The Great Plan

 “Everything happens for a reason”

What?

That has to be mankind’s vain effort to make sense of everything that happens around them. To assign a reason for stuff that cant be explained otherwise or just an attempt at scaling down things so that they can be coped with.

Bad philosophy, bad thinking, poor advice. Combine them with a generous dose of ignorance. Thus, we come to the premise of “The Great Plan”.

And nothing can go wrong with it.

But IT HAS and IT WILL.

Nicholas Clairmont said this in Philosophy and Reason, ‘Things don’t happen for a reason. Things happen and a reason is assigned. Occurrence precedes reason. The universe isn’t working in anyone’s favor or against anyone. The vague concept of an interactive universe is silly and sophomoric’.

The amount of random stuff that happens every second is just random. But the human mind is fixated on ideas from an early day itself about how it was all meant to happen. One of the most ridiculous examples of this idea has some real shitty timing. Here is how it goes:

Someone is grieving from the sudden, early, tragic demise of a family member. The random empathizer approaches and them and proffers to say this much; “See, his/her time was up. She/he was called to another place”. But how? Why did that call come in the shape of a drunkard behind a car that ploughed into another human and dragged that body for another 20 meters? Why did that human had to suffer 3 months at the end of pipes that went in and out of that body? “Oh no! You can’t say that! It was all part of the “great plan!”

A family spends their entire life’s earnings on a house, and it goes down along with a land slide. As they sit hunched together and stare into the void, the resident philosopher appears and lays a wise hand on their shoulder; ‘Perhaps it was built on shaky ground. This is a test!’

The sheer chaotic nature of the world around but can be quite an intimidating prospect for the human mind. But to cope, we have to scale things down. There is no such thing as coincidence! There has to be a reason!

But yes; it is consoling, romantic, therapeutic and utterly butterly philosophic to say so. It helps us escape from saying something awkward or unintelligent. When we blame it on “The great plan”, we keep clear of any sort of responsibility and accountability. We are the hapless subjects in a game. A game we know nothing about.

The same goes for some nice stuff too. Meeting someone who you immediately grew fond of, winning a lottery after a job loss, or reclaiming something you lost after many years. We beam and proclaim with tears in our eyes that we knew that it would “one day find me again”.

But I must admit; it feels nice. Except when the shitty stuff happens.

MUAH...

 There are only two kinds of people in this world: the ones who can eat spaghetti and the ones who try.. 

At work, I am blessed with free lunch 4 days a week. There are a few colleagues who, however, feel that food in any form or quantity is a wasted effort on me. Regardless, I look forward to it. By around noon time, my stomach would have already spoken to me that it is time, sometimes audible enough for the co-worker sitting opposite to my desk. 

The days when there is spaghetti in the menu, I am nervous. And curious. I consider myself still a student of the art of consuming this culinary dilemma. From the days I have poked various parts of my face with a fork to successfully loading pasta into where it is supposed to go, I have barely grown, skill wise. At the hospitality institute where I spent 3 years, our F&B instructor had shown us how to hold a spoon and fork to tame pasta. Like a magician, I have watched him twirl the red coils of Spaghetti Bolognaise with a vertically held fork, into pliant, submissive strings of obedience. 

In my hands, they always turned into the hair of Medusa.

I thought inverting the fork would the trick but it got ahead of me. Or it stayed behind. I turned again, but it adjusted. Over and over we play this out like some ominous dance with destiny just before I give up.

While engaged in this act one day at work, I learned an important lesson. I wasn't alone. 
I saw A.N, the guy from HR who usually consumes double his body weight in food, doing things to pasta no one has ever seen. He had managed to trap one end of all the spaghetti in his plate in his mouth and was using his mouth like a wet vacuum cleaner to get the rest also inside. His eyes, though challenged by the food, had sworn allegiance to it by assuming the same napoltaine red. I turned away.

