Little Miss Sunshine Appreciation Post

 An era ago, when I was in college, a few months before graduating, things got crazy. Walls began to crash and crumble. Walls that had been carefully built, brick by brick, to isolate and preserve, beside other useless things, my soul. Suddenly, everybody wanted to talk to everybody. It was weird. Although, not as weird as it would be now, but weird nevertheless. 

I was not not the center of anyone's world in college, with below average looks, I wouldn't have scored above a six and half on any college going highly hormonal twenty year old, struggling to grow a moustache. But some folks still liked me. And I liked some folks. And if it were a Venn diagram, those circles of folks would be as far apart as geometrically possible, but yes, there were circles, filled with handful of boys in either category.

And there was this one particular, strange kid, who I now remember. Out of the blue, his name just dropped into my head after more than a decade or so. This was someone who always occupied the first bench in class, teacher's pet, almost obnoxiously. Many shunned him. But he was his own person and didn't need the recognition of others, as us regular good-for-nothings do. He was a nerd and unabashedly so. Library was a favorite hangout, outside of class, and it was funny because I would run into him in the library where I haunted the fiction rows, and he would try to initiate a conversation with me which I wouldn't know how to sustain and we would both part ways, feeling like utter failures.

And then college began to end, people got jobs and started looking forward to their lives as independent earning young individuals in the madding crowd. I was excited too, but had not a clue about how things would turn out. Except that I wanted to be free, absolutely free. But then freedom itself, if not empirically pure, binds an innocent in its chains, but that's another story. The nerd, in context, seemed pretty sure. Higher studies, of course, and a couple of doctorates, here and there. 

So anyway. The last few months began to feel like the first few months of college. Lots of mixers, and farewells and dinner parties and catch-ups over drinks. And just to get a hang of it, I bought dresses for each one of those and made sure I attended them from end to end. I still don't know what I was thinking but that's what I did.

At one such party, the nerd, in context, walked up to me with a glass of what could be either sprite or vodka and asked me what my favorite movie was. I was into movies then, as I am now and as I will always be. I cannot recall what my answer to him was. 

And then he told me his. Little Miss Sunshine. His adulation for the movie went on for a few minutes, till my friends started throwing a look in our direction and he sensed that too. Awkward went to worse and he walked away. We never spoke again. Because at that time and age, there's always a plethora of people in your life.

But now, when there is absolutely no-one, the silence is hard as ice and there is a draught of any meaningful emotion, I wish, I could thank him. Because I don't think I have ever seen a movie that evokes as much sensible beauty as Little Miss Sunshine. Touche' 

Entourage

In an old house, that doesn't exist anymore, which had a nice courtyard, where a magenta hibiscus flourished and grew as tall as to show up on the roof, and which had two ponds to each side, the one on the right with fish aplenty and that on the left, abandoned to the wild, covered with hyacinth and huge bougainvillea trees leaning in like lovers and a rather obscure tree which bore huge citrus fruits which tasted like a distant cousin of an orange, quietly stood by, lived a family with several children, who chased chickens all day, played with wild flowers and lay on grass and waited, relentlessly for the mango season. And for autumn.

In autumn, the schools closed for festivities. Several cousins, uncles and aunts came down from cities and there were too many people for the old house, that some slept on the roof and some bathed in the river. The children, draped in new clothes, took trips to nearby villages and visited all the pooja pandals, shopped for trinkets and toys. But soon the holidays ran out and people had to go back. The night before such a day would feel desolate already, even though everyone was still there, the packed suitcases and bags dulled the mood. The children, of all beings, were the most heart broken.

Amidst things like these, an old uncle fetched all the children, from age four to sixteen and take them on an impromptu trip to the cabbage fields. The cold of winter would still be mild but mothers would have wrapped the little ones in mufflers and sweaters. The entourage would walk nimbly on muddied streets, carefully and then race when the road got better, some holding hands, staying together, others walking astray, wild and free, but still one as a pack, guided by the uncle's voice, and his bright torch light that lit up the path ahead. The dim bulbs that hung from lamp posts were good for nothing except attracting buzzing insects. 

They walked by a canal that brimmed and the moon shone pretty in it. Ghost stories were narrated, much to the chagrin of the little ones. Upon many requests, they were traded for other stories, of zamindars and kings. They reached the nearest pooja pandal which was being retired, the goddess had been submerged in the canal earlier that day, there was a strange vacuum everywhere. The balloon sellers and snack sellers had vanished. The streets were still strewn with flowers and the air was still fragrant. 

Then the platoon planned on returning, but uncle had a change of plans. He took the children to the vegetable fields. Whose vegetable fields those were, nobody knew. But they all walked in like they owned it. There was a not a soul nearby. Everything was dark, but for the moonlight, and twinkling immortal stars. The children touched and plucked tomatoes and chilies and cucumbers. Most of all, the cabbage fields took their collective breaths away, amazed with rows of green flowers, growing from the soil, flashing in torch light, they felt surreal. Uncle inspected the cabbages himself and the children followed suit, before marching back home victorious. They had conquered their fear of having to go back.

