Memory of Coffee

My first memory of coffee as , for anyone else, is its incredible and addictive aroma.
A magical fragrance, a feel good after taste, and you are hooked for life.
I drank my first coffee , standing on the pavement of a hill-station , blowing and sipping rich , frothy, sweet and seductive concoction , all red nosed and bundled up against the mountain chill.

That was eons ago.

So many years later, a sniff and a whiff of the potent brew, and I still go weak in the knees. Anytime, anywhere.

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Morning person

Oh yes!

5 am. Sharp. The alarm goes off. Yawn. Milk truck arrives.
Switch on the geyser for kids bath.
Yoga on the mat.

5.30 Wake up the kids. Pack their tiffins , fill water bottles, make cold coffee.
Black coffee with fruit for the “Yogi”, and comb the younger one’s hair .
Snatch her crumpled shirt and iron it.
Someone needs a new shoe polish.

6 .30 am Read the newspaper headlines, gulp coffee , make beds.
Am I a morning person?

Long weekend

First came the fever.

Inexplicably spiked, unrelenting. The child began babbling . Febrile delirium. Medicine box was turned upside down. In the mess on the dining table, one tablet of a forbidden drug was given. Fingers crossed, as others drenched her , sponging. The mattress turned soggy.

The child opened her eyes. Smiled. Wiped her dripping brow. Whew!!

Then the old lady called, and called. Again and again. Without any reason. You rush to her bedside, and find her mumbling. Trying to form words. Eyes screaming fear. Fear of death.

Ambulance shrieking into midnight. Concerned neighbours in nightgowns.

Sleepy intern taking history. The beep of monitors. Hum of icu.

Long long weekend.

Monkey business

She sat in the Starbucks café, sipping coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. Her hand shook, spilling coffee into her saucer, where it lay in a dark, foreboding pool.

A fair skinned, pudgy and manicured hand held her hand. Mrs. Banerjee, Onu, her neighbor. Neha  was grateful  Onu was silent , for once. The incredible and shocking events of the day had stunned her into unusual silence. Her round, kohl-lined eyes had grown larger and rounder, brimming over with unspoken questions.

                                                               &&&&&

She had this premonition of something going hideously wrong, from the moment Saurav’s deputation signal had arrived. He , a newly posted Army Captain to this remote” junglee-posting”(That’s what Neha’s mother had derogatorily called it as), had to pack his bags and move to Congo, as a part of UN Peacekeeping efforts in the African Nation. Neha had begged with him to take her along, but it was a “non-family” deputation. In retaliation, Neha dug her heels and stay put in the crumbling, ancient and sprawling bungalow, a heirloom bequeathed by the space-loving, erstwhile British residents of Jimaguri.

“The very name sounds like a disease, that you could catch by a mosquito bite.” Her younger sister’s wisdom, shared on iphone.

To pass her time, Neha the newlywed Army wife, took to decorating her house, which was enormous, dilapidated, and vexed her to no end. “It eej “bhootiya, if you ask me.”Her closest neighbor, Mrs. Anupama Banerjee, alias “Onu”, would confide in her. Discretion in speech was not one of Onu’s virtues and she had made many such pronouncements, like how foreign deputees were made to undergo HIV tests for they lived “such a sexy life” in phoren lands. This last remark had made Neha squirm, and gave her sleepless nights. Still, she was good –natured, and called on to look her up often. Besides, she was the only neighbor within five km radius, she too lived in a “Bhootiya” crumbling bungalow, and her husband was a surgeon in the Army Hospital.

In this lone some existence, two things buoyed her up. A chance meeting, with the CO’s wife.She decided to teach her oil-painting, and her sudden interest in growing a garden, with help from her watchman cum gardener,”Bahadur”.

