Hostel bed

There were numerous “newar beds” with mattresses. There were white sheets and lumpy pillows in white too.

 Each bed had a small locker too, which had some personal efects of the last occupant.Mine had half a tube of Boroline , a used train ticket and a half smoked joint of i-dont-want-to-know-what .This was supposed to be our lodgings for the next year and half. But ebullience won over .

 I remember pillow fights and delicious gossip sessions during the nights. I also remember raiding others suitcases  , for paltry snack packets ., without any qualms of conscience.


Morning we had to queue for the loo and everyone with a person behind was in the danger of having her back smeared with toothpaste foam . Gross! Not to mention throwing of soap suds over the short walls to your neighbouring shower stall, to be met with a volley of abuses. 

To race to the dining hall , so that one is not the last one to have breakfast, in which case, you’ll get broken boiled eggs, hard ,cold toast, and no butter/jam. Even the tea could turn cold if one was not quick enough.

This is where I learnt to bolt my food.

The beds doubled as dining tables when the need arose to snack in between meals and classes, which was frequent. The beds also were de facto study desks . Lots of assignments were written , love letters drafted and projects completed on them. Morning they would also hear the crinkling of newsprint for the diligent few , who really read the paper, every morning picked up from the newspaper display board in the dorm , before leaving for assembly grounds.

Those pillows have also soaked up tears and dreams and laughter, and scorn and anxiety. `the mattresses are heavy with age and memories . Those beds were uncomfortable but great. One hardly noticed the discomfiture. You could blame it on the blinkered enthusiasm of  the youth .

Apparition

The corridor was deserted.
 The building silent.

 The sweeper , Rani was singing a bawdy song, and sweeping the rooms on the first floor . The lights were on in janitor's room, where he , his back to me , was fumbling with the giant bunch of keys. Just in time !! Thought I , as I raced to my classroom on the second floor.

Darkness had begun descending . The windows were ajar, and the evening breeze was rattling a loose corner of the chik curtain. I shivered as I made my way to my desk. The lid was not properly closed , as it was wont to , went not carefully placed . That was the reason, I got the seat in the first place , due to an ill fitting desk lid . So much for serendipity and sitting in the front row.

I gingerly lifted the lid , saying prayers in my mind . And lo behold , there it was , nestled amongst pencil shavings and paper scraps . My report -card.

I thanked the Lord and lifted it up. My parents would have thought I lost it on purpose . I wouldn't let any one think that could I ? I had a smug half smile on my face when some thing mad e a rustling sound at the door.

From my desk I could see the fluttering of a white habit . Oh God! Mother Superior ! Now what was I to say ? That I forgot my report card and had sprinted half way across the town  to collect it ? I could see myself get further delayed due to the lecture in tardiness and carelessness which I would certainly receive , and probably deserved too.

I walked up ahead, armed with a battery of excuses flying thick and fast inside my cranium.
"Good even...." My forced heartiness disappeared when I saw it was not Mother Superior , in fact , it was not any of the current nuns , residing in the convent right now . She was very fair , had a round face , and big eyes that stared straight ahead into the dark night , through the open windows , as if I didn't exist.

I froze and shivered . She seemed to be transfixed , and then a gentle "plop" resounded in the empty building with the ferocity of a gun-shot.She was standing in a pool of a dark fluid and a drop dripped from her hands into the pool.

Blood ! Her wrists were dripping blood !

My own scream 'came back to me resounding from all the walls of the  empty classrooms , magnified thousand times.

The apparition disappeared .

 Rani came racing to me , broom in hand . I decided to play it safe and said, I saw a rat. Janitor wanted to know , what was I doing in the classroom , at this time of the day / night ? Thankfully , my grandfather's search party was at the gate , in a rickshaw , and I was allowed to go home .

                                                      8888

Next day , there was not even a smudge at the spot . I expected a faint redness to explain what I saw the day before .

