As a kid, I burst into laughter everytime I fell . I think I much prefer comedy to drama.

glee, glide, no glum

There should be a teashop at every parking lot in town. Not a bistro or café (said with overplayed contempt and head toss), but a chai shop.
Peshal (special) tea, lemon tea, saada tea: Sighs in little plastic cups. You can’t hold it stylishly with an elite pinky stuck up in the air. You can’t caress it with both hands, like you can your daily coffee mug. You can’t place it on a table and sip from like a straw. You can’t pour it down your throat, without touching your lip, like from a steel glass. You have no option here, tea lover. The frail little plastic cup must be held gingerly, with index finger and thumb, shifted from right hand to left with a “tsss!” when the heat singes skin. And oh, how the heart wrenches when a few drops of the cherished wee bit of chai fall on the footpath…
The empty-plot-turned-parking-lot is very convenient for this chai wala. He sits in an old red and blue Taj Mahal counter behind a mossy wall that rises up to his waist. No tea stains on his vest, mind you. Or the pungent smell of old milk. He looks like he just stepped out of a bath all the time.
“Lemon tea, saar,” I tell him, and show a ‘V’ sign with my fingers. He beams at me like I said I loved him (I do, truly) and repeats authoritatively to his assistant who’s well hidden behind the tea flasks: “Yeradu lemon tea, maydimege” (two lemon teas for madam). All I can see is two hands swish-swashing around the flasks, slicing a lemon, and clapping with a finishing flourish.
“Red-ready”, his boss mumbles and beams at me again. By now, I know that I’m not the only recipient of his super beam, as I hear more tea buyers around loftily declare that the chai wala “really likes me”. One college girl even said, “Why is he smiling at me like thaaat, ya? Creepy fellow…” Hand over that tea girl, it ain’t for the pompous.
We take our lemon tea and sip it quietly, holding the little cup in the only way we can/must. A whiff of tingly citrus freshness. I watch the steam waft its way up, warming my nose. Every sip takes its time… stroking awake each taste bud, carelessly, idly.
One little plastic cup of glee. Gingerly fondled two days ago. Lounging in my mind still.

to breathe again...

The yelling crowd stomped about my brain enough. they dispersed. defeated by synergic effects of pots and pots of heavenly tea, rain slapping leaves against a window, a familiar face from a far away land, rediscovery of wonderfully intermingling lives, stories repeatedly told and each time, embellished and enjoyed tirelessly.
thank goodness for aimless conversation.

floats

Beginnings and middles, I wallow in. Not so much, ends.
Flashes of clear skies, crooked eyebrows, and conversation fight for space with acquiescence. It's noisy. And I’ve never liked crowds. Especially ones where I’m jostled out of happy balance. Makes me unsure of which nearby walker I should grab onto to stay on my feet.
Left to me, I'd embalm continuities. And sack (also sock) the ones who draw thick drapes on sunshine. Haven't they heard of ventilation?

chromium fest

It's all about bananas it seems. Trucks careening with six to eight foot banana stem propped up on their sides; little boys riding bicycles with two foot banana leaves balanced on their handle bar; shop fronts adorned with ugly purple banana flowers.
It's Ayudha puja. I wake up and walk out on to the road. Every year, it's the same scene. Exactly the same. Every vehicle in every house will be out on the road, from huge weekend getaway car to tricycle of a three-year-old's imaginary friend. They'd be showered and scrubbed, dusted and buffed. I remember even picking at tyre grooves to scrape out dried dung and unknowingly crushed bugs. Foot mats, seat covers, engine rags… all washed (till at least half the grease transfers into your nails) and hung out to dry.
One kid per house is appointed to run to the flower market to buy garlands. The younger you were, the cuter your wide-eyes would look as you stumbled through "Uncle, vondhu haara kodi. Mummy kaas kottidhaare." (Uncle, gimme one garland. Mummy has given money). It always worked. We always got some extra flowers and a festive grin for our cuteness. It's an art I had perfected. Sigh. But age caught up with me. '
Now some smart-alecky boys strut confidently to the old flower man (now with more grey chest hair peeping out of his vest and more irate about the inflation), and haggle for half the price. Who will tell these "street smart" boys that those cynical assumptions about the world being out to swindle the innocents does NOT include this toothless smiler?
Another bygone pleasure was this neighbour aunty, who for years, had brought out her TVS Champ and walked around it, thoughtfully rubbing her imaginary stubble, as if figuring out where to begin cleaning. The bike ALWAYS looked like it had been through every mori (drain), thorny shrub, kuppathotti (garbage bin) and stagnant-lake-with-stinky-green-film-on-it (moss?).
After the preliminary up-down, aunty would go find rags, buckets, polishing creams, hose-pipes, brooms (to sweep away the sand dunes that would keep forming magically under the bike), toothbrushes (for those hard to reach places), drumsticks, detergent and used tea bags (donno why).
For the mega clean-up, she'd lift up her sari, Rajnikanth style. To egg her on, we'd cleverly give zhup-zhup sound effects. Then yell, "Cleaniiiiiiiing…. auntyyyyyyyy!!!" while excitedly jumping all over the place. Thinking of it now, I don't know why she laughed merrily at us. Cleaning aunty?! Oh god! I wouldn't be flattered.
But a good 4-5 hours and loyal cheerleading later, it would be like the heaven shone upon goodness. Chromium spangled us to blindness. And the vanilla milkshake after a long day's work (we cleaned our cycles and gave our tonsils to cleaning aunty, didn't we?) ensured that we remained, forever, cleaning aunty's little helpers. But aunty's gone abroad to her sons now. Wonder who screams their lungs out for her there.
Until some years ago, I hated only one thing about the day. That my bicycle could never crush the lemons-under-the-tyres in one powerful go. So in 8th std., I cheated. I cut the lemon a little. Just enough for it to give under the cycle-wheel. Now... I'm old enough to own a bike that can crush an elephant. Ahem. Ok fine. Can crush a melon? FINE! Can crush a lemon without kitchen aid.
I know these things seem exciting only in hindsight. On Friday, when I'll have to handle three dirty bikes all on my own, I won't enjoy it... Dad's impeccable logic: The one car I clean is equivalent to three bikes…. (Last year it was two bikes. I never liked progressive math). I will crib and whine about cuts and bruises on my hands as I try to reach never-touched-before motor parts. But I'm going to make redeeming vanilla milkshake this time. (resolute head shake) For the whole street.
Ok for my family.

