Favorite things (written on 21 July 2021)

 Back home, I had my favorite chair at the dining table. I still have.

I don't remember the day I decided on that particular spot or why I chose that specific chair. Even when we had guests at home, that chair was kept vacant for me to go join everyone else at the dining table. It was "my chair". Did you have one too?

There have been occasions when "my" chair was given to somebody else. It wasn't just anyone. It had to be someone important. A very close friend who was invited for dinner, my favorite cousin, or someone else who was simply special. I have to admit that there was also some random guest who would have plonked themselves on that chair before I entered the dining room. As I grew older, I learned to forgive them and have my meal in silence.

As time passes, some of those objects over which we had a certain ownership and emotional attachment, still remain. Perhaps not a chair. However, if we let another person briefly enjoy that space, it is a conscious decision. And a big one at that. A gesture that went beyond the act of sharing.  Now it could be your car, a piece of clothing or a perfume. If I have shared such a space or an object with someone else, it meant that I shared a very personal corner of my life with them. If I offered my car key and asked you to drive, I didn't do it because I was "too tired to drive". Only a select few get to use them. Or, maybe just one. The chosen one. An act of sharing that you may not disclose to the rest of the world. 

If I ever allowed you to take up my special seat at anytime, I wanted you to.

What was something special you shared!

In conversation with Chucky (written on 16 July 2021)

 

Would I survive this? 

Chucky didn't treat that as a close ended question. She decided to put me through a rather circuitous performance of what she thought was the answer. She gave me "the look". First, with her face tilted to the left. Then to her right. That is when you know that a cat is curious. Now that she had all my attention, she dropped a paw, ears forward. I dropped my nonchalance. And the tea cup; almost.

She spoke in a way only we both can understand. You know what I am talking about.

Sitting in the shaded corner of the kitchen, she stretched. And became twice the cat she was. Have you ever seen a cat doing it! Her walk-around length is at best 45 cm, plus some tail. Once she stretches, she could be at least 3 ft long. Chucky is all cat and the rest elastic, I think. So, she stretched and placed her good looking paws right in the ray of sunlight coming through the glass door, a good 2 feet away from her. (remember the green tinted glass door?) In the sunlight, her smooth fur coat looked surreal, like an explosion of white silk. 

What does that mean? May be I should reach out a bit, little more than I usually stretch?  Or, is she trying to tell me that I need to get out from the shade and brave the light? Perhaps both. What is wrong in giving someone multiple messages in one little big gesture!

As if the first lesson was over, she sat up with her inimitable feline grace and started grooming herself. A paw went up and down her face a few times, as her pink tongue kept the activity well moisturized. Nowhere to go and no one to meet but there she was; making sure that she looked good. I ran my fingers through my sparse stubble. In the unclear reflection on the kitchen door, I looked like the grinch in trousers and tee. I guess the second message was loud and clear. My cat just told me that I need to get my act together.

Oh yes; the rule of three. There has to be a third one, right? To bring this to a conclusion?

Chucky knew.

She  rolled over, folded her paws like flippers and looked at me. Face upside down, all funny and adorable. She knows that she is irresistible in that pose. I could hear her purr. It said "I love you, no matter what". You should listen to her purr. Her love sounds like a tiny motor with a clogged exhaust. I heard myself smile. I scooped her up in my arms and held her close. Chucky laid a stiff paw on my face and told me; "you can't kiss me now".

Teachers are like that. They keep some stuff for another occasion.

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.....

Ain't no valentine (originally written on 14 Feb, 2018)

It took me a while to write this to you

and this message goes out to You.

Just You.

And I wanted to say this for a long time.

But didn't have the courage to say it all this time.

You make me feel powerless.

The world turns colorless

The emotion is overpowering.

I choke. I gasp. In a corner

I am cowering

You did it...and walked away.

And I sway, as you leave me

in its wake.

And I shake

This ain't no Valentine

You just got tag lined

That's what happens when you fart,

in a lift.

You schmuck.

****

Have a fresh Valentines day every one!

Under the stairs, we did it. (originally written on 26 Feb, 2018)

We did it.