Using my own counsel , I kept the story of my adventure to myself till noontime ,when a phone call in the Father's office disrupted the tranquility of the school. All the sisters (nuns) in the staff-room , were seen weeping , and red eyed . The classes were suspended shortly afterwards, as they had to travel to a remote town to attend the last rites of a nun, a very pretty nun , called Sr. Neeta who slit her  wrists and was found dead in her bed today morning.

The Couch

The couch was in the house since the time memory starts. It was bought , at throwaway prices, at a garage sale . So it came with a baggage of memories of its own .
The cane arms had four layers with split bamboo reinforcements. The arms were used to rest steaming tea cups , TV remotes, newspapers and occasional aberrant school note book. It was worn and shiny. When it arrived , it was cream with brown, the brown eroding , and the cream chipped. Father got it painted in military green with maroon . That is how it stayed, along with the grime , and dirt it gathered through years of  indifferent living.
In one of the wooden bases, we , in our childhood pursuit of the trivial, discovered , "NEVA" carved in shaky capitals. Whether it was read aven , or was a name , remained a mystery to us . My brother thought it fit to carve his own name , and address next to it for posterity.His address would begin with the flat number , and  end in planet earth , universe ("So it is easier for aliens to place me "). Now why and how would aliens lift a 5kg cushion to read some thing written on the underside of a cracking couch , was a question never asked .
Two years ago, the couch was deemed too large and derelict, and was given to the help. She , too , having no use /space for such a large piece of furniture , placed it on the pavement in front of her house , where it became a haven for street urchins and passersby. Last I saw , a family of crows , mynahs and pigeons were ripping the stuffing apart to build their own nests.

What the snake thought

Saw this on the TV
a man puny and wee
picked up a snake
gave it a good shake

around twas whirled
by its tail twirled
Jaws were opened
the torso wound

All the while, there were
clicks, flashes and whirr
Everyone said well done
oh you son of a ***

Ever wonder what
the snake thought?
"what has brought
here , this idiot ?


To face such fools
with flashing tools
We cherish our privacy
we have a life too

How would you like
being whirled around
to flashes and clicks
held only by your nikes


your mouth forced
open,teeth counted
skin pinched
eyes poked

c'mon people go on
ahead, leave me alone
for so great is my wrath
you shouldn't be in my path !!"

Snake ( to all snake enthusiasts on tv)

On its ground it stood
and inflated its hood
coiled and arrayed
upon itself it swayed


A hiss as scary
an apt warning
or was it as wary
and panicking

of us as we were
of the reptile pretty
no doubt there
awesome symmetry

wave upon wave
of black and silvery
scale riding scale
 hypnotic, slithery

its magic sheer
when it is near
you,it can hear
even without ear(s)

beauty abounds,
dangerous sounds
folks do not hound
leave the ground

leave it in peace
to feed on mice
frogs and eggs
 from you it begs

a life of solitude
leave now dude
please do relent
to its resentment

Storytelling

“Sit down. I will tell you a story.”
All would comply,forthwith.She wouldn’t scream,or shout.She never needed to.One withering look was enough.
After that she took an eternity to chop her betel nut,wipe her mouth off,and then would start.
Tales that were so strange they could have emerged from the Arabian nights.
But every word was true. She said so and we believed her.
Of talking dogs who reminded you of missed meals. Of aeroplanes so huge, and so many, they darkened the skies ( Second World War).Of austerities and hardships.Of festivities and plentiful harvest.A beloved brother,deaf-mute, who walked into the sunset,never to come back.
Heartwarming tales of love and gut wrenching sagas of loss. Of lush green forests, denuded to dusty, barren fields, Of Gods and their wrath, of nature’s fury and benediction.
She unfolded her life,night after night,and we followed her eagerly, like pups, scared to lose the sight of her. Through decades and years,harvests past.
She raised broods of children,and each one of them flew the coop,telling her that they would return,to hear more nighttime stories.
But she knew better.
Smiling her wrinkled smile,she watched them soar in the sky,never to return.
Till one day,clad in the crisp white and red bridal saree,she touched her Snow White head to the threshold of her much-loved home ,and bade good bye,to her brood and barns,and cows and fields,to the hearth and the kitchen,and herself soared into the sky,unfettered.

