Of Size and Significance

Every time I would hear of a baby being born there would be all these people romancing the miracle of birth. And quite frankly I found the lines quite corny. I wouldn’t understand why anybody would click fifty pictures of their baby (who by the way looks the same in each one of them) and post them on social networking sites. And I’d categorise it as post-natal hormone overdrive and keep it at that.

But there was something different about this one. I’ve been friends with her for a couple of years now. I knew her when she was single, I knew her the day she wondered what love was, I knew her when she cried in love, I knew her the day she got married, I knew her the day she announced she was pregnant and I think that’s why when I found out a little girl was born, it was like a rush of warmth through my entire body. This baby here wasn’t just another little person, it was blood flesh and emotions of a person I’d met and lived with for years. She isn’t just a beautiful pink chubby angel – she’s my personal little cherub of insight. 

Dedicated in love, soul, spirit and essence to baby Rianna.

Back to dadabari

Flashback is my favourite function of the mind.


Back when I was about 10 or 11, bored of school work and confined within a million extra curricular activities forced to participate in, I would wait year long for the Durga Puja vacations to come through. Kids through our rather widespread family would be off for atleast 10 days and it'd be a sure shot at visiting dadabari. Nestled in a small village called Tofapur, that century old house would hold secret potions for fun that could never be found in our comfortable duplex in the metro. Sleepless nights and weeks of packing would finally end in boarding the overnight Gour Express from Sealdah station, eating out of packed tiffin-boxes and then sleeping off with a beating heart knowing the next time I opened my eyes, it would be the place I waited for, for months. Unless running late, we'd reach the station in the wee hours of the morning, more often than not greeted by a chacha who'd come specially to pick us up and then a drive to dadabari.


As the ritual held, dada would be sitting in his room looking out of the window waiting to greet the families that arrive, one by one. We'd rush into his arms and remember much later to do the salaams to which he would patiently smile. I never could decipher what that smile really meant, calm and loving. Then some muri with gur and off to our family room. On the way I'd steal cheerful glances at the cousins I've been looking for all along, while quietly being directed towards the room to freshen up and change. A minute later, much fresher in a lighter cotton frock, I'd rush back to where they were waiting, eager to exchange stories saved for the past months, instantly holding hands as if scared someone would keep us apart. And there the journey began.


Days and nights passed, but they all lost to the dazzle of the afternoon. One after the other, we'd spend them on the low hanging branches of the guava tree by our family graveyard. That was home. We'd play with wooden dolls, make little sections our private kitchen and cook imaginary meals out of guava leaves while sharing stories from school. But we had to get back before evening, for the folklore had it, spirits rose off the graveyard in the dark. So come sunset, we'd be running back the fastest our feets could carry towards the house. We'd enter from the backdoor to avoid getting caught by our respective fathers, only to get caught by the mothers instead. After some minor slaps on our backs for having been missing all afternoon, we'd be made to stand in a single file to wash our feet at the tubewell. Now this is what we'd hate the most because if you've ever played in a haystack you would know just how finely the hay cuts into your legs while you gleefully jump up and down on it. But that has never been a deterrent from doing it again, what we didnt want to do is, wash our feet. Mothers would however turn a deaf ear to all our pleas and threaten to complain to the fathers, which was fear big enough to drown us. So while screaming and swearing we'd quickly wash our feets to run back to the house and sit by dadi to hear stories of people we never seemed to recognise.


Sometimes if we were lucky, some chacha or the other would take all of cousins on a horse cart ride to the neighbouring village of Arjunpur for some nice rosogollas, shingaras or just plain ice cream. Sometimes we were even luckier when on late mornings they'd take us to the Ganga for a dip, completely oblivious to just how angry our mothers would be when they'd find out! Spending two to three hours splashing water on eachother seemed like the most fun idea Allah had ever devised. Only, the fun would soon turn into serious scolding when we'd return home drenched and coughing. And then there were million of evenings playing silly games with a hoard of the local village girls, most of whom I didnt even know names of.


Those days, that level of excitement, even those cousins now seem so distant. But I'm glad my memory can rebuild those moments every time I meet a trigger relevant enough.


Like I said, flashback is my favourite function of the mind.