So, now, Neha’s life was full of thinking of subjects to paint, fetching supplies from the city , which lay 35kms away, and scheming with Bahadur on how to drape the broken backyard fence with vines of ‘kaddu, lauki and tori.”Monkeys , in the cantonment , were a plague. Amazingly, Bahadur had an”Unbahadur-like “attitude, so far as monkeys were concerned. Whenever a troop descended, he would, shivering, lock himself up in his small wooden guardroom at the gate, leaving Neha to vent her rage at her vandalized roses, broken flowerpots and shredded lauki vines, beating the ground with her broken canvas stand legs, screaming obscenities in a futile rage, while Bahadur watched from the peephole.

The monkeys, of course, were unfazed. Occasionally, they would snarl at her, and pretend to give a chase, and she had to flee to the safety indoors.

Saurav would caution her on phone, ‘they are primates and intelligent, do not attempt to harm them. They remember.” Humph! Easy for him to say!! Here, she had to just watch helplessly as they chomped up all her painstakingly grown geraniums.

“I too am a primate. They should remember that.” She would retort, Saurav would laugh, and she would slam the transcontinental call down, immediately regretting afterwards.

                                                                             &&&&

That day dawned gray. Bahadur overslept, probably sleeping off his last night’s toddy. Neha had a bad headache, and it looked like it might rain any moment. The bamboo fences around the front and back lawns were still broken from last week’s monkey raid, Neha noted with dismay.

The paints were due to arrive today, at the store in the city mall, and the needle in the fuel gauge of her SUV veered dangerously close to E. This was bad news in Jimaguri. Petrol meant more than fuel. It meant freedom, accessibility and life.

The maid had come and gone and the house still smelt musty and old. No amount of Lizol, Neha thought lady-Macbeth-like, would sweeten this home. Sigh.

By noon, Bahadur deigned to wake up, and was seen pottering amongst the broken flowerpots, when Neha shouted instructions, from the driveway, of sweeping the lawns, and tying up various vines in her “laukassic-park” (Onu’s jibe)in the backyard. It was a miracle . Bahadur even heard her, for he was so engrossed, raking up fallen mangoes from the numerous trees and making small mountains of the now messy and squelchy treats, to be cleared later. Strange! neha had never seen him do that before. He would just plonk them into the large dustbin by the shovel-fuls. Now , it will attract wasps and flies, and of course, monkeys. "Oi!" Neha screamed ," Bahadur , use your brains, don't do that, just phek do unko!" Heads down, Bahadur smiled, a sly smile , that said, "I am using my brains , Madam."

“Funny creepy fellow! Never looks me in the eye. Always stares at the ground, even when I talk to him. And what was that smirk for?The brainless bufoon!.”Neha talked to herself as she revved up and reversed, disappearing in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

                                                                &&&&

It was close to six, and darkness was already descending on this small cantonment town. Not to mention the downpour, which had, left wisps of moisture, free gray clouds and shin deep puddles everywhere.

There was a black-out. Only oil lamps flickered in sundry hut windows as Neha raced back, spraying muck at startled sepoys.

Nothing prepared Neha for the sight that greeted her, when she turned into her rusty iron gates, four hours and a huge downpour later.

Millions of furry shapes filled her garden, squeaking, hissing, and chattering. At first, she thought, she was dreaming. It looked like a scene from “Planet of the Apes”. They occupied every post on her broken bamboo fence; they swayed from the leafy boughs of mango trees like Tarzan. The driveway was littered with mango peel and stones. The mounds of mangoes had all but disappeared. Bahadur was nowhere to be seen. "The cowardly swine!! I told him not to leave the fruit out."  Neha thought angrily.

As Neha peered through the post rain mist, two things happened simultaneously. Neha skidded on a wet patch, or a squelched mango, on her concrete driveway, and heard a thud and a sickening crunch.

A furry thing fell off the hood. She had hit a monkey. Omigod! Probably, crushed it.

There was a long moment of utter silence. No one chattered, swung or squeaked. Hundreds of pairs of primate eyes swiveled in her direction.

Then all hell broke loose. Every furry limb made towards the SUV. Snarling, chattering ,and leaping.

