Chiffonesque

It’s hot and dusty on the terrace. Unpainted buildings in the distance look paper thin in the afternoon blaze. The leaves rustle only because they want to hide under each other to escape the heat. Eyes squint looking around for empty chairs. Limbs with dry, parched skin move around, getting salt, passing spoons, serving curd. Skin around the lips purse and crease. And in that crease settle layers of gritty, ground pebbled dust. When you speak, your throat hurts and feels raspy because it’s so dry. Your nose burns because the nostrils get allergy-ticklish with coarse earth-power. Only a few days until, in all this, I can feast on a wet, cool, juicy, plump mango. And when I am finished with one, I’ll take another with sweet pulp on my fingers. Desires at lunch time. So brazen.

Last night, a friend of mine called me up from Goa. I hadn’t heard from her in the last two years. Therefore, when I heard a shriek ‘Mukku!’ and the sound of waves in the background, I had a somber feeling that perhaps some unidentified past had caught up with me. A minute later I found out. The maverick greeting and the gorgeous backdrop could only mean one thing –Rhea…in trouble. Rhea and I studied in Alliance Francaise together. On reaching the building, I would proceed to class and she would go on to meet other people. Friends she called them, but I wasn’t too sure. From the huge files with photographs that she carried around, I think she was trying her luck at modeling. Anyway, the last time we met before losing touch with each other, she asked me if she thought living in with her boyfriend was a good idea. I told her it wasn’t. In retrospect, my response was rather too quick to be palatable. After all, she and H loved each other and cherished each other’s company; although I thin

I was born on April third. And no, it is not two days too late. My birthday is approaching…rather quickly, I might add. I am very, very happy and insist that others feel the same. And I’m not talking of damp squib polite ‘Yes, yes, how nice..’ but a rather celebrated sort of bonhomie – like confetti falling out of the mouth when you say ‘Yay! Birthday!’ I want gifts, cards made of handmade paper, and cake. Also, a surprise party but no-one seems to be interested in giving me one. So, I shall organize a party, invite some people I don’t know but have tripped over at German Bakery, get them inside the house and yell ‘Surprise!’ As I see it, it is truly a surprise party because this way, more people are surprised than in the conventional method. Majority wins. If you are going to be surprising only one person, then it’s more of a ‘clueless’ party I think because well, whatever. And yes, the gifts must be gift-wrapped, and preferably not from a retail store. Supremely great if they are han

Bad days end And worse ones begin You drown out the noise To sink in the din Dinner's tepid soup And sorry sprouts The new pizza place Is nowhere about Sick of the hassle You leave the flat And almost collide Into a big, white cat You don't look too good And are tired to the bone 'Even I wouldn't drag you,' thinks tabby, A wannabe Sharon Stone Its black and inky and dark outside How befitting of you, the mind decides You strech your neck, and there! It's clear as a bubble where hope resides 'All of us are in the gutter But some are looking at the stars,' How did you guess, Mr. Wilde? You were a wise man, by far

Joel and Clementine met on a beach. He ‘couldn’t believe he was attracted to someone’s back.’ Her hair, that day, was a vivid aubergine. She said about herself, ‘I apply my personality in a paste.’ He was shy, she was theatrical. He spoke only when forced, she stopped talking only when she ate and drank – and she did both heartily. Joel and Clementine loved each other madly. Their first date was lying on a frozen river, looking up at the stars. He was unsure of how sane this idea was. She held his hand and helped him get whimsical. When they made love, Clementine’s face would be resplendent in some kind of quiet sorrow. She’d talk to Joel under the blanket. She’d say, ‘People don’t really know how lonely children are.’ Joel would kiss her then. He knew. One day, they had a spat. She stormed out of the house. He followed her but couldn’t get her back. He tried. He failed. She had forgotten him, with some help from a doctor. Joel felt betrayed at this. He now didn’t even exist as a memor

When you look around the dance floor, you see a fringe of people. They drink, they dance, they move, they glance. And somebody on the far end of the bar table opens his wallet and touches a photograph, very very tenderly. Dedicated to that stranger in Fire and Ice who, well, reminded me to miss. You weren’t supposed to matter, I wasn’t supposed to care, It was understood I’d stay here And you’d simply move on there You don’t really matter And I don’t really care I like being here Just as you enjoy being there But sometimes when there’s music And longing runs free I catch myself thinking Of the way you danced with me

