The 365 day project

In a grand attempt to make sure I write everyday, I have decided to take up the 365 day blog project, where I write one post everyday.

This is the link: www.summercolouredskin.blogspot.com

Please go take a look and let me know what you think!

The coffee house story

Tuesdays at the coffee house have been a part of my routine for over a year now. Writers try many things to motivate themselves into writing. Perhaps chai in a glass and a cigarette. Maybe coffee in a pretentious mug. Sometimes none of this works. Despite that, I go to the coffee house. I have my spot- The cane chair at the back; tucked away between a pillar and the window. The waiters know me. They know my order too. When I walk in, they give me a distant smile.

He has been coming there for the past few months. His spot isn’t anywhere near mine, but its close enough. He has a small face and very thin lips. He always wears a Rangers cap. Sometimes he wears a shirt. Most days it’s a loose sweater and khakis. His sandals look painfully tight. I am not sure how often he comes in, but I see him every Tuesday. I don’t think he has noticed me. If he has, he pretends otherwise.

I observe him from my spot. He reads a lot. Mostly books that are covered in newspaper. He takes notes furiously in a leather bound book. Maybe he is a critic. Or an enthusiast. I am very curious to see which books he reads. I deliberately pass his table to get some paper napkins. I peep- he is reading The Middleman. I glance at his notes. His handwriting is untidy. As is his hair.

On one rainy Tuesday, he has a female friend. She is pretty and touches his arm a lot. I get a little angry and drink my coffee with a vengeance. He laughs and shows her something on his phone. She laughs too. That irks me even more. She lights up a cigarette in a non-smoking zone. She signals to the waiter and he rushes over. He has never quite shown that sort of enthusiasm towards me. She says a few words and gets away with the smoking. I dislike this woman.

This Tuesday, our man has a broken arm. He winces a lot. I wonder how he broke it. He doesn’t read today. Instead he listens to his I-pod and stares blankly at the ceiling. I bitterly think about his pretty friend and her whereabouts. She, much to my relief, doesn’t make an appearance. He looks blankly towards me. I smile a little. He looks away. I can see his neck has gone red.

I consider coming to the coffee house on another day to see if he is there. I come in on a Friday- he isn’t there. I quickly take my coffee and leave.

The Tuesday that follows is Christmas Eve. The coffee house is bursting at its seams with people, streamers and other Christmas decorations. He is there- sitting in his spot and drinking some brown slush from a tall glass. He looks up when I walk in. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even smile. I sit there until midnight, that day. At midnight, amidst the ringing bells and laughing children, our man smiles at me.

Finally, we speak. It’s a surreal Tuesday. We both walk in almost at the same time. Both are spots are taken. It feels like it’s a set-up. Only it’s not. Some teenager has turned 16 and her whole class is there. She shrieks and hugs a female friend every ten minutes. I leave, feeling strange. He isn’t far behind. “You’re a writer?” he asks. I nod. I can’t really find my voice. “I like reading. Perhaps you can show me some of your stuff.” he says. “Maybe.” I reply. “Tuesdays, isn’t it?” He smiles- as though sharing an inside joke. I nod again. “I look forward to Tuesdays.” He says, his voice non-committal, but only just. I smile- “Me too.” I say and mean it.

The Tuesday after that we meet again. We still continue to sit at our own spots. We don’t even make conversation. We just give each other knowing looks. Sometime that evening, I run into an old school friend. Between all the gossip and catching up, I don’t notice that he has left.

It’s Saturday morning. I am holding a pot of coffee when I see his face. In the newspaper. He is smiling, his untidy hair set in place with copious hair gel. Under the picture, it reads- Joy Bannerjee. June 18, 1979- February 27, 2010. A hundred thoughts come to mind. I consider checking with his family. Was it a car accident? Cardiac Arrest? Suicide? I skim through the rest of the article. At the bottom it reads, Loving brother, caring friend. Pleasant stranger- I silently add and drink my black coffee.

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.

Blyton, Enid. Ten O clock tales- and other stories.