They washed their hands and feet and sat in a row in the courtyard and feasted on hot chapatis, baked on the open fire. 

Someone Else

It was a frosty Saturday morning. His call caught me by surprise. Not that I reverse-engineered his every move, but as in most cases, I let thumb rules guide me. And this was not a time he would choose to call. Something about it was off. I took it and told him I will call him back. Later. After. I have no memory of the word I had chosen, since a mild panic had caught me from within. I think he said okay and then I heard the line click. 

He wasn't stupid. He obviously realized that I was with someone. Someone else. That he had been over-ridden. That's how it works. Flings don't work out and then there is always someone else. Because loneliness eats into brains like a scavenger would a carcass. So, yeah, obviously.

I was going for a movie. Morning shows are less crowded. Half the stores in the mall are closed. Good for folks like us. And I had company. New, intriguing. 

He (the caller), was a keeper, I wouldn't deny that. But if things hadn't worked out after this long, I was not prepared to take a bet and invest more time and more emotion and more energy. It wasn't a nasty break up, rather just a casual falling off of things. Slowly weaning off each other so that it wouldn't hurt. It didn't hurt me, for sure. We had done this numerous times in the past. Oh, I fail to count but definitely, half a dozen times, if not less. That implied that we clearly couldn't commit.

I was in the car when I took the call, checking my hair. I kept checking my hair as I spoke to him. His voice sank. Or probably I read too much into it. I don't think we bid goodbye. That was the last time we spoke. There was no closure. This lack of closure haunted me for a long long time. And sometimes I still think about it. 

What if I had called him back. 

Chowmein

 It was a night from a mild winter, many years ago. The children were young, the girl was far from nubile and the boy - mischievous in every sense. Mother had been away for three weeks. That is a lot of days. And nights. Father stayed home on most days, with infrequent bouts of help from neighboring aunties, cooked dinners, packed lunches and assembled breakfasts, washed clothes and wrung them dry, and did everything else that was needed to keep the little household running. Everybody missed mother. To add to this pain of separation, there was no instant gratification of talking on the phone. Mother would make her daily call between eight thirty to nine at night. Everyone abandoned everything they were upto. Even the  television was turned off. The children would narrate their days quickly since those calls were expensive in those days. Mother would tell them how much she missed them and that would be all. The boy's smile would turn into a frown the moment the call disconnected. Father would quickly try to distract them with something else, unsuccessfully. 

Mother was away at a distant university, taking a mandated refresher course in some of the subjects she taught. She was a teacher. Father worked in an office, nobody knew what he did, but there were lots of files and pens. The girl was eight, the boy was five. Or so. Difficult ages. Fun ages. 

Somehow, the three weeks went by and the trio - father and the children packed a small bag with a few clothes and such and travelled to mother's university to bring her back home. The children were absolutely elated. The daughter was a bit worried if she would vomit in the bus, like she usually did. Father reassured her that they were carrying enough lemons to keep nausea away. It was their first overnight bus journey. An auto rickshaw dropped them at the bus station. Since they were already running late, they had packed a small dinner which was quickly polished off as soon as they boarded the bus. Even before the bus reached the city's outskirts, the children were fast asleep.

They reached mother's university town before day break. The children were forcibly woken up, wrapped in blankets and mufflers, they were so warm and cushy, they had not the slightest intention to. All the town had was an enormous university campus. Outside it, there wasn't much to see although some people would call it a tourist destination as well because of the hills. There was a medical school and some business communities had settled in and around, running shops in clusters. But the campus, its verdant trees, clean streets, walking professors and cycling students were definitely the highlights. 

Mother was waiting behind the huge gates of the ladies hostel where she had been staying. As soon as the little feet of the children showed up in the gap at the bottom of the gate, mother pushed it open and hugged the sleepy children, really really tight. The boy had to free himself up and announced he had to go potty. 

Soon they moved to a guest house atop a hill. The room was airy, with glass windows, filled with early sunshine. The balcony had a good view of the university. But they all fell asleep and woke up at mid morning. It felt like a holiday. They went down to the garden where a table had been laid out for the sole guests in the entire building. The cook served steaming masala omelets, toasts and tea. 

They booked a taxi and went about the town, to temples and museums, whatever was worth seeing, they wanted it seen. The taxi driver took them to the outskirts where they crossed a precarious bridge on a waterfall and visited a  goddess who was adorned with thousands of bells. 

In the evening, they walked around in the campus. Faint lights escaped from the kitchen windows of brooding professors. Street lights were also there, but some didn't work and whichever worked was covered with buzzing insects. Dew settled on leaves, it made them feel as if it had been a rainy day. But it hadn't.