S.T, the shortest in the office but the biggest mouth west of the Arabian Gulf, was found using a technique from the Indian kitchen where a "thoran' or "poriyal" is made. He was systematically chopping the spaghetti into 3 mm long little pieces to scoop them later into his mouth. I thought of all the time, energy and technology that had gone into shaping them in some distant factory. For what? But then I remembered that he usually smears mango pickle on his beef steak. Look away, Dev. 

J.W, is an elderly lady who looks at the lunch buffet like a marooned pirate who sees rum after 900 days. Her consumption however doesn't match her gaze. Her plate would weigh approximately 150 grams, crockery included. She deals with Spaghetti in her own way. The old fashioned way. The way that existed before humans thought of un-soiled hands as a sign of civility. J.W had picked up a coiled mass of gluten, red sauce and melted cheese with her nimble fingers. With a pout that would shame Marilyn Munroe, she kissed and devoured the whole thing with a barely audible, inverted "muah". I couldn't look away.

There’s no plan there, no complicated art, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine cooked pasta swirling up into her mouth like a buttered dream. She had decided that she wouldn't go hungry, no matter how sophisticated was the technology that shaped the pasta into such tricky shapes.

From the corner of my eye, I saw S.T who had stopped half way through his pasta-annihilation, with his mouth half open, staring at J.W. I put down the fork and spoon, and scooped up some Spaghetti. It was time to "muah".

SEEING RED

 You..

Every time I see you, my heart skips a beat.

It wasn’t any different this evening too.

I was one among the many who formed a winding river of red taillights looking east. An unusually long wait for drivers who seem to spawn from each other forms an unending supply of traffic as if in a video game you can’t play to win. The familiar patch of gravel spun under the tires as I pulled into the main street. It wasn’t easy when you had to manage a call on one hand and a stubborn steering in another, compounded by the fact that your right elbow is only 25 % useful, thanks to a misadventure.

Finally, I emerge victorious onto the road….and there you are.

Those are the moments that take you back to a similar day from years ago.

Days when you wondered if you stepped out on the wrong foot. Were you in a hurry to meet someone or was it purely out of habit? How important was the call you just made? Did that text message make you smile? Was it a movie date or just a cup of tea with someone special? Were you heading out for some banter and beer pong? Was it all unplanned?

Do you remember what you wore that evening? Were there coffee stains on your sleeve? Did you share a cigarette, or split a samosa into two unequal halves?

You decided to go Dutch, paid for everyone and till date no one remembers a damn thing? Have you given your share for a rather expensive birthday gift?

Do you still owe a few dirham to the tea shop chettan who never forgets to serve paper tissues with his samovar chai?

Is there an unfinished text message waiting for you on Instagram?

All these thoughts in an instant.

That’s what happens when I see you through my windscreen. In a flash. And I slam on the brakes.

Hey red light, that’s what happens when I see you while I am on the phone.

Note: I am not in a relationship with red lights. But we meet very often.

CASTAWAYS

 A motionless monster of steel perched on multiple legs straddling the sea. Its unofficial fanbase is a flock of seagulls that trace an irregular flightpath around it, constantly. More than once in a day, the roar of chopper blades deafen your ears as a steel bird sits down gracefully to deliver a few more humans onto this metal monstrosity. Giant cranes groan as they swivel at their wide hips shifting containers on to the deck. A dozen squinting eyes look up from behind darkened safety glasses and red overalls to watch this slow dance of cables and pneumatics.

A supply vessel rubs its shoulder against the steel piles coaxed by waves. The mixed stench of rotting organic waste, oil and the smell of the sea permeates the air. Halogens burn even at this time. During the day, the hot air becomes alive as it hits you with its humid hand reprimanding you because you dared to go outside. It is a hundred degrees at noon and the metal begins to sing.

And caught in this labyrinth of steel, is a pair of doves. Feeding on the unending supply of food that is produced onboard, they have braved the heat and the solitude in each other’s company all this while. There is no way that they could have flown here across a hundred miles. They must have reached here onboard a supply vessel from mainland. Someone said that they have been here for over 2 years or more.