She had to run. A large, new, canvas lay at her feet. Using it as a shield, she opened the driver side door, and sprinted towards the back door of the house. The front was already swamped.

Panting, heart in mouth, she ran, with all her might. The chattering seemed to be closing in.

The wire mesh door to the kitchen was latched, but the balcony door wasn’t. Leaping in, she made for the first light that she saw. The skylight, through, the kitchen roof.

The house was eerily dark and silent. Suddenly, a large rustle and thump was heard in the backyard. The monkeys!! Neha bolted herself into the kitchen. A large kitchen knife lay in the third drawer. She grabbed it by the handle, and took huge gulps of air.

Almost immediately, she heard a rustle, a looming of a large dark shape from the corner of the kitchen. Every nerve on edge, Neha reacted instinctively. Screaming, she held her hands taut as the thing leapt on her. The knife sank till the hilt, with no resistance. She heard a startled gasp. A human gasp. A breath that smelt of toddy and paan-masala.Her hands felt clothing, and buttons as the shape sank at her feet,with a sigh, a dark sticky fluid making a growing pool around her  shoes. The lights came on, that very instant, and she saw lying at her feet, with life oozing out of him, Bahadur.

                                                                     &&&&

Now, She was waiting at Starbucks. In a few minutes, police will come to record her statement.

Horror on a Sunday afternoon

“The face was gone , totally.” He scrubbed his hands vigorously at the sink, as if trying to wash the gory memories of the operating theatre. How painfully yucky and bloody to be faced with human misery, day in and day out , creatures at their most vulnerable .

“How come ?” I could not restrain my curiosity.

He usually doesn’t encourage gossipping about his cases at home. But , this was a baby, a mere 5 year old. It had a gut-wrenching effect on him, having to intubate a gaping hole, instead of the mouth, squirting blood from everywhere. Five and a half hours of painstaking skill to sew on the teeth, the nose, the cheek-flaps, the reconstruction of lips.

“He stood in the lawn and a sheet of broken glass from the first floor window, fell on him; shearing off the face.”

“Aargh, the poor baby.”

“They brought the severed pieces on a slab of ice.”
“292 stitches.”
“Oh my God!!” I was sorry I asked.

Lips

The lips were very provocative. Red lipsticked,full, and turned up at the corners , into a permanent semi-smile , that would have people believe, she was a good -natured person. Well, she was not.

Her cold eyes totally contradicted , whatever story her lips set out to recount.

But people are fooled by appearances. They always are. So they all fell for her fake half-smile, that became toothy, the moment she saw men in Armani suits, alighting from BMWs, clutching their iphones,

She could see their gullibility, and wealth through her glass walls: they saw a pretty mouth and heard a dulcet voice inside the dim air-conditioned comfort of her showroom.

She was a good saleswoman

Family dinner

“We are having a family dinner next sunday.”
This declaration was greeted with a shocked silence.
Then a storm of protests broke out.
“Does this mean I have to share my ipad with Anusha the twit.?”
“No way , Mama, There is a repeat telecast of “Prisoner of Azkaban”, and Ayush is again going to ruin it by flying his wretched aeroplane in my face .Last weekend, by the time I rescued it from the curtain loops, my “Dark Knight “was over.
“Look,I am in no way responsible for the sulkiness of your sister Mona, and I am definitely not going to apologize to her dimwit husband, Harry the hairy, for not calling him up even once last week. So don’t make me.” This from the head of my family. Sigh.
Please ask Aunt Mona not to bring those rock-hard home made cookies, please.Even if I forgive her, my friends won’t.Two of the guys lost their premolars to those stones.”
“Stealers of your tiffin , you mean.”
“Whatever.”
“This is a very bad idea.”
“Can’t you somehow cancel it ? You could say we are all down with conjunctivitis or some such contagion?”
“Okay, okay calm down. For heaven’s sake, it is just a dinner. They will be here at 8 and be gone by 10.”
“And leave us shattered…”
“And toothless..”
“Don’t forget my missed movie….”

