Macondo

 

“It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.”

― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I revisited this epic after many years. The first time when I was a college student, who definitely made more trips to the muncipal library in my town, than I do to a book store now. Back in the day, I went on a trip through Macondo, where magic was around every street corner. But to be honest, not every thing made sense to a younger me. I, perhaps lacked the life experiences that was a prerequisite to truly understand what Márquez wrote.

It is now Oct 2025. Now it seems like my life borrowed a few pages from it; where time loops back on itself and memory plays tricks, making yesterday and tomorrow trade places. The people I have met, each with their own peculiar spark, seem like characters born from Márquez's imagination: beautifully flawed, endlessly fascinating!

Passion, in my world has never obeyed reason; it has burned where it shouldn't and faded where it promised to last. Courage, too, has arrived uninvited, often when fear made no sense. And love; it never stayed still long enough to be called 'forever'. Yet, through the whirl of all these blurred moments; one truth anchors me... It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

Love, Laps and Letting go..

Everywhere I go, cats seem to find me. They don’t tiptoe shyly; they come bounding over as if I’ve been their long lost buddy. Some rub their faces against my legs, some plonk down at my feet while one launches itself into my lap with the confidence of an old friend. Their meows are loud and I think they must be starving. Yet, when I place food before them, they barely glance at it. No, what they really want is attention: a scratch under the chin, a belly rub, a fleeting exchange of love.

And then, just as suddenly as they arrived, they are gone. Off to new adventures, leaving me sitting there like the clingy one in the relationship. I laugh at myself!

Imagine getting rejected by a creature that licks its own butt for fun. But in their brief visits, the cats teach me something: love doesn’t always have to be grand or permanent. Sometimes it’s just a passing kindness, a moment of connection that warms two beings before the world tugs them apart again.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it. Love isn’t always about forever. Sometimes it’s about showing up, sharing warmth, and letting go with a smile.

Time-travel Tea stop.

There I was, waiting for my flight at Kochi International airport, the world’s first airport fully powered by solar energy, when something completely off-grid happened. I was served tea in a copper cup and dabara. For a second, I thought I had time-travelled. Should I look around for my grandmother, yelling at someone for not boiling the milk twice?

Back in her day, this tea would’ve simmered over a firewood stove, in a well-loved copper pot that had seen more chai than some people see in a lifetime. Today, that same copper glint caught the light, not from a village courtyard, but from solar panels powering conveyor belts and charging stations.

It was surreal. Surrounded by touchscreen check-ins, automated announcements, and power-saving LEDs, there sat my tea, old-school, no nonsense, and possibly judging my beverage preferences these days.

It felt like tradition had sneaked into the future through a side door… wearing a mundu and humming an old Malayalam tune.

In that moment, sipping hot tea from cold copper, I realised something: innovation isn’t always about forgetting the past. Sometimes, it’s about circling back to it; just with a better carbon footprint.

Whose Ass Is It Anyway!

Greetings, earthlings.

I am Shattaf ibn Blast, your humble but ferocious backside bidet pipe, stationed loyally beside every porcelain throne across the Emirates. My mission? Cleanliness. My method? Well....

Now, for most of the year, I am a gentle soul. A loyal servant. A refreshing spritz. But come summer...ah...summer: my inner demon awakens. I become something else. Something... diabolical.

As temperatures outside soar past 50°C, the water in my metallic veins transforms into liquid magma. And I wait; silently. I wait for the next unsuspecting victim to stroll in, phone in hand, unaware that they are about to be branded in regions best left unnamed.

The scene of the crime.

It's always the same. They squat. They reach for me casually, almost cockily, like I'm just a tool. And then they press my lever.

BAM!

The scream is silent, but I hear it. Oh, I hear it in their soul.

You can tell by the way their legs jerk mid-air. Their eyes widen, pupils dilate. In that moment, they remember every regrettable life decision, every ex, every unpaid mawaqif fine, and the lyrics to a song they haven't heard since 1984. Sometimes I even trigger flashbacks of kindergarten naptime or a traumatic goat encounter in rural Idukki.