The wind loses a bit of its heat as the day cools down. When night falls on the sea, the horizon retreats, and fades into the gloom. The sea comes alive under the glare of a thousand lights. A school of barracuda surface under the bright lights.

As the men in overalls change shifts, the doves settle near a round steel window and survey the sea. They are not leaving this place anytime soon. Perhaps never. Perhaps they can’t.

Over the hum of machines, you can hear them coo in unison. They are the happiest onboard this place. You would know that too, if you were here.

FLUX

 The other day.

The air is either too cold or too warm that melts furniture. The faint chorus of tapping keyboards sound like the irregular heartbeat of an undead work place. Walls adorned with sanitizer dispensers like a short hunter's trophy wall. Giant posters that silently scream of productivity and parlance. People in the corridor exchanging pleasantries while rarely making eye contact. Plastic ornamental plants wearing silky dust robes. Derelict grey carpet tiles aging under brown coffee stains and despair. There are too many minutes in between eight cups of tea. Day perfumes turn stale. Six O’clock seems too far.

Yesterday.

Emails ferrying stats and phony deference. Another telephone transforms itself into a harbinger of bad news. Laptop screens look like pale blue vampires short of blood. The sun outside fails to get through the glass cladding. The secretary picks her nose out of habit. Forgotten magazines on a coffee table flips its own pages under a draft. Chairs pushed back into the aisle. Lunch queue moving slowly.

Friday.

Parking spots emptying out. Street lamps on parade. Hands impatiently drumming on steering wheels. A lone white cloud waiting to join its red siblings on the west side. Laughing doves inspect the arch of traffic lights. Tea shops welcome their regular patrons. Rush, scamper. Texting at signals. Love and longing. Grocery lists. Did you forget something? Are there stops on the way? What did you leave behind?

Not every day is 24 hours.

Drunk car, Bad driver

Does your car ever talk to you? My car was revving mad at me. I think it was drunk on Special 95.

“You don’t know much about me, do you? Oh well, when you see them headlights comin at you, you know they are coming. But otherwise, what do you know?

One night you drive around as if gas is cheap and on hot summers, you park in the sun idling me like a ritual. It is irresponsible, expensive and unhealthy. I do have a heart, it’s alive and pumping and needs a break at times. One chamber is struggling to keep it all together while the other half has to keep you cool inside. While I’m out baking under a 100 degrees. And to top it all, the tobacco. If cars could cough, I would be the noisiest thing on four wheels in this town.

Let’s not even get started with your sense of direction. Without someone on your right, you would be in a different state every other day. My tires remember roads better than you do. I remember that rocky lane where you shouldn’t have gone, but you did and picked up a nail for me and we spent half a day waiting for help to arrive. Twice! And the stunt you did near RAK? You busted not one, but two of my deputies.

You are half a driver, an awful master and a forgetful wanderer. I wonder if your passengers ever found that out. What did they teach you on the first day at the driving school? When was the last time you held the wheel with both your hands? Why do you have two rubber bullets hanging in front of your eyes? Is it because you are fake? Or is that your idea of looking cool? Or simply put, just a constant reminder of the road you have taken?

When you spend unreasonably long times in cramped spaces like what I have to offer, you must know that it comes with certain responsibilities. When you don’t, I smell of grilled fish or shawarma all the time though you’ve got car perfumes stuck at three different spots. I smell like a hippie.

I must admit though; I am happy for the new seat covers. For all that they endured over the last few years, they deserve a medal. For the time being, seat covers will do.