Cover up

The ICU seemed quiet. The monitors were beeping gently, most of the patients snored , and Sree padded around softly in her rubber slippers, that misspelt her name as "Siri-Matron I/c icu.

When Minu arrived , everything looked spic and span. The lights dimmed, except for the nursing station , which was brightly lit, and Sree Ma'am sat writing the report. "Like clockwork", Thought Minu. She looked forward to night duties in icu. Especially, if Matron has been on the evening duty. All the paperwork would be done, and most of the night dosages and instructions,would have been prepared, ready to administer; not to mention, freshly ground coffee and muffins in the pantry.

Thoughtful as ever.Minu smiled.

She turned into the nursing station and found a packet of FFP(Fresh Frozen Plasma) lying on the trolley. "That is odd," Minu thought."I remember Sree telling me that it has already been administered to the meningioma patient in the fourth cubicle.". The packet felt lukewarm, meaning it had been lying on the trolley , outside fridge, for quite some time. Spoilt. Shit.

Minu raced to the fourth cubicle, her heart in the mouth , an alarm screaming in her head "what was that red IV fluid she saw in the cubicle , on her handing -taking rounds?"  Almost instinctively, she knew the answer too-"Whole blood , for the thalassemic young girl in first cubicle."

"Oh God! Oh God!"

Minu panted as she wrenched the connections apart. Too late!! The patient in fourth was gently twitching, frothing at the mouth, gasping and incoherently babbling.
                                             ####################

After anti-anaphylactic injections had saved the patient, and Minu had faced a barrage of abusive language from the Night DMO, the oncologist and dirty looks from the orderlies to the sweeper boy,she was in a huge quandary-"Should she cover up Matron's apparent faux pas, or uncover her incompetence."

Favourite food

“Helllllloooooo! Welcome home , how was your day ?”
Second offspring dumps her satchel , in reply, and makes a beeline to the dining table and the orange squash kept there.
“What is for lunch?” A tired, breathless, red-faced-from-the-sun query.
First one has just emerged from the bathroom, water dripping down the chin, in between gulps of orange ,gives over-the-juice-glass-top-enquiring-look.
“Palak paneer and rajma.”
“Nooooo!” Groans one .
“Yesss”Another fist-pumps the air.
“Why? I made both your favourite foods here!” I protest.
“Mama , you can’t make two favourite dishes, It has to be one .” Some one offers teenage wisdom.
One sits tiredly, arguing , in a hypoglycemic haze; other has galvanized into action , helping herself to gargantuan quantities of rice and rajma.
Whoever said raising two children was easier than one , was either a moron or a con-artist.

Catastrophe

It had been raining for everyday, for the past one week.

 Not that it was pouring most of the time . The skies would relent a few hours everyday, as if they were taking a break themselves.

Then it would begin. The downpour , steady, massive . Occasionally , a tired cloud would utter a wee thunder. Mostly it was a ceaseless, almost noiseless, emptying of the skies.The TV called it a cloudburst. But there was no lightning and booming fireworks associated. It was a silent vengeance of the Gods.

Shamis father was in a tizzy since morning. The supplies had dwindled, the markets flooded and closed. The water, like a desperate living thing had quietly seeped into the house, while everyone slept. The carpet was found floating on a bed of water , half an inch thick. The bathroom mats, having lost their moorings, were cruising all over the place, so was Maa’s pink bunny slippers, its furry ends dripping comically wet.

Shami’s annual function prize, a blue paper lantern was found in the kitchen, wedged between the twin gas cylinders, softly swaying as Shami waded up , in his wet pyjamas.He gently extricated the gift , its paper all soggy and torn, and said ,to himself-“Now, this is catastrophe.”

#################################################################################It was deemed a catastrophe for reasons more than one . It was what brought Neha close to him. The reclusive ,dainty. beautiful, Neha of Class 10.

Shami still remembers the annual function , when he was awarded the lamp for academic brilliance. "Lamp, brilliant!"What cliches, he had thought tiredly.

