Hark , hark , the Bark

  Like   scared rivers 

My path meanders 

"Sacred , not scared " 

I stand corrected 

I declare  I am terrified 

Of canines , petrified 

Every single customary bark 

Uttered in jest , takes me back 

Paths of self doubt 

Rapidly   sprout 

shaking my heart 

with rapid fire heat

I am ready to beat 

a hasty retreat 

My accomplice my feet 

forever comply this feat 

Matters escalate 

apprehension conflate 

"they bark because they can " 

My friends try to placate 

"Exactly !! " I reply with a pant 

"And I run for walk I cant "

Not with salivating jowls 

emitting blood curdling howls 

Close to my heels 

Don't you know how it feels ? 

chocolate!!

                                    The raider 

Rrrrrring ! Rrrrrrrring !! 

The doorbell rings when I am in the middle of something . One is always in the middle of something , right ? Reading Feluda's mysteries , watching netflix horrors , or birdwatching , cooking , cleaning , solving polynomials . 

Ring!! Ring !! Ring !! 

Three short , sharp bells to remind you that you haven't answered the doorbell , in the expected time frame. Has to be youth , with the trademark lack of patience .

The extent of youth hit home when I couldn't see anyone at the door . 

"Hello Aunty !"

Piped up a tiny voice somewhere near my feet . My neighbour's son . Known to be a very naughty specimen of his species ,  has been banned from eating sweets by his concerned mom . Takes the opportunity of them being away at work and rings the doorbell of gullible neighbours , wheedling out sweet treats , turning on his charming dimpled smile . Wearing his school uniform . Must lock the wooden door , upon hearing the school bus , I remind myself . Again . 

"No , I don't have any chocolates ."  The dimple fades .

"Toffee to hoga " He insists , hopefully .

" No toffees either ." 

" There must be some gems lying , somewhere aunty ." ( Gems are Indian M&Ms ) 

The maid stands some few metres away , one foot on the staircase , smiling hesitatingly , shifting his school bag from hand to hand . " Shaurya ! " She calls , ineffectually . 

Her eyes are apologetic . Poor thing . 

"Please open the door aunty ." Last time I opened the door , he discovered coffee bites and got a hiding from his mother , I came to know through the grape vine later . 

No wonder his parents don't come over anymore . This chap will turn his parents into austere ascetics .

My resolution rapidly fading , I open the door and he darts in , like a comet , whirling , opening the fridge door , looking at the dining table . Finding nothing,  lands in the kitchen . I have just dusted a freshly baked plum cake with cinnamon sugar . 

"Yeh kya kai ?" He asks uncertainly , in mildly accusatory tones . 

"Cake hai ," He is not convinced . He looks doubtfully at pieces of dun coloured  plum cake .

"Chocolate nahin hai !!" Despairing and mildly amazed at this world where chocolate free cakes are baked .

"Plum cake hai." I try to educate .

"I know , I know ."  Exasperated . He doesn't know, obviously . Living in a cake-less home . 

"Yeh kya hai ?" He points to the white powdery substance over the cake . Very suspicious . 

"Cinnamon sugar ." 

"Mujhe pata hai ."He didn't know.  Takes a bite and realises that it is sweet after all . 

" Yum ". dashes out , shouting" thank you aunty "over his shoulder . 

Almost running into the maid , consternation writ large over her overworked self . 

She chases him , turns back and gives me a this -never-happened -and has -to -stay -between -us  look . 

I smile back .

                                        &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

                                                           The saviour 

The importance of a morning walk , in addition to an evening walk was stressed to me , when my diastolic BP shot up , sky high , and refused to fall .

Like a cat stuck high up in a tree, it meowed dire warnings . Triggering endless and futile debates about cardiac insufficiencies and failures .

Hence , a morning walk . At a time when one is likely to lounge with a newspaper  and a hot cup of beverage , I am walking briskly , amongst chirping birds and sweepers raising clouds of dust along with last few month's worth of regrets and dried leaves . 