Following a bread-seller's cart, they reached a tiny market place of sorts, in the middle of the campus. There were a few food carts serving hot fast food. The children got very excited and wanted to eat everything. 

Mother noticed a shop that she had often wanted to go to but couldn't because she wanted to go there with the children. The cook was famous for his chowmein. He added lots of cabbage and peas and bell peppers. But mostly lots of cabbage. The children squeezed their noses when they heard cabbage. But father persuaded them to give it a chance.

The four of them were served the best chowmein of their lives that day. 

Smoking

Sometimes, I dream that I'm smoking

I'm smoking on the beach

And I'm smoking on the road, car parked astray

I'm smoking on the hilltop

And I'm smoking while writing

I'm smoking at a cafe

And I'm smoking and dancing

I'm smoking in your arms

And I'm smoking after sex

I'm smoking at the window

And I'm smoking all alone

Am smoking and my wine's waiting

And I'm smoking all the way

I'm smoking in the icy wind

Smoking through sultry evenings

Walking with almost strangers and smoking

Chatting with almost lovers and smoking

I dream so much about smoking

That I wonder why I ain't smoking for real

Why, after all

Energy

I'm driving back home

In my tiny blue car

Late on a Thursday night

Stuck in unusually thick traffic

Bored, I'm waiting

Minutes later the roads open up

And I hit the highway

There's everywhere to go tonight

If I don't go home tonight

I down the windows, 

Wind gets caught in my hair

My hair gets caught in the wind

And I imagine

My glass of wine waiting

My child, waiting, the lights in the hall, switched on

I take a U turn 

And go home

A million years pass in a moment

Yet that memory is clear as day, 

Of me wanting to elope, alone

Today, on a mighty long Sunday afternoon 

Hot and dreary, Mild and sweaty 

And the air hiding an immense rain, 

Drained to my bones, 

I wonder, where did my Energy go

The Flat

In there somewhere in the crevices of mind, is a repository of useless memories. Memories, I don't know what to do with since they have far outlived their utility. I ain't that old either, so I should have folks to share them with, but alas, me being me, there is no-one around.

There was this really tiny one bedroom flat of sorts, those that are allotted to people with government jobs. Someone in my close extended family lived in one of those - a family of five. With guests constantly flowing in and out. They lived in a town with good medical amenities so no doubt, there was always one house guest how was seeing a doctor and living with them in the meanwhile. The hall had a small bed and the main bedroom had a giant double bed. Whoever could fit on the beds, did, and sleeping on the floor was a routine thing. And given summers, why not?

There was a tiny kitchen, somewhere in the house, although, it has been too many years for me to re-call, where exactly it was. But there definitely was a kitchen and one sat on the floor and cooked. Now, in the light of the '20's, it all feels very medieval. But there was a kitchen, definitely. And delicacies were constantly dished out. The three school going children had very different tastes, somebody liked deep friend potato fingers, somebody like roasted tomatoes, and somebody like dried fish. And then there were guests. And the absent alcoholic husband, who appeared sober, only rarely, in between very frequent benders.  

There was a shelf also somewhere, in the house, either in the hall, or in the corridor, that housed the gods. Tiny photographs of the divine that would save the lot of us. A string of litchi lights adorned the shelf, it looked dreary in the morning, but pretty at nights. Everyday, the middle child, the girl would be woken up early and sent out with a wicker basket hanging on her shoulders. Along with a scream that all the neighbors would have plucked the flowers by then. She would drag herself out of bed, in a half asleep-half dreaming situation, unlock the main door, finding her way amongst those sleeping on the floor and then meander down the stairs. 

Mother, who, by then would have taken a bath and have her wet hair wrung and knotted under a towel, would safely assume that her daughter would be completely awake by the time she was downstairs. 

The daughter would return in half an hour so, because she met a friend or two on the trail. Her wicker basket would been brimming with moonbeams, with a few red hibiscus. However, the most priced hunt were the canna lilies and she rarely got any. The flat was on the third floor of a rickety paint-less building with five other similar flats, looking over a street. On both sides of that street, there were about a dozen such buildings and the entire colony was gated, although nobody guarded the entrances and exits except stray dogs that barked a lot, but rarely bit. 

These canna lilies grew and flowered behind the buildings. Nobody ever went behind the buildings, unless it was it procure these flowers. The drains from the houses, merged behind the buildings. People threw garbage right from their windows and it accumulated behind the buildings in heaps, only growing taller by the day. But there were a few neat patches where these lilies grew. Mostly these were yellow. And sometimes yellow with patches of red and orange which were absolutely gorgeous. So gorgeous, that the gods too would be pleased. 

