Write to me

” And remember, no late night parties,”
“Yesss Mom.” The kid sighed .
“Write to me . at least once a week.” Dry- mouthed , I continued , in the same vein .Oblivious of the irritation , in the kids voice.
“Write?” She sounded hurt, almost as if I had asked her to do shirshasana (head-stand).
“Okay, email.” I was sounding sheepish, desperate. . Some people jostled past her , into the compartment, almost knocking her off her feet. Beasts.
“No jumping into friendships , take your time , use your judgement.” My husband was pulling me away , with the warning look that said “stop it now , enough already, ( Bachche ko tang karna band karo )”
My kid rolled her eyes.
“Don’t miss your meals .”
She waved quickly and the in-front -of -the bathroom-door- crowd , immediately swallowed her.
The train started moving.
Horrified, I freed myself from the grip of my hubby and ran to the darkened windows of the AC coach, scanning for my baby.
Why do they darken the windows?Heart- in -the-mouth,I realized that half of my wisdom, was left unsaid.

The train gathered speed, and rushed away, into a bright and dusty noon, carrying my heart and soul with it. My eyes welled up. When she would study , I would goad her to get good marks and get a seat in a good college. Now that my long -standing dream had come true , I was standing here, weeping on the platform , when I should be thankful to the Lord.

Grateful to a better half also , who is right now , balancing , one bisleri bottle and two coffees , with my favourite magazine under his sweaty armpits.
I smile through my tears .

Life is full of contradictions . That is its beauty.

The thief

The first time it happened , my daughter , walked upto me and said , bitterly , “Right under your nose , mama?”
My husband , as usual , blamed my blog-writing , and casual approach to life in general and cash in particular.
I was , I agree , overcautious , the second time round.
I hovered around like a deranged spirit, like a ghost with demands and never left her side , except , once , I think, to make some tea.
I had just lit up the stove and put the pan on ( without the water/milk), and she had done it. With lightning speed. That day , I lost my beautiful new saucepan (charred bottom), cash (2 grand ) and credibility ( in the eyes of my kids and better half).
It had to be she .
Who else ?
With admirable restraint and unusual tact, my hubby , told her , in vernacular , after a long winded explanation, that we no longer required her services , Thank you very much.

Yes

For years , she lived in that house
At the noisy street corner
where the world converged
at her doorstep.
But the noise , the dust
the hustle and the bustle
was forbidden inside
her sterile rooms
you left it in the hall
with your shoes and umbrella
and entered a ghost filled
red floored house
dark with remembrances
and heavy with sorrow
The window shutters creaked
as the wind and sun outside
knocked and sought admittance
Tired, alone and broke
one day , she said
“Yes”
and the shutters flew open
and wind sailed right in
Yes to the sunshine and laughter
from the street below
Yes to the smell of 
pakoras frying in dubious oil
Yes to fresh faced children 
going to school
yes to dead leaves and dust 
that quickly congregated 
on the polished  surfaces
Her long dead husband 
who inhabited the 
red tiled corridors 
of her mind , came to her 
in her dreams and shook his 
ghostly head in dismay
To him, with supreme courage 
the widow replied 
"go away, leave me alone 
you  are long gone "
and watch him fade 
like the patch of fungus 
on her bedroom wall, in the 
bright sun

Manikantan

The duty room bustled with activity. It was the time for “rounds.”
 Small groups of people, freshly bathed, perfumed and wearing crisply starched, and ironed uniforms , busied themselves .
Someone, gloved-handed, labelled blood specimens diligently in a corner. A worried looking nurse hastily noted down changes in treatments of half a dozen patients, as told slowly and thoughtfully by the short, stocky and fair onco-physician, his juniors and interns, reverentially recording each biblical utterance , in their own note-pads.
With gold-rimmed sparkling glasses perched on her nose, a matron watched the proceedings , hands on hips, an uncertain smile hovering on her thin ,pink, lip glossed lips, while pretending to be busy with a register.
No one noticed the sudden appearance of a young , dark , mustachioed man at the doorstep. Clad in a blood stained lungi, and a torn vest, both his arms held something heavy behind his back.
Wide -eyes bright with excitement, he grinned, revealing bloodied gums and teeth , and screamed , in chaste malayalam, “Who wants to be hammered ?” Swinging a heavy hammer and bringing it down with a ear-splitting crash on the nearest table , loaded with files. Files, papers , splinters and dust flew in all directions.
Someone screamed , and then the deafening silence, as dust settled.
The matron moved swiftly forward. 
"Manikantan, mon (Manikantan , my son )."She tried to grab his arm , as group of doctors and rushing ward -boys gathered around them.
Nimbly, he sprang backwards, screaming"Don't mon me !!I am not your mon!!"
He again swung the hammer forward. Swiftly, a bunch of ward -boys moved in and divested him of his weapon, catching it in mid-air.
He gurgled and spat a huge blob of congealed blood mixed with saliva, which landed on matron's pristine white tunic, trickling down, dolefully.
Muttering insults, he was led down the corridor, as he struggled futilely, against his stronger captors.

