Cheese Fondue.

She waits for him when it rains. She is convinced he will come. When he does, they can sit on her bed and play scrabble. Or watch a movie or something. She likes scrabble. She has her rules though. She doesn't like it with everyone.

One day, they sat on the sidewalk behind some parked cars. They couldn't decide on the evening plan. They sat there and had a fairly mundane conversation. She remembers that day though. How can she not? That day they had gone to a bookstore. She likes bookstores. She likes them more on some days than on others.

She isn't a child; but she is fascinated by the bright blue toy on the beach. The one which flies. The sea breeze is pretentious. The conversation isn't. Some conversations sound fake with some people. She likes conversations. The ones that come with no agenda. You'd think those are easy. They aren't. Some people, of course, are pretty good at them.

She picks out her olives and places them on her plate. The pizza is cold. The coke is flat. She throws her head back and laughs. Food makes her happy. Some nights, she sneaks a bar of chocolate into bed. Most nights, it's her phone that she sneaks in.

The coffee never was a big thing. New years wasn't either. January pretends to be cold. She puts on a big sweatshirt. It smells of hay and happiness. The coffee has a cream heart on it. She doesn't like hearts. As a kid, she thought that's how the human heart looks. She was relieved when she found out otherwise. She wonders how she feels warm even after she takes off her sweatshirt. Hugs, in ineffable situations, have a charm of their own.

She never was the best at making clues. She liked playing the games, even though she lost most of the times. She has her rules though. She doesn't like losing to everyone.



Does sharing your name with his first name make you his namesake?
"Candles red I have a pair
Shadows dancing everywhere
Burning on the angry chair"

For the namesake of the lyricist.
For the clues and the sweatshirt.

The Sisterhood and the Momos.

For Krati Tandon.
Co Momo, Soul Sister, Speed Dial 4.

A Momo can:

1. Walk into a room full of people and instantly tell who the co-Momo finds good looking, annoying, super annoying.
2. Easily understand how Hugh Grant has an edge over Gerard Butler even though they are both British.
3. Tell which parts of Notting Hill the co-Momo loves.
4. Make the best out of even old, weird smelling noodles. ( That's you.)
5. Listen to the co-Momo cry for an hour without feeling the need to point out logic immediately.
6. Make fun fonts on rainy days.
7. Come up with exceedingly funny names to call the co-Momo.
8. Have "soul sister" moments. The crush on Irfan Pathan, tu cheez badi hai mast mast, holding up 2 fingers to show "not out" in cricket.
9. Observe peoples' hands and have a discussion over it with the co-Momo.
10. Make trips to Govandi on a sunny day and back with the humour intact. Of course, in the company of the co-momo.
11. Eat packets of wheat puffs while watching Friends.
12. Make up a fun country together with the co-Momo.
13. Solve things without condescending the co-Momo.
14. Discuss Stagflation and the Budget without thinking it's nerdy or without getting bored.
15. Have a " OMG- I know EXACTLY what you mean. OMG." moment. More often that not, it's called the PMM.
And so much more.

What can your Momo do?
Do you have a Momo?

Do not say anything about how the post is cheesy. You will earn the wrath of the Sisterhood.

The day we got soaked.

I don't like the rains, as much as other people. I am averse to the idea of getting wet on my way to anywhere. I love adventure, though. More than all else, I love being a part of something that later becomes a story to tell. I love stories. I love details. My stories are very long drawn. I like that. I like it when people like it that my stories are detailed. A story with no details isn't a story. It is a weak attempt at fake conversation.

It was a week before my 17th birthday. A Saturday, perhaps. Tai and I took a bus to some place to shop. I remember what we spoke on the bus. We spoke about how we don't like it when people call you as a reply to your text. I like it when Tai and I have a consensus. Even on lame things like texting rules. We had a burger. I love McDonalds. I don't care how repetitive their food is. I like it. Then I think we did shop. I don't remember too much of that. The day was yet to begin.

That day everything went berserk. The rain wasn't just heavy. It struck awe and fear in the minds of the meek. People from another city call that Bombay Rains. The railways shut down and the buses were stuck in heavy traffic. All under a half hour. The street lamps were turned off. It was an exhilarating time.

We weren't very far away from home. Here is the part why I liked the day. This is also the part why I miss my sister during the monsoons. She is game for anything. We took off our windcheaters and stuffed them into our bags; and then we walked. In the heaviest rain of that monsoon, in the dark and in the crowds that thronged the street. We were soaked to the bone. The stuff that we had bought was wet. Our hair looked like the remains of some dead thing. We walked and we spoke about random things. By the time we got home, we ran a brilliant risk of catching some dreadful disease.
It didn't matter.