By the time the daughter came back home, the milk man would be standing at the door and their mother would be rattling along about too much water and too little milk. The rush for the the sole toilet in the household would have begun. Everyone wanting go potty at once. 

Soon the children would leave for school, the house guests would go to the hospitals and doctors, the husband would leave for office and be there till he felt like drinking again. Everyone would leave alright, but not before chomping on loads of rice and fish curry, which would have been cooked effortlessly before 9 am. Then the flat would be consumed by silence for a few hours. Sometimes the neighbor ladies would come by for a chat. But mostly, not so much.  

An Ode to Google Talk

It was a fortunate coincidence that she met him when she met him. Because a few years down from there, she would lose her penchant for people. 

It was one of those casual internships they were at, in their summer break. She was with her loud group of girls, who discussed clothes and boys. He was with his mischievous gang of backbencher boys who never lost a single chance to pass a harmless comment on the above gang of females. Obviously, never was a comment passed on her, she was rather, how does one put it, but for the lack of a better word - plain. And but of course, he was never the one who opened his mouth much at these things. But when anyone looked at him, it was obvious, he was very much a party to everything. 

The internship was at an electrical transmission company. And the heat of the summer could bake the little humans when left outside for long. So, in the non stop to and fro between examining the electrical equipment outdoors to rushing indoors to sit in the air conditioning for a few minutes, an unusual camaraderie blossomed between the both of them. Between them, the air was always friendly, things were said with a tease but nothing mean was ever meant. Things would continue to remain platonic, because, her head was in the clouds and he was perhaps, not interested, perhaps had a girlfriend back home, nobody knew. And a curiosity of that nature, never came into the picture either. 

With the summer and the internship over, both parties, headed back to their respective campuses and would have lost touch subsequently, eventually, but for a few things, they did not. Firstly because, he read her poetry. And she knew he somewhat connected with her angst regarding the - human condition. The frustration of this all. And he was a bright dude, so she never quite got why he could relate to her shit. Therefore, she had him earmarked as someone who was not mundane and understood things deeply.

And secondly because, he kept her from flunking a crucial course. There was something about this course - electrical machines - that she wanted to understand it from within. You know. When you're studying engineering, sadly a lot of it is rote learning. You just cram a lot of stuff the night before the test, puke it out in the test in the morning. But she did not want to do the same with this course as this course solely would stand for her entire engineering degree. So she buckled up and decided to give it a shot. The petit professor who taught the class was good, but the drawings on the board looked like hieroglyphics. So our girl turned to our guy. And there was google talk. They never called each other. 

They stayed up nights and he coached her inside and out. Somebody would have thought there was something going on but this was a pure unvarnished academic connection. It took them a few weeks but soon she was all caught up with her petite professor. Afterwards, she would keep going back to him with err- doubts. But the cardinal concepts of electrical machines had been juiced up and gulped down her esophagus. And let there be no doubt, if ever he was in the wrong, she would drag him back into the right, by throwing caution to the wind. 

But college ended and soon they started new lives. But somehow those new lives didn't start ideally for anyone. She was stuck in someplace she would rather not be in. Meaning, all she had ever wanted was to get away. But she couldn't. Later on in life, she would realize and appreciate, that there was no such thing as getting away, ever. But she didn't know that back then. And he was, well - in a confusing place. He had the job he always wanted, but not many other things were in his favor, if we want to leave it cryptic enough. 

Somehow, one day, he saw her jogging in the park. He was not in the park, per se. He was driving by. How he could make out it was her through that distance of distance and through that distance of time, is something she could never ascertain. But that night, he pinged her again. 

Depression

I've been struggling with somethin'
And let it be said out loud that 've been strugglin' hard
My head's been shrunk
Can't hold no more
Sometimes I'm feelin'
That I'll crack open like a peanut's shell
Or go up in flames, like a bomb
Boom, and nothing is left
Most dangerously, of all these 
Sometimes I don't want morning to come
That is, before I sleep, I wish the sun don't rise
'Tis that bad
Ain't got nobody to talk to 
'Cuz I've shun my mates
Shun them all, and for good
My writing, the only thing, I truly ever had
For the sake of havin' anythin'
Doesn't stop getting worse, every day
Got no love
'Cuz love's hard
So hard, that I'd rather not
I can't eat, didn't think this was ever possible
But can't hold a morsel, and bring it to my mouth
If ever, I'm able to gather myself
All I can do do is cry, and relentlessly
Weep in writhing pain
And exaggerating, I ain't
There's nothing left for me, here
And I'm lost. 

Pro'ly, should be seen' that shrink. I should.  

Sweetheart

You've done well for yourself.

Who am I kidding? You were always the good kid. So this doesn't necessarily surprise me. At all. Let me take this opportunity to express, how truly happy I am for you. I know, not everything is what it seems on the surface. Let me rephrase that. Is anything ever what it seems on the surface? Don't think so. A lot in this world happens to merely keep up with appearances. 