Suddenly someone  came and stood at his side. The Eva deospray. he knew the fragrance all too well, having sniffed it like a hound , on the staircase, several times when Neha had to rush to catch the impatiently purring school-bus."That girl pours a bottle of deo on herself every morning.What a waste !!"Maa would fume as she would fumble with the latch, rushing to drop Shami to coaching classes.

Another thing which Shami hated . Being in Class 12, he had to attend coaching classes and thereby miss the bus ride with Neha. The gorgeous Neha , reeking of  Eva and sunsilk shampoo, turning heads and tying  tongues.

"Can I hold it for a second?"
For a second ! Hold it for eternity, please. The lucky lamp. Wretched me!!
Shami dumbly thrust it into her hands. He stood watching her "oohing and aahing" over the silly thing , and had decided to give it to her , when Maa arrived. Spoiling all his chances, as she usually does.
"Hai beta!! " Maa had unceremoniously grabbed him and hugged him, thrusting his bespectacled face to her impossibly huge bosom,declaring her indelible maternal rights .Shami wriggled free, red faced and smoothed his hair. He  panted -"Maa, Neha."
Neha smiled sweetly and said -"Hello auntie!"
Then handing the lamp delicately back, she said-"I must be going. Thanks."Again the sweet , dimpled smile. Shami's heart skipped a beat.He watched the retreating back, mesmerised.
"Yeh uparwali ladki hai na, Mishra ki beti?"
Maa would descend to the vernacular,when she had to belittle someone.
Neha lived on the first floor,and her father was a junior employee in Papa's company.

#################################################################################

Shami sat with the sodden lamp , remembering how Neha had come down , in a first , to his home and helped him install the zero watt bulb, and how the chinese characters threw a flickering shadow on the wall. What he remembered most was the childlike glee that shone through her face and eyes. Lamp, brilliant.

The house was in a state of chaotic uproar. Papa was taping the plug points at floor level shut, to avoid flood water from entering the sockets.TV had been disconnected, and sat forlornly, darkly reflecting all the chaos. Maa was drying her bunny slippers with a noisy hair drier, looking fiercely amazonian with her hair in curlers, wet nightgown making sucking noises at her fat ankles, with each step.Papa was shouting at her -do-not-use-the-drier-woman.She shouted back what-will-i-wear-on-my-feet-then.

I was about to tell Maa that her feet are going to be perpetually wet , henceforth, when Papa waved a fifty rupees note in my face"Go and get some milk and bread , you good-for-nothing-lump-of-godknowswhat."
Papa was scared, and desperate.Hence, the anger. Normally he is inaudible.
Maa is the one in charge of decibel levels at home. She too cowered in silence now.Lights gave one last brave flicker, and went off. Plunging the mayhem into darkness.

#################################################################################
The market was, predictably closed. Papa probably knew this. He was just getting me out of the way.
The raindrops dolefully drummed on the umbrella,

Shami had rolled up his pajama legs , and was concentrating on the dripping umbrella not wetting him further, when he heard someone call him-"Shammi beta !"

He gaped at the sight of Mishraji , in rolled up pajamas holding a tray, and simpering behind him, Neha holding a large casserole, wearing a faded green frock and lighting up the day.
"Uncle! "
"We rang the bell, several times."
"Woh uncle !"Shami laughed embarrassed,"Maa used the drier on the inverter, and bijli conked off."

Shami grinned wickedly, trying to impress the father . Mishraji was wise, and didn't rise to the bait. He knew better than to laugh at his employer's wife's silly follies.He had a family to feed.

Shami's parents were still at it, hammer and tongs , when the door opened .

Hands on hips, his Maa exhorted-"I ask you ji, how is one supposed to know ki inverter on hai.?"
"The whole city is suffering powercut begumji."
#############################################################################

Half an hour later, in his dry clothes, Shami sat cross legged on Neha's sofa eating pakoras and drinking searingly sweet hot tea., and his father sat reviewing the flood situation on TV ,with Mishraji.