Kids , brightly dressed in pressed uniforms , are waiting at bus-stops . 

Dogs , however , get into vociferous arguments , and do not shy away from going public with their grievances . That I am scared of dogs , is no secret . 

In fact , I have been a butt of several dog -related humour . I despise them , and they reciprocate this emotion  by chasing me into narrow dark, alleyways . Mostly they block my path , with beseeching eyes . Eyes that look for a dog lover behind the curtain of dog fear that hangs thickly on my pallid face .

I mean , come on , it is not without reason that they are called "canines " . 

So, I am at the end of my walk , and can practically see my home , when my path is blocked by a bitch . She has her udders full . Lactating . Newly born litter . There is nothing scarier than crossing paths with an animal mom. A new mom at that too . All national geographic books and compilations will tell you that .

So , this individual is panting , sitting on her hindquarters , staring at me with that give- me - a -treat -and - i -will -let -you go  look. 

Others would probably circumvent and go around her . Not me . She has a long leg and I do not fancy a paw swipe across my jeans . 

I stand still . Both stare at each other . Stalemate .

Then like benediction , I hear some one shout "Chocolate ." 

I turn my sciatic neck with a painful crack to see an unwashed , groggy ,  one eyed boy looking at me , giving me one -eyed death stare .

"Chocolate ." He shouts again .

"I do not have chocolate . Where is chocolate ?" I reply . Totally confused . I don't know if he wants chocolate from me , or he is giving me one . And pray , why ? 

The dog slowly gets off on its all fours , tail between legs , with almost an audible sigh , gives me a pitiful look and follows the boy .

It is then that it struck me .

The dog was called chocolate .

Coleus , Colossus .

Coleus . It is a small , insignificant little plant . The winters have led us to believe that we live in a fairyland , populated by pink , yellow and light purple regal dahlias ; orange and yellow large rounded , startlingly omnipresent knobs of marigold , red splotches of salvia , drooping in all their fiery elegance ; and myriad colours of delicate petunias and pansies . Not to forget the fragrant colours of chrysanthemums which along with marigolds and dahlias capture droplets of feel good sunshine for you to stare at , in the heart of deepest winter , with grey fog swirling all around you .

In the midst of all this outburst of colourful splendour , it is likely that we forget our dear old friends , the decorative plants with coloured leaves . 

One of this is Coleus . 

I have never seen a more prettier , symmetrical , hardy , resilient and elegant plant . 

It has pretty scalloped edged heart shaped leaves , with a maroon body , and faint green edges . As if a brush dipped in pale green colour just brushed past . Then there is the position of the leaves . They are at 180 degrees to each other and  perpendicular to each pair , so that the sunshine supply of any of the pair of leaves is not encroached upon . 

Then there are adventitious roots at nodes , to pick up moisture from the atmosphere , also enabling easy replanting of broken off branches . 

The plant has recently started flowering . Spires of tongue shaped flowers , almost like salvia , but with two small rounded petals at the base and a large tongue shaped petal protruding  from the base make the flower . It functions as a landing strip for bees and other insects , looking for nectar . The petals are light purple  with a pale green centre . The flowers are also tiny . Challenging  homo sapien's vision . 

The plant is  poisonous . Hence the clear message . I may be pretty to look at , but don't mess around with me . 

That saves it from raids by cattle / feral cats , pigs and humans . 

That also endears it to me . For me , it is the best plant to keep around . Way to go , Coleus . You the boss !! 

