"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.