whet thought

seen: a wannabe-river stream of light brown rainwater gurgling beside the footpath. burbling, swishing, swashing, gushing.
and a severely empty aquafina bottle floating along.

reddy!

A recent survey discovered that Bangalore’s ‘pothole density’ is less than 5 potholes per km. "That is lower than many other cities, so don’t you dare complain about roller-coaster rides and your irrational fear of mass spondilitis!"
But I cruise through these inane little reports knowing my brand new (and shiny red) Pep will glide over any damn pothole. Of course, I’m not allowed to subject it to experimental or purely self-aggrandizing ill treatment just for kicks till I make 1000 km. So I do an insipid 30 kmph, frequently being jolted out of my skin and shamed to unbathed nakedness when an impatient old kinetic Honda honks, discovers some plastic still covering the body armour, and HAHAs pompously. His assumption: new bike = new rider = LL = worthy only of treatment meted out to cyclists (also unfair, btw). And that means footpath-scraping. I bite down scathing remarks about his chappal still flashing its price tag, because, well, I’m the bigger person on the newer bike. With cheaper, more handsome chappals from a guy who sutured Gabbar Singh’s shoes. (Yes, it matters)
You know the unsettling quiet brought on by blocked ears? When you feel like screaming "I’m too young to not be able to eavesdrop anymore!!"… only, you can’t hear yourself scream. And turning a deaf ear to your own voice is just wounding. After years of zipping around in a joyously noisy oldest model Scooty, disquieting silence is what I experience today on the Pep (the slick new Scooty). I almost panicked. Why can’t I hear metallic clanging?! Why can’t I hear put-putting as I pause at the traffic signal?! Why can’t I hear a sickly wheeze when I accelerate?! "Well honey, I’m new, two strokes more than my thatha, and you just paid a bomb for me," the Pep seems to murmur.
So now I won’t try my best to hear an assuring all’s well clang. I will set my sights on the red zzzzzzziip I’ll be on the road instead of the green horse wagon. I just sold nostalgia for new paint. and I christen her Reddy.

rainman

There’s much angst about icy cold raindroplets on a warm neck as people run under shops for cover. Strangers don’t really talk to one another. Words just fill spaces, and conversation begins over the din of the rain, like quick comments uttered over a standing ovation, to the person nearby.
"Five days of cricket, and not a single drop. It should’ve rained this madly then. We wouldn’t have had to see India lose that horribly."
"Yes, yes. It was another kind of wash out, no?" (laughs at his own joke. First guy politely chuckles along)
"See now, KEB will say ‘male saar. So power cut’. Half a reason they need for power cut."
"Yes, yes. All these IT companies will have current, though. One day they don’t write a program means the world will end, no?"
"My son is in Infosys. He says they have UPS. That's why there is power."
"Oh. Infosys is very good company. They have ethics, morals. Not like Wipro and all."
"My son-in-law, who works in Wipro…"
"(very quickly) Of course, your son-in-law must surely be a gem. But every company will have crooks. That doesn’t mean there won’t be good people."
"What sir, these days government is only criminal. Why look at private fellows?"
"Yes, yes. Thank god Lok Ayukta is there in our Bengloor to catch these dirrrty officials. They forget that being government servants means they are our servants also."
"Who is whose servant saar these days? The maid in my house wears brand new sarees everyday, has TV, fridge and VCD player also. She told my wife that day that her daughter will not do housework like her. See what ego they have these days?!"
"Like that she said? Che che! Why not ask you to clean her house? Hahahahaa!"
First guy’s cell phone rings. He answers it in tamil: "Yennappa? Andha cheque paas aacha?". He looks heavenward, sees the rain has let up, jumps over a puddle and goes away. The other man looks at the first guy go, sighs and walks into the shop and sits at the counter.
I’ve decided. That shop is going to be my permanent rain-stop. Little tellable tales are born there.

reeverse

On Sunday ended the irony of a flying son of Krypton having to sit paralysed in a wheelchair.
Christopher Reeves, 52, died yesterday. But no Deathtrap, this.