Everything dies , eventually

 Curd is hung and has dripped whey 

the half dry bedsheets in breeze sway 

there are dying flowers in the tray 

a hungry mynah pokes soil for prey 

there is a solid reason 

why today there is no sun 

no it is not climate change

neither is it your puny phalange

In fact open up your palms and see 

there is nothing there to free 

you have owned precisely zero 

and you think you are a hero 

Not because you are so great 

(you know you are not )

But because your mom told you so 

every night your tears lied to your pillow 

Everything dies , you know that , right ?

your deeds , your home , even your fights 

Righteous , mighty perilous forays 

Altruisms , battles , stoic days 

comedy of errors

 Hello ! Is that Lipika ma'am ? ( I am trying to contact a BLO officer called lipika Sharma, for a discrepancy in my voter's card ) 

Hiiii! Came the un-naturally ebullient answer from the other side . I would know your voice any where in the world ( How in the world does she know my voice . I don't know her , have just rung her up now ) 

Before I can ask the next logical question of Do I know you ? , she has raced onto " Aur bataiye , how are your daughters ? How is Paul saheb ( my husband ) Where are you posted these days ? 

Then she continues telling me her stories , about who contracted COVID and how , who lived and who succumbed ................

All this while my mind is racing through the meagre database in my frontal cortex , trying desperately to retrieve any information in my leaky memory cell.

Dredging through the remnants of last ten years worth of trivia , It finally hits " Lipika Sharma , the wife of a colleague of my husband . A good friend . Lakhimpur posting , 2010 -2013 , roughly . Eureka ."

By this time the caller has tired of my inexplicable and confused mumbles and has waded through the murky waters of uncertainties , landing on the clear and correct conclusion " You mistook me for someone else , didn't you ? "

I laugh hysterically , sounding like a swamp monster , lost in the green fumes of my own making . 

"Ok, I will leave you to find the real Lipika , nice talking to you , good bye." the miniscule buzz of our conversation was silenced as a fly would , as it was swallowed into some amphibian bowels.

The static post-ring hummed like a bummer, reminding me that , by making one wrong call , I had not shot down my target , but killed my own guy , in friendly fire. 

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

Pammi is a common name in Punjab . It is  a shortened version of  Parmindar , Paramjeet  and various other names  that begin with a "P". It is a nickname ,an abbreviation and an exclamation  rolled into one . 

It doesn't help matters that I came very close to being called Pammy myself . My shortened moniker being Pam . My mom in law put a stop to the pammy deluge faced by me . She said , in no unclear terms , her (mine ) name is short as it is (Pampa ) , no need to shorten it further . But a degree of familiarity remains , and I can empathize with all the Pammies of the universe . Their pain is mine . 

It is so common that a human goes through the foliage and fruition of adulthood under the moniker of "Pammi " , without the callers ever bothering to uproot the origins of the said "pamminess" . There are couple of Youtube channels devoted to the antics of pammi aunties .

Pammy aunty in the family tree of my in laws , figured prominently . Wealth- wise and prestige- wise . Top on the seniority list too . Obviously , the thought of being mistaken for someone else was very far from her mind , when she called me . Actually she called my mom in law , who was living with us at that point of time . She being hard of hearing, yours truly was tasked to receive the calls , shout into her ear the name of the caller , then hand over the phone on speaker , so that the conversation can be steered into the right direction . 

Pammy was also the name of the ladies club treasurer , who had recently handed me an iffy portfolio . A big boss's ambitious wife had recently departed on posting , and had , very thoughtlessly and grandly urged her minions to "spare no expenditure " on her farewell party . As  a result , the ladies club coffers were empty . We , in fact , owed rupees 5000 /- to sundry service providers . Pammy and I spent many an afternoon decrying extravagant parties , and wives of top ranking gents , the ways of the world , and the human desire to splurge on other's wealth , and random other philosophical ruminations ; which strike you as most sublime when your pocket has been emptied of its last dime . 

So , when the said call arrived , I was full . Of hostilities . When the caller announced herself as Pammy , the small matter of she having called on my mom in law's number , totally skipped my debt laden mind and tongue . I let loose a barrage on expenses , senior wives , insolvency and "how to generate wealth in time for next ladies club meet " . I spoke breathlessly , non stop . 

After three and a half minutes of my tirade , I took a breather . That is when Pammy auntie slipped a word edgewise , and reminded me that she hailed from a different part of the country , and that she had nothing to do with my ladies club woes. 