The Hotel

"Are you sure this is the place ?'
The taxi driver nodded his head,  and started offloading my luggage . Within seconds he had dumped my one duffel bag and a faded strolley on the deserted drive way, and had driven away.
There was one solitary tube light dismally lighting up the exterior. It was an example of the ugliest possible architecture.

One of those designed by a mad millionaire. There was a garden with a profusion of garden gnomes , all painted hastily in bright whitewash. In the dark, all seemed to swivel towards me , facing me like so many ghosts. I quickly turned my gaze.

There was no security at the door.A huge brass knocker sounded somewhere deep in the bellies of this queer house , where I was supposed to spend my night, before catching the morning flight to my destination. It looked so exotic on the net, now I was having second thoughts. The parking lot was vacant. No one seemed to have checked in . Involuntarily, I shivered . I regretted having sent the taxi away.

I was still mulling serious thoughts of escape , when I heard a small cough next to me . I started and was about to yell, when i saw a small man in top hat and coat-tails standing next to me . The door was ajar. For the life of me, i do not remember seeing it open.

He coughed discreetly again before curtseying-"Mr. Miller. Hotel Sylvan Heights welcomes you.I am your concierge Carlton"
With that brief welcome , he quickly grabbed my luggage and swept in , noiselessly. The hallway lit up as soon as we stepped in . There were exotic chandeliers belonging to a bygone era , hanging from the high ceiling. Thick , maroon carpet with persian design covered the floor. There was not a soul in sight . But the place looked clean and well -kept.

Carlton glided ahead of me.We crossed the lobby and entered the lift.
"Your room is no. 203 sir, that is on second floor."was the first sentence , Carlton spoke as we faced each other in the lift.There was some thing in the way he spoke , that set one's teeth on edge . Perhaps it was that last century get up, and that weird victorian era bearings and accent.

"Tell me Carlton. Why is there no crowd here?" I asked him as the lift took us up
"Off-season sir." was his succinct reply.

We spoke no more. When he showed me my room, I had no more apprehensions . It was as lavish a suite as one could ever dream of staying in. There were gold plated bathroom fittings , snow white fluffy beddings on a four poster bed , fresh flowers on the living area table and a well stocked refrigerator.Carlton filled the bathtub with steaming hot water and I had one of the most relaxing baths , in a long while.

I was terribly hungry, when I emerged from the bath. As I stepped into the dining space , I was startled to see Carlton, standing with the food trolley.
"How did you come in ?"
"Spare key sir." was his spartan reply.
 My choicest dishes had been served up. I was amazed.
"How did you know my choice of meal ?"
"Your choices sir, in your room service requirement."
I vaguely remembered having filled some such silly detail , while booking the room.
Carlton waited patiently, as I ate . I must remember to leave  a generous tip, I thought, before I leave.

Befuddled with such an excellent meal, I slept like a baby. At 0230 am , I suddenly got up with a start.I was sweating , and I thought I heard screams of "Fire !Fire!"I saw an orange glow outside the window and suddenly the curtains burst into flames.A moment later, my four poster bed was aflame. I opened my mouth to scream , but no sound came out. I was frozen on my bed , and fell unconscious. When I came to. there was no fire any where and I was extremely thirsty, I could see some one standing in the room.Even in the dark, I could make out the top-hat.
"Carlton !"I called out. The figure did not move , neither did it respond. I switched on the bedside lamp, and saw Carlton standing there holding a pitcher of water.
"Oh, Thank God , Carlton .Was there a fire Carlton?"
"No , sire, you must have dreamt."
"Yeah, right!Some dream.You gave me such a scare . How did you..? Oh the spare key of course."I kept blabbering, unaware of an intense look, that he fixed me with.
"In the morning , I have to attend to other chores , sire . I may not be able to present myself. But the taxi has been booked for at 0630hrs and your needs will be attended to. Good night sire."
He , then, melted into the darkness.
Groggy with sleep, I slept off instantly afterwards.

