keep it together

It is a rainy day like no other.

Because it is the first real rain. And along with the scorching heat and tired auras, the rain washes away everything that is negative and impure. At least for me.

Baggage is not necessarily a bad thing. As long as you know the distance you have to carry it for. After that you just gotta leave it unattended. Or unload it and unpack it with something who'd care to help out.

Long ago, I put up a request on my blog for someone to send me a notebook to write in. And a couple of people took my address too. But I never received a notebook. I waited everyday for a courier to arrive at the office with a pretty notebook in it (or even one of those old Bittoo notebooks I grew up doing my homework in).

But it never came.

So, tired of waiting, I ordered a notebook for myself. Not the garish-covered, smelly-papered, cost-effective, warm-hearted Bittoo though. No. I ordered a sleek black-covered, bright-papered, expensive and slightly formal notebook from Rubberband. The tagline of the brand is rather a fit in my life right now.

And the idea is to keep that notebook on my side table. Write in it, if I can. And if I can't, it will lie right next to me as a constant reminder of what I need to do.

Day 6: Truth and poetry

"Maan jaaiye
Varna
Waqt manvaayega."
-an amateur poet called Dhruv

*

My grandfather always taught me that while reciting Urdu - or any - poetry, one must be careful of the pronouns. One must always remember to say 'aap' or at most 'tum', never 'tu'. One must revere the subject of one's poetry, respect oneself, and be courteous to the listener. Thus the formal version of 'you'.

Of course there are songs which cannot do without the casual 'tu'. Imagine the song from Roja being called "Aap hi re.. Aapke bina main kaise jiyun."

Day 5: What's the zoke?

There once was a man from Punjab
Ohda koi nahi si jawaab
He wasn't very fussy
As long as he got lassi
That 'healthy' young man from Punjab

Day 4: Treachery

Cursory hugs
Unforseeable distances
Irreparable kinks
Hiatuses
Forced smiles
Polite laughs
Interested nods
Gaps
*
There are some friends who listen to everything you don't say.
And then they start hearing what you do.
*
What if your life-raft is an upstream swim away? Shouldn't you just go with the flow?

Day 3: Magic

"How do you like my manicure?" she asked, making small talk.
He glanced distractedly at her nails, knowing what to expect. Every month she got an expensive french manicure, and every month it looked exactly the same. Yet every month she asked him the same question. As though she needed his approval. A nod of his head, or a "Looks good".

He was about to give the same answer he gave every month but something caught his eye. She still had the same french tips, but the base of her nails had a layer of glitter. His head spun a little as the thought crossed his head: 'it looks like the stars from the entire universe have come down to dance on your fingertips'.
He gave a crisp nod and said, "Looks good."

Day 2: Bundle

Snappy
Bitchy
Angry
Insulting
Funny
Warm
Sarcastic
Smug
Condescending
Grumpy
Moody
Stubborn
Friendly
Cheerful
Smart
Caring
Loyal
Gossipy
Tiresome
Tireless

Richa Pandey: my bundle of disguised affection.

Day 1: Baggage

Hattori Hanzo's final sword, given to Beatrix Kiddo

To me, the sound of a knife slicing the air always sounds like a Hanzo sword coming out of its sheath. It is the sound of preparation and the sound of courage. To cut whatever you encounter on your journey. It is also the sound of films - all the films that I love. Starting right at the top: Kill Bill. I remember the exact place I was standing in the back lawns when my friend Anirudh asked me to watch the film that would forever change the way I viewed films.

I remember downloading Part 1 & 2, only to realize that they were both parts of Vol. 1, as opposed to two separate volumes of the series. So after I finished watching Vol. 1, I wanted to watch Vol. 2 right away. Of course it was the middle of the night, and downloading took up the rest of the night - it was one whole day until I could watch the ultimate volume of the series. It was an endless wait, but it was worth it.


I think so many of the films you love are a matter of timing. The time in your life when you watch a film is imperative to how it impacts you. That's why there are movies you don't care much for until you watch them again. Because it is a different time in your life. You are a different person with a different set of experiences. The movie hasn't changed, you have.

Kill Bill is a film about history. Beatrix Kiddo's history, and mine.

essentially

Dates don't make days special.

*

It came to me as one of the many perfumes I was gifted during (and more so after) my wedding, late last year. That perfume has an uncanny relevance. While opening it, I spilled a little bit in my make-up case. Throughout the honeymoon, even though I didn't actually wear the perfume, every time I would get ready, the fragrance sneak up on me as a gentle reminder of its presence. I didn't recognize it then, but I liked the way my make-up case smelt. Since then, Rose Essentielle has been lying quietly in my closet, patiently waiting for its turn, almost lost amidst the other perfumes.
This morning, for no reason at all, I sprayed some on. And the smell drove me crazy. Because it transported me back to the land of varicoloured flip-flops, bespoke cocktails, infinity pools, and uncontainable love. Just for a moment, I felt like a new bride. I thought of salespersons in stores looking at the mehndi on my feet - faded due to hours spent in the sun and the sea - gearing up to make their pitch. After all honeymooners are the perfect catch to make a sale. I thought of the Belgian restaurant with live Blues, and flying across a crowded beach - call it parasailing, if you must.

*

Working Saturdays are the pits. I'd rather get paid a little less and get the entire weekend off. No, really, I mean it.
So I was traveling back from work last Saturday. It was around 6.30 in the evening, and through the window of my cab, in came the smell of... food. I couldn't identify the exact smell - it was either masala being roasted, or a tadka simmering in a pan. Nonetheless, I knew instinctively that it came from the window of a housewife, living on the 3rd floor of one of the older buildings.
And I was suddenly 5 years old at my Nani's house, eating aloo paranthas fresh from the tandoor. I hated white butter back then because it looked an awful lot like malai. And even though I still physically loathe malai, I have fallen in love with the white makhan. As I remembered a tablespoon of hastily tossed butter melting rapidly on a crisp hot parantha - I melted right there with it. I simmered and evaporated and escaped through the window. I'm sure the housewife on the 3rd floor wondered why her kitchen suddenly smelled like white butter.

*

I was in a supermarket last week, picking up householdy things - my weekly chore of stocking up on essentials. As I impatiently swept the rows for cereal and salad dressing and other mundane things, I nearly bumped into a middle-aged lady. My head spun like crazy because she smelled exactly like my Mom smelled when I was a kid. Not like an expensive perfume, or a particular soap or shampoo. It was more like a clean, fresh, comforting smell. Like home.

*

A couple of days ago my grandfather, Pitaji, called my Mom to his room and told her, "I've been thinking about this a lot - who do I love most?" My Mom smiled a little, and later admitted to me bravely that she assumed he was going to take her name. It isn't overconfidence or anything, it's just a natural reaction. Frankly, it would have been my guess, too. Because it is often hard to believe that Mom and Pitaji are related by marriage, rather than by blood. It would actually be pretty easy to convince an outsider that my dad is the son-in-law, rather than the son. So Mom smiled a little and asked him who he was talking about. And he said "After deep thought and careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion... Sakshama."
My 97-year old grandfather thinks he loves me most.
I cannot possibly know what to say.

*

Like I said, it isn't the dates that make days specials.

runner up

My love for Crayola was rekindled when I was in school and Wisteria was one of my favourite crayons. For the colour, yes, but more so for the name. I just felt like that word described my mood and personality for a long period in my life.

This blog was originally meant to be called "Wisteria", but it isn't.
Because some idiot was "testing it out".