I read my first book, by myself, when I was 6. It was called Noddy and the Aeroplane. I slept with my copy of Noddy by my bedside.
My grandmother went from speaking broken English to speaking it fluently. Given that she sat tirelessly next to me, every afternoon, while I read from Amelia Jane aloud.
I have read every Famous Five story, relived every Secret Seven adventure in my mind several times. I have looked up words like pixie and delightful from the Oxford dictionary when I was six, because the words "sounded nice"
The copies of The Wishing Chair series from the local library have chocolate marks on pages. That is because- at night, when everyone slept, I'd sit with a bar of Dairy Milk and read the books. I liked to think I was eating something fancy. Like tea and scones. And crumpets. So what if it wasn't raining and I didn't have a fireplace?
I hoped and hoped that my parents sent me to a boarding school. I dreamed of living with people my age, and opening my window to lush green lawns. Of sneaking in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and lemonade into the rooms at night. From ages 7-9 I read and re-read every book in the Mallory Towers and St.Clare's series.
I had no qualms to admitting that I had an imaginary friend. I had no difficulty in convincing my best friend that I had a flying horse and a belt that took you back in time.
I wrote my first story when I was 10. It was about a girl who sees a ghost in her books cabinet. And befriends him. It was poorly written. But it didn't matter. In my head, it was something that was mine.
I cook up stories when I am walking, in buses, during long lectures, while lying on my bed, while eating and while talking to people.
I don't find bus-stops mundane. I don't find empty lanes spooky. In my mind- everything has a certain character to it.
When I pass people on streets, I think of their life stories. And make some up for good measure.
On winter mornings, when the watery sunlight lazily creeps into my room, it makes me smile and think of quaint things. Like snow. And hot chocolate. And feather quilts.
It doesn't matter if she was a bad mother. It doesn't matter if some department head in some university thought her work lacked literary value. It doesn't matter if she had characters like Mr.Pink Whistle and Big Ears.
What matter is that she was an excellent writer. She made sure I give an imaginative spin to things that are dangerously commonplace. She made sure that children all over the globe saw magic in everyday lives.
I grew up. I read other things. Things of "consequence"
I admitted sheepishly that there are no gnomes. Or flying chairs. Or badly behaved broomsticks.
But on sleepless nights, when the house is quiet, I pretend that there are elves living below my bed.

And to you this whole thing may sound lame and cliche and pretentious. To me, it's my best childhood memories. And there's very little out there, that has the potential to taint those.

Common-place.

It's the powder blue building by the rail tracks. It smells of fish and socks. It quakes, unpleasantly, every time a train passes. The rooms are clustered together. The doors are always open. The men, the retired and the unemployed, sit on old worn out cots. Playing cards, smoking foul smelling cheap cigarettes. The women, after they have finished their morning gossip over lukewarm tea, race after grubby children. Their own, more often than not. The grubby children, apart from dodging their mothers, chase each other. Sometimes scarily close to the tracks. Their noses running, their hair disheveled. Some poke at a snail, curiously. Some eat mud. And grin at each other.
The men walk around condescendingly. They drop in, at their neighbours' houses. Stop by for a glass of tea, some biscuits from a tin. Pretend to help the children with their studies. The children cling on the men, gleefully. Begging them for a chocolate. The men laugh indulgently. Hollow laughter and alcohol breath. They'll stop by for dinner sometime, they tell the woman of the house. She nods emphatically. She'll make mutton stew, she promises. And her husband can bring some country liquour, the men joke. She turns away with a shudder. The idea of drunken men in the house, makes her stomach turn.
The girls return from school. They hold hands and laugh. Their hair held back with frayed ribbons. The chipped nailpaint and the calculated walk- suggest the urge to grow up. They gush over one of the newborns. They turn away when the men walk by. They think of their own clandestine affairs. Young and foolish.
The night brings the men back from work. They snap at their wives, carelessly throw their wallets on the table. It hasn't been a good day, they mutter. The women bustle around with tea and oily snacks- bought hastily from the railway station. The men reach for the bottle and call out to their friends. The women try suggesting against it, but are soon quiet. The slap on their aching backs has made the required point.
The girls hide themselves in kitchens, reading in the yellow light. The children, sleep early. Their grubby feet covered with threadbare sheets.
The drinking begins. The jokes are crass, the voices obnoxious.
Somewhere, a child stirs. Calls for his mother.
Somewhere, a man- drunk out of his mind, leers at the a girl. Walks towards her. An hour later, walks away from her.
Somewhere, a girl runs a blade across her wrist. Her mindless affair, now over.
A fight breaks out, the alcohol bottle crashes. The dark brown liquid staining the stained carpet.