The bolt from the blue of this realisation silenced me . What silenced me further was my state . I was clad in a towel , freshly bathed and emerged from the bathroom , without a fresh perspective on my world problems , as you might have noted .

My mom in law , had recently recovered from fracture femur of her right leg and was doing her morning walks in the drive way outside . She was wont to go into a thoughtful trance , lower her gaze , count her steps , take brisk strides and tap the asphalt with her newly acquired walking stick .  

This was outside the house . I couldn't go there . Pammy aunty was calling to enquire about mom in law's health . It was imperative that they converse . The kids were at school. But the mali was in the garden .

From behind closed door , I explained my predicament to the kind man who took the phone ,still moist from my wet fingers , and made his way to my marching mom in law , totally oblivious to everything .

This gardener of ours had a tongue tie since childhood . His words came out as a barking lisp , and it took practice to make sense of what he was speaking . 

At an important turn in her walk , when she was just about to complete her 750th step , mataji was interrupted by the diminutive , dark figure of the mali , holding her precious mobile in his filthy soil encrusted hands , stammering something . 

Predictably , my mom in law , screamed . Then she raised her new, shining walking stick , and chased the poor mali , half way down the drive way , all the while , he trying to bark/blabber something about an important phone call . 

I was left  the unfortunate spectator , shouting meaningless words from behind a closed door , from the peephole of which I saw , and sadly comprehended , all the goings on .  

Pammy aunty never rang again . To enquire about anyone's health . Mataji refused to take her beloved walk for next one week . Mali refused to weed my garden , specially when mataji was around . I took to bathing very early and dressing in time . 

The only good that came out of this fracas was Pammy ( my friend ) and I having a good bellyfull of laugh , over this , whenever we met . 

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

Raju is one of the commonest name in India . From the north to the south , from east to west . Freshly posted to West Bengal , we made the acquaintance of two Rajus. 

One , a dhaba owner . Other , a gas cylinder supplier . My gas finished early one Sunday morning . I was expecting guests that day , and my instincts told me that the gas agency would be shut on the weekend . 

Full of trepidation , and clutching at straws of hope , I rung up Raju . The conversation followed was thus . 

Hello ! Is that Raju ? I am Mrs P here .

Yes maam, good morning maam ( A very cheerful reply , so far so good ) 

I needed to place an order .

Certainly mam . Please place your order .

I will receive it by noon , won't I ? 

Don't worry ma'am . I will have it delivered to you within half an hour .

(Overjoyed me ) Really ?  wow. Do you need to write my consumer number ?

No maam , we only need your phone number and address . 

Please save this number I am calling you with. Address is 24/5 OMQ.

Please place your order maam.

I am placing it aren't I ? Actually , I have a single barrel connection , hence the emergency . If it was a double barrel , I wouldn't have bothered you ." 

" You are talking about LPG connection maam . 

Yees . and you ....? ( First seeds of doubt lazily sprouting , in slow motion ) 

Maam , I supply freshly cooked food . LPG cylinders you'll get from the gas agency .

Oh my goodness! Sorry , sorry , sorry ( The doubts bursting into foliage , blinding and deafening fireworks of realisation burning my ears red ) 

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

How tables turn

 So the large bag on his shoulder sat a bit awkwardly . After all, he was just a boy . Scruffy around the neck , his grandmother would tell him . 

Well , it was his grandmother who gave him the bag , a large-ish , shopping list and sent him off  to buy vegetables and groceries from the market . It was noon , and he had almost finished , the bag was almost full of potatoes , and onions , and apples and grapes and gourds , squashes . Enough for the entire week . 

Anil was the middle boy . Mejo , they called him . Mejo -Onil , merged into mejonil . He was always sent for errands . The elder one grabbed a novel off his grandfather's shelf early morning , and mouthed great big words and philosophies . He would quote Kafka and Camus . Though his grandparents had themselves never heard of these gentlemen , it sounded very impressive , coming from their progeny's mouth . So , he was excused the plebian task of grocery shopping . 