"Amazing! What came over Mani?"
Everyone talked in whispers as debris were cleared in large sweeps by the dark, scary and stout Kanta bai. "Usko bhoot chad gaya hoyenga , maloom "(he is bewitched), she shook her large, curly haired head with utmost certainty.
Manikantan was the ideal patient. Filling in registers, stitching masks ( for chemo , autoimmune diseases, transplant patients), and helping the staff in numerous other jobs, thereby , rightly earning the epithet of "mon" from the" monster" matron herself.
He would hold hot discussions over the supremacy of Mohanlal versus Mammootty, with malayali girls , and was the first one to rush to the duty room to inform of the tragic demise of Princess Diana.
Only last week he was diagnosed as ALL(Acute Lymphocytic  Leukemia).

And today , he started bleeding, just like that. Spitting blood from the mouth, blowing clots from the nose, and wiping them on his already blood stained lungi.
Then , he went berserk, with the hammer from the garden stores.

"Intra cerebral bleed ."The onco physician gloomily admitted . He was shifted to ICU, and put on DIL(Dangerously Ill List)
The morning duties had his clothes changed into white pyjamas, which swiftly turned crimson in patches.His face bore a wild terrified look.
Despite blood, plasma and mannitol  being transfused round the clock,  by evening Mani had slipped into deep , unarousable coma.
At seven next morning, while the sun rose on a bright and cheerful day, Sapper Manikantan,22,unmarried, of 32 Grenadiers, only son of his parents , Army no, 57321Y , "Mani " to sweepers and "Mon " to matron, had been mercifully claimed by death , as one of its own.

Ironically, Manikantan meant "a boy with a bell around his neck". Meant to signify Lord Ayappa, the indestructible, the invincible.

Geezers and old broads

Love the Geezers and the Old broads.
For I am one old broad on the road,
With a stilting accent, grey haired head
With ideas , ancient ,senile and faded

I still give criticism a toss
For I am my own boss
and like Selena croons
I say ” Who says?”

I can't understand the fascination

with KFC, McDonald and Pizza Hut 

To me they seem like abomination

I'd rather cook and at home stay-put,

Ah! the gizmos,phones and laptops 

and though difficult , I learnt to email, right?

 I may walk with a stick and rely on drops

for eyes, nose, throat, and for feces "tight"

It pains me to see the shorts they wear,

the brats whom I live with and bear,

frayed and cut ruthlessly,egad !!

they hear heavy metal noise, all fad

Gone are the melodies of our times

when songs struck a cord in hearts

and the lyrics and ah , the rhymes !

I still hum in the shower some parts

I can chew even with my dentures on

please do not puree the sabzi into a slime 

I still enjoy my buttered corn, 

sublime with a sprinkling of lime

My world is still very much alive 

though I can't say the same of me 

or any one else of my time 

But on adversity , I thrive 

So long as yama's noose

 escapes my neck 

I shall live the truce 

with death, what the heck!

With a prance and a pout

with the flounce and cheery face 

to good use  shall I put 

every breath lent to me by His Grace.    

  

Four gold bangles (and an steel kada)

When mother was carted away
in a net of tubes
hanging all over
alien
scary
beeping heartbeats
they pressed
four gold bangles
and a steel kada
on her palm.
warm and
well worn bereft of
the wrist
that held them

misshapen
and bruised
from thousands
of hours of
atta kneading
shoe polishing
clothes washing
hair combing

A mammoth
of maternal care
being carted away
in ignominy
and anonymity.

fear and abandon
gnawing at
the pit of the
stomach

hot tears
falling on cold metal.