It may be the same day. It may be different days. It eventually all merges into each other. Into an all-too-familiar blur.

Witching Hour

Somewhere after I've slept,
Somewhere before it's light.
They are coming to get me.

Night after night,
Everyone I know.
I could run,
If that's what I want.
I could think-
that it's only clothes.
Washed and soiled
But well-
It's everyone I know.

They say,
Don't be afraid.
They say,
It's only us.
They say,
Have a drink of water.
Listen to music.
Scratchy and calming.
And then,
When you are okay-
We'll come get you.

Socks. And sweatshirts.
Undiluted worry.
Navy blue blankets.
You think it works.
It's not a matter of how,
It's a matter of when.

On a washing line,
In open fields of rye,
Life-less and determined,
Dead and alive.
Night after night,
They seek their revenge.
Best served cold.

Somewhere after I've slept,
Somewhere before it's light.
The night is young,
They will find me.
It's not the monsters in my head.
It's Everyone I Know.

At the back of my commerce text, Oct 11, '08.

Come by this evening,
And we'll figure it out.
Some wine, possibly.
Some leftover stew.
Get a shoe horn along.
My feet hurt.
Heels are such a bummer.
I'd ask you to rub my feet,
But that's a little demeaning,
Come by this evening.

Come by this evening,
And a movie sounds good.
You know, I'll sleep.
We'd rather go dancing.
You wear a bow tie.
We'll dance in the dark.
But that's a little revealing,
Come by this evening.

Come by this evening,
You look mighty nice.
Where have you been?
Not the bar again,
And without me too.
Is that a smirk?
You're being condescending,
Come by this evening.

Come by this evening,
I have been waiting
You cheat, I saw you.
She looks like you'd like her,
And in my pizza place.
You'd lean over and whisper,
and you stole my seasoning.
Come by this evening.

Oh what an evening,
Dinner was good too.
You turned a little green.
Are you fine love,
Not really no.The peas, oh the peas.
It's wasabi, sweetheart.
Really?
No, it's poison, you know me.
Really? Yes?
Oh dear, are you dead?
My, my. What a shame.

Maybe

If you entered and bothered to look right, you'd notice. They were a well worn pair of leather slippers. Fake leather, by the look of them. They were old and characterless. He wore them when he went for his lunch break. Other times, they sat on the shelf. Given his beer belly and aching back, shoes were reserved only for trips outdoor. Sometimes we'd hear him walk back from the bathrooms, the fake leather clapping against the stone floor. He'd painstakingly bend over, pick them up and put them in the shoes rack. We'd turn away- when he'd sit on the stool for a brief moment, panting. It was a painful sight.

The boys would borrow the slippers sometimes- to run across the street to get photocopies, too bored to get their feet into their converse sneakers. They'd use the slippers to kill a stray roach, in his absence. Last year, I spilled a vat of fevicol on those slippers. S and I went mad washing them, "He'll kill us" we told each other, giggling like children left alone in a pool. He never found out, obviously.

At his funeral, the polished shoes on his feet seemed alien. While people feverishly clasped their hands together in prayer- they lowered the casket into the ground and as the emotions attained palpable proportions- I thought of his slippers.

Sitting meekly on the shelf far away, completely unaware that from now on- they'd be just that.
Slippers and no more. And in a month, maybe lesser- someone would pick them up, neatly wrap them in a bag- sob for a bit- while the others patted each other sympathetically, and put them away. In the dark cupboard which smells of old paint.

Catharsis.

Some cry, some sleep. I make lists.

Since, i am feeling spiteful right now anyway, here's a list of things I hate.

