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.

So much prettier, in yellow light.

" You look pretty tonight.."

"Really?"

"Yeah, your hair looks perfect!"

" It's the yellow light. Everyone looks pretty in yellow light."

" Enough with the modesty,already."

" No it's true."

" Either way, you look pretty."

"You forgot to say 'tonight' "

" What are you so edgy about?"

"I am not edgy"

"What do you want me to say? That you're the prettiest girl I know!?"

"Don't say anything. I want to go home."

"You just got here."

" I don't want to sit around, watching you fake-flatter me."

"Okay- go. We'll plan dinner for a day, when you're not all PMS"

" You're lousy company, don't blame it on me."

" And you're not pretty, for the record."

"Now, who's all PMS?"

" Are you pushing me to break up with you?"

"You're going to wait for me to push you?
Are you that tame?"

" No I'm not. I want to break up with you?"

" Really?"

" No."

" Then, why did you say it?"

"Are you crying?"

" Are you crazy?"

" You look pretty. Not just tonight."

" Liar."

"Honest. And it's not the yellow light."

Quick

It was a majestic oak wood desk. A laptop flashed pictures of, evidently, good times. White sand slipped through a quaint looking hour glass. A china mug held expensive looking pens. The desk was uncomfortably neat- except for a plate, with a half-eaten pecan pie.

He lay motionless on the floor, nearby. The corners of his mouth turning white, just a little bit. Clearly, his childhood nut allergy had gotten the better of him.

Watered down

We sit on Kooki's terrace. Six of us, I think. I can't tell for sure, it's pretty dark. There's a rustle and glass breaking. Someone curses. The pungent smell of alcohol hits me. I am leaning against the wall. Somewhere to my right, a phone rings. And Deep's face is illuminated momentarily with cellphone light. He slurs slightly, and rubs his forehead. It is his mother,evidently. Evidently, he is also lying to her. I look up.At a distance, the sky is lit up with fireworks. Someone is getting married. Or a cricket match is won. I think it's the marriage. I stand up, and my ears buzz a little. I walk cautiously to the other side, trying not to step on to feet and cans and broken glass. My phone rings. It flashes A's name. I cut it, and try not to think of her. I don't think I need this right now. I hear my name being called. I turn- I am being offered a plastic glass. I am not sure what it holds. I sip, it's a strange concoction- probably Kooki's idea. A seasoned drinker- he likes his drinks to be full of surprises. I down it, and stare hard- trying to digest the potent liquid. Kooki laughs- through the darkness even, he can see my raised eyebrows. Or maybe he is plain high. I walk to the edge, and lean against the rail.I look 7 floors down. It's pitch dark. I hear some one cussing. A generous exchange of four lettered words, in several languages occurs. My phone rings- it's her again. I pick it up. Her voice is deadpan. The truth potion from the plastic glass hits my head- very slowly. I am leaning over the railing. There's silence again. She is asking me something.I pay no attention.
"I cheated on you" I say.
And while, supposedly, her nonchalant world tears apart, or so I believe-
I lean even further and throw up into the darkness.
And far away, the sky is lit up with yet another marriage celebrating electric green firework.

Of small strokes, and large cokes.

A while ago, on an unsuspecting Tuesday afternoon- after an innocent economics extra lecture, I figured I was worried. I don't know what I want to do in life, i have no clue about the status of my scores, my friends aren't really pleased with my lack of time to spend with them, and more often than not I end up sleeping disgruntled.
I walked down and sat through a perfect 30 minutes watching my friends audition for a band and i enjoyed myself thoroughly.
The bit that followed was tiring.and upsetting. While somewhere not very far from where i was, my friend sobbed over the increasing pressure of cultural activities- I stood at a window in LR 52 and cried at the confusion in my life. And while KT tried to assure me how it's all going to be okay- I cried some more at what an awful person i was. And while the people behind me wondered what was wrong, another friend not too far away again, toyed with the idea of backing out of a committee because she was denied a deserving post. Life, a lot of times, is a bitch.
I left college alone- after a long time. Usually, i travel with friends. sometimes it's some one's car. Today everyone had their own plans- Malhar, binge drinking, a date. My phone had died, the battery was upset too. I had no company, no music, and nothing to read. Unless i wanted to spend the last bit of my brilliant day reading labour unions and monopolistic competition. On a admittedly geeky note, that wouldn't have been so bad.
At the station, I ran into you. You were heading home and looked like a mess yourself. But hell knows why, you offered to buy me a burger. At this point, I should tell you I am a die-hard foodie. Offer me a brownie when I am crying blood, and in minutes I cheer up. So as the rain splashed on the glass windows of Mcdonalds in an ironically movie-like manner, you told me over fries and mayo how you'd just gotten dumped. As a mark of extreme empathy, I offered you my coke. You grinned, and did a very innocent variant of the bottoms up. And like a true friend bought me another large coke.
If my days had colours, I'd call this one a bottle green. You're really wary about it, and it's seemingly uneventful. But sometimes, unlike yourself you pick up the bottle green sweatshirt at the back of the store, never wear it, but remove it once in a while, and are very glad you own it.
And when there's enough sleep or alcohol overpowering you, you admit that you don't mind the bottle green so much.

A Smattering of Sundays

I don’t like Sundays. Yeah, it’s a holiday and there are more colored pages in the newspaper- but apart from that what’s the draw? Honestly, I think it’s the most overrated day in the week. All the movies from the back of beyond of the film industry play on TV on Sunday, and once the crosswords have been solved and Sudoku has been mulled over (and never solved. Numbers nauseate me.);the Sunday begins to drag. I engage myself in several useless pursuits- the forty thousand networking sites I am a part of ensure that. If I am not playing Scrabulous ( scrabble for those who choose to burn their calories clicking on a mouse as opposed to moving tiles on a board) or looking at pictures of someone from my Math class posing next to a fountain on Facebook- I’m sleeping. By late afternoon, I am all cooped up from being home all day, my parents take enthusiastic trips to supermarkets- and get me to cheer up by bringing home pop-corn packets and juice- but it’s almost never my flavor.