Brushes

My toothbrush has frayed
and has started
to curl around
the edges
My hairbrush landed
in the dustbin yesterday
and was
almost carted away
I burnt the wooden handle
of my carpet brush
while prodding
the embers of a
dying fire
last winter.
Then someone
(someone naughty , I guess)
singed the plastic bristles
of my clothes brush
to a charred sticky
smelly crisp
Phew , I have
brushes
with danger
everyday.
But I mostly
brush the fear
aside
The sage brush
needs trimming
and my paint brushes
are hard and caked
stiff from my daughter’s
brush with art.

gathering stories

Like squirrels gathering nuts
like poor women of the village
gathering cattle fodder , firewood;
like a billionaire amassing wealth
like a miser hoarding his
coins
like a child collecting butterfly
wings
I gathered stories
at the knee of my
grandparents / parents
uncles/aunts
under a starlit sky
in crowded bazaars
in faces wrinkled in time
in crinkled food wrappers
in magazine pages smudged
with grease
in trains
while travelling
in shops while buying
and at home when I ask
the maid
how are you ?

To all expatriates

The Gods
have fled
abandoned
the field
of succour
and strife

they are
looking for
life
elsewhere
some place else
to call their home

where aliens
live
and narrow their
eyes suspiciously
sniffing cautiously
treading softly

how do they
know?

you might be carrying
the ancient contagion
of
your hoary past
with you
in your blood
and exhaled breath

they have detected
altruism
and compassion
and they find you
too good to be true.

Chhaya di

Chhaya di had a battered aluminium sauce pan. It was blackened at the base , had several dents and bruises all over, and the handle was broken. If I remember correctly. it leaked at two twin holes, where the bolts had been earlier.
 Of all her worldly possessions , which were meagre, this one object stands out in my memory. Why ?
I think it is because , it symbolised Chhaya di most. She was down and out, but not broken . She was the living example of  a fighting spirit, never giving up in the face of hardest of adversities.

So, whenever we visited her , tea would be boiled in the said sauce pan , taking care not to let all the frothy goodness escape from the bolt-holes, then it would be rinsed and scrubbed, and french toast would be fried in the same pan.

Chhaya di was a nurse. Retired as a matron. She was the eldest sibling in a house full of countless members. She was the first one to acquire a diploma , and first to leave the fish pond filled village , and squalor filled home , for the city.

She earned money , and sent back home . She would proudly recount the achievements of her younger brothers, jobs, marriages, kids. She , herself , continue to live the life of severe austerity and denial, that was almost shocking.

She would deny herself holidays, new clothes , anything that smacked of indulgence. What might come across as miserliness to us , was the only way of life,she permitted for herself.

She saved every penny, so she would live a  life of comfort with her brothers' family, post retirement. She saved so she could travel to vaishno-devi some day. She saved for a tomorrow that never came .

Post retirement, her sharp tongue led to numerous tiffs in her brothers' household, till she was told in no uncertain terms, that she was no longer welcome there, fat purse notwithstanding ( another example of money not being able to buy you everything in this world).
Disillusioned, she came back to the city, to be diagnosed as a case of disseminated carcinoma of the bones. She had multiple fractures, was confined to the bed for most of her illness, and all her life's savings evaporated in her hospice care.
She passed away a broken being , literally.
All her life she dreamt of living with her family, none of whom were present at her funeral. Her pyre was lit by a kindly neighbour.
As fate would have it, that day fell on the eighth day of the Durga Puja , so all the Gods were in attendance.

And you grew up

In a slip
a blink
you
disappeared

from the cuddly
small
manageable
huggable
mass of giggles
and tears

you pole vaulted
into
an alien world
of mock adulthood

Holding an
bucket
bereft
of promises
I clean
a patch of your
window pane
dusty
with secrecy

and peep
in
unashamedly
voyeuristic

unspoken
accusations
seep
out of your
eyes.
like headless
horsemen
they charge
and gallop
laying
waste
my years
of hope

dont look
at me
so
I am no
oracle
please
tell me
all.
so I may
prepare
to
break
your fall

The untouchable saint

A large basket full of gaudy, fleshy and fragrant  blossoms , freshly plucked and cleaned  with generous splashes of well-water was deposited at the doorway.Narua wiped his hand on his dhoti and moved away.
 Narua was not permitted inside the pooja room.
 Despite the drumming of her ancestors, about who was a clean caste and who was not, grandmother always made exceptions.
Narua's father was never permitted till the first doorstep.
Narua was employed as a cook and a help.
Especially useful during the strained days of pujo,when the manpower crunch was profound.
All caste and cleanliness issues were conveniently flung out , in view of practicality.