Next morning, my hot breakfast waited for me on the table ,but this time there was no Carlton. I remembered what he told me last night. My clothes were kept neatly folded, for me to wear, and my shoes had been polished . I couldn't have asked for more . As I wheeled my strolley and duffel out, the lift moved up to my floor, and stopped, the grill opened on its own , before I could touch it,I marvelled at the technology and remembered the tip. As i reached front desk, which was as unmanned as it was last night, I hastily took out an envelope and placed some bank notes into it. Grabbing a pen I scribbled "For Carlton ."" Thanking you for your impeccable service ." and placed it on the counter.

I could hear the taxi purring outside , so I had to leave.

Few weeks later, I met some friends who lived in the city M, where I had such a memorable stay at the Hotel Sylvan Heights;which I happened to mention to them. I also added, to spite them, that they had never mentioned such a fine hotel of their city .

They all looked at each other , in wonder, then at me . After a while , one of them spoke haltingly,

"Hotel Sylvan Heights you say."
"Yes! " I went onto describe the hotel in great details , and how it was manned by only one man , who was the concierge and the waiter , all in one .As I kept speaking , their eyes kept widening in ever increasing wonder and fear.

There was a long silence after I concluded. Then one of them spoke ,"But you see Miller, the fact is , this hotel you speak so highly of ,has been gutted in a fire two months back. No one died in that accident , all were saved thanks to the diligence and bravery of a waiter called Carlton, the only casualty of the fire."

There was a long silence . Then I began laughing hysterically. I challenged them to come and have a look at the said hotel. My friends stared at me , as though they seriously doubted my sanity.

On my insistence, they agreed to visit the" site", as they kept calling the hotel, next Monday. Even if it was to "clear my mind " and thereby proving their point.

Nothing could prepare me for the jolt I received. The walls, or what remained of them , were charred black, the garden gnomes,sooty, faceless. The place still reeked of smoke and profound dereliction met everywhere.Gone was the beauty and opulence, I had seen.

My friends had that "I told you so" smug look on the face , whereas I was speechless with horror. As we entered  those massive doors, now burnt and charred, I showed them what was left of the reception  desk, when my eyes fell on some thing I recognised, instantly. I stopped mid sentence.

A white envelope , with"For Carlton.""Thank you for your impeccable services" written in my writing on top stood out amidst the cinders and the wreckage.I quietly picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket. There was no point showing this piece of evidence to my already gloating friends.

When I reached home, I smoothed it out . Inside , the banknotes were missing . A piece of white handmade paper fell out. Under the majestic seal of the hotel, was typed -"Thank you, Mr. Miller."

How my sister went off Shakespeare

It had rained in the evening.The eaves were still dripping. The narrow gully between the garage and the house was full of a slush of soggy dead mango leaves , odd scraps of paper with failed literary attempts, and mud.

Talking of literary, the house was forever full of books . Old masterpieces languishing in large wooden trunks , painted green, that served the dual purpose of settees.The paint would be cracking and peeling off , revealing its age .

 Large , inbuilt cupboards with ornate wooden facades, done up in gleaming varnish and glistening metal. These had more recent treasures, namely , magazines and books from this decade , perused by family members, who had moved on to other parts of country, and other phases of life , matrimony , and worse. But , unfortunately, these cupboards were padlocked. Like the treasures of yore.