Of the wait

Tick tok tick tok tick tok. I make imaginary sounds in my head, eyes fixed at the mute digital clock on my computer. Somewhere in my mind large black numbers appear. 2 and 5. 25 bloody more minutes to go. The head reels under the numbness. Suddenly, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ and the vision takes a long angle shot. Flashback.


8:05 am. You're late. I can almost see my boss lip sync those words from across the wooden partition. Traffic David, traffic. I silently lip back. With not a sound, we somehow communicated it anyway. Never hear the words, just listen to the message. Snap on the computer, fish into Outlook and ZOOP ZOOP ZOOP comes in the emails. Suppliers, clients, colleagues with questions, queries, requests, favours, demands et al. Flow on; sometimes smoothly and sometimes not so smoothly. One after the other; like braiding a nice long plait. I run my fingers through each to smoothen the irregularities, divide them with clean partitions and then let them flow into each other into a pattern that makes the overall product seem like a piece of art. Of course there also lies the utility factor of it all, money like they say. Within every twist and turn of the plait, the beauty is really how we wound each of those to end in the last bit, as free flowing cash.


Blur, blur, blur. A couple more plaits, some food and a couple of forwarded emails that try to make the process of plait creation funny. Sometimes effective, sometimes not. TZK TZK TZK. An average day. Today or maybe yesterday or maybe tomorrow. Not that one is recognisable from the other. Is this maturity? This greyness that surrounds all memory? November 1992 I was wiping my birthday cake off my face, May 2002 I was studying insane nights for A levels, September 2004 I was wiping ice cream off Rashmi’s nose. But July 2007 I was BZZZZZZZZZ. Grey. A dreary lull of time passing unnoticed waiting patiently for its turn to be detected and taken care of. The time is now, the time to bring some colour in.


The head reels under the numbness. Somewhere in my mind a large black number appears. 0. 0 more minutes to go. My head is filled with nail curling silence. I get up to go home. It is time to change now. And it begins again. Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

The post-effect trauma

She had barely had time to blink or register what it was before it hit her hard, square in the middle of her forehead. First she thought it was pain – but with time it was like a bubbling feeling inside. What’s the word? Effervescent, isn’t it? Like dirty yellow Sulphuric acid. Or was it Nitric acid? Wait, wasn’t Nitric acid green? Why couldn’t she remember? There was something wrong with her head - couldn’t think straight. And the loud and constant blaring from the speakers didn’t help either. But somehow instead of even trying to concentrate, she readily gave up and moved on to the next thought quite enjoying this sudden loss of control.


She tried lifting her hand to touch her forehead but flung her arm at a nice little carefree 180 degrees accidentally hitting something metal. Awww – that should’ve hurt. But wait a second – that wasn’t pain. It was a warm numb warm feeling around her palm. Quite like as if she was holding onto a warm cup of coffee. She smiled at the thought. Coffee would be good. The weather did feel a little cold. The thought of warmth passed an unexpected chill down her spine. As a child she believed unusual chills were signs of spirits passing by. Funny, what children believe in; and funnier, how our minds lose the power to be receptive as we grow older and wiser. The thought made her laugh out loud – she didn’t see it coming and it startled her that she laughed at something so factual. And that made her laugh again. It kept happening for a bit – laughing, stopping to think and then laughing again. Until the seemingly unstable mind finally rested on one thought – the story of the spirits. She wondered if the smoke she saw around was really her soul leaving. In reality, it was this fear that had brought the laughter to a deadening silence. After a moment, (or was it really minutes?), of thinking she decided it couldn’t be that – souls don’t smell burnt – and she could definitely smell something burning or something like it, she couldn’t be bothered about the details. But then what was all of this?


“Do you want another shot?”
“Do I what?”
“Another drink – do you want one?”

“A shot – no I don’t. But I do want something else, maybe something like the way I feel now – shaken not stirred.”

The Gods of the Hills

One good thing (not the only one) of staying in this part of the world is that the Eid holidays are just as long as I like them. Long enough to get me completely rejuvenated and short enough to hold my attention. This year I did a bit of travelling - and I quite surprised myself by choosing a hill station. Emphasis on hills. Like a friend insists, whatever those were I saw, they were definitely not mountains. Nevertheless, it was a deviation all the same - from my routine choice of chill spots. I chose hills over the sea. A virgin little hill station called Munnar in place they say is God's Own Country. (Not quite sure why any other place would be God's Borrowed Country anyway?!? Besides Kerela is NOT a country - hear hear!) However issuing yet another poetic license, I have to agree that the place was breathtaking.