We first met on a road to another country as strangers and 2 months later, we were together. As you turned the ignition for the first time, I responded with a smile. You heard that, didn’t you! But the day the driver takes the key off the hook on the wall, the countdown starts. Until you leave it back for the next one. I just want you to know that it has been one hell of a ride. Sometimes the ride is short and fun. While some are long and arduous. A lazy bum like you would pull into the shade, push the seat back, pull the hat over your eyes and listen to love nights on Radio 2. You know what I think? I say you amp it up and hit it. The road ahead is long but that shouldn’t worry you. The distance is relative. Cars are built for that shit. Take you from here to infinity.

But do you know that the greatest journey is between two people? How does a car like me know that? Because, I’ve been watching you through my mirrors.

Here’s to us, buddy! From here to infinity and beyond!”

Let One Go

Does he like picking sea shells on the beach or does he pick his nose? Is he an “I love my mom” type or does he google dark jokes about feminists? Does he like cats or is he in love with his car?

She wondered.

Are there skeletons in his closet or does he have a jumper gifted by his ex? Are my secrets safe with him or does he share my photos with his friends at the bar? Did he just flip a strand of hair off my forehead or does he do that to all girls? 

What if he isn’t sharing everything about him?

Is it his perfume or has my olfactory senses assigned a certain smell to his skin? 

Does he need a haircut? Should I tell him? What if his good looking colleague with pretty eyes has already told him? 

What would he think if I sounded too eager when he invited me for dinner the first time? What if I don’t go? What if he meets somebody else at the restaurant?

What if we don’t go for a walk together? What if our hands touch? What happens when we are out of touch?

What if he is taken?

What if he is possessed?

Is he looking at me? Does he look at others? Is somebody seeing him?

Is he the one or should I wait?

She was confused.

And he was right there, looking at her over the sandwich he was eating. With the mayo trickling down his fingers. 

“He doesn’t even know how to eat properly”.

And then he farted.

At that time, she knew.

It has to be him.

You don’t share a fart with just about anyone. You have to be completely at ease with someone to do that in their presence and while eating a sandwich. It is a sign from above, happening down below.

And to be technically accurate and to clear the air ( 😉) for you all who are reading this with a frown, we are talking about a fart and not a fizzle.

(Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any similar incidents in future and its aftermath that involves a couple, a sandwich and farts)

Brushback pitch

There are violets nestling close to the floor. There is the quiet hurrah of butter flies, a bobbing kaleidoscope. You have seen the frogspawns at the water’s edge and smelled the fresh cut grass. There are dogs on a leash. But all that won’t make it a spring yet.

Astride two gleaming steel rails and burdened sleepers, restrained, gurgling steam at a painted station, the engine waits. But it isn’t a train yet, until the whistle blows.

There are two momos in a plate and a table wedded to its chairs. Candles and stained damasks. Two pairs of hands. Hunger. But that doesn’t make it a dinner.

Which is why you shouldn’t kiss her, with just your mouth.

Puff balls

 Warm full milk activates the yeast. The yeast feeds on the sugar and releases its super powers. The egg that contributes some structure and flavor, some creamy butter full of promises, salt and then the most imperative dough. You have to mix and wait for the dough to rise, to be punched down again. Once the rolls are in the pan, you will have to wait another hour or so for them to rise again. Baking time is around 20 minutes.

Total time taken: 3 hours plus

Sow those seeds in April, in a small pot filled with weed compost. 2 inches deep and watered well. In about 7 to 10 days, they would be ready for outdoor life. Plant them in the ground in May. At 30 cm intervals. A cane A-frame that spans two adjacent rows would be a good idea to support the growing plants. Throughout the season you have to water them regularly. A liquid feed every 14 days would maximize the yield. By July, the runner bean pods would be around 20 cm and ready for harvest.

Total time taken: 4 months or more

There is a new foot mat at the door. The cob webs are swept off every day. New curtains smell of cotton and potpourri. Reddened knees on the floor trying to get rid of some stubborn stains. Even the chiller tray in the fridge gets a wipe down. A second or a third check in the bathroom to ensure there isn’t any hair sticking to the drain cover. Pillows fluffed up another time. The car glistening after a wash. The cat’s approval visible on the hood, shaped after a wet paw. The clock ticks way too slow. Time to go pick up someone.