Wheedling the matriarch for the key, required tremendous patience , and time to wade through inquisitional enquiries, not to mention the breathing-down -the -neck deadlines."I want the key back in five minutes, got it?And no reading dirty books." Dirty books , in the prohibitionist era I am talking about , meant mills and boons("too much kissing-shishing") , or film magazines with pictures of sultry sirens pouting on the covers.("Chhee! Dirty women")

So, an easy option was to lift the "gaddi" and the "Chadar" off the settee, take the help of a co-conspirator, lift the lid, and help oneself to Camus, Sartre, Shakespeare , George Orwell , or the Puranas ( for the religious minded). Easy.

So it came to pass that the girl, a teenager, was perched on the window sill, its rusty bars still wet from rain, overlooking the garage , absorbed in "Macbeth." The three witches were brewing their potion and singing their grisly song, when a swish and a thud sounded from the narrow gully.

In the failing light of the dusk, the reader, a teenaged girl of some what hysterical disposition,mind befuddled by witches' incantations, saw a bundle of white lift itself off the slush, cursing profusely in the vernacular, and  metamorphosing into a bent old woman , toothless except for two abnormally large incisors,  broken specs , held in place with a string, mud all over her wrinkled face , raising one gnarled hand ahead of her , through the wet window bars, calling "Beti, Beti"(daughter), with a mud-encrusted nail , coming, as she claimed later, within inches of her nose .

A blood curdling scream rent the air . Followed by several shorter screams calling on God and parents to save her.

Everyone froze. The matriarch froze in her stocktaking of supplies . The mother's hand froze in the kitchen , ladling the "dal".The patriarch  froze mid -weekly calculations , and the toddlers froze , mid play.

Next moment , pandemonium, total chaos . The matriarch roared , racing to the bed room , a broom in hand , mother screamed and stood in the verandah, dal ladle in hand , the toddlers , in a remnant of some primeval hunting memory, answered back in howls and screams of their own. No one answered the patriarch's confused "What ?what?where?"

So loud was the melee, that kindly neighbours barged in, armed with lathis ready to kill the intruder immaterial of its species, reptilian or not.

The old woman was dragged out from the gully, by the muscular arms of her own son , and was shouted into her hard of hearing ears , that she had strayed into the wrong house and that her daughter worked at the neighbouring house. The teenaged girl was given a infusion of honey with basil leaves , into which the matriarch had mumbled some chantings of fearlessness, (not unlike macbeth's witches ), all the kids were made to touch their foreheads at the feet of Hanuman's garish painting in the pooja room.Mother made a last round of cardamom tea and quietly wept for her high strung daughter.

The girl, however, slept in her mother's bed that night, clutching hanuman chalisa to her bosom and holding her mother's hand with the other.

She never read Macbeth or Shakespeare for that matter, ever again. 

Kindred animals

The cat was definitely malevolent. It could narrow down its translucent green eyes , and out stare you. It curled itself up on the abandoned mattress stuffing on the terrace and listen to the conversations, gossip sessions , fights going on in the house below. Her eyes would be tightly shut. Pretending to be asleep . What gave away was the cocking of the ears at the sound of any human shout or cackle of laughter or scream.

 Finally, she would tire of eavesdropping,wake up with a yawn and a stretch, and go in search of food.
The dogs, sniffing her evil presence , would go into a barking frenzy.

The widowed sister of my neighbour, Mr Mehta, would shoo away the dogs, and feed her milk straight from the breakfast table , much to the chagrin of the finicky Mrs, Mehta. The widow would pour the lukewarm milk into her own plate and allow the cat to lap it up. She saved the cat , Another thing that saved the cat was the cat’s phenomenal speed . With the hiss of an angry goose and a loud miaow , she would take off, a blur of gray fur, with the dogs in hot pursuit.

She would climb unreachable places , like the roof of Mr. Mehta's garage, or the top of Mrs. Mehta's cucumber vine frame, and sit there , calmly cleaning herself, while the dogs below , barked themselves silly.