I didn't write this because it makes a good blog post because probably it doesn't. I don't even care if it's well written or not.
I wrote this because many years from now even if my sister and I are in different parts of the world; every time it rains, I'll remember the day we got soaked.

The roof.

It becomes one of those things. You walk by a place. You look at it. You sigh. You think of the good times. You whip out your phone; almost send a text- Wish you were here.

Remember last year? All the pretense about the cold. Bombay doesn't have a winter. Says who? Come home.
The tea is all cold. The hammock isn't used anymore. The books are still on the bedside, unread. They're all frozen in time. Do you know why?

Theirs was a winter affair. They were both writers; pretentious ones at that. They sat under a huge tree at the park and spoke about how much they loved the smell. That's pretentious; because they hated it. It took them three days to get to her roof. They spent those three days walking through the by lanes of the city. They shopped for clothes and shoes. Perfume and coloured socks. They didn't stop by trees. They didn't feel the need to be on their best behaviour. They ate at fancy restaurants and drank expensive wine. It took them three days and several credit card swipes to realize that the good times actually come with home-made ale and a bag of stale chips. That's when they climbed up to the roof.

They made it their little haven. Books and beer cans. Make shift hammock and crackling music. It became a routine. They'd eat out of plastic Ikea plates. It felt like a picnic; and not even a pretend one. They admitted that they had been lying a lot. People do that. You try and be the person that the other person likes. You tie your hair up and you eat with your mouth shut. They said they weren't the people they had said they were. They agreed to let it go.
They'd lie back and watch the stars form shapes in the sky. They didn't pretend to know them. It was nice.
On New Year's eve, they stayed in. He didn't go to his friend's farm house to smoke up. She didn't try and fit into the black dress that she had given up chocolate for. They stuck to the roof, like the stubborn lid of a cocoa jar.
Their time together was untouched by personal details. It would never be ruined by stray stories from the past. He'd never know why she was that thin. Bulimia was a close friend. She'd never have to hear about how his father abused him. That spell wasn't going to be broken.
They liked the comfort. The silence. The unfamiliarity. The scratchy conversations. The feeling of being themselves. They'd never done that before.
They didn't make love against a fireplace. It wasn't magical and slow. It was awkward and silent. It was nice.

The week ended and he packed his stuff. She stood at the edge of the roof, making rings of smoke. He lifted his hand in farewell from below. She waved back and put on her sweatshirt.


There were no promises to keep. No emails to send. No tear-stained letters to be preserved in pretty boxes. There were no names to whisper. There were no stories to relive. The roof hurt once in a while. It was surreal. These things don't happen to me.

It becomes one of those things. You hope that it will happen to you again; like chancing on your favourite song on the radio. But it almost always doesn't. You walk by a place and you stop.You stuff your hands into your sweatshirt pocket. You aren't even all that cold. Your insides hurt. You pull out your phone.

There are no numbers. But if there was one, there would be so much to tell. So much. Only silence would do it justice.

October 2, 2009.

Sometimes, your friends hurt you.
Apparently, because you'll understand.
Sometimes, it's plain spite.
There are days when I can't tell
Which is which.
Those days I cry myself to sleep.
And have dreams full of death.

Melting mushrooms and a myriad of things.

Sometimes, I pick out all the toppings off my pizza and eat them first, and then eat the base later. Sometimes, I pick out the olives, pull a face and put them in your plate. Remember, the olive theory? Yesterday, the cheese was melting really fast. The mushrooms were melting too.Blobs of cheese kept getting stuck to my thumb. Good conversations along with pizza are better than garlic bread along with pizza. Plus, you can have conversations which please you. Garlic bread upsets me sometimes. It's crusty and sticks to the back of my throat. My elbow keeps hitting the glass pane, as I try to pick up a pizza slice a with my left hand. The traffic lights shine off the glass, and I look up every single time. I can't say why. I am not sure. I love the place. It's small and it's bright and the people are friendly. Yes?
My favourite part of eating pizza is when I steal toppings off your pizza. But then again, I give you some of mine. My other favourite part is when I stuff something into your mouth and say, "Nice? Nice?" before you can even taste it. Extra cheese is like having a 3 day weekend. Like your practicals getting canceled the day I don't have class. You agree?