Under the creaking stairs

that smelled of varnish

and musty wood

Behind the door

Where the clothes hooks caught our hands

and raked our skin

In the attic

where dust rose and fell

into a shaft of evening sun

peeping in

to catch some action

In the corner

as an old lamp shade

watched us from under its veil

we held our breath

and hurried

As we did it

left to right

and again

as we cleaned

the cob webs.

The Toastmaster (originally written on 18 March, 2018)

Wife: Why are the clothes still on the sofa? Don't you all have hands? Are you waiting for them to fold themselves?

Toastmaster: Do you remember that time? The year was 1995 and I was a bachelor. It was different during those times.

Daughter: I wouldn't know. I was told that I was born after my parents were married.

Toastmaster: The yesteryears! I still remember! We didn't have a sofa. But (meaningful pause)... there were three wooden chairs in the drawing room. With hand-stitched cushions. Two red (walks over to one side of the room) and one yellow. My mother would never wash them; beacuse if she had washed them, (sad smile) we didn't have another 3 to replace them.

Wife: That explains your showering habits too. Old habits, stink forever.

Daughter: Eeewwww...

Toastmaster: (poignantly) Speaking of stink, those cushions had a certain smell about them. the smell of spilled coffee, a few drops of sambar, mildew.

Wife: And your farts

Daughter: prrrrr...rrrrrr

Toastmaster: It acquired something from everyone who sat on them. A bit of personality that those cushions borrowed every time from anyone who rested on them. Inadvertently contributed in return for those moments of repose!

Daughter: (hands in the air) Every ass contributes!

Wife: Not in this house, apparently. Shut up and start folding your clothes. Otherwise go make your own dinner, like in the yesteryears.

Toastmaster: ".........."

Daughter: You gotta work on your conclusion. Was kinda abrupt. prr.

Introducing: Ms Karma

Karma ain't a bitch. 

She is an elderly matron who is having a drink, studying the map, and making notes. She is constantly watching the gate and clicking photos of those who go out, come in late, or kicks the dog.

She is the lamp post around the corner that stands her ground, 3 feet deep, and realigns your face if needed. 

She is a glass pane that sees through you and slices you up if you don't respect her. 

She is the unseen bird in the sky that sees the world you live in and drops a warning that wont leave your hair for a long time.

She is a patient woman who stays quiet, bites down on her mouth piece and swings from her fences, as you catch a nap. 

She is an observer who watches you from far, sees you slacken and hurries forward to hasten your fall. 

She is the unseen invigilator who sees what you write, listens to what you didnt say, knows what you truly are.

Then one fine day, she'd take the fire-iron, get behind the person of interest and shoves it in. Happens all unawares, leaves undetected but ensures the press notices it.

Karma ain't a bitch.

Karma is a bad-ass babe with poise, restraint and immaculate timing.

Father's Day

Yesterday was Fathers’ day.

Fathers are heroes without capes, angels with a mustache, the pillars of strength, the silent lovers…social media was flooded with sepia colored photos, sappy rhetoric and certainly a lot of love.

But they aren’t any of that. Or, perhaps a lot more. But they are also something else.

They are the ones who fall silent under questions like:

How you saved enough for a rainy day? Do you understand? Do you love me? When will you stop believing in your stupid friends? Why do you waste money on these silly things? Why don’t you do something? Why can’t you be like HIM?

They are the ones who leave for work wishing that it would be a better day than yesterday. Wishing that the trousers fit, not worried because it isn’t healthy, but it would mean another purchase.

Smiling embarrassed when an old classmate reminds him of the young rebel who wanted to change the world, but now looking at grocery bills and wondering if the total is correct.

Feeling angry when she asked why they can’t go for a cruise when her friend’s family took even their grandparents along.

Realizing that his daughter outgrew the birthday parties she could never host at home because the house was small.

Wondering why his temper gets ahead of him so often and regrets the words that left his mouth, and hopes it would be alright in a day or two. Or never.

Shares a laugh with his friends over a drink and wishes he could start all over.

Unsure if he loves them enough or is there something he has forgotten.

Unused gym memberships, unread books on the shelf, wasted appointments with the Doc.

I will do it tomorrow. I will win the lottery. I will do better.

With a wry smile, he gets into bed, looks at the ceiling and wonders why sleep never comes.

He is insecure, worried, stressed out.

He is flawed.

But he gets a day in a year he is called a Super hero.