Mrs. Mehta never appreciated the cat. Neither did she appreciate the widow much.Grapevine said that the daily act of feeding the cat the milk meant for her, was done to spite Mrs.Mehta. Others said the widow was checking if her milk was poisoned. Either way, it pissed off Mrs.Mehta, big time. She would silently register a protest by picking her plate off, and drinking her tea in the kitchen, alone . She also started segregating the widow's plate . In the neighbourhood, the widow came to be known as the "cat lady".

They shared a strange bond , the cat and the widow. Kindred spirits they were. The widow would sit on the balcony, with the newspaper on her lap, and stare at every passerby , sternly, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Maids would hastily pass by , with a cursory, unanswered greeting; the milkman would give her a toothy smile , which made her look sterner, and the street urchins, rag pickers would ignore her. The cat would slumber on the roof top, directly above her.When their friendship deepened, the cat would lay at her feet, on widow's chair cushion, wrapped up in the warmth of widow's pashmina shawl, which Mr. Mehta had bought for her from Kashmir. Mrs Mehta fretted and fumed , as the list of ostracised items (and rendered untouchable , having touched "the stray" , as she called the cat) increased in number and cost.

Then disaster struck. On one of  her furious encounters with the dogs , the cat was struck by a speeding car and died. She was picked up by the garbage truck chaps , after prolonged haggling , and eventually having settled for Rs.100, very reluctantly shelled out by Mrs . Mehta, as the dead cat lay right at her doorstep. The widow watched everything from her balcony, sitting there , frozen , as if made of stone .

Then she picked up her cane and hobbled in. Turned and shut the door . The balcony remained bereft of any human or animal presence , for the rest of that winter. Cold winds , howled at the door , seeking admittance , and blew up dry ficus leaves in great heaps . A maid would periodically sweep them away.

Word spread around that the widow was sick, very sick. Some said the cat spirit had come to claim her. She couldn't get off the bed , and wouldn't eat.Every day a doctor would be called to see her. Mr. Mehta stopped going for work. Mrs. Mehta , forgetting her warfare, would be found engulfed in distressed sobbing at odd places, at the grocers, or standing in the queue at the vegetable truck. Servants' said it was just a matter of days. 

The widow lay staring at the ceiling, saying nothing, wishing, or so it seemed , for death to relieve her. But death does not follow orders.Days stretched into weeks . The widow turned gaunt , a shadow of her former self.

  Few days later, one of the stray bitches gave birth to a litter of puppies. Driven by cold wind and hunger, they took refuge in the dry drain outside Mrs. Mehta's balcony, burrowing in the heaps of ficus leaves. 

By some strange quirk of fate , their hungry squeals woke up the widow. Propping herself on her elbow , she asked Mr. Mehta to feed them milk. 

Next day , a miraculous sight greeted the neighbourhood. In the balcony of the Mehtas, sat the widow , gaunt but smiling with contentment, with her newspaper and glasses-perched -on-nose-bridge,while a litter of puppies frolicked on chair cushions (Mrs.Mehta having happily donated her entire set of five cushions ) having torn the pashmina shawl threadbare, and licked a large bowl of milk clean.

Mr. Mehta also joined back the same day. Mrs. Mehta took to smiling, and cracking jokes in the vegetable truck queue.

Eating of one's words

You may say this and you may say that
One thing you must be sure at
all your sentences, thoughts and words
You will have to eat , afterwards

Though one may seem smart
to make pithy judgements
It may help you make a mark
but there is no permanence

In the slippery world of destiny
Tables turn and situation alters
Within matter of fractions tiny
of a second. What matters

is the ability to eat humble pie
for providence shall ensure
somehow , before you die
to swallow each word you utter

better keep them nice and sweet
so as to be able to gobble and eat
as one may devour a treat
before your end you meet