When my sister was still here, and hadn’t turned into a crazy workaholic American- we’d spend the afternoon watching re-runs of FRIENDS. And almost always- we’d get into a discussion about favorite parts in the sitcom, followed by favorite lines from movies, followed by favorite lines in books- followed by favorite books- and usually rounded off with a smattering of funny quotes from our favorite books and movies .Necessarily in that order. I like the word smattering. It makes me think of warm boiled corn and homemade butter. I don’t know why, but it’s always corn and butter.Now, my afternoons (obviously after I have finished my share of the above mentioned useless pursuits) involve talking on the phone (it’s usually Tandon.) I think I am going to take a minute here to mention what a special person Tandon is. Apart from being a bomb of sunshine on Sunday afternoons- she usually is the protagonist of all the crazy tales I tell and re-tell in social settings. But more on that later. Yeah so it’s the phone- or it’s the newspaper (colored and glossy Bombay Times) or it’s usually some college work that was assigned several weeks ago.Or it’s just pottering around- making to-do lists on fancy stationery, or doodling on the edges of notebooks. For the record, I always make triangles.

So, on one such Sunday evening- Tandon (you will see shortly why she is who she is.) who happened to be in my house decided that she wants to make us an omelette. I conveniently pulled out of this exciting plan. I am not very big on flipping omelettes. She made a huge fuss of chopping onions- and snipping peppers to the right size. It saw its end pretty soon- when Tandon (who can handle only up to 3 eggs) burnt our majestic four egg omlette because she blanked out in the part when you are supposed to flip it. So we had charcoal mustard and ketchup (with just the right taste of burnt eggs) for dinner with lots of juice to run down the aforementioned dinner. By the end we had a sink full of blackened utensils, a broken glass, and a slightly upset looking dining table to clean up. We didn’t say anything good about the eggs- lest the tiny black burnt pieces get insulted. I am going to be off eggs for a while- and Tandon is going to prove her cooking mettle several times till we let her cook for us. But you know what, we may not make the best dinners- but we usually scrape a story to tell. And unfortunately not too many people can pride themselves on that.

funky-dory

Well well..can't think of a clever blog entry, so i am going to go all narcissistic.
1. I love spongebob sqaurepants.
2. I have a fetish for socks. coloured ones.
3.I own hairclips in all the possible colours.
4. I love giving people notes on coloured paper.
5. I don't eat fish,eggplant,peaches or figs.
6. I don't like it when people fold my sheets of paper in half.
7. I have come to like Indian Classical Music.
8. I laugh a lot.mostly at you.
9. A lot of people call me by my last name.
10. I don't like coconut water or sugarcane juice.
11. I am a BIG BIG foodie.
12. I am extremely sarcastic.
13. I paint my nails black more often than not.
14. I give gadgets names.mostly other peoples' gadgets.
15. I study Japanese and it intrigues me beyond belief.
16. Before I die, i want to live in Japan, paraglide, publish a book and host a stand up comedy show.
17. I love my college more than other people love theirs.
18. I have a sister, who is clever and pretty and sometimes gives me a complex. Other times i pull her toe.
19. I depend on a select few people to make it through my day.
20. I want to meet Rohinton Mistry.
21. I don't litter and won't let you either.
22. I have curly hair on good days.other days i have hair.
23. My ring tone is the theme song to spongebob sqarepants.
24. I adore Barney from How I Met Your Mother.
25. I worry a lot. About losing people.
26. I am not good with kids.
27. I am not an atheist. I am agnostic.
28. Consequentially, i don't pray. I hope a lot though.
29. I will soon learn to drive.
30. I cry myself to sleep on a few days.
31. I have read To Kill a Mockingbird thrice.
32. I make fun of people. I am not sadistic.
33. I used to think that I am strong.
34. I don't really mind it if you don't like me.
35. I want to major Economics.
36. I say the word random a lot.a lot.
37. I like mountains.
38. I have a thing for funky stationery.
39. I write a lot. for myself. and talk a lot.to myself. aloud.
40. I fall often. Usually while climbing down staircases.

Chai and a few dosas

Theirs was a successful marriage.45 years and a few odd months. And when he sat in his rocking chair on dark evenings, that's what pulled him through. The thought of his wife coming home and making him a cup of tea. Watery and a tad too sweet- but some things just grow on you. Their only son was in Chennai. They lived in a small house in Mumbai, a blessing considering his failing eyesight and her weak back. He retired after a brilliant yet uneventful 30 years in a bank. His wife was the most respected teacher in a school nearby, and when she retired they had about 20 tearful children lining up in front of their house. With not much else to do with their time, they argued with each other. About inane things- like the news reader on TV or the rip on his old nightshirt. Sometimes he overslept in the afternoon and would wake up to find his wife watching documentaries on the polar bears or something just as inconsequential. But then at their age, everything was inconsequential. Sometimes he cooked, most times she did. On rare occasions they went to a nearby eat out and ate overpriced dosas amidst collegiate chaos. He smiled to himself thinking of how she would make him total the marks on the answer papers she'd check at school. Or how she'd worry about the seemingly heavy bags her students lugged to school.

And he realised how close they were, or how much she meant to him, when she decided to make a trip to her sister's place in Pune. She insisted she go alone, she'd manage it, she said. And the past few days he found himself aching for her tea, her presence and her constant nagging about his weight. It struck him that 45 years isn't forever- but it's close enough.