Total time taken: an eternity

Time….is love.

Sometimes it is a bird that leaves your hand, hovers around, disappears and comes back to settle on your shoulders. At times, it is a dandelion you blow away in the wind. Off they go but one or two seedheads may get stuck in your hair. Just to remind you that you had it once.

In either case, if it leaves you with a smile, you would do alright.

Balcony

There is a one way street in front of my house.

Early morning is the loudest part of the day. The nursery right opposite becomes a house of wailing as parents drop off their kids and leave. A cacophony of human voices, honking cars and the thuds of car doors. And then as if on cue, the clamor dies as the tail end of the last car leaves around the bend.

The only house with a palm tree in the front, is where I live. Next to the palm tree is another tree I don’t recognize. There is a third one to the left, which I found out yesterday, is a lime tree.

In the evening the cars come back from the left in single file and slide into parking spaces left and right. Two feral cats who don’t give a shit about anything, find these cars to be warm metal hammocks to rest.

As sunset approaches, the trees become a house of activity. A horde of little birds chirping among the branches and the cats looking up in anticipation of some down covered dinner. A few people are out on a walk, the two young guys chain smoking next to their motorbikes and a single woman who lives in the ground floor whose spaniel looking to make friends with everyone on the road. The security guy squatting near the gate, talking loud on his mobile phone, to his family in Bangladesh.

On the lime tree, there is a blue, lone, restless hummingbird still looking for his mate.

Through the palm tree blades, the sky is split into pieces of bluish grey, with one holding a moon for a while until it moves out of the frame. A couple with a stroller gets out of their car and briefly pauses to introduce their baby to another lazy cat on a car roof. They laugh, kiss and go inside. Street lamps sport their burning blonde heads. The road is fallow in the yellow light.

The moon moves to another spot among the leaves.

There is a one way street in front of my house.

This street doesn’t take you anywhere in particular.

But it also takes you everywhere if you want to.

A Valentines Day Recipe

 The paprika should be a deep crimson like freshly drawn blood. A chalice of onion and garlic powder, crushed red pepper the size of a little heart, a spoon of sea salt and black pepper, and a small scoop of brown sugar to confuse the rest of the players.

Add it to a bowl; a bowl that fits your hand. Mix them well. Let the mix fall through the gaps in between your fingers like a memory that slipped away. Let it not be intentional.

Liberally season that filet steak with this mix. Use your hand. Pat it down so that the meat soaks it up. Not too hard, not too soft. Think of someone you love; you would know how to do it.

Ensure that the pan is hot before you lower the steak into it. Help it slide down as the heat hisses in fiery passion and starts to work on the tenderness. Let both sides get the same treatment. No side feels ignored on this special day!

Let it cook until it matches the color of caramelized honey on the outside and still sore and pink in the center. If it still bleeds a little, you did it right. It will never forget you.

Don't forget a rich Bordelaise sauce. Finely chopped shallots, a little dried thyme, one bay leaf and 2 cups of beef stock. A full cup of Bordelaise from where you had a sip. Wipe your lips with the back of your palm. Finish off the sauce with a bit of beurre manie and thicken it like a dream. Bless it with some salt and pepper to taste. Dip a finger into it, lick it up. Does it feel like silk? Does it feel like you just invaded some place you shouldn't have? Then it's about right.

By the side you have crispy roasted potatoes and brussel sprouts with Parmesan and Balsamic. Green runner beans tossed in butter (They were once snakes in another life; they make you do things) and a few honey brown sugar roasted carrots.

Now it's time. A generous slice of the steak covered in sauce followed by a little of everything else in the plate. If it all can fit on a fork, better. Open your mouth, close your eyes.

Eat. All of it. Feed someone you love this evening. Feed yourself.

Happy lovin Valentines day.

Bon fuckn apetit!