After our first encounter, sitting down becomes a negotiation. They hover. They wince. They pray. Some try to test me with a cautious pre-spray, aiming elsewhere. I chuckle.

'Oh, now you want to be friends?'

But it's too late. The damage has been done. They have been initiated.

By the third encounter, they approach me like a bomb disposal technician. Elbows bent, eyes squinting, breathing in patterns taught only to yoga masters and war veterans. They treat me with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ceremonial swords or 'Varak'. (Google that, baby)

Some have even started whispering sweet nothings to me.

'Easy, habibi. Easy'.

One man brought a towel and oven mitts. I respect that.

Word spreads. Guests from colder countries walk out of the bathroom with a limp and a few cuss words. Kids look at me with a mixture of curiosity and inherited trauma. I am no longer just a pipe. I am a rite of passage.

You may curse me. You may scream without sound. But know this: I don't want to hurt you. It's just....the sun. It gets into my head. Literally.

So this summer, dear humans, remember: don't underestimate the Shattaf. I am not your friend. I am not your enemy. I am....a scalding test of character.

Handle me like a grenade. Because, in a way....I am one.

With boiling regards,

Shattaf ibn Blast

The Clueless Tourist Society.

This year, DTAC was happening in Amman, Jordan. When we booked our tickets, we pictured a serene, culturally enriching experience. Sunsets over Petra. Spiritual awakenings at Mount Nebo. Floating like smug buoys in the Dead Sea. Basically, Eat Pray Love, and listen to awesome speakers. We did most, and a few.

The first meal of the day was around 10AM in the flight. After a brief nap at the hotel room and by 3PM, my stomach was growling. Hunger! I reached for the phone and my room mate Katrak suggested, "let us go out and explore the local cuisine". I should have said NO. But I didn't. We both walked out; met Marco and friends in the lobby.

It all went wrong at “We’re just stepping out for food”.

Marco and friends had found an 'economy' category cab driver who offered a comprehensive Jordan tour for an unbeatable price. I patted my grumbling stomach that seemed to tell me that it could wait for 'something on the way'. But we had to wait again since our group were 8 and we needed one more cab. Our cab driver's brother was on his way. He turned up 30 minutes later.

Let us call him Captain Detour (because GPS was clearly optional for him).

My stomach let out a howl. I looked around with embarrassment.

“You want food? I take you good place. Then, maybe small trip. Dead Sea, Madaba, Church of Moses. Easy. No problem", Captain Detour said confidently. A steel covered molar glinted from the corner of his mouth.

This, dear reader, was the moment the group collectively failed the side quest. Against every survival instinct, we climbed into the car, (I, driven by hunger and blind optimism). One friend mumbled, “What’s the worst that could happen?” (We no longer speak to him.)

First stop: A restaurant that may have been a mirage.

He did, in fairness, take us to eat, eventually. We were driven through what felt like multiple time zones, until we reached a roadside restaurant that may or may not have also been someone’s cousin’s house. I saw the place and sat in the car. The brave ones in the cab in front of us ordered 'chai'. The ambiance was “captivity with a view.”

“Now we go Dead Sea. You’ll float! Like magic!”

We cheered. My stomach sank. He took a turn. Then another. Then several that did not seem Dead Sea-adjacent. None of us data connection.

We eventually “arrived” at what we were assured was the Dead Sea. Technically, it was. Spiritually? Emotionally? Not even close. The “viewpoint” he took us to was the Dead Sea’s least photogenic angle: a rocky cliff, no access, and one deflated sign reading “Welcome to Jordan.” You could float in the water... if you were a bird.

One friend was asleep in the back. Another was staring at the horizon, whispering, “Are we still in Jordan or did we loop back to Abu Dhabi?” A third just kept asking when we’d see “the spa from Instagram.” (Never. The answer was never.)

Onward to Madaba! (In Theory)

Captain Detour, encouraged by our silence and Stockholm Syndrome, continued. “Madaba now. Mosaics! Very famous!”