I have realized that I need to eat chicken every day, and something reminiscent of non-vegetarian food every five hours. If I don’t, then my head starts to hurt and I feel a woozy throbbing in my stomach. In fact, right now, I am so hungry that I have started cooking in my head. Preparing food is so out of character for me that I may as well die and be re-incarnated with the culinary ability and willingness. However, cathartic release is imminent. So, this is literally what I’ve been dishing up in my head now. I Before I was born, my folks stayed in Singapore for a few years. There, my mother was very close friends with a Pakistani lady, Farida. They used to share stories of their homelands often, and recipes even more frequently. Farida had visited India once and though she liked the place, it didn’t quite compare to her village near Rawalpindi. She used to tell my mother that the papayas from that village were the best in the world. Ma got the recipe of this particular version of roa

I drifted in and out of sleep. My mind meandered through dud-like half awakeness. I felt around for the alarm and pushed it under the pillow when it went off. And when it was stifled hard enough, it stopped. A good feeling – to strangulate self-imposed urgency. Around me, there was some noise – gushing water from a broken tap, mortar clunking against stones, a yell to a fellow-laborer to pick up stray bricks, loud, brittle radio music…and then, it came…over and above the routine cacophony – that voice.. strong, deep, vermillion. Cutting through the years I had heard it last. Virile and poised. Mandarin silk and obstinate jade. A bloody portraiture of wounded pride. Dueling with impossible pitches and crescendos. Splicing across vestiges of mundane. Pushing forth through layers of ‘correct’. The voice that was never just a voice. My ultimate, untranslated, unabridged classic. Madonna.

Last night, I was discussing with a friend how parenting is such an expensive affair. The diapers are costly and then there are baby talcs and comfortable shoes and school and sponsored romances until the child gets a job. And who knows how that is going to turn out? Lately, I’ve been thinking of these things every time I open an empty wallet. Damn the end of month, which for me, begins every 15th. I was droning on about how heartbreaking it is for a parent to see the child long for something and not be able to afford it. How, with limited means, one must assuage a little heart’s desires, or defer fulfilling them in the unseen future. My pal, with humor as wry as rye, generally regards everything I tell him as bull. He pointed out that parenting is as much about polite dismissal as it is about money. Case in point is this joke. Letter from son to father: No mon, No fun, Your son. Reply from father to son: So sad, Too bad, Your dad. I now hunt for similar correspondence between mother

A couple of months ago, I was going through a rough patch. Things fells apart and eroded every day. That’s when a friend of mine, who is a sturdy example of how meaningless intellect is, told me that I should work on my butt. He said, ‘You can’t control anything else, Mukta. You may as well get your butt in shape.’ That, of course, was rude advice. I had no idea that my behind was being scrutinized. And I was even more clueless about the fact that it was seen as something that needed considerable improvement. He was right, of course. But I could have done without that gem of insight. I bring this up now because a few weeks ago, tablemannered tagged me. I have to write about eight traits I want my partner to have. The butt story is to help me remember that line in ‘Lady Windermere’s Fan’, ‘His virtues are only on the surface; and that’s where I like them.’ (The exact quote is much pithier.) So, in an ode to superficiality, here are my eight traits: ONE He must be tall. T-A-L-L. Not 5-10

I’m waiting on an isolated road, next to a car that sputtered, spat, and broke down. My friend has gone somewhere to search for a spanner, a spare tyre, car oil, a mechanic, or whatever else is required to get the car moving. There’s a plateau ahead that looks like it hasn’t seen human footprints since a couple of eons. It’s getting dark and chilly. Behind some shrubbery, I see something glinting. I hope whatever it is that pierces the darkness of the plains doesn’t belong to an animal. I look around. I can’t make out which direction my friend headed. Shuffling around here and there does me no good. I settle down to listen to the breeze and watch sand shift silently around rocks. A little later, I hear voices. ‘ Ladki ’, (Girl) ‘ Kidhar ?’, (Where?) ‘ Arrey udhar…goggles nikaal re…raat ko kya pehenta hai! ’ (There! And take off your goggles. Why are you wearing them at night?) I’m a little annoyed. That’s how you point out bears in a zoo, not a girl on a road. The guy with the goggles

Months away from June, I saw a copper moon, It pinned the sky in place To a misty celestial lace It was round and blurred and strong And didn't stay too long, And while its luminous work got done It reminded me of the sun Two stridents of space Floating high and free, Two lofty poets in thought That shine with gallantry And while I contemplate both In silence and with fervor, One is easily praised For the other, one must endeavour One coaxes a song From hesitant, shy lips, One forces an anthem As it resolutely slips For one, 'tis enough The tints and hints and sheen, For the other, 'tis a must To have a grand requiem One understands the traces Of the final moment that drags, To salute the end of the other We proudly raise our flags Note: The photograph of prayer flags in Sikkim was sent to me by K, a friend. On receiving supreme compliments for it, she graciously passed on the credit to her husband. The unseen photograph of the copper moon was shown to me by J. Typically,