My family

My family consists of a lot of different minded people. We rarely see eye to eye on major topics. But we pull along . Some where along the way , all the differences , quite paradoxically, has cemented our bonds.
At a get together, lots of food , catering to different palates and tastes have to be cooked . Some are finicky eaters, others (like your’s truly) do not care what is served , so long as it is edible.
Not even beverages are spared. Some like coffee, others tea. Some like it black, some milky and sweet.
Some love the dog. Some just stare coldly into his eyes. Others shriek at the sight of him.
Some love peas, some hate it. Some love meat, others will give meat eaters a wide berth at meal times , igniting furious debates on “benefits of vegetarianism vis-a-vis non vegetarianism”.
But we have managed to have some pretty beautiful moments along the way, through the years. Some placid, sitting on the rug and playing scrabble type moments , and some hair-raising ,climbing the hill in pouring rain type moments .
But we care for each other, and , in the end , that is what matters.

"Ain't She sweet?"

“Ain’t she sweet ?” This is the remark reserved for Vishal Bhardwaj’s heroines.
She talks softly , giggles when in hordes, lowers her eyes when talking to elders , and is seldom seen without garish make-up and seriously ethnic outfits.
She is forever found on the terrace , watering the gardenias with a gigantic watering can , looking dewy-eyed out for their prince charming arriving in a dust cloud on the faraway village road.
She sings loudly only in the bathrooms , where, we presume , she is permitted to produce certain other unparliamentary noises too. She never swears or burps.
“Ain’t She sweet ?”
By the way, she never voices her opinions , in fact she never voices anything , and demurely marries whosoever their thakur father decides appropriate . She never rants or raves, never falls in love, is a brilliant student and a perfect match for thakur’s rich friend’s way ward son.
She suffers in silence and smiles sweetly while suffering too.
“Ain’t she sweet ?”

Eyes

He came out of the staff room with a lopsided grin, and an unsteady gait.
First thought is ” here comes another drunk.” Then you look at the eyes . The eyes that gleam with the insane intense glare. The “mad gleam ” . Legs take flight , even before the brain has reasoned out actions . The response is primeval, almost involuntary.
The head tutor screams “Wait , he is harmless.”
As if he were a pet blood hound.
But by now, i am already half way, down the first flight of stairs.
He is drooling over the banisters, peering down , laughing his hiccoughy , scary laugh.
I look up and see the eyes again. Staring, strangely unlaughing. An old scar glistens in a silvery arc from the corner of the mouth.
I dash into the first floor lift, panting like some hunted animal.

Crunchy

Rice flakes.
Poha dry roasted over sand , patiently, as sand turns black, poha pops into snowy flakes.
Crunchy.
Rice flakes were the breakfast for us and so many people milling around us.
Dunked into milk, or mish-mashed with thick curd, with red jaggery or plain salted. It could be a staple , or with roasted peanuts , metamorphose into a snack.
It was the noisiest meal one could ever have .
Crunchy and satisfying.
Memories of some of the simplest, earthiest and fulfilling meals of one’s life .

Fantasy weekend

Fantasy weekend.
To shampoo and sit in the sun, dry one’s hair, watch the squirrels scamper up and down the trees.
To stand at the lip of the Grand Canyon and wonder about the immense vastness of land .
To eat walnut and chocolate brownie with vanilla ice-cream .
To read Mark Twain’s collection all over again.
To write down some of choicest Bulle Shah’s poetry, before returning the library book.
To sit down and wonder, just plain open -mouthed wonder, at this creation, without being judged “mad” or “time waster”.
To sing loudly,off-key, in the shower.

New Beginnings

The bus stood purring, Puneeta was late!! She started sprinting, and the driver waved her impatiently in.
First day in the new school, too!