Did we go to Madaba? That depends on your definition. If Madaba is a holy site full of ancient Christian art and architectural glory, then no. If Madaba is a 12-minute stop next to a tire shop while your driver waves vaguely and says “You walk, maybe it’s there?” then yes. Yes, we did. We walked. We never found the mosaics. We did find a man selling cracked fridge magnets. One of us bought three, possibly out of despair.

The church of Moses: The ultimate tease.

“You see Moses! He see promised land from here!” That was the pitch. What we saw was either:

A locked gate.

A construction site.

Or someone’s backyard with a cross on it.

We tried to make it spiritual. We stood silently. Reflected. Took a group selfie that looked like a missing persons alert.

Return journey: Existential crisis in a moving vehicle.

As we drove back in silent defeat, we realized something harrowing: this had all started with a quest for lunch. MY LUNCH!

We had boarded a cab for falafel and emerged from a full-blown biblical detour where we saw approximately the general regions of famous places, but only if we squinted and had Google Images open. By now, half of us were asleep in the cab like kidnapped diplomats. The rest were staring out the window, wondering if we were still technically tourists or just unpaid participants in an experimental geography lesson. My large intestine had swallowed the small intestine.

Final Reflection.

Would we recommend Jordan? Absolutely. It’s stunning. Historic. Majestic. Would we recommend getting into a cab “just to eat” and then casually surrendering all agency to a man with loose landmark logic? Only if you’re emotionally resilient and have low expectations for closure.

Still, we learned a lot:

Never follow a man who says “just small trip.” And no matter what, if you think you are near the Dead sea, you’re probably 45 minutes and 2 prayer breaks away.

Chettan

 Chettan.

Hot sultry humid Kerala summer is a bitch. And no train tickets available from Kochi to my parents' place. Thus I did what I had not done in many years.

Catch a bus.

I did. And caught something more than I had bargained for.

By sheer stroke of luck, I ended up sitting next to a rather pretty young lady. Now, being the dignified gentleman that I am, I resolved to mind my own business. But fate (and a nosy lottery seller) had other plans.

Enter our friendly neighborhood lottery ticket seller, a man who apparently moonlights as a matchmaking guru. He sized us up, smirked knowingly, and said to her, “Mole, buy a ticket. Chettan won’t mind at all.” (If you live in the 'Gulf' and do not know any Malayalam, you still know what 'mole' means)

Now, ‘Chettan’ in Kerala can mean elder brother, but these days, it’s thrown around as a respectful address, regardless of age or seniority. However, in this context, it was painfully obvious that he meant something else.

She blinked. I blinked. And then, we both burst out laughing.

“Er… we are not related like that,” I clarified, while she nodded, still amused.

The ticket seller refused to buy it. He gave me the classic uncle smirk. “Ayyoo, no need to pretend. Just buy the ticket for her if she won’t.”

By now, half the bus was invested in our ‘love story.’ I could almost hear aunties whispering, uncles smirking, and the conductor watching like he was ready to officiate our imaginary wedding.

As the journey went on, the girl and I got talking. She was visibly shocked when I mentioned my daughter is in the University.

“No way! You don’t look that old!” she gasped.

Ah, music to my ears. But this isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for a younger man. Years ago, when I accompanied my daughter to school, her classmates assumed I was her elder brother. Once, at a village office, a staff member referred to me as ‘payyan’ - which means ‘young dude.’ What can I say? Not everyone is blessed with awesome genes like me. My physique doesn’t help either; apparently, the less mass you have, the more the world thinks you’re a 'payyan'.

Even the conductor wasn’t immune to the confusion. He checked my ticket and asked, “Chetta, where are you going?”

I looked at him; he looked old enough to be my uncle. But then again, some people just aren’t as genetically fortunate as yours truly.

The girl and I discussed briefly about age and related stuff. Pausing for a moment, she asked, 'What is age to you?' My knees were stiff from almost 2 hours of sitting. I grimaced, winked and declared; 'Wisdom!'.

Her shy smile made me a 'payyan' for a full 5 seconds.

Before my journey ended, the girl had to get off. As she reached the exit, she paused, turned, and with a cheeky smile said, “Chetta, potte?” — which loosely translates to “See you, Chetta!”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving the Chettan grinning like a 'payyan'.

