Forrest Essentials

The doors will be blue and always flapping with the wind.
The walls will be white with a few squares engraved to hold the bottles of spice.
The tables will be low and the stools almost touching the floor.
The fireplace will burn only during the winters and the marshmallows will be kept inside glass jars.
The books will be old and musty, the newspapers crisp and  staple-bound.
The ceiling will be higher than the tallest man in town.
A Lhasa Apso will always run around shedding hair on the low stools.
There will be a sign outside saying 'Please do feed the Lhasa Apso.'

Nutella pancakes, like the ones in Hampi,
Banoffie pie, like the ones in Gokarna,
Chicken Roghanjosh, like the one Dida makes,
will be served with coffee.
Ofcourse coffee.

If you bring a child, you'll be given a free cold coffee.
And one Roald Dahl book to go with it.
I'll choose which book to give, myself.
Matilda for the shy girls,
BFG for the loud boys,
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the ones who love to eat and
George's Marvelous Medicine for those who run around.

No one will leave in a hurry, it will be so far from every other city.
Those who fall ill will be buried alive in the backyard.
I'll make myself a hammock right in the middle of all the tables
Make a hole in the ceiling right above it.
Fall asleep in the chaos with chattering of spoons and wake up only after everyone leaves.

No one will ever remember the girl I was in college;
I will be so far
and so fucking happy.

6.732

I have no balance to call.

And no intention, either.

Let a week go by,

before we notice.

And then ask mundane questions;

and ask

for answers though there are none.

Only small talk,

Which in a few years time will be forgotten.

I want to know, however

of your opinion

about me observing strangers

and rating the happiness

they feel.

I give it a number, often

and compare it to mine.

I give mine a number, often

upto three decimal points.

So please skip this week;

Fast forward it to the day we notice.

I have no balance to call,

only a question to ask.

Paradis

Time and motion fade past us without leaving any residue as the five of us huddle.

Someone coughs and the rest keep looking at the only bottle of water as it gets passed on, slowly, steadily and hopefully I think, towards me. The stone washed jeans of his no longer distract, even though by now I've lost track of the initial conversation about just another incident that I couldn't be very curious about. I  limp around, my head light and dangling slightly from side to side like old men and the lines around my mouth darken, deepen. The realization that I may be looking a wee bit like an Alzheimer's patient makes me sit up straight and fix my smile to something more sober, or less suspicious.

The weather smells of soup, about to pour any moment onto the mat I just cannot move my legs up from, as his faded jeans distract me again, drawing me out from the indulgent drops of the Heavyweight track the rest are playing. By now the pangs in my stomach have gained a little more recognition from my attention but I don't care. I move my eyes swiftly from the skinny knees stretching the fabric of his jeans, upwards to his shiny chin. I regain, sit up straight, stop dangling and turn slowly towards the rest. Creepy, I think; stop being creepy.
As the rest of the evening passes by me within minutes, my chest has lost it's creases and nothing is worrisome any more. At long last it starts to drizzle and I feel my left palm leave the caresses of my body to be beneath each dollop of a raindrop.

Everything is wet now, the laptops taken away as he begins another fit of laughter, his glassy eyes not opening any more and mine not registering the raindrops in between. My stomach grinds as my head throttles with the exuberance of the fit, at times so strong that my lungs forget to open, my ears able to hear the throbs of either my brain or my heart, I can't tell. Strong sighs follow its end and then some silence. Everything is calm now, a happy calm, the one you want to keep for the rest of your life but I stand up anyway. The pangs inside my stomach have coordinated with the pangs inside the others. 


As my wobbly legs finally retire to their fate of bearing my weight again, I take a final look around the easy edges of the tiled terrace, glad to have traveled to see a sight so incredibly ordinary.
Except today, it's not. 
My sweat now hides and my tangled hair brushes past my face with the breeze; today it's lovely. 
And Bombay looks beautiful. Not unbearable, not fast, not polluted, just beautiful.

(Apparently now I have to mention this is inspired fiction.)

Error404. Repeat.

This feels like the beginning and the end at the same time. Like the chilly wintry mornings of the 27th of December, after the birthday jubilance has faded. I feel stupid for the time gone by, having fallen for the exact same things. At the same time, smarter. There are days like these that make me want to count the number of benefits that arrive out of detachment. Maybe that's why Buddha looks so happy all the time. Every year on the morning of the 27th of December I promise to be more detached from meaningless, capitalist conspiracies and yet every year I make the exact same mistake of forgetting. There is something about the month of December. It starts out with giving in to everything that gives you weak knees and ends with you, alone. Again. Its like betraying your cause, all the rules you made an exact year ago, that 27th of December.



Except, this is summer. And today is June, the 13th.
And HEY, I've already been through this shit this winter.
Well, fuck.

Not your's. Truly.

I write a sentence. You write two.
I ask for consolation. You talk about your failures.
I always begin. You are never ending.
I mostly sit. You prance but never at me.
I tell you that I don't mean a thing I say. You tell me you don't either.
I cut the line. You go astray.
I want to talk. You want to scribble.
There's two of us and then two of you;
I'll make movies, you make stew.


p.s: Have you noticed how I don't make much sense any more? Also, one of my poems (if you can call it that) 'Cider from the Old City' is getting published in a book/publication called Inspired By Tagore and is being released by the British Council this May. Sadly, I wont be able to attend the launch. Nothing big as such. 

Thakuma'r ghoogni.

I secretly tried to count the number of medicines in that ruffled plastic bag. Many. Many more than many. Too many, infact. Too many for a lady.

I sit there with my cold drink as her wrinkles mould her face and she tells me of the things old age does and the suffering it brings. I've always missed out on social cues.
But this one with
her frail hands in the air,
her pallid sari falling lightly on the pockets of fat sitting on her elbow,
her diluted cold drink with it's inconspicuous fizz shivering,
and her mouth mumbling;
something about how she doesn't get to see her son anymore,
or how she may never see her weak brother in Bombay again,
how everyone she knows is slowly dying.
This one;
I just have to sit,
stir my Cola
and force myself to count the number of years I still have, to reach her age.

Too many for a lady.

My head hurts from thinking too much.

Notes

for 

self:

foolish

foolish

girl.

How

easily

(ba

si

ca

lly)

you 

fa

ll

for

warm

colours

and 

some

gr

ass.

no

mind of

your

own

and

always

pester

ing

(ba

si

ca

lly)

annoying

to

get

at

tension.

you

(sm

all)

thrown

away

child,

you.

Now 

sl

ee

p,

before 

this

gets 

worse.

Don't sue me, E.E Cummings, you are dead.