A Cup of Tea

Equal quantities of water and milk. First the milk, then the water, from the same cup so that every drop of milk is washed away into the pan. As I flick the switch, the stove comes alive with a gasp. It isn't very quiet in the morning. But behind the closed glass door of the kitchen, the faint hiss of fire meeting steel is loud. Chucky walks in, rubs her face against my leg and lets me know that she is there.

It will take a few minutes. One has to wait. Those few minutes are the most unsure ones for me. I don't really know what to do. Except stare into the pan and wish the liquid to boil faster than it can. On my left, through the green tinted glass, the dusty balcony serves as a brief diversion. Two doves who reside in the adjacent building, a stray cat below that never sleeps and the super busy sparrows that dart in and out. Dead roaches on the floor from an earlier pest control episode. There is nothing great about these mornings. Through the glass, it is pale green outside.

Back to the milk and water. Impatience takes over. I chuck a spoon full of tea dust into the mix and watch the milk rise up slowly to embrace the addition. Then I start stirring the mix with a teaspoon. Purists may differ and argue that it doesn't help anything. But a lot that goes on here is just muscle memory. At some point, I deduce that the color and strength is good enough. Now pour that carefully into the strainer, into the steel mug that can hold 3 cups of tea. I pause a moment to look into the mug to appreciate my handiwork. I must be one among the top 10 best tea makers in the world. Too sad that such a qualification doesn't exist, or isn't worth mentioning.

Chucky's inquisitive stare reminds me that I haven't fed her. I do that and sit down. After the first sip of tea, there's a very subtle, barely recognizable sense of being alive. Or it could be just the hot liquid inside kicking some mucosa cells into action.

For anyone who read this till far expecting this to be funny or uplifting, I apologize.

This is my cup of tea. It has been for many months now. Chucky doesn't seem to care though. She is my constant companion through my tea ritual. As I scratch her chin with my chewed fingernails, she looks at me through half closed eyes and tells me in her language, "It's alright".

Exit signs

 

the white square burns

 
among the quiet of the seats
among the hum of machines
in the dim of exit signs
I said something—
words
never spoken or spilled



a finger moved
combing the air
for another one 
in the chair next

An Old Tale

 

There was once a hare and a tortoise.

Hare was fast and nimble. Tortoise was slow and shy. Tortoise watched the hare from far away and wondered what would it be like to have long and powerful legs like that. It imagined itself being carried on those legs, galloping together over the meadow in a brown and white flurry. 

(pic credits: https://jessica-rawlings.co.uk)

Hare had also noticed the tortoise, occasionally. How it slowly raised its head from a meal and receded into the shell instantly as it caught the hare looking.

Slow. Elegant. Shy. 

Both knew what those fleeting glances meant. But no one made any moves. Their worlds were vastly dissimilar. One moved in quick leaps and the other barely moved at all. Their grandparents had told them about a century old tale where two of them clashed in a race. How the outcome surprised the entire world and effectively shut down any possible reconciliation between the two cultures. That story had multiple narratives and more conspiracy theories resurfaced every now and then. 

The hare thought about all this, bit off the head of a green tender blade of grass and looked at the brown shell across the meadow. It seemed to move towards the hare. The hare paused. Curious.

It was noon. The sun was beating down heavily. Time was moving slow. After what it felt like an eternity, the tortoise got closer to the hare. It was transfixed by the sight of those long legs in all its splendor. The hare was aware of the scrutiny, and suppressing a smile, asked; "Are you checking me out?"

Instinct took over the tortoise and it withdrew into its shell. 

The hare waited for a full minute and looked around for some shade. There was a tree a hundred yards away.

The sun got hotter. As the hare watched from under a tree, the tortoise popped its head out, looked around and slowly turned the other way.

 The tortoise headed back to where it came from. "It was all in my head", thought the reptile. "What did you make me wait for!", wondered the hare.

Nothing happened. No words exchanged. No fables re written. 

Somewhere in another world, some random guy put his pen and paper down, dunked another glass down his throat and muttered; "some other day, some other day".

Ants in my hair

If Eve doomed the human race for an apple, what would she do for a pair of Christian Louboutin? If someone made a movie about Morgan Freeman, who would narrate it? If Facebook banned photos, how many people would die?

(pic credits: wikipedia)

Alone and bored in an empty house in Kochi, I looked at the ceiling and pondered over what I thought were existential questions that bothered the fatigued and over thinking intellects of the cosmos.

I tried to detect if there were hidden patterns in the white paint that covered the ceiling. I imagined the ceiling in black and wondered if it would make a difference in the night. Before another thought could strike my brainwork, I felt a tingling behind my neck. It started at the base of my neck and worked it's way up, and paused at the beginning of my hairline. There, it got entangled in the short strands and seemed to move slowly. Did I awaken my chakras? Half bemused, my fingers sought out the tingling.

It fell out. An ant, its life squished out my my prying fingers.

A bunch of new thoughts pervaded my mind. Why did the ant get into my hair? Was it doomed to die like this, at the hands of a bored human in a lonely building? Is my hair sweet?

I put it down on the floor. In a few minutes, a few more ants gathered around, picked it up, and carried it away amongst a small, busy, mourning party.

I went back to the thoughts. Was it an important ant? Should I wash my hair, change my bed sheet or stop eating dinner in bed? Why is a dead ant part of my thoughts?

Dead ant dead ant dead ant.....