But , puja room, and brahmin bhoj were two areas , where Narua was still not allowed. It was accepted matter-of-factly , without any fuss. He would stand patiently at the doorstep, with whatever he had been asked to fetch, till someone retrieved it from his hands : someone , bathed, clean, and non-menstruating (menstruating girls were deemed unclean too).

That day was no exception.A large group of brahmins, and a larger group of brahmin kids, male and female, were expected.Large tubs of water were kept at the doorway, and Narua kept a dry towel on the bench, standing , untouching, at a respectful distance.It was actually a farce on a huge scale. Narua was expected to help the younger kids , sometimes holding (and thereby touching ) their hands.

A menstruating me , confined to the bedroom, could watch this from the bedroom window.

Narua had just helped a baby wipe his hands. His hands held the towel. An adult male cleared his throat behind Narua. With a start, Naruah respectfully , replaced the towel on the bench , and stood two paces behind , his head bowed. The dhoti clad man first kicked the towel down , then proceeded to trample it . Next he called Narua, said something to him, I couldn't hear. Narua hesitated for a second , before placing his open palms , in front of the brahmin. I thought he was about to touch his feet. What happened next took my  breath away. The old man spat into Naruah's palms , once, twice ,thrice.
I got up from my stool, my heart beating , ears burning. No one had ever done this to anyone in my home . Narua, the magic cook, Narua my storyteller, Narua , the hoister-of -brats -on -backs, stood in the blistering sun, with red pan spittle dribbling down his fingers, bowing his head silently.

I thought I should run out right this moment and tell my grandparents about this, but I was under curfew. But I could run to my brother's room from another door, which I did . Dada, too, under curfew(unwashed due to fever) plotted revenge with me. He said he would shoot the bastard with dadu's hunting rifle (that made me feel good ) or bludgeon him with his new pujo gift of a cricket bat (better)

As fate would have it, situations turned table , rapidly, that very afternoon.
After a hearty meal of pooris, and and an assortment of sweetmeats, the brahmins took their leave , one by one , chewing betel nuts and clutching gifts of clothing etc .I had already pointed out the culprit to dada through a crack in the door. He was the eldest son of the village pundit, motilalji. He , being the largest and slowest hogger of them all, emerged in the end , hiccuping and sweating from a clear over-indulgence.(My grandmother always sighed ,"Moti"s Sons . Humph!!")

Before he could reach the water tub-towel-Narua complex for washing his hands,he tripped unsteadily , his feet caught in his dhoti-folds , let out a piercing scream , and fell down, face first
in a mud path rendered soft and squishy, thanks to numerous brahmin feet traversing to and fro, with wet slippers.

Next , he started convulsing . "Mirgi" (epilepsy)!! Serves him right."Dada and I looked at each other and grinned in delight, craning our necks .

The entire  bhoj ejected in large sickening blobs of vomitus from his mouth. Narua swung into action. Grabbing a clean towel, he hoisted him up into a sitting posture, then wetting the towel, he meticulously wiped the face and shirt clean of mud , and vomitus . His fellow brahmins, stood watching the tamasha, one hand clutching dhoti folds , and the other the gifts.

Nothing was said. No word of thanks or gratitude or apology. Moti's other sons came and helped him up and they quietly left.


After the plates were cleaned , verandah washed , and Narua sat down at the fire boiling some tea, Dada and I swung into action. We told the elders of the entire happening. My grandmother sat down at a stair. Dadu stopped swinging his rocking chair.

"Narua, is this true?"
My grandmother enquired. Narua just smiled and poured out the tea.
"Motia's sons , humph."

The Dadu did something unprecedented. He got up and brought out his guest list. With a black felt tip pen , adjusting his glasses on his nose, he crossed out the name of moti's sons from his list.

That evening, Narua was called in to beat the bell for evening arti in the pooja hall, as dada was ill, and the bell was too heavy for any one else to hold.

pot-luck

“It is holi, ”
“So ?I don’t want to go. Getting high on bhang and throwing colours on each other , behaving like neanderthals.”
“You are under no compulsion.Everyone will be there.”
“Mrs Patra has opened her garage and laid out her dining table , for pot-luck.”
“I will bake a large cake , but what if some one else also decides to bring the same .”
“Never mind , your’s will always be better. You could ring up Mrs. Patra in advance , and let her know.”
“Supriya is bringing manchurian, Anitha potato vadas.”
“How do you know ?”
“My networking is better than yours”

The fanatic

It stumps  me

Like a seismologist
who did not heed
quake warnings

like a politician
with his head buried
in complacent sand

I discovered
intolerance
hatred and bigotry
in my backyard

Growing
like an innocuous  weed
it entwined
my life's base
and threatened
to choke it.