Ma , subdued sat in Neha's bedroom, Mishrani plying her with tea and pakoras, while Ma protested-"Mishrani , aap bataiyeji, how is one supposed to know ki inverter on hai?"

Neha busied herself setting up extra beds in the living room, as Mishraji had just asked them to sleep upstairs, "till the flood lasts.", and his papa had gratefully accepted.

Shami quietly prayed to the Lord that may the flood last forever,  smiling guiltily.

God

Tat twam asi
You are me
Namaste
I bow to thee

that part of you
which is me

aham bhrahmasmi
I am God
God is within me
So it should

 be within you
or the cosmos
resides within
walls of flesh and blood

for He resides within
you , me , all
and the collective good

Perfect weekend

The perfect weekend ?
No such word exists
At my bustling end
Crazy action persists

In fact, work intensifies
washing and cleaning
baking, frying the fries
everyone doing their thing

All at once,we gather,
family is home for the day
kitchen taken over by father
kids jump into the fray

emerging with steaming
tray after tray , of goodies
“aren’t we consuming
millions of calories”

Antacids, burps, long naps
the next meal is dry toast
and green tea, perhaps
to counter all fries and roast

Sigh!! Am waiting agog, 

For monday morning

For phenomenal dish washing

and write my blog 

Don’t take me wrong
but weekends cannot
be perfect,but long
-nosed, noisy and hot

But then, in the same tone
why does a fragrant,silent
and a squeaky clean home
leave you sad, with regret?

Silk and pearls

A huge , ornate tent with a saffron pennant flying high , beckoned her.
She walked in, hesitated, gingerly lifting the tent flap.
The air inside was cool , and perfumed with “ittar”, she recognised immediately.
There was a hushed silence .
Men, ornately dressed as Maratha warriors, sat against the fabric of the tent.
All were dressed in silk and pearls. Silken long kurtas, tight at the ankles churidars, strings of pearls swaying from their silken turbans,large swords with showy, bejewelled scabbards tied at hips.
At the far end , with a gigantic camel hair whisk slowly moving in arcs , sat the king.
He motioned to her with a bejewelled arm, softly tinkling and glinting with the gold and pearl jewellery , smelling of roses , again.
She stared mesmerised.
It was either a dream , or she had wandered into a movie set.

23 ways

The kitchen was quiet, despite both their presence. Unusual.
“There are 23 ways to cook rice.”
“Okay.”
She swallowed that, and immediately countered.
“Why not 24? It is an even number, 23 is prime and inauspicious.”
“Aargh girl! Do you really have to challenge everything I say ? Okay, so there are million, trillion , gazillion ways of cooking rice .” She exploded into theatrics, threw her arms wide, and promptly knocked a saucepan off the stove . The saucepan fell to the freshly mopped floor with a bang and clang, spraying dry rice in all directions.
Sheena ran to rescue, with a broom and dustpan,”That’s right. Always rise to the bait.” She thought, clucking at the sheer wastage.
The lady droned on”There is Spanish paella, Italian risotto, Japanese sushi……”
Sheena sighed and crossed her arms. Then she impatiently interrupted,
“Can we START making biryani now.”

Walk the line

“Walk the line , girls.”
A teacher bellowed and the prefects echoed.
“Walk the line ladies.”
“Walk the line sissies.”
So on and so forth. Every day the same cry after school assembly, as they were herded back into class rooms, like cows.
Anju felt she could strangulate them with bare hands, someday.
“That is not gonna happen.”
The kind , round face of Preethi poked into her reverie.This girl is a serious psychic.Thought Anju.
“What?Why?”
“Because in two years, you will be there,” she jerked her head towards the dais , quickly brushing off hair from her eyes,” yelling at the rest of us.”

The prophecy came true.Two years later.
“Walk the line , everybody.”
A full throated cry. Anju , on dais, met Preethi’s eye, and smiled , wistfully.
Preeti gave a thumbs up, and disappeared into the crowd.