1. Eggplant.
2. Rickshaw drivers refusing to go where you want to.
3. People folding my papers.carelessly.
4. Not getting through to people's phones.
5. People not answering phones.
6. PMS.
7. Getting wet in the rain on my way to college.
8. Phone battery low.
9. People saying "whatever" to dismiss you.
10. Crows.
11. Children who wail.in public places.
12. Liking one out of 10 things in a clothes store,
and not getting your size.
13. Bad hair days.
14. Getting cuts on fingertips.
15. Airports.
16. Computer shutting itself down.
17. Thursdays.
18. Sundays.
19. People leaving.
20. Person in front of me walking slowly.
21. Deliberate brutal honesty at wrong times.
22. People backing out on me.
23. Tender coconut ice cream.
24. Coconut in general.
25. Power cuts.
26. Plain warm milk.
27. Advice from people,when you've not asked for it.
28. People inviting themselves into conversations.
29. Prussian blue.
30. The cover of the earphones falling off. Hence, pokey earphones.

Micro amraK

If you lie still,
and listen hard.
You'll hear it.

Sometimes I hear it,
in your voice.

Don't change the subject.
And ramble.
About work.About hate.

Movies. And mountains.
And therapy, and support.
You are undeserving.

Speed dial 3.
Back of notebooks.
Off the back of my hand.
Off the top of my head.

And there you died on me.
Battery low.
Don't lie,now.

On Sunday evenings.
When the beer is over,
And the folks have left.
You'll hear it too.
Alone.

The Sunday that never is

Factors that make a perfect Sunday:

[ The Reader should keep in mind, that these factors follow the ceteris paribus rule (Cēterīs paribus is a Latin phrase, literally translated as "with other things the same," or "all other things being equal or held constant." It is commonly rendered in English as "all other things being equal." A prediction, or a statement about causal or logical connections between two states of affairs, is qualified by ceteris paribus in order to acknowledge, and to rule out, the possibility of other factors that could override the relationship between the antecedent and the consequent.) Which means that one cannot declare the following list void- by quoting reasons like " But no sunday is perfect because Monday follows." or " I just don't like Sundays." Personal biases, occurence of unforseen unpleasant events on aforementioned day or boredom is the reader's worry. ]

The writer sheepishly agrees that there is no such thing as a perfect Sunday. like there is no such thing as a perfect man. :)

Factors that make a perfect Sunday:
1.Sleep: Waking up really late to the smell of buttered toast or freshly brewed tea.
2.Newspapers: Untouched copy of the Sunday Times- fresh and uncreased, complete with the glossy pages.
3.Weather: Either the breezy monsoon time-right before it rains. Or Windy,cool days with watery sunlight filtering though.
4. Food: Sunday meals can be made perfect by cooking/eating a personal favorite. Like butter paneer, or chicken keema. Avoiding mushrooms is mandatory!
5. Dessert: Easy. Favorite flavour of icecream, or just a bar of chocolate without having to share it with anyone.
6. TV: Sunday usually means FRIENDS marathon- all afternoon. Can be made better by watching with other FRIENDS lovers, and hence discussing favourite episodes or interesting trivia.
7. Munchies: Chips and dips, popcorn, marie biscuits and chocolate sauce, monaco and cheese, those yummy unhealthy fried things. Taste best when consumed hurriedly and mindlessly while doing 6.
8. Plans: Sunday plans are the best sort. Casual, with people of consequence. Watching a match at a friend's place, board game afternoon, manically playing PS3 games, driving around the city, watching some play ( if it pleases you) or cycling. It is important to note- if they are house plans, make sure it's NOT your house.More enjoyable when you don't have to cater to filling other peoples' glasses!
9. Conversation: Sunday is especially NOT the day to make conversation. You do that all week anyway. Unless it is to people you want to talk to. In that case- use your phone without worrying about the bill. And if you do that all week anyway too, don't make an exception today. do it anyway.
10. Sport: Sunday afternoons, when everyone is sleeping, is the perfect time to play cricket and make a racket. Shout your loudest. Play your best. Variations of playing other games are obviously welcome. like football when it rains.
11. Books: Avoid reading very heavy stuff. Stick to Calvin and Hobbes. Actually, read whatever pleases you. It's Sunday.
12. Study :Are you mad? avoid it like the bloody plague.
13. Cleaning: If cleaning makes you happy. You're free all day. Your room is a garbage dump. Do the needful.
14. Creative pursuits: Write,paint,click,stitch,sing. Actually don't. they qualify as work.
15. Drink: The ultimate solution/incentive to most things. Head to a nearby bar. Get drunk out of your senses, or pleasantly high-whatever works. That way- the rest of the Sunday is a happy place.