The younger one was the apple of the eye . He was a dud at studies and would come back with bamboo lash marks on his legs , for not finishing his homework , and not getting his sums straight . It would spark a debate in the household , and an outpouring of family empathy . He was treated to secretly hoarded laddoos and got a bed in grandpa's room . A rare honour.  

So , the job of grocery shopping falls on Mejonil's slender but surprisingly strong shoulders . 

Grandma never took hisaab . Or the accounting . She would blindly entrust Mejonil with money and responsibilities . In time , he would excel at both .

It was noon . The shirt , sticky with sweat , stuck to Mejonil's back and seeped into the bulging bag , with a wee bit of resentment . He wouldn't have  given it much thought , if it wasn't for his mathematics teacher at school , who met him in the bazaar and reprimanded him . 

"What Onil ? What are you doing in the bazaar ?" 

"Good morning sir . Buying vegetables sir ." 

"Yes , I can see that . But you must pay attention to your studies . Your exams are fast approaching . " 

"Yes , sir ." 

Mejo hung his head . as if it was his fault that he was in the bazaar .  

He had just moved a few paces when Manik sir called him back . 

"Onil?" 

"Yes sir ." Mejo turned back , his bag swinging wildly and hitting another person , who immediately shouted "Hey , watch it boy " "Sorry ", Mejo was immediately apologetic .

"Sir , you were saying something ?" 

"There is a coaching institute , newly opened in the town .Ask them if they will take you in the after school slot . You only need to brush up your maths ."

Manik Sir smiled . A tobacco stained smile . Genuine affection . Then waved and disappeared in the crowd of people. 

Onil was mildly distraught . He needed this coaching to sit for entrance exams. But how will he pay ? 

The sum was exorbitant .20,000 rupees for six months . Where would he get such a princely sum from ? 

Lost in these thoughts , he retraced his steps back , away from home into an alleyway . "Gyaan tutorials " the board declared simply . Manik Sir had recommended . It must be good . As he was turning dejectedly away , he bumped into someone . The man whom he had hit with his bag in the bazaar . 

"Hey Boy , where are you lost ?" 

"Sorry sir ." 

"You are Manik's student , right ?" 

"Yes , sir ."

"Onil , right ? Grandson of Mukherjee babu from Hamirpur ? 

"Yes , Sir ." By now, Mejonil was getting really rattled . How did this man know him ? Is he going to complain about him to Grandpa ? Did I do something wrong ? " 

"I heard about your parents , really sorry ." 

Onil just nodded . What to say to that ? 

"Listen , can you meet me tomorrow , at 4pm , here . I am Debolin . I am the maths teacher here . Manik Sir taught me too ." He smiled a kind smile , crinkly at the edges .

Onil's heart raced . He practically ran all the way back home .

 But where would he get the money from ? 

That night , after Jhee Maa , the in living maid had washed all the dishes , and bolted the kitchen and the store room doors , when all had retired to their beds and his grandmother had taken out her tattered copy of Ramayana  , and had pushed her wire rimmed specs to her nose bridge , Mejonil , went and sat next to her , on the pooja room  floor . 

She looked at him from above her specs and smiled . He was her favourite . Not the other two brats . It was Mejo she was grooming to be her successor , to manage family , with a level headed -ness , totally lacking in others . After the  untimely death of her doctor son and his rich , immature wife in a road accident , she had looked after her grandsons , raising them as her own .

He was the only one who sought solace in her company , like this , when the hub bub of the entire day had died down . 

She looked at him for few minutes , then put down her  Specs , in its case , folded up her wooden book holder , touched it to her forehead and wrapped it up in a saffron cloth redolent with the fragrance of incense . Then she looked at him and asked smilingly "Tell me , what it is ? " 

Mejo hung his head . He didn't like asking for favours . It made him cringe . He was a fiercely independent person . Yet , he had to , so he did . Hesitatingly , slowly .