*Dedicated to all Chettans worldwide!

A Valentine's love note

 My Dearest

It’s two days after Valentine’s Day, and while everyone’s busy showing off their fancy dinners and heart-shaped chocolates, I’m sitting here thinking about us.

Two years ago, I had a Valentine's day recipe. Last year I wrote about 'Her'. This year, I am late. But I've got something to say.

About Us.

Yeah, us. The real love story. Not all that crap people talk about. You’ve been with me through thick and thin—well, mostly thin, because, let's face it, I’ve eaten my fair share of snacks in front of you. And yet my bones show. But still, you’ve always been there, quietly doing your thing. You’ve never asked for anything in return.

I don’t need roses or overpriced dinners to show my affection. I need you. You keep it cool when things get heated, you’re always there when I’m in need of a midnight snack, and your steady hum is the soundtrack of my life. I don’t need you to send me love notes or dress up for me. You don’t need to do anything extra - just be there. And that’s real love, right?

Just being there for someone? Time, is love.

You’ve never let me down. You don’t judge me for the three-day-old pizza I keep hanging out with, or the forgotten leftovers shoved at the back. You’re cool, and that's exactly what I need. No expectations. Just a quiet, comforting presence.

So, here’s to us. You’re the coolest thing I’ve ever had in my kitchen.

With undying love and gratitude, to my fridge..

Your devoted human

Hey Ho! Hey Ho!

 Well, well, well. It’s me, Santa Claus, your friendly neighborhood gift-giver, sleigh driver, and expert in navigating the complexities of holiday logistics.

But let’s cut to the chase, shall we? If I had a dollar for every time someone mentioned how "I’ve changed" or how "Christmas isn’t the same anymore," I’d be able to buy a whole lot more reindeer feed. But, alas, the world’s a bit... different than when I started this gig centuries ago. And it’s mostly because of ya'll!

Ho ho, wait, no, I can’t say that anymore. Apparently, “ho” means something else these days, and I’ve been labeled “weird.” What the actual merry hell? I’m Santa Claus, not a rapper!

Let’s talk reindeer food, shall we? Do you know how much organic, gluten-free reindeer chow costs? A small fortune! Dasher won’t eat anything without a kale garnish, and Rudolph’s all about the oat milk trend now. Meanwhile, I’m stuck footing the bill like some magical ATM with a beard. You think magic sleigh rides are free? Spoiler: They're NOT.

And where are all the goddamn chimneys? Did everyone decide modern heating is more important than holiday tradition? Now I’m squeezing through vents and doggy doors. Last week, I got stuck in a Ring camera’s spotlight for 20 minutes while my undies got wrapped around a nail. All this while some teenager live-streamed me like I’m just “some fat dude in a costume.” Do you have any idea what is the internet lingo for an old man hanging upside down in green underwear?

Oh, sure, Timmy, ruin the magic for all your followers!

Speaking of fat, can we talk about the body-shaming? Every Christmas card shows me as a jolly round guy, but every other comment I hear is, “maybe lay off the cookies, Santa. Oh, Santa’s getting a little round.” Yeah, and it’s none of your bloody business.

It's not like I’m lounging on a beach sipping eggnog. You try working one night a year and stress-eating 200 million snickerdoodles without gaining a few pounds. And dont get me started on what you leave for me to eat: Do I look like a rabbit to

you? I have one job, people. I deliver presents, not gluten-free, organic, non-GMO snacks for some influencer’s 15 second video.

And ladies? No one wants to sit on my lap anymore. “It’s creepy,” they say. Oh, I’m sorry, Karen! It’s tradition! And what poked your thigh was a star, not my *** . I couldn't get it up for all the foundation cream and fake lips.

P.S: You had no problem plopping your toddler there for Instagram likes last year. Yea, ya'll deserve that mall Santa. And I heard his lap does poke.

Social media influencers have obliterated my rep. Thanks to TikTok, I’m now the guy in those “sexy Santa” parodies. I’ve even had elves quitting to join startups - "Santa's workshop is too toxic," they say. No, Jingles, it’s you and your damn avocado-toast budget demands!