Why did it take so long
for me
kumbhakarna
to wake up?

When the
grass was dry
and yellow , I
should have been
aware
fire
was not faraway



When engulfed
with flames
and choking with smoke
there is no point
holding a meeting
to decide
where we went wrong ?

The evening shift

Waiting.
Watching.
 Chobi leaned on the window , her elbows cupping her chin , watching the rain drum down on the windowpane. The raindrops gathered in a cluster, seconds later they had coalesced into trickles and ran into rivulets down the window-sill. She was very patient. She could stay still and watch this endlessly , forever. The march of the raindrops.
A loud thunderclap made her look up. The sky was lead -gray.
The street below was dotted here and there by umbrellas , glistening and fluttering in the wet gale. Some glistening cars sped by, spraying moisture everywhere.
Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Chobi wasn't . She had all the time in the universe. She breathed onto the pane, heavily. Fogging it. Then she carefully wrote -"My life sucks".
Nope. She erased, fogged again and rewrote-"Great ".Moving away to admire her handiwork, she was giggling when she stepped on some one's toes.
A male throat cleared, and the entirely swoon-worthy aroma of cologne mixed with male sweat hit her . Chobi turned and looked into the eyes of the bespectacled pathologist-Dr. Murthy.

Dr. Murthy looked displeased. He looked displeased most of the time . With a permanent scowl on his face , the happiest events in his life took on a gray , pathos-filled sheen. That is what comes of having a profession , where you have to deal with smelly things ; stool, urine and  pus,the entire day.
She visualised Dr. Murthy poking a stool emulsion, under microscope, looking for parasites. She smiled .

That seemed to increase Dr. Murthy's displeasure several notches higher. "Ma'am!!"Dr.Murthy seemed to be looking for the right words, and choking on them, as rage battled restraint.
"You are wanted in cubicle no.35."He spat out and bustled away, his pristine white coat-tails flapping wildly, as another thunderclap shook the building.

In the corner of the foyer, Mobina was helping an elderly patient into a wheelchair, grinning evilly at the exchange . Now , she had given them the fodder for gossip at today's tea break . She sighed as she made her way to cubicle no. 35. She knew what or who awaited there. The portly matron , sitting in the nursing station, swinging her fat legs furiously, waiting to "get her hands on the day dreamer of the lot."

She sat there facing the golgotha, serving her sentence . As sound rebuke was flung at her , in spurts . the matron turned pink, and then purple as she raged on about how irresponsible , ill-brought up, etc ., she was . Chobi wondered if the matron would be struck by a lightning or apoplexy this very moment. The thought was entertaining, and she began enjoying herself, with a snide smile "Shameless!! Lojja nei toder, dekchi!!" The expected spray of spittle hit her , and she calmly fished a hanky from her uniform pocket."Kintu amar ki jaye ashe ?"(how does it affect me ?) Let you suffer , let you fail, you daffar" (duffer)The storm inside the cubicle and outside raged on. One in pigdin, bengali-laced english, the other in God's thunderclaps.