"20,000?" Dida's eyes widened incredulously as she whispered . "It is a lot of money Bubai." She whispered , because she knew Mejonil had confided only in her . Words not meant for other ears . Secondly , she didn't want to wake her short tempered and tired husband up . 

She called him Bubai , which was her affectionate nick name for him . No one on the planet earth called him that . It made him feel very special . 

"I know , it is Dida ." He said apologetically . Dida looked at him for a fraction of a second ,  then went about locking the Pooja room door , in complete  business -like manner . 

"I will tell you later ." She whispered , almost furtively , as she crossed him. "Now , go and sleep." 

                                   @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

How the Winter Influences my writing Routine

 The reassuring , and mildly complaining drone of broomstick , long  handled , against the unearthly amounts of dead , drying and crisp dry leaves , to be swept every evening . The boy is uncomplaining . Slightly meditative as he rakes up the yellow brown crisps into piles . Before he can fetch the piece of nylon tarpaulin he uses as a receptacle to gather the ever floating reminders of winter , the evening breeze has  scattered them . Again . He watches , with resignation , rests his broom handle against the huge peepul trunk , rubs his hand , blowing into the cupped hands for warmth , turns up his collars and hisses through clenched teeth . Then he begins all over again .

This is a stark reminder that winter has begun . 

An all pervading aroma of moth balls , as mildly forgotten woollens and blankets are dug out of the trunks , beneath bed storage lockers , and guest room cupboards . Kids hug their rediscovered school leggings and mittens , gazing at them with fond remembrances . 

My writing schedule is influenced by the presence or absence of the sun . If sun comes out , even if it isn't warm , the sensory receptors of my eyes , override those of the skin and it immediately " warms the cockles of the heart ," according to my husband . He has read this phrase ages ago , and wont let it go . So , window curtains are parted , biblical fashion , and a clean path of ideas leads one to warmer climes and green meadows of lush , verdant prose . 

On sunless days , I wrap myself up in several layers , and let the gloom of the skies descend into my heart . I sit in my room , sipping my coffee , and thinking dark , dismal thoughts . I bark at kids , my maid . My hubby gives me wide berth on those days . Magnet fashion , one is drawn like a moth to the reassuring but artificial solace of glowing electric heaters , however puny .And fleeting . For nothing notches up the electricity bill like the heaters , geysers , blow driers and induction stoves . 

The hiss of the electrical kettle invades my thoughts . Kids keep brewing coffee for themselves at odd hours , hubby has to have gargle water post his meals and that one kid needs to sneak into the kitchen for a hot bowl of ramen inspired maggi . Fashioned   in a short cut manner , with hot boiling water . 

Yesterday , I saw a gaggle of mountain babblers , fluffed up against the winter , sitting so close to each other on a branch , so as to appear skewered , their incessant chattering almost silenced against the cold . 

In some ways , winter enables me to write better . Like the pariah dogs who , for lack of shelters , dig themselves into a shallow crater of dust , before curling up tightly into a ball . Flies disappear , so do moths . Summer opens up the world for distractions , with its constant sunshine , hum of activities and throbbing life . Winter , on the other hand , is a sombre reminder of all that we are blessed with during summer . The warmth , the fruits , the veggies , and the cheeriness . Hence , making me more contemplative and introspective . 

Winter feels , tastes and smells different . 

Then there are picnics . Winter time in India is famous for family picnics , under greying and  occasionally raining skies . Friends and family gather together , plans are made , fire lit , lot of good , bad , outstanding , or down right outrageous cooking is done . There is great deal of laughter and a ton of memories . i remember one winter , a cousin's sock was discovered in a cauldron of dal , that too , after consumption of most of the lentil lying on top . Needless to say , that particular cousin's popularity points dropped down a lot . 

So, winter writing rocks . For the simple reason that its different .