The rosiness of lives is utterly lost in its dark and disturbing underbelly. Adulthood is difficult. Pretending to be a whole person is hard, when you've got parts of yourself flung up in the air. Not just because there are bills to be paid and jobs to be done. It's also on account of the fact that everything we are is a disturbing contradiction. You know?

We begin life believing in some things. And for quite a long stretch, we're taught, deeply and precisely, how accurately wrong we were. We waste away years, unable to grasp to simple truths, hold ironies in our little hearts that embitter us, make us so cynical that we become monstrosities within, fashioned in facades on the outside. 

I have become that. And for the sake of all that is holy, I have given up. I choose to be embittered, lost, pained, forever fighting the voids that are capturing my insides, day after day after day. And I cannot care enough to dress in facades, hence I am just my true unclothed self. I am an angry, disappointed and exhausted adult. Locked in my own chains. Muted, hearing my own screams constantly inside my fucking head. I am.

But you. Sweetheart. 

Allow me to call you that, it's been ages. When I loved you, I loved you with the passionate intensity of a nineteen year old. It feels crazy now, and also impossible, to have ever been capable of loving that way. Anyone or anything.  I am not capable of that love anymore. I hang in between thin threads of obligations.

But sorry, I was writing about you.

You've done well for yourself. Some of what appears may be a sheen. May be. But I am sure all that glitters for you, is gold from within. I hope I am not fantasizing and I truly wish you the happiness you deserve. Everyone deserves happiness, love. And why wouldn't you.

Despite everything that happened, I have always thought of you with affection. I will not lie, sometimes I've been upset. Regretful. But that's inevitable. Over the years, so many many still years, when all that has happened in our lives is just everyday, I have always remembered you with glee. The way memories fade, I am sure a few more years later, all I would remember is the glee itself and I would have erased you, involuntarily. So let me write this today.

Sweetheart.

I hope, being married to her makes you feel lucky everyday. Because that's what marriage is supposed to make one feel. Lucky. I hope you hold her hand every now and then. I know you do. I hope you smell her frizzy hair and take off her spectacles so that her vision fades a little, before you kiss her on the forehead, once in a few days. You two, so do look like the couple who would do that. 

She's an infinitely charitable woman. I know this, if not more about her. She has lot of mercy in her soul. Lot of compassion. I cannot imagine how anyone can be that way because all I feel in my soul is a certain soullessness I cannot translate into words. So I am thankful, you ended up with her. That you moved on from me and found her. Life's nice that way, isn't it.

And we shall let today be, precisely about that.

Sweetheart.

Happy Valentines' 

Kiss

Their hands brushed accidentally while jostling for space in the hallway. Overcome by his lust for her, which had been bubbling for days, he ceased her, just below her elbow. He called out her name, almost simultaneously.

She turned to face him, almost surprised, a little bit in nervousness, a little bit in love. Their eyes met. Her breathing was unsteady, fast. She had been dancing downstairs in the mild afternoon sun. She smelt of sweat. He smelt like cool air conditioning and the sea. He was calm and knew what was going to happen.

He moved to kiss her on the lips but paused and kissed her forehead instead. When you love someone that much, you want to love her in flesh as well. Her hair, her belly, her nose, even fingertips and ears, everything that is hers, you want to cup between your hands and kiss.

She closed her eyes in disbelief, was this really happening. She was a few inches shorter than him and he had to bend down to kiss her on the lips. They locked in a kiss for ten seconds. She was leaning on the kitchen wall and he was leaning on her. They held hands, firmly. Both hands. Like each other were all they had. Like she was his peaceful permanent. And he was hers.

After that she pulled away softly and rested her head on his chest. He wanted to go on, but the telephone rang. He didn't care and held her chin in his hands. But she wouldn't stay. With the ringing of the phone, reality had trickled into their happy cocoon. He desperately tried to hold her back, without a care for anything else in the world. All that he wanted was to have her. They stood there bathed in each other's sighs for moments. But she slipped away from him and tip toed towards the telephone. He turned to her and swallowed in large gulps. Waiting for her reaction. Waiting for her to say some things. Acknowledge somethings. 

She didn't have that courage. She pretended as if nothing had happened. After mumbling inconsequential pleasantries on the phone, she walked away slowly even as he kept calling out her name, once, twice and thrice.

And her bangles jingled all along. 

