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.

The Gas-Powered Flight. (originally written 0n 12 June 2024)

Picture this: you and your buddies, all set for a leisurely flight to Kathmandu, where snow peaked mountains await. Excitement filled the air literally, until the air's filled with something else entirely. 

As the seatbelt sign dimmed, we settled in. 

But fate had other plans, in the form of a fellow traveler whose digestive system seemed intent on redefining the meaning of turbulence.

As the first waft hit, we exchanged wide-eyed glances of disbelief. Was this a test of our friendship? A survival challenge at 30,000 feet? More importantly, are human beings capable of such intensity? 

At first, it was subtle—a faint whiff here, a suspicious glance there. But as the minutes ticked by, the cabin air became increasingly dense with the unmistakable scent of trouble. We exchanged nervous glances, attempting to pinpoint the source of the olfactory onslaught. Waving frantically, we dubbed ourselves the Fart-Fighting Squad and dove into action. My black hoodie came to the rescue. We grabbed a corner each of the hoodie and folded the fabric over three suffering noses, fashioning ourselves as the intrepid Gasping Gang, the defenders of our nasal integrity.

In between we also adopted the "breathe through your mouth" technique, which, while effective in filtering out the odiferous onslaught, left us tasting airplane air. 

All this while, the culprit remained anonymous.

There were three seated directly in front of us. One was our buddy, the youngest in our group. He was crying being the first recipient of the waft. The other two; an elderly lady who seemed to be completely unaffected by all this and working on her script on a play in Russian. Her younger compatriot who had a blackout eye mask and seemed asleep. He was suspect number one in our list. Or was it the old lady who seemed busy writing who may have had two outputs; one creative and the other for remission? 

As the flight hovered above Kathmandu skies, the Pilot announced that the landing strip was hidden behind a thick cloud cover and we had to circle the skies until it cleared. We looked at each other and winced. Guess what; it took another 90 minutes of circling and more of chemical warfare until the skies cleared.

But in the end, we emerged, traumatized but united by a shared ordeal and with a newfound appreciation for air circulation. The flatulent fiasco became the stuff of legend among our group, forever immortalized in our travel anecdotes as the day we conquered the skies — and the smell.

So, to all future passengers: buckle up, breathe easy, and may the winds be ever in your favor. And remember, in the battle against flatulence, solidarity is your best weapon. Or a thick black hoodie.

Footnote: I had paid extra for that particular seat 🥹

Celebrating Azeez. (originally written on 5 March 2024)

 KelvinTalks is our new kid on the block, a corporate Toastmasters club chartered where I work, at Sodexo, Auh, UAE. 

In the realm of public speaking, there are moments that transcend mere rhetoric, moments where words become a vessel for raw emotion and personal narrative. Last Wednesday, one such moment unfolded as Azeez, one of our colleagues, stepped forward to deliver his inaugural icebreaker speech. In a stirring display of courage and vulnerability, Azeez shared his deeply personal journey, weaving together moments of struggle and triumph. You could hear a pin drop and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. During my many years with Toastmasters, this was a first.

Azeez's speech was not just a recitation of events; it was a journey through the labyrinth of human experience. With each word, he invited us into his world, something that seemed to resemble  a movie script depicting glory, fall from grace, struggles and a final leap of faith. His last sentence was this; 'I feel relieved now'. The audience exhaled along with him.

Having endured a never ending supply of re-hashed and clichéd sob stories, a Toastmaster often becomes immune to such stuff. But last Wednesday, in that moment, we realized the true essence of Toastmasters – not just to hone our speaking skills, but to connect with one another on a deeper, more meaningful level.

On behalf of the entire team, I extend my heartfelt congratulations to Azeez for his courage and for choosing to be vulnerable in front of his colleagues. May your journey continue to inspire others and may you find boundless success in all your endeavors.

In the words of Maya Angelou, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." Azeez, thank you for having the courage to share your story with us. 

Raw. Straight from the heart. Azeez Tijani. 

Take a bow!

Trek Mare (originally written on 28 Dec 2023)

 Ah, the enchantment of an early morning trek, where the allure of breathtaking sunrises collides with the harsh reality of sore muscles and aching limbs. As I hobbled back from my latest foray into the great outdoors, I couldn't help but ponder whether my fondness for trekking was a recurring dance of "fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, and fool me every time someone announces the next trek."

It all began innocently enough. The day before, I drove down to Ravi’s place. The winter evening at JLT unfolded beautifully – cold and pleasant. In the words of my fellow trekker (name withheld for obvious reasons), “nalla alcoholic weather!” Succumbing to the atmosphere, Ravi and I delved into discussions about weather, women, and work over a few well-brewed beverages. By 11 PM, two thoughts were dueling in my head: sleep now and rise at 3 AM for the long drive to RAK, or stay awake until early morning and venture out at 3 AM. Despite the sensible option being glaringly obvious, my brain opted for a third alternative, and I found myself lying down by only midnight, waiting for sleep that never arrived. 