German Bakery, 11:45 a.m. I, in momentary madness, decide to get a tofu burger. It will take a few minutes because the tofu isn’t ready. Considering how few people actually want it, I think the tofu should be ready and willing at all times. But that is just me. Others will give tofu the time and respect it deserves. The ‘others’ are from Osho. I wait at a rickety table, sharing it with a group of young people. They are so young, they were stripes and polka dots and at a minimum have three colors (usually, two primary and one secondary) on their bodies. They talk excitedly about everything, including the hostel loo getting a new tap. They smoke cardamom flavored cigarettes and look around furtively to see if any of the other patrons have left behind a pack of smokes. I sit with them because the other tables, at 11:45 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, are taken. One member of the group who has been eyeing me with some suspicion, strikes up a conversation. ‘You work for a paper?’, he asks. ‘No’.

Lunch. 1:00 p.m. Open-air canteen on the terrace. Flapping chapattis and flying papads . Lots of wind. Wuthering Heights type gusts. Heathcliff serves lunch. Scowls if you take an extra slice of cucumber. You put it back and scamper ahead. Z sits and opens her dabba with relish. J opens her dabba and looks at Z’s dabba with relish. I open my dabba and suggest we go out to eat. Z, taking delectable spoonfuls of dalia with brown onions and ground spices: ‘Where were you last night?’ Meanwhile, I try to figure out what can possibly be damp and pale blue and taste like a cucumber? I contemplate in my mouth that refuses to co-operate. My stomach and brain ask God to transfer them to a different body. Organs nowadays have no scruples. ‘What?’ , I ask again. ‘Where were you last night?’ , Z repeats. I’m always with Z or with J. In office I’m with Z, outside office, I’m with J. That’s about it. I have two friends in Pune – Z and J, and only with these twain I meet. So, where could I possibly

How else could: k the lights go off just as I rummage through my purse to locate my keys? k come back on immediately after I’ve squinted in the mobile light to open the door? k go off again as soon as I step in? k the phone beep shrilly and startle me as I try to gauge whose shadow I see outside the window? k come back on to show me a huge, black spider squatting on the sofa in all its glory? It looks like a shriveled cat with many legs. And what’s with the disdain, insect? I like my new hairstyle, even though Z and J start talking of bird flu every time they look at my head. k blink off again after the spider begins to advance towards me? I dodge a black spider in pitch darkness with thunder rattling the window panes. A good time to holler ‘I want my mommy!’ k Mommy call right at that moment to tell me that I should leave my job. Why? She hangs up. My cousin’s on T.V. k the phone get out of charge as I feel something furry against my toe and try to fix the bright Reliance glow on the

Last night, it rained....at 1:30 a.m. My friend and I sipped coffee watching the pool’s surface break into turquoise splinters. Last night, I walked through the drive way, holding my breath – in anticipation that my first lungful would be the rich, spicy scent of wet earth. Last night, there was lightning. Parts of the sky that had earlier been smeared with moonbeam turned pale ochre. And one star stubbornly shone behind a tattered cloud. Last night, I walked home, looking up at this mad, twisted, exhilarating burst of paean. Last night, I was wrong about how I thought I loved the rains completely. There was always room for a little more. Like last night, there was a little room for this morning.

Something tells me I will never be understood in my lifetime. When I began my chequered career, or less dramatically, when I got my first job, I had certain aspirations for myself. I wanted my resume to be varied and eclectic. In fact, at the time of retirement (which is now barely five months away), I wanted my resume to list jobs beginning with each alphabet – acrobatics, baby-sitting, cherry cultivation, and so on. But I seem to be stuck in a rut. Ever since I started out, my jobs, though varied in industry and pay-scale (swings between low and lower), are consistently word-based. So, instead of my resume illumined with variety brought on by ‘acrobatics, baby-sitting, or cherry cultivation’, it is dowdened with ‘analyzing content, briefing content, contenting content.. et cetera, ad nauseum.’ Even the blank Microsoft Word document yawns as I re-write my resume and profile my third job. ‘So, anything different this time?’, it mocks. Software ridicule aside, I have made my peace. Wri