Oh, and why; why do I always walk in on drunk couples in their underwear? It’s Christmas Eve, not another Friday night! Nobody wants to see that. It’s as scarring as teens in baggies walking head first into traffic, stuck to their mobile phone.

I’m magic, kid. Respect the red suit!

So, yeah, Christmas isn’t all sleigh bells and gingerbread, folks. But I’ll be back every year, huffing reindeer farts and dodging emotional trauma, because someone has to.

With my beard, belly and ho ho hos. deal with it.

Yours truly: SC

Now, where’s my whiskey? Merry *** Christmas!

19 November 2024.

 19 November 2024.

Two parallel rail tracks stretched into the horizon, side by side but never touching. They had been laid down decades ago, at the same time, by the same hands. One track was slightly worn, its steel rails darkened by the years, while the other gleamed a little brighter, its surface still smooth from the recent passing of trains. They both watched the world go by: mountains, rivers, forests, and cities; always moving, always going forward. Like two forgotten thoughts.

Sometimes, a train would come and shake the earth beneath them, its headlights casting long shadows over the rails. For a moment, the world would seem to pause, as if everything was on the verge of something, anything, even a collision. But it passed, as it always did. The train, the night, the silence.

At night, when the trains were silent and the stars hung like soft lanterns above the earth, the two tracks would whisper to each other. They spoke of their journeys, of the places they had seen, and of the distant landscapes that stretched far beyond their reach. At night, when the moon was full and the world seemed to sleep, the tracks would lie there in the dark, aware of each other in a way that only things destined to never meet could understand. There was a kind of tenderness between them, a fragile, unspoken bond that only the wind and the dust could sense.

Sometimes, they wondered if they would ever meet. But deep down, they knew that they never would. It was not their fate. They were just there, together but not together, running in their own direction, heading toward futures that would never intersect. They had always known this.

In that stillness, they were enough. It was fine. It had always been fine.

And in the morning it happened. Some random guy pulled down his pants, squatted right in the middle of the tracks and took a dump.

19 Nov 2024. World Toilet Day.

Shit at home, asshole.

Untitled

 Beneath the relentless sun, the highway unwinds

Strangers, in the rearview

pass like echoes, with stories left behind

each mile a whisper of hope.

Love flickers in the dust, a flame held tight yet far

Threads like barbed wire

tangled, yet electric

While birds on a wire linger

tracing dreams like scars

and singing of connections

that cope, or falter

and the night starts to break..

Load

As the sun was planning a trip below the skyline, the streets thrummed with the familiar chaos of rush hour traffic around office building. Winter was somewhere close by, according to experts. The darkening sky at 6 PM dropped a similar hint. 

I was in the massive lobby, waiting for my fellow badminton players leaving work.

Waiting along with me was a young porter. Biding his time, for the people to leave the giant revolving doors, he strained against the weight of two big pieces of luggage, each bag a reminder of someone’s journey. His muscles tightened as he slowly dragged the cumbersome load toward the exit. To the casual observer, his struggle was visible, a physical manifestation of labor. May be each piece he dragged held stories, of families reuniting, business ventures launching, and adventures beginning. 

‘Who checked in to work with all that?’ I wondered. 

How heavy must that be?

Meanwhile, a middle-aged delivery man navigated the steps, balancing multiple packages stacked precariously in his hands and a short neck straining to see over his load. His brow was furrowed in concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. Somebody who was still at work, had ordered pizza at 6 PM! 

His hands barely managed the precarious stack. 

I stepped out after the young porter.

At the bus stop, a woman stood, her headscarf fluttering in the brisk still hot wind. Lost in her thoughts, she was unaware of the world around her. She didn’t seem to notice the bus waiting for her or the taxi drivers signaling potential travelers through brief taps on the car horn. In her stillness, she carried a weight that transcended the physical.

In the city’s symphony of movement, the young porter, the delivery guy and this girl seemed connected. Or so I thought.

In a bustling city where burdens are often measured by visibility, the question of who carried the heavier load, will remain unknown.