At 2.30 AM, bleary-eyed, I woke up to find Ravi sleeping, the sun yet to rise, and the birds contemplating the merits of waking up so early. With one eye open and the other closed, I succumbed to the call of panoramic views and the communion with nature. My pre-dawn alarm rang out.

As I stepped out, the road lay bare and barren, with the occasional passing cab seeming to float above the tarmac. I shook my head – I needed a chai. 

The 1.5-hour drive to the starting point passed on autopilot, with loud music aiding my battle against drowsiness. The sky remained unchanged as I pulled into the spot where others would gather, only to find none. I was early, surrounded by total darkness.

Another 20 minutes passed before I saw another human, and then, the rest trickled in. My first winter trek was about to commence after a considerable hiatus.

The initial steps up the winding trail filled my lungs with crisp mountain air, making me feel on top of the world. However, a couple of hours later, I found myself questioning life choices with each agonizing step. My once-reliable legs rebelled against the uphill climb's tyranny, sweat poured down my face, and desert shrubs with thorns bullied my ankles. The lazy-ass sky still lay sleeping on its belly above us.

Two and a half hours into the trek, most fellow hikers decided to call it a day. We were on the most grueling and ironically named trek in the UAE, aptly titled "The Stairway to Heaven." (Surely, there must be some logical criteria for naming treks, I thought.) 

As I descended from my latest uphill escapade, my uncooperative noodle legs, served as a stark reminder that they were not built for such early morning acrobatics. In the hushed whispers of one nursing aching limbs, I vowed, "No more trekking for me," declaring my resolve to a few mountain goats witnessing my triumphant descent into soreness.

On the way back, I rolled over smooth rocks, winced at sharp ones, and climbed over bigger ones. At each resting point, we huddled together through shared misery, bonding as fellow trekkers. 

I was back at Ravi’s place by 4 PM, nursing sore muscles and a cup of chai, contemplating the insanity of it all. My hiking boots awaited by the door, but I lacked the energy to drive back home. After a hot shower, I settled into the comfort of a thick blanket, thinking whether to engage in Ravi's discussion on the three W's we left unfinished.

But something didn’t feel alright.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone, my fingers danced across the screen, and the familiar voice on the other end greeted me with a chipper, "Hello?" 

Taking a deep breath, my sore muscles staging a final protest, I blurted out, "So, when's the next trek?"

The Day After (Originally written on 15 Feb 2023)

Last year, on Valentine's eve, I shared a recipe. This year, I had no appetite. But I had impatience. I had not seen her in days. She had to be around.

Where are you!

I do not know if you have ever felt this w
ay too...

On those days when you are restless for no reason and can't settle down, you get to work. And by work I mean, any random stuff. My most preferred indulgence is cleaning my room. The cobwebs in the most unreachable nook in the ceiling gets tackled at the end of a broom, held by me, standing on my toes precariously balanced on a stool not meant for that business. The bottom shelf of the TV stand that had assumed another color from the dust it gathered, regains its complexion. A pair of leather shoes that I lost interest 6 months ago will get a coat of wax. There are miracles all around.

I kneel down, hold my face at an angle that helps me get as close as possible to the floor. This inspection reveals a curry stain on the a tile from a few weeks ago. With a discarded kitchen knife I scrape it off the floor. Then I find another mark. The knife and I get to work until my back and neck is sore. I stop. I get up a little too quickly, feel giddy and fall ungracefully onto the sofa. A vape that I do not use anymore and had disappeared among the folds of the sofa poke my bony butt. Another reminder.

There is dust accumulated inside the window frames. I wish I had not chucked the old vacuum cleaner in the dumpster when I moved out of my earlier dwelling. Too late. I look around to see if there is anything else I can do.

There are dirty clothes in the hamper. But no. Too lazy for that. Especially when the Super Clean laundry right opposite will take care of that.

That is when I hear that familiar noise at the gate. I wipe my hands on a towel, throw it in the direction of the hook on the wall and grab the yellow packet on top of the mini fridge on my way to the door.

She was there, waiting. I step out and she stops, hesitating for a second. I hold my hand out and she comes close, my finger touch ever so lightly against her nose. She purrs and rubs her face against my palm. I open a fresh pack of cheese flavored Dreamies treats. Now it was her turn to be impatient! 

I watch her eat.

My love turned up a day late. Who cares!

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".