Next thunderclap was punctuated by a scream. "O!Ma!Ota ki chilo?"The cowardly matron shook like jelly in a bowl.
"Chobi di!!!!"  This time there was no mistaking Mobina's voice . Chobi raced to the foyer , the lights were flickering. The damn hospital generator giving away!
A small, still, white shape lay crumpled on the floor , next to the wheelchair , as Mobina tried to shake it to life .
"Ki holo?" Chobi asked even as she tried to look for carotid pulse , and began a frantic CPR, kneeling on the floor.
"Hotat ogyan hoye pode gelo maati te . Ami kichu kori ni."(collapsed on the floor all of a sudden , I didn't do any thing )
"Bubai!" Chobi screamed for the ward-boy , as he , astute as ever , ran in with a stretcher , and rallied manpower.Together , they loaded the patient, and raced her to ICU, while the lights gave one last flicker , and the hospital plunged into pitch-darkness.
"Shit "!! Chobi thought. This had to happen now.
Luckily ICU , had its own back-up. Grabbing the emergency tray , and kicking off her shoes , on the way, she sent bubai for documents , and hooked the patient up to monitor , ICU sisters trundled in, peering in mild amusement,loathe to take up a case in the fag end of their shift.
"Let the night shift do the CPR and the fatal documents . " A tall bespectacled nurse offered wisdom. "They are coming any moment now."
Chobi pretended to be deaf. Panting like a person possessed, she continued the CPR. Slowly, the others joined in.Some where in midst of the chaos, they were joined by the DMO Dr. Murthy .
Three attempts at defibrillation, and the ECG jerked to life. "Durga , durga". Chobi muttered and crossed herself in thanks, to a confused mass of divinity in her head.
It took half an hour to revive the patient. Half an hour of madness, while night shifts took over , and the fat matron, kept wiping her brow in the ac-less environs, and fanning herself with the documents that , would have soon become fatal.
Chobi remained till the end , long after the night shift took over, and the dmo had disappeared for a bite and snooze. Stabilizing drips , securing lines , documenting.She loved the ICU. This is where the action was . This is where she belonged.  By the time , she wore her shoes, and slung her bag on, it was 10 pm, the storm had abated , and power supply had resumed.

She was in no hurry, she had all the time in the world, she thought , as she breathed in deeply, the crisp, cold, clean rain-washed air in the dark. She had no one to rush back to, no one to cook for , feed , or put to sleep. Ah! Bliss! She took another gulp of cool, cool breeze.

Next morning, predictably, Bubai stood waiting for her at the nursing station.
"Ki?" She raised her eyebrows .
He answered back with a sad look.
"Dekeche . Tai to?" ( She has called me , isn't it ?)
Bubai nodded and and slunk away.

The Principal Matron had a fearsome reputation.Like a man-eating alligator.
But Chobi was unafraid. She had met her couple of times , and found her more motherly than the podgy fattiness who came to plague her every evening.
The PM smiled beningly from behind half-moon spectacles. The fat matron kept whispering angrily into the matron's ears , even in Chobi's presence.The PM nodded, but seemed not to hear. Two minutes of this , and she waved the fatso away("like a fly, good!!" Chobi thought, beaming inwardly)
"Chobi!!" The PM said , leaning forward.
"Yes Ma'am."
" Would you like to do a ICU nurse's course. It is for six months, starting today . You have to ask the front desk for details. Dr, Murthy has recommended your name."

"Durga, durga."Chobi crossed herself in her usual confused religiosity, the PM smiled benignly, and the fatso turned purple , wringing her hands in exasperation.

Outside , she ran into Dr, Murthy , and thanked him. He waved her away, giving a smile that teetered between a scowl and a thanks.

Dinner

Unexpected guests at dinner meant rallying the girls. They were :and are, my army . Especially , for tackling sudden dinners. Hubby’s dear friend was in town.
“Sandy uncle !!! Oh Oooh Oooooh !!”
My younger one was besides herself .
Balancing two trays of fragrant basmati on my arms , I stopped -“So? What about Sandy ?”
“He brings tons of chocolates!!” Fat chubby arms waved in all directions and pools of drool collected in baby mouth.
I sighed . I just hope he gets her some chocolates , this time too, even though he was here on a condolence visit to some relatives in town.
How do you say that to a pampered foodie ?

When Sandy arrived , the younger one, fixed his empty hands with burning stare , and refused to greet him . She turned , ran in , and locked herself in their playroom. I sighed and apologized.

Sandy was puzzled. "She seemed friendlier last time . " He rubbed the salt in. 

I offered pakoras and condolences. Dinner was eaten in peace, despite raised volumes of candy crush background score emanating from the behind locked doors of play room.

Before he left, Sandy took out a minuscule  packet from his pocket." By the way, I bought these for the girls , last time I was in Dubai."

Sandy said goodbyes to us and a shut door ."The stubborn mule "I gnashed my teeth, as repeated entreaties went unanswered.

Once the guest had departed, cleaning started, and a patient husband had rallied all ,including the hastily- drying- her- eyes -stubborn- mule, on the bed,  the packet was opened with great care to reveal two identical pairs of diamond studs, set in gold.

We, the parents were rendered speechless, the elder one crooned -"Ooooh !!" 

The younger one burst into a fresh  barrage of tears-"No  chocolates" She howled.