There was a massive traffic jam at the Mullanpur, as some trade union was taking out a procession complete with red flags and slogan-shouting workers. The entire stretch of 5kms had to be crossed , at a crawling pace and honking vehicles followed.
The school verandah was deserted ,and the class-rooms were humming with activity. The neatly dressed children sat on their benches,and some of the brats rudely stuck out their tongues at her and some shook an admonitory finger at her.
Other kids from the bus ran ahead and into their classrooms , in a trice. Puneeta was left standing in the porch,from where she could see the principal’s office and the clerk’s office . A stately looking woman emerged from one of the doors, clad in sky blue sari, and a brown blazer. She peered at her over her half-moon spectacles .
“New student ?” It was more of a statement and less of a question. Puneeta nodded dumbly.
She whipped out her wrist from underneath her blazer,looked at the time , and bored her eyes into Puneeta’s head.
“You are late!” She pronounced. Puneet half-heard the judge’s gavel thumping in accent.

"Science ?" Again , the same assertive tone . This time Puneeta found her voice -"Yes , ma'am."

"First floor", She jerked her head , followed by a grunt, which Puneeta took to mean 'scram'. So She was literally running up the stairs , when she overtook a smallish girl, slowly navigating the steps. She too, was attired similarly, in a  navy blue skirt, and a white shirt with a tie . The stockings were missing. 'Class eleven'. Puneeta's mind registered. 

"Hi! Can you tell me where Class eleven Science is ?"

The small girl stopped, panted, and gave a gorgeous, buck-toothed smile .

She thrust out her hand -"Meghna Chauhan, XI Science ! Et Tu Brute !"

The smile broadened. Puneeta gave a smile and grabbed her hand , nodding.

Straightaway, the small girl launched into her antecedents , her last school, friends , "preferences", books etc. She wouldn't let Puneeta get in a word edgewise. Puneeta smiled. This girl Meghna has a lock of hair , which she kept tossing ,so much like Rekha , Puneeta thought.Rekha was her best friend and desk mate in the last school.

They had reached XI Science, a loose wooden board proclaimed. The class was in progress. A very fair, pretty lady , with a top-knot, was teaching something. She was clad in a pink and white tant saree, which emphasised her ample girth. She said something, and the class guffawed. 

"Yes my dears, " She turned her attention to the newcomers, before announcing their names .Both secured an empty desk by the door , and Mrs. Banerjee, continued to expound her brand of humor on Macbeth.At the end of the class , Mrs. Banerjee announced, "I need some strong armed girls to carry this load of notebooks for me to the staff -room."

Puneeta chatted happily with Meghna as they carried the load.

Mrs.Banerjee thanked them with a dazzling smile of perfect pearly teeth encased in heavily  glossed pink lips.

Puneeta was happy. She could tell, she was going to enjoy the new school.

Gratitude

Gratitude is the toothless smile that accompanied my grandfather’s “thank you bachcha ” when I reached his cup of tea to him, spilling half of it in saucer, in babyish clumsiness.
Gratitude is the upturned face of a farmer , allowing fat rain drops to wash over, after a parched summer.
Gratitude is a finicky teenager , heartily tucking into a previously denounced meal of boiled peas.
Gratitude is a live saving skill, used adroitly , to pull some one ,from the very jaws of annihilation.
Gratitude is your child urging you to finish your soup, and to “be strong, mama.”
Gratitude is the first ray of a brilliant sunshine , after hours of thick,grey fog.

Candles

Candles were the order of the day, when kerosene was out of stock in our small town. Any small ripple would have a huge effect on our living. A day of deluge , a political rally, a local circus , everything affected supplies . Kerosene , coal , newspapers and other sundry items were most affected . 

In the twilight, we were asked to keep our supplies of candles , matchboxes and sturdy glass and bronze candle stands ready. One never knew how long a power outage would last. So, important home works were finished by dusk, while the sun was slowly disappearing over the hill. Candle light would flicker, and was messy, so it was good for a round of scrabble , gossip session, diary-writing or finishing off the last comics , which had to be returned to its owner the next morning, taking care to keep the pages wax-free.

A cousin recounted how power outage used to hit them . every night without fail, at dinner time , in the hostel dining hall. A nimble chap from the kitchen would affix thick candles on the ceiling fan blades. When the lights came on, the fan blades moved and the candles were automatically snuffed out.