he, they were high school sweet-hearts and hadn't been able to unwind themselves from the relationship through college. And they got married immediately after he landed a job. 

He would tell her that he felt too young for things this serious. He often compared himself to her and found her more composed and mature. She laughed it off. She herself was nearly engaged to her boyfriend of several years. Almost, because, well, almost. To him, hers was a sealed deal. To everyone in her life, infact, she was taken. But in her heart, she never quite bought the idea herself. She felt like an imposter, in a pretend relationship, even though, as evinced by several parameters of routine commitment, they were going steady. Or had steadied after few years of ups and downs and heres and theres.

Their offices were neighboring. Not exactly neighboring, but kind of a seven-to-eight-minute walk, from each other. They had met almost randomly, one day, not memorable by any standard. Through some guy who had taken them for a joint meeting. And that was that. They started talking about work. And then bitched about work and corporate exploitation. Then about the hindrances of living in a non-metro. Then on commute. Then on family. On spouses and partners. On mothers and fathers. On children, on life, on dreams and futures. 

They met few times a week. Nobody planned or predicted it. There was a dingy tea stall that sold biscuits and herbal teas and coffee, next to his building. Actually, behind it, so not entirely visible. And there was a hole-in-the-wall chinese place next to it. Some days, she would show and on some days he would show. While taking a walk, post lunch. And on some days, as destinies would have it, both would show. They would sip their teas and chat. They never exchanged numbers, never called. They met in person, and only in person. 

He would mention the brand-new acts of his kid and the tiffs between his mother and his wife. She would mention how a woman was never free, first restrained by her family and later by her man's. He would pause in a cursory manner and go on to state that for people as such, freedom comes at a heavy cost. Their discussions were sometimes so deep and sometimes so frivolous. They developed, quite involuntarily, a naive friendship of sorts, that didn't have any romantic attachment, but somehow didn't feel completely platonic either. So on, the months passed by, they connected more and more. Both of them, were perhaps aware, what they were getting into but they didn't take it seriously enough to stop because at the end of the day, he was a married man with a child. She never even imagined him leaving his family. And her situation was also pretty much - steady. She was definitely headed for marriage and she wouldn't screw that up for a man who she like to share a plate of momos with and who was also married to his high school sweet heart. 

But it did pinch them both, ultimately. On the weekends, when they couldn't see each other, the afternoons felt empty. On the days, when he didn't show up for tea, she loitered like an exhausted godzilla on the roads, pining and waiting. She respected his marriage and understood that from amongst them both, he was the more committed one. Nevertheless, she couldn't console herself. And after several occasions of ceasing herself from mentioning him and narrating their meetings to her boyfriend/almost fiancée, she acknowledged that she was bordering on minor sins - by maintaining this dalliance, fling or whatever. If she kept going, she would stand to lose. 

So, she took a pause. Maintained distance. Drank the horrendous tea from the machine on her floor. And never thought of momos again. He perhaps understood too, these things, at the same time. And reciprocated her actions, adequately, if not more. 

Several months passed and she resumed going downstairs for tea after knowing that he had changed jobs and moved away.  Those were the early days of pre-monsoon and as she stood there with a warm cup in her palms, it started drizzling. She felt a sudden shiver run through her body, as if marking the end of the dalliance or fling or whatever. She wondered if he would suddenly show up from behind and surprise her. If he did, she felt as though, she would catch fire. 

A Full Heart

Time's running slow

Day is unwinding languid

My pupils dilate 

As I look up at a fuzzy sun

Like I am in love

But I am not

I go on numerous aimless walks

Not that I rank them

But each more aimless 

Than its precedent

I lose count

Pause and forget to return

I witness roads passing by

Trees standing still for decades,

In the lull of the forest

Each bough, murmuring a story of its own 

Morning fresh dew on blades of grass

So fresh, you'd wanna eat them

And tiny little yellow flowers 

With petals, needle-like, like God put 'em there 

Bees buzzing all day long

Quiet siestas

On rainy verandahs 

Cozy under shawls that feel a bit too small, always 

My afternoon sprawls along

I wait for dusk, but not rush

Then the dust settles and 

We go into the night 

Look at clouds on cresent moon skies

Inhale the breeze that convalesces 

And exhale lifelong asphyxia 

Here's the time you never had

You have it now

There be no buses to miss

No voids to fill, noone to catch up with

Everything that is, is here, now 

My mind's at rest

And my heart is full

Feet

My feet give me away

Always. 