Clear?

It took us about 10 minutes to get to your house. I remember nothing of those 10 minutes. Strangely, none of this panicked me. When Jo stopped the car in front of your house, I calmly walked out and strolled over to your big brown door. I used the spare key to open it, like I had several times in the past. By this time, I was silently weeping. Not because I was shattered. Not because I was hoping against the odds. Just because. You were lying on the sofa, your wrists spewing blood. Jo darted from behind me to call a doctor. I just sat down next to you, and hoped that you were at peace. I think at some point, the doctor came. And shook his head in regret. It was fake beyond belief. It didn't matter to him that you were dead.
I know you've been through a lot,off late. Stuff that you didn't tell me. Stuff that you scribbled on sheets of paper, which you later threw away. Stuff.
You used to call me Tori. You never told me why.
I am sorry that something troubled you enough that you slit your wrists.
I have an instinct about these things, bang on.
I just knew that something had happened, and I had Jo drive me over.
It's awful that you're dead.
But your clarity of thought never failed you. So I guess if you killed yourself, you must have had your reasons.

Umbrella Hands

He has meticulous hands- the sort you can trust. And as I watch them grip a long black umbrella, I feel myself holding my breath. Almost as if with the opening of the umbrella, something will change. He smiles at me, says something in Bengali. Given my American childhood- I don't quite understand it. "Do you want to go with him?" Ammu asks, speaking slowly. "Maybe." I say and walk up to him. He holds out his index finger, and I grip it. "Be good." My father says. I frown. I am not quite sure I like him as much as I like Ammu.

We walk under the black umbrella. It's not raining much, but Baba is worried that my protected American head will catch a cold. Baba is my mother's father.This is the first time I am meeting him. It is also my first trip to India. "So what do you learn at school?" He asks me. His English is difficult to understand. " Writing." I say. "Do you want to be a writer, Koko?" I can't understand him. He repeats his question. I nod. "I have written a poem. But it is at home." I say. He smiles. "I wanted to be a writer once." He says, gripping my shoulder. "But then I became a doctor."
"In America, you can do both." I say proudly.

We turn onto a street with a large temple. By now it begins to rain heavily. "You aren't wet,are you?" He asks,pulling me closer in, making sure the big black umbrella is shielding me.
"I am good." I say. "Do you live alone,Baba?" I ask. "Yes. But I have friends." He says, grinning. And while we are having this demure conversation, the big black umbrella turns upside down.

In my 8 year old mind- this is a premonition. So despite myself, I begin to cry. Baba, who is evidently more fun loving than I had granted him to be, begins to laugh. It is clear ringing laughter, that I will come to remember even several years later on lonely afternoons in America.
"It is only an umbrella Koko. We can set it straight." He says, trying to get it back to normal. I cling to him, barely reaching his waist. I am howling, convinced that something terrible will happen. I never quite got the logic of it, but I was eight, and in a country that wasn't mine. I had never seen so many people on one street. He fixes the umbrella but by now we're drenched.

"Ice-cream?" he asks me. I shake my head no. He asks why, but for me the evening is ruined as are my new shoes. "Want to go home?" I agree. We walk home- the culprit umbrella tucked under his arm, wetting the side of shirt. I make a bee-line for my room- not wanting to talk to my father or Ammu. Baba and Ammu are having a discussion in rapid Bengali. I hear my name, more than once. An hour later- after I have sulked enough-Baba walks up and sits next to me. I concentrate even harder on the jigsaw puzzle pieces.

" I have a gift for you." He says. I like the way he doesn't make his voice fake cheerful, which Ammu does every time I am upset. "What is it?"I ask without looking up. He hands me an old notebook. It is covered in newspaper.

I flip it open. Some of the pages are filled, handwritten in ink. "Keep it. It's mine.It was written in a long time ago. Maybe when you go home, you can write in it."He says. "Can I write about the time,when we got wet in front of the temple here?" " Sure. But I thought it upset you." "Yeah, but it is my India memory of you,Baba." He smiles and interlocks his fingers, and says a string of things in Bengali. "What?" I ask. But he just shakes his head.