U or me

Life moves fast

Years pile up

2009 between '14 and' 08

A bit of '06 somewhere in there

Although I remember nothing 

Except for what has pained me

But I forget almost time, in its entirety 

The inconsequential hours & months

Mail exchanges with strangers 

Calls lasting into nights, breathless cycle rides

Pictures, guileless selfies, minute long videos 

A mammoth of life is locked in those

And they're casually & effortlessly erased

Perhaps because we're not meant 

To hold on to every tiny thing

Else how would we wallow in everyday misery 

Now if I recollect hard

I can contain my entire thirty odd years

In a few hours

That's how shrink worthy I am

Also how much I remember of me

Is exactly as much as I remember of you

Funny as it may seem, it be true

And our chords run so deep

Honeybunch Sugarplum

My bespectacled darling 

When I scram through my memories 

I cannot know

Which-one is you

And which-one is me

The Girl

The girl was a girl no more. At twenty-seven, she could be a woman, full-fledged. But still she was a girl because that's how girls are referred to.

The girl shared an apartment with her two friends. She has her own bedroom which she had adorned with fairy lights, mirrors, house plants and stuffed toys. However the insides of her head were disheveled. She was dragging herself from one day to the next. And barely

She had just broken up. It had been a steady relationship of what now seemed to be her entire life. But they had lived in a different cities for a while and the distance had wrecked havoc.

The girl got lonely a lot. Tried new things with her hair. Clothes. Shoes. She read poetry, racy novellas even, just to stay put. But nothing worked. Her ex dumped her. Both of them were distraught. But they had to let go when they still could. 

Although picking up the pieces of her life was blindingly difficult, there was no other way to go. Nowhere else to be. 

The girl could not manage to get out from the bed in the morning. She decided she would quit her job and live off her parents for a bit. Immediately she took up a hobby she had always yearned to nurture. Pottery.

She made vases. Ugly and ordinary. But the feel of clay in her hands made her accept that most things are malleable. After months, she could make a half decent vase. The girl put them up on Instagram. 

Then she wanted to cook. She wanted to cook so much that there was no end to it. She still hadn't managed to tell her mom and dad exactly how unemployed she was. She used the last of her savings to buy the dishes and groceries. 

She started a kitchen and hand delivered meals to single people who lived nearby. She didn't get to rise with her head above water for months, but getting out of bed was no longer the biggest obstacle in her day. 

She cooked and packed lunches and dinners like it was nobody's business. She dressed in ordinary clothes and walked to deliver the meals. She was unrecognizable when compared with her previous self. But she had begun. To heal.

The girl. A Girl. 

I write because I too seek to heal. Because I seem to somehow know that I am too damaged to create anything beautiful. I would so rather I wasn't this way

Sujata

Sujata wore a blouse with puffed short sleeves with her usual chiffon sari that day. It was a humid afternoon in Howrah. It was just before lunch time and she was busy assembling lunch. Her husband would be home in minutes. She had filled the bitter gourds with spiced potato and was about to leave them in the frying pan, when the bell rang.

Sujata took on a lot of work. Mostly house work. Sometimes she hauled bags of groceries up the stairs. She cooked three meals for her family, washed and cleaned, folded piles of laundry etc. But she never showed any exhaustion. Perhaps because she went about tasks at her own pace, like a swan. For instance, when the bell rang, she didn't leave the gourds to open the door. Rather she saw them crackle in the oil, washed her hands, while wiping them with the end of her sari, walked to the door.

Sujata pulled out a chair for him and while he sat there scrolling through his phone, she served him several dishes that she had cooked since mid morning. Steamed rice with tempered dal, little aubergines dipped in besan and fried, a small salad, a bit of leftover chholey and the potato stuffed bittter gourd that came last. Husband had a silver jewelry shop in the market nearby and always showed up for lunch. Next would be her father in law who stayed in a room in their house and came out for necessities like food and water. He didn't like the outside much since he had a television inside the tiny room he had. Sujata sometimes served him lunch inside. But that day he had chosen to come out.

After him, Sujata's son would reach home from school and eat lunch while narrating his day to his mother. Sujata would listen to all tit bits and ask a question or two in return. Sometimes, even more folks showed up after that, unexpected, brothers, or sisters who were in the area, friends and guests. After feeding everyone, Sujata would sit with whatever food was left in a bowl alone on the dining table and eat. Slowly, at her own pace. Later she would make a cup of tea and vanish into her room for a bit before emerging to start making dinner.

That  day when she went to her bedroom after lunch, her husband was on the bed, watching the news. She often pondered whether he chatted with that old mistress of his. But she had stopped asking him that question a few years ago. Accepting had made it easier, albeit only a little. The moment she lay on the bed, he sat up and left. 

Sujata breathed deeply and thought if she should fold the laundry or speak to her son. Then she peeked out the window. It was a cloudy day, perhaps the clothes wouldn't have dried completely. So she decided to lie down a little longer. 

Her mind meandered for a while before she sat up to sip from her tea cup.

Suddenly her head rolled. The feeling traveled down her body like a thunder. Her chest felt tight and she fell on the floor. Her breathing paused. 