I desire dainty little feet

With quaint little toenails

Polished in some pastel hue 

Cut, filed & polished

Er, what I have

Is the exact antithesis 

Dusty dark skin

Unforgiving blue green veins

And rough cracked heels

Too big, furthest from delicate

My feet take me from A to B

That I owe them

And also the fact that 

My feet let me perambulate 

Without agenda

Which is undoubtedly the most precious 

However though

Nothing contains the fact that

They're not how they're supposed to be

Subtle, fair, creamy and pastel

Not that I don't moisturise

Or use foot cream of random kinds

But nothing seems to work it

My feet give me away

They are exactly like my insides

Torn up, exhausted, out of place.

Ugly, dried up and unhealable 

No matter how much I hide,

They show.

Fog

It was the nimble winter of early November. The morning air was heavy with fog. She had draped a dupatta over shoulders for the cold and was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt - quietly sipping her tea when a kid from corridor waved at her. It was a Saturday but to the dismay of late risers, breakfast at the canteen ran out sooner than weekdays. She had been fortunate enough to have had two servings of pav bhaji and was in no mood of relinquishing her cup unfinished. But the waving continued. She left her seat at the table and walked out with the cup still in her hands. It seemed she had a visitor. 

She didn't think she was supposed to have any. Surprised, she followed the kid - the security guard's son - into the reception. The guard smiled and wished her good morning. She smiled back, confused. The guard pointed at the road in front of the hostel, pointing far away. She couldn't make out a thing - until she saw a silhouette. She walked out half curious, half knowing who he was. She was gasping heavily inside and was staunchly able to hide all emotion, on the outside. 

For a second, she felt she couldn't breathe, and her temples were hot. Then her eyes were moist, and she was also angry - it had taken him so long. For a moment, in there, she was scared, so utterly petrified of him - and of herself. So many possibilities open up when they stand next to each other - and the choice they make decides everything. The minute following this one would be so freakishly consequential for her that she thought she would faint and create a scene. But she was together - all her limbs intact, hair hurriedly tied into a ponytail, spectacles tucked into her t-shirt, feet taking long steps, fingers holding onto the cup which was filled to the brim with tea - which was too sweet - too dilute - boiled for far less a duration than she liked - but this was all she got. She was regretting that tea and walking - wondering why he stood so far. Was he moving further away? Wondering what his intentions were - did he take the conversation of last night a trifle more seriously than she meant it at? Slowly the fog parted, and her face eased into a smile. 

He was chuckling like she had cracked a hilarious joke, and he was no longer able to keep it within. He raised his eyebrows and asked 

'What's up?' 

'You tell me.' She asked him, right back. 

Third Person

Moisturize,

My dear

Feet don't stop cracking

Skin, is begging for some love

Don't overthink

Think not, rather

Just keep going on

Pause not

Control thy frizz

Braid and unbraid your hair

Don't hide in corners and cry

Not in bathroom breaks, ah no

You're more than your failures

Beyond your muzzled ambition

Breathe, deeply 

And then shallow

Take long baths,

Scrub some more

Nap, as much.

Don't bother. Nobody cares as much. 

Nothing comes of anything, anyway.

Nothing gets. 

Write about losing

Just so you can erase and move on.

Be a third person

Stand, unfazed, outside your body.

You're as dead as you're alive

Disconnect on volition

Observe and appreciate

Whatever little you got

It's not as little, perhaps

You wouldn't be able swallow more.

Plateful of meals

Washed clothes, listless midnight breeze

Fairy lights, potted plants

Skin on skin; mouth on mouth

Ain't too shabby for Rachel 

Loop

It's only Tuesday

And my feet hurt

It's only Tuesday

And I don't wanna wake up

But I am keeping up 

With the world,

Because I've to keep going 

I'm keeping the world up, rather 

Everyday's in a loop

Countless weeks,

Back to back

In an anxious delusion

Nauseous afternoon traffic

The same billboards, staring down

Lunches and dinners cooked 

And kept away

Nothing is ever new

Honestly, new scares me now

And I don't even remember the old

Stuck in this static repetition 

To pause, 

Is to allow existential bs to take over

So, I'd rather not

But one random Thursday evening

Perhaps at 7:36 pm, say

In a quiet moment in the balcony

Wondering whether to water the plants, or not 

I pause, unconsciously - 

The loop is broken 

And the whole world comes crashing down.