Cut up the pizza in 4 slices, I am too full to have 6.
Don't pour your coke into my glass. Cheat.
For all the talk of liking coke so much, I don't drink much.
You like it?
I love.
I am so happy.
Khar.
I love pizza.
And BBQ mushrooms.
And extra cheese.
Also, other things.
Many much, mini me.

Mood Indigo 2009.

Starters:

Small and pixie like.

When it rains, she cries.

Sometimes.

She sits, perched on a bar stool.

Her curly hair, disheveled.

Her frayed green pajamas.

Rumpled, disgruntled.

If you like her,

You possibly, really do.

It’s her Pajama Theory.

He’s a chef. She knows what an anti-pasta is. He is floored. And as he pours himself water from a pitcher (the ones that have a sprig of mint in them) he thinks he likes her. And speaking of pixies, he thinks he’ll marry her sometime. It hardly makes sense, but that’s always how it is- for him. He likes non- sequiturs. It’s fast but speed impresses him. A lot. He speeds through dinner every day, just so that he can get to the dessert quickly.

Main Course:

She agrees to marry him. It’s only been a week. Her Pajama Theory works, then. Her best friend thinks it’s too fast. Her brother thinks the guy is a player. She, however, is beyond all this. She likes sticking to her gut feeling. Her friend thinks she plays with fire, way too often. She is going to get scalded, yet again. She dismisses it with an impatient nod. She thinks the occasional scalding, makes her feel alive.

He likes her a lot. She is full of stories. She is enthusiastic, bright and slightly crazy. He likes that. And he agrees it’s too fast. But then who gets to decide what’s fast and what’s not? People go on to call their weddings off a day before the big day, after having been together for years.

It is a June wedding. Only family and close friends. Hers. The wedding is so laid back that the laid-back go green. He is in his beach pants. She is in her green pajamas- which made them what they are. They exchange rings. He smiles. She looks like a child on a sugar high. He kisses her forehead. Her girlfriends look happy, in a calculated manner. Her brother looks like he is in pain. His little sister’s infamous affairs, which extend to different parts of the country, have given him an ulcer. He hopes that this one works out. For everyone’s sake.

They take off after the wedding. To a fancy place, far away. He puts on his good-person suit. She takes off hers. She likes playing it rough. It’s exhilarating. They spend prescribed amounts of time in each other’s arms. They say the stray ‘I love you’, like they’d be expected to. They are both seasoned players. It’s an odd thrill to be able to play the game so craftily. What makes it a tad interesting at the same time, is that they are unaware that the other person is also playing the game as well.

Dessert:

His favourite part is here. He sits up against the wall, his head propped against a pillow. As he watches her get dressed, he marvels at the person beneath the boring clothes she is putting on. He has to admit, that she is the best he’s ever been with. She smiles at him, comes and curls up next to him, her head on his chest. He lights a cigarette and strokes her hair indulgently. As he is making rings of smoke in the air, he thinks of how, very soon, he is going to tear her seemingly nonchalant world apart. She deserves it, he thinks. He thinks she ought to be punished for being so naïve, so flighty. What sort of a girl marries a guy she met at a bar, after knowing him for lesser than a week? What sort of a girl bases her choice of a partner on the basis of a ratty pair of night clothes? She needs to be punished for tying her heart to her sleeve like that. Soon, she is going to be chastised. She has had it coming, he thinks. He feels himself getting very angry, without reason. It’s been a while since he saw his shrink.

He pours himself some cold water and tells her the wedding is a farce. He brings gullible girls like her to fancy places, has his fun, has a good weekend and then walks out on them.Usually he only dates them. The wedding is a recent innovation, to make the whole act seem more real. To make it more interesting. Like extra cheese on a common place pizza. Like more white sauce in regular pasta. He likes his food to be full of surprises.

She is taking it unnervingly well. She’ll go pack, she says. She savours the look of confusion on his face. He rubs his forehead, absent mindedly. She wills him to drink the water, he so dramatically poured himself. She goes in to the bathroom, to finish changing. He is taking it all in. He has never been a part of something so off-the-wall.

She comes out of the bathroom. He smiles at her weakly. She smiles back. And then pulls out a .22 caliber pistol, from the pocket of her dressing gown and fires 3 sharp shots through his head. The weak smile freezes on his face. She’d have liked him to know how well she plays her game. She usually poisons their water; the pistol is only a recent innovation. To make it seem more interesting. He thought he’d win this one. The self-flattering chauvinist. She feels herself getting very angry. She’s forgotten her anti-hypertensive drugs at home.