As per pupils closed, her thoughts stretched out a bit longer. Next in the room would be her son who would rush in after hearing the thud. He would probably call his father. Then perhaps, some neighbors or relatives. Her daughter who studied engineering and lived in a hostel, one night away, would probably be the last to arrive. 

DTF

Funny, how when I thought about a date, only food came to mind. I saw dimly lit yellow restaurants with red decor. Heard the clink of cutlery and thought about soups, hot and sour, or cream of mushroom, fried chicken or salads with my favorite dressing, breads, lots of breads and oodles of noodles. Surprisingly my mind never strayed to dessert. Someone I knew said they would skip dinner but not dessert. Not me though. I would indulge in ample amounts of both, in their natural order. But I never would fantasize as much about a cheese cake as I would about, say, a bowl of ramen or steamy dumplings.

And what was more shocking was the fact that I never invested mindspace on the man. I obviously chatted and listened. And occasionally flirted. But, I never obsessed. I was cool. Twenty-seven, and not particularly looking. But not shutting the doors entirely either. I had, what you would call, an open mind.

I had many serious infatuations, followed by not-an-affair kind of affairs with mostly emotionally unavailable men. Then a couple of medium term relationships, one in grad school and one at the work place. The former didn't last the distance, after graduation, like I had assumed it would not. The latter did not survive because, well, I grew up.

So now there was no room for drama. I was down to DTF. Although I was no Charlie Harper, I had shed most of my shyness like an old skin. And I was meeting with a guy I had run into on a dating website. We were meeting over egg rolls and other street food, out in front of a park I used to frequent.

Winter

When in sixth grade

In the middle of a school fete

On a crisp December morning

I told my plump teacher of Math

That I would miss class for a week or more

Flowers in her hair, and brows squeezed 

She asked what was I upto

We were going up to the Himalayas 

Yes, in winter

Brows immediately apart

She asked me to have some fun, please

For hundreds of miles

In a bus with nausea as a co-passenger

Families with kids, old folks 

The single and unattached

And people of all other kinds

Packed with our bags and suitcases 

Embarked on a journey north ward 

Sometime around Christmas

When the twelve year old me

Woke up in the morning 

I saw snow capped mountains 

I, literally I had never seen snow

Several mountain ranges away

But snow, nevertheless 

My eyes were awed

And I felt completely woke

I rolled down the window

A chill caught my cheek

And I felt my mellow unviolated skin

Crack in the cold

That honey, was the first feel of winter

Fling

I cannot remember your face, tonite

Wide awake as my mind floats back in time

We were acquaintances, merely

You were after my good friend

And thought, I'd fix you up with her

How naive, mister

And hence you befriended me

But slowly you gave up on my friend

Because that was not to be

And that was that

Years later I visited your city 

Wild, by the sea

And you felt obligated to show me around

Or you wanted to, really

I didn't bother to know

I was elated, you showed up

Mostly, just showing up matters

You took me out for pizza

And to the movies 

To stake dinners with candles

It felt funny because I really dressed up

Skirts and heels, so not me 

You teased me and stepped back

We had been careful about crossing lines 

I treated you to a sub, 

In a sunny looking subway on a Saturday 

Remember?

And spilled coke all over your shirt

My face was flushed pink 

And you seemed totally okay

Somewhere there we crossed those lines

You made me garlic bread 

In the middle of the night

We ate bars of chocolate 

And kissed in the dark

I wasn't the pretty one

Definitely not your type

You were far from my type too

We both knew and it didn't matter

Such was that fling

Short-lived and too casual for memory

Yet, I remember 

Everything but your face

Later, when you coyly asked me permission 

To kiss me again

I sobered up and said that's not a great idea

How you must've shrunk

I cringe to think of, now

Strangers

I noticed a framed photograph of a bunch of strangers in my living room. Next to the television. I couldn't remember why it was there. I hardly ever notice my house. Things lay, neglected and dusty. I have often wanted to have a life in which the mind is beautiful, you know. So I don't much focus on making the house beautiful. In the last decades, I've managed neither. Anyway.

I picked up the photograph and stared closely. I could spot myself in the last row. A different version of me, of course. I am, ageless, to be truthful. I was born with an older person's head. So I never feel I have been childish in the past. In the picture, my hair is tied up, I am wearing shorts and a favourite blue top. Next to me is someone I had recently met with back then.

This person, a girl, vivacious and affable had taken a keen interest in me at work. In fact, she suggested, we go out for Chinese lunch, just like that, out of the blue. I obviously couldn't turn her down and we became friends. The way an introvert and extrovert gel, we adhered to each other with a level of comfort I hadn't recently found in another human. 

This girl, she had her boyfriend introduced to me. He worked in one of the adjacent buildings. He came off as a reticent man. But when he spoke, it seemed, folks listened and intently. For some reason, could be my intense vulnerability, or me living alone, having moved into the city recently and not knowing another soul, the girl was reluctant to leave me unattended. I mean, she would hover around. And I, surprisingly, didn't rebuke her and let it be.