There is a theory that Superman was timed with the immigrant worries in america... :) never underestimate the power of popular culture, aye?

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discordant refrain

I wish she’d sing a song. Hum a tune, so the mind would flit mindlessly along. So follies could be sung about and forgotten. Flaws romanticized like for a rock star, or dead friend.
I wish she wouldn’t watch the tick of the clock so. Instead, smile at the faces it seemed to make.
I wish all the gibberish I garbled would make her giggle, till tears rolled down her eyes, as she repeated the babble in keywords, in a voice squeaky from the laughter, between intakes of air, between chuckles.
I wish she’d swing the kitchen rag at me in mock violence, and quickly ask me to wash my face to wipe off the "germs".
When I fall asleep open-mouthed, she now forgets to put a raisin in there, and say, "See… the goat has gone No.2 in the cave. Close the door." But yes, she still remembers to let me lounge in bed till 8 a.m. because I worked on a report till 3 a.m. I love how she offers to make me coffee before listing the day’s chores out.
But I wish she’d turn off the silencing radio, and go falsetto as she dressed for work, as her man turned another page of the newspaper and sang tenor from the bathroom. They’d ignore that I was trying to speak into the phone over the din, and urge me to croon along. "Let’s make a family song that we can sing to each other if we were lost in a Kumbh mela…" she would suggest. And we’d grin to teethy glory.
I wish she'd sing a song of lyrical errors, sweet because overridden by tune.
I wish she’d unfurrow her eyebrows. Pace less. And laugh. More.

thus is laid down

Is there a world where doing anything only when you feel like it is considered heroic and free-spirited? How come "I’m not in a mood" is an invalid excuse? I'd like a word with the mandate maker. Unless he/she is not in a mood.

"love your suit.."

how the movie manages to unsettle over and over is beyond me.

rings a bell..

"Blase"... that's a common word, right? I have run an indifferent (pssst! Can I use blase over here?) eye over it millions of times. In a sentence, running along with other words. Hardly worth a second glance. It's as grey as any five-letter word. Too tiny to qualify a pause in reading, even to pick up a dictionary to find out what it exactly means as a lone word, without the supporting cast. Oh I thought I knew "blase" like the back of my hand. But when someone popped "blase" at me as a stand-alone, I sweated it.
It was like the new girl in the blue sweater in that large group of friends. We all had a fantastic time together... how we gelled! But what was her name again? I don't think I asked. We all did make a great bunch, and the girl made for great company, with a witty remark at every cue. We should do this again sometime, we say earnestly; we shake hands, happy to have known each other so well in so quick a time. But when I see her the at the stationery shop standing within familiar-handshake distance of me, we shuffle our feet. Peripheral vision (thanks to shifty eyes) takes over full time. Then I leave there, telling myself why I found her fun in the first place. She didn't even say hi.
... This analogy is courtesy English teacher, III std., C section. She thought words were people. She thought we had to know the "personality" of the word to understand it as it stood away from its peers. She was batty. I totally loved her.

world view

To whom are you speaking? To Yassin? He wasn't deaf. He became deaf. He doesn't realise this. He's surprised that nothing makes a sound anymore... Just imagine. You are a child, Yassin... It would be idiotic to try and tell you it was deafness. You don't hear, you don't understand. You don't think it's you who can't hear. People have lost their voices; stones have lost their sound. The world is silent. So then, why are people moving their mouths?

-Atiq Rahimi (Earth and Ashes)

lazy lucky

ah yes, metaphoric it sure was. Poetic even, for the joy in the unsaid.
Waking up to the reddish sun streaming in, squinting into half-shut eyes. Sigh to happily doze again, coz there ain’t nowhere to go.
The dumb lambada from outside the door… it begins to flow in with sleepy breathing. I grin at having nothing to do. And grin wider at walking slow among rushing madness around. All they say is- that's bombay. live with it. Does no one know that you can take the local earlier and enjoy the ride? I didn't, for one. I was told.
One minute ambles into the next, all a muddle. Whizzzzzzzzz... that one-bus locality. The house of green and red. That one little chair. Only one there was, thank heavens. Talk of presidents and cartoons. That much laughing should be lethal. But wait, was it laughs, or inside smiles? Then beams. or snorts. Sleep and sloth, but strangely, no yawns. Panic only when a snug snuggle slips away.
I may have bottled the warmth. And the singing mosquito that only one song sung. mmm... How lazy can bliss be?