Maasi

It was a hot summer afternoon.
Sticky , and warm .
Like all mad geniuses, she sat at the dining table without having switched on the fan , or the cooler. Cooler , she said , was very noisy; the fan distracted her from her thinking process, and the sweat dripping down her chin helped her concentrate !! That way, she continued, she could feel the occasional breeze ("From God's own fan" )waft into the room, which she would have never appreciated. otherwise. Okay, so she was weird.

But she kept to herself , and her messy ways rarely interfered with others . She would sit at the table , calculating equations and figuring out solutions to godawful maths sums.They exercised her grey cells , she said. Calculus , crossword puzzles and the like .

She would dress like an alien sooth sayer. In beads, sequins , huge long brocade skirts and strange turbans . Once she wore a dress made of ostrich feathers. She said she could communicate with the dead ostrich , whose feathers adorned her.

 No one believed her, but all nodded politely.

For deep down , all were envious of her. Envious of her phenomenal capacity to learn , assimilate and memorise . She was like a walking encyclopaedia . She had solutions to all problems , mathematical, scientific, academic , even marital angst.

She listened patiently, humphing occasionally, with a genuinely faraway look in her eyes. My father says , she doesn't listen, she just pretends to , and all the fools go flocking to her. But therein lay her genius. She knew no one needed to hear solutions , all they needed was a shoulder to cry on . She was the right shoulder to cry on and spill one's beans to one's hearts' content, for she was incapable of gossip.

She was sought out by budding mathematicians , and scientists , administrators . Heck , even the prim and the proper folk met her , if only to be lectured on black holes .She had no pretensions about being a genius. She was one .

So , when she had gone on a long holiday , and mother passed away due to sudden illness, we were startled to come back from school one day  to find father sobbing behind closed door of the study, his head on her knee, and she mechanically moving her silver and jade laden fingers over and over his head , muttering incoherently, with the same faraway look in her eyes.

She had finally acquired the last , most difficult entrant to her fan -club. The infidel had been christened .

When I am gone

When I am gone
you wont be alone
for as you jog
behind you
i will jog along

You may hear
me pant

I may stand
next to you
as you figure
the next meal
the next word
the next stand

I will seep
into your
dreams
and colour them
with my own
colourlessness

You may
find  yourself
making
mistakes  born
out of
my carelessness

For you are me
and you may be
compelled to see
the world
anew
from my eyes.

My favourite time

Mid-morning. That is my favourite time.
After the hustle of the morning has fizzled out. The school-bus has departed riding on a puff of exhaust fumes, and powered by a bus load of dreams, giggles and nail-biting tests, when the bread winner has chugged out of the garage on his old automobile, when the elderly have bathed and breakfasted, is when I get to lift my running feet off the ground, and rest it with a cup of sugarless coffee and a slice of watermelon.
when I get to receive and send mushy messages on whatsapp, or chuckle on some private joke only for my eyes, sent to me half way across the globe.
When I get to write my blog in peace and contemplate on the next moves of a squirrel chasing a mynah in my lawn .

Silence

Silence sat heavy on the air , as the water boiled and she watched the pot . The hush was not usual, neither natural. She had always been talkative .
That , and chirpy. So , what had happened ? Scared of the hush, the kid quietly tip-toed in and switched off the stove. The water stopped boiling . She absently lifted the pot off the stove , not even acknowledging the presence of the kid. That was the sign of danger. The kid should have moved away , while time presented itself. She didn’t.
Desperate to re-establish a contact, she said ” I got 18.5 out of 20 in my last weekly”.
Silence.
The kid licked her lips and continued.
“Yes, and Sonya got only 16.”  She was brave .
Silence again.
She had finished making her cup of tea, and pushed open the door to the balcony. A beautiful and bright morning greeted them . 
Now , the kid was miserable . She racked her brain. She didn't seem to do any thing right , for her mother . What did she want ? Even the grades had improved , and the lying too.

It would be better if she would rant and rave and call her names , like earlier times and get it off her chest. This silence was killing. 

The kid kept wringing her hands , staring at her mother's back.

Next moment , she looked into her mother's eyes and asked ," what happened mama?"

The mother looked sadly into her daughter's eyes , and said "Look into the dustbin."

There sitting in midst of egg-shells and empty wrappers and fruit peel, were the parathas , her mother had made for her dinner last night. Uneaten, rotting away, emanating the faint sourness of fermented foodstuff.