The couple, they never made me feel like I was third wheeling, you know. It was always like, we were friends hanging out. They started accompanying me to my Saturday night temple outings, instead of hitting the pubs in town. Who does that?

One day, the girl suggested we go the waterpark. I had never been to an amusement park. I didn't buy the idea of having an entire day set aside for fun activities. I wasn't good enough for such prizes. But she convinced me that I was. 

It was a Sunday and we took the bus to the outskirts. The day whizzed past wonderfully. I crossed the lazy river thrice. And there were tidal lakes and the joy of screaming hydrophobic strangers next to me as they drowned in waist high waves. Towards the end, we realised we didn't have a picture. So this was the last ride we took. 

It was one of those slides, roller coaster kind of thing where the cart with a dozen people crashed into the water. The picture was taken just before we crashed. Our jaws are wide open. Eyes are tremendously excited and we're screaming like there's no tomorrow.

I held the photo in my hands and realised that I had been keeping a photo of nine total strangers in my living room for over four years. The girl too moved away after she switched jobs, but not before breaking up with the reticent boyfriend. So, the only person I knew in the photograph was me. The rest were all strangers. In that brief moment, my agelessness came crashing down.

Fetch me

Come back to me, for tonight

I am right there,

Where you left me

In 2013

Outside the movie theater

Before the matinee show

In soft rain

Drenched in October

I've tried, to move on

Trust me when I say I have

And I've failed, unflinchingly

You're still the one of my dreams

Irreversibly damaged

Broken and exhausted

I'm furious at myself

For letting you leave me

Can't you come back

And fetch me

Unfuck up my life

Loosen the knots

Breathe air into my mouth

Tell me it's okay

To fail & be miserable

To be angry & unhappy

I want to be told this

I want to be gathered

In your arms

And watch that movie, we never did

Circus

The travelling circus party has halted in the city. They did that once in a few years. We lived in the hinterland, the villages. And were really little at that time. I'm talking early '90's. 

Aunties and mother, decided to take us to the city to watch the circus. The men were away at work. Those were the days when old women in the family booked a taxi and went to distant villages and fixed a girl for an uncle in marriage. Such girls then moved into our homes and became our aunties. And also there were vivacious daughters of the family, who were married at nubile ages, to government job holder men, and they were aunties too who visited from the city in summers and winters for respective vacations. 

And both categories of aunties and mother, decided to take the kids to the circus in the city. And there was no stopping. For some reason a taxi was not available. They never were, for immediate bookings. Those were the days when hardly anyone had cars and you had to tell the taxi driver weeks before. So somebody called an auto-rickshaw. Although now, it is difficult to imagine how so many of us fitted into one little auto-rickshaw, but we did. I remember one gigantic auto-rickshaw. The kind, that was probably not manufactured. 

The driver had a potbelly and a mustache. We, packed food in paper packets and water bottles, umbrellas and towels and embarked on the road trip to the city. It was more than fifty kilometres away. And with bad roads, that must have been a lot. A few of the women and children puked on the way. The auto must have been stopped. People must have complained that we would be too late for the circus. But thankfully we made it on time. 

The kids were excited beyond words. Tickets were bought with soiled notes from women who toiled in kitchens and saved money underneath pickle jars. You can't tag a value to such things. 

We got distant seats, but I don't remember regretting. Every show amazed us. The circus was held inside a gigantic tent of sorts. The seating area with rickety steel chairs was dimly lit. The stage had the brightest lights I'd ever seen. As trick after trick was performed by magicians, we, a family of a dozen women and children, huddled together, chatted, giggled and shushed each other. 

Petite little white girls hung from the roof with invisible ropes and relentlessly entertained us with their gymnastic prowess. Even our good old Indian girls did the same but the make up on their faces, outshone the lights. And we were besides ourselves to see white women, in bikinis, we had never seen someone so fair before. 

Animals were called upon. Ill fed tigers and elephants. Jokers who stood on storey high wooden legs hidden inside their pants and the littlest of kids were all wide eyed. 

When the show got over, we were all famished and thirsty and tired. But our pot-bellied auto driver had bailed on us. We looked everywhere, but he had taken an advance for the to and fro journey and left us in the lurch. The women got worried, it had already gotten dark. And there was no telephone to call and inform or get help.

One of mother's half a dozen brothers lived in the city. He was a big shot civil engineer who built bridges. Bridges that mother would show to us every-time we crossed them. How big a man would be, I wondered, who could build such enormous bridges. I realized he a was not that big, when we all sought refuge at his government quarters for the night. They were surprised to host so many and without notice, but what other choice did anyone have. 

The next day, after a visit to the city's big temples, and lunch at a roadside dhaba, the women and children headed back home in a bus.