The distant blue hills, the green valleys closer, the old mossed up rocks, the unknown trickle of water that becomes a waterfall, the rich green tea estates, the constant slight drizzle, the steep bending roads, the dark overcast sky, the old bunglow type guest house, the wooden ornate furniture, the fresh spiced brewing tea and the warmth of the fire. It left me slightly moved inside. Probably heightened by the lack of expectation. The first few hours I think I just swallowed in the air that smelt so familiar in a land I'd never been before. Reminding me of my childhood when family excursions to the more popular and near raped Northern hill stations of India. Quite a zilch compared to this place I suddenly found myself in. Though I agree, much would have to do with the difference of age and the capability to appreciate the surroundings.


Over the next 3 days that I spent in the place, I think I found new silly little things that gave me highly illogical (to the point of insane) ecstasy. Some little yellow flower with dew drops on it or a little ravine that I believe only I knew existed, a small little cavern that led to a much larger cave and drops of warm water that trickled down ice cold rocks. Logic tells me there must have been a million other people who found the same things I believe I discovered. But somehow nobody wanted to taint this place with a rude Bunty Loves Babli - Jan 1987. It was all left untouched, unscathed by every visitor for the next one to feel as powerful as (s)he did when they make the discovery. Quite God-like I must say. No wonder they call it God's Own Country.

Ramadan Kareem

It was pitch dark as she groped around for her phone. The bloody alarm was loud enough to wake up the locality! She groaned as she remembered swearing was taboo during Ramadan. And thats precisely why she was awake at an insane 4 am anyway. Finally having found the damn phone and having switched off the ever persistent alarm, she lazily pushed the covers away instantly feeling the chill off the ac giving her goosebumps just about everywhere. Smirking at the effectiveness of artificiality, she walked groggily upto the microwave to warm the food she'd kept aside for Sehri. While the food warmed, she stood beside the machine, listening to its gentle purr now magnified to a groan... flashbacking into the evening before.


She'd never been conventionally religious. And all through her life, people looked at her somewhat quizzically; as if an unreligious Muslim was as good as being agnostic. It always tore her - but not as much as she was torn that evening. She had always had an inclination to fast during the holy month. Not sure why, not sure what it was, that drove her to embrace this one practise out of the five pillars every Muslim was asked to abide by. But this year, something was different. But this year, somehow it wasn't the same heady feeling which she had every other year - to blindly do what her heart asked her to. This year she asked for a reason - more from herself than anyone else. And she had been looking for one for sometime, but was unable to find any. It was almost time to give up. They had declared Ramadan at work - notices issued by the Government, new work timings were out and some pro active people had even sent out a few hasty Ramadan wishes. But it had not begun for her this year. And she was wondering why.


As she walked on through the unusual festivities in the otherwise posh (read: unstirred) locality, she searched for a sign that might mean something more than the mundane. She's reached her building - stood holding the handle to the door staring into the face staring back at her. And suddenly it all rushed into her mind. It was she. The reason she looked for was faith. Was how without an inclination, faith sprang forth in the mind and heart of a woman otherwise oblivious to religion. Realisation spread through her veins in tandem with warmth and contentment - she had found her reason at last. She looked up at the kohl dark night sky and smiled in satisfaction. Her chaand had been sighted.


Ramadan Kareem.

The Creation in Prose

The Universe melts. And a drop of molten heat falls on me. Sparkling dew on Golden skin. And somewhere deep deep down a yelp of fire engulfs the spirit. And the soul waits. Waits alone. In solitary confinement within the skin.


The clock ticks by. Ticks by the edges of patience. And somewhere in between all the pain, passion trickles down. Titillates the warm skin with a light coolness. A new paradox in creation. And the Universe bends down in reverence. The Sun performs the ritual of destruction. Green with jealousy and red with envy. The Stars look on in awe. Twinkling their eyes in unison. The Winds get rough and the sands blow into the face. To cover the tingling Skin with sand and salt. Salt from the Heart of the deep blue Ocean. Blue like the middle of a wanton Night. Nights I would throw caution to the abandoned winds. Bluer than the eyes of Eve. And a lot more Sinful. Dark and aphotic. Where Light rebels against the cobwebs of Insecurity to exist. Exist in a world of Reverie.