She finishes packing her things. His blood is soaking through the sheets. She walks over to him and kisses him, with genuine longing. And she likes it that she can dictate terms. Since, he can’t kiss now. His blood stains her mouth. She wipes it with the back of her hand. And smiles.

She escapes so fast, that the sleeping security guard doesn’t stir even. She takes his car. Ah the perks of having a rich husband. A rich, dead husband.

Some coffee, perhaps?

She goes to a town close by and enters a quaint looking pub. People look at her sympathetically. They look at her rumpled shirt. Her frayed pajamas. Her uncombed hair. Maybe her husband beats her. Maybe she is having a rough time at home. She sits on a bar stool. She thinks if a guy likes her when she is looking like that, he must really like her.

He is a football enthusiast. She is the first girl he’s met, who knows the off side rule well. He is floored. She smiles. She is waiting, for the day he’ll ask her to marry him.

2009

I do this every year.
I make lists.
About the good and the bad.
Here we go.

My sharpest 2009 memories.

January: Birthday Concert. Eco seminar. Jan fest. The not nice things. Extreme not nice.

February: The combined birthday treat- Karma. The chicken lunch at Shriya's. Stats practical exams. Krati's birthday at Tea Centre.

March: Krati's birthday. Anusha's birthday. Exams. Internship worries. Anusha's birthday sleepover. Contemplation over Malhar.

April: Internship at Palador. Yash's birthday- Surprising him at his Talegaon Institute. Exam Results. Spanish. Shriya's birthday sleepover. The mad Taboo Game. Nailers.

May: Tai! Prada's birthday. M trip. Krati leaving for home. The mad taxi thing. Parents' anniversary- 5 spice. Ladakh. The madness that followed. Not meeting tai before she left.

June: Tuitions. Krati staying over for a week. Mad stationery shopping at Satyam. Mad sleepover at Shriya's. Mad dark room game at 3 a.m. Extreme weirdness with people. Extreme. Tiny cookies crumbling. Metaphorical cookies of course.

July: Shreya stayover before she left for Bangalore. Word Games. Kunal. Krati. Hostel steps. A lot. Scrabble. Sleepover at Yash's. Soul baring conversation. 2 of my best friends. Extreme weirdness continues.

August: Malhar Elims. Word games. Creative writing. Phudee. Feeling super dumb at General Quiz. Swine Flu. Delhi Chatting. Wai wai at hostel steps. Malhar. Placing for wordgames, creative writing. Cough that refuses to go. Landmark Vouchers.

September: Mad mad month. Malhar Bash. Kinked Demand Theory. Birthday excitement. Krati's excitement more than mine. Birthday stayover at my place. Birthday dinner at Sundance. Shreya, Saranya, Krati and me. Birthday. Theobroma. Kunal, Krati and Me. Walking back. The obsolete bus-stop. Landmark book shopping. Weirdness gone.

October: Diwali break. TISS applications. Krati gone home. Late night phone conversations. Walking around fort. Cafe Olympia. Magic Bus stop. Gum spurting blood. Stayover at my place. Diwali. Landmark- reading the FRIENDS book. Tuition tests.

November: Kala Ghoda. Buying yummy WSD things. Sundance day. Phone breaking. New phone. YAF. Worrying about Japanese. Kunal's FRIENDS DVDs. Talking at night. A lot. Cafe Churchhill. MOD. Japanese. Exams. Hating it. A bearable November. Thank you.

December: Exams. Japanese Exam. A sure fail. 5 spice- Kunal, Varun, Krati and me. Krati staying over. TISS. 13th December. Cabs. Sassanian. ISH. Potatoes. IMG lunch- Relish. Ash in Bombay. Essar. Nariman Point. Gokul. Mood Indigo. Creative writing. Word Games. Same team. My best friends. Both. Christmas at Joey's Pizza. Chaos Theory, finally. Mad sleepover. Shreya's place. Relish- cheese fondue. 31st at Shashank's. The morning after. A brilliant December.

I wouldn't trade this year for anything. Not even the bad times. I love my people. I can't get through my day without them. And I am extremely grateful. And when I get upset or worried, I look at this list. I relive the good times. The sleepovers, the cobbled street walks, the soul baring conversations. And then, it's all okay. Thank you. All of you. You know who you are. If you aren't sure, then it's not you.