Tragedy of Some...

Some women are born foolish and naive.

The kind of women that inevitably find themselves in a tug-o-war,
where the possible choice should be NONE.

The kind that forgive a thief for stealing from them -
just giving him a benefit of doubt, for all his grief.

The kind that can smile and greet their 'whore of an ex-boss'
when they randomly bump into each other.

The kind that write a cheque to the headmistress at the sickest 'school-reunion'
to strengthen the 'School foundation' when the very institution
and the lady in question made their lives a living hell.

The kind that will forget an underhand cheating, lying habits of a friend seeking help.

The kind who is fooled by the lovers plight and an enemy's weakness.

The kind who retreat their swords when their right is proven wrong

Scarily for an wit-less K, she is one of them
and we exist everywhere
That is most tragic!

stream of consciousness

email reply :

'I fit the age bracket (24-27). In almost three months I will cross it! Hmmm why does it not scare me?'

IT F*@#ING SHOULD!

Candy Man

The Candy man died.

Loud mouth was in a state of enthralled pain and grief which will take weeks to subside. Childmom was kinda okay with him not being there any more. Wise capitalist and K ceased to react.

The Candy man was dying for about a month now, he was diagnosed of a rare disease that swallowed the kidneys and then attacked other organs. He was a part of my childhood- the better part of it:

'Every time we all got together he would pamper me spoilt, candies are what he brought for us in huge bags! There was pan pasand, sawd, flavored lollipops and all phoren chewy toffees. Gradually bubble gums, chewing gums made their way into the bag and then came crayons, erasers, scented pens, fragrant papers, pens that nullified ink spots or fehlers and the host of godly goodness. He knew my weakness for stationery and would shower me with pencils (the flexible ones by ‘stray cat’) sharpeners, erasers (in various shapes, colors and sizes) he was the first man to bring me my first ‘non dust’ eraser, most of all he was the first guy to introduce a timid 7 year old to Fusen chewing gum, and it’s ability to blow into a balloon still firmly tugged into my mouth. I have for years collected those ink tattoos on the flip side of the wrapper.

(Your childhood often has the roots of your soul's desires in them. The sticker and tattoo is probably one of them. It translated on to my body decades later, in a much respectable and discrete fashion though.)

The Candy man did not visit us at regular intervals but he with ‘Moon smile’ came too often to relish home cooked food and my mother like the eternal ‘Annapurna’ would welcome them with a long menu of ‘I know what you like!’

They both loved my mother – like everyone loves the chicken for its tandoori. And she was more than happy to feed Somalia’s population with much devotion and care. I never complained – a) I was too small and b) I was clearly benefiting from their visits. They were a welcome change with jokes, laughter and a whole battery of funny and exciting stories and gifts. The gifts may appear meager today but for a toddler they were magical!

The Candy man came from the sandy part of the country. And gave me the impression of a Kabuliwala; also he was special, because he was the only Muslim in our otherwise right-winged, fanatic Hindu Brahmin household. Thinking of it now, makes me admire him a little more – he must have really had something more than every other Hindu, to be welcomed with out a knock into our home. He, as expected never spoke of meat in the house, never brought up religion, had impeccable sense of hygiene and helped mom with the chores without being asked for or told to.

We moved to Bombay and subsequently his visits reduced. There was a pale emptiness to the new home we had – albeit large, it always smelled of diminishing royalty. My mother, just like every righteous women – patch worked the house into a warm, modest yet large hearted home. New set of leeches took over and we were older to distance ourselves from the smiling faces. The faces were nice but not warm and they did not get us gifts. They bought Cadbury dairy milk! And I missed fruits, missed stationary, and I missed the young men with all the clatter and their stories of Shillong, Nepal, Nainital, Bhuj, Jodhpur – I missed the ‘Bhabhiji aap ko ye batana tha, Bhabhiji aapke liye special laya hoon, Bhabhiji aap ko bahut miss kiya…'. I missed it, the new lot called her ‘Mrs. Dadhe’. Not even remotely warm.

He came long ago, almost a decade later, and I saw him, older, father of two – talking fondly to his daughters about our antics as kids. He was in the sunny verandah in our once beautiful home. We had relocated and were miles away from him – I think he understood that. We saw him never again – we were farther in mind than the distance.

It’s been over a month when his wife called to inform us of his impending krankheit. And the seriousness of the situation only seeped into Loud mouth (he was much older, and knew him closely; better than us, for sure)– as for my optimistic mind, there is a cure for everything in this world. So, I slept over it. A week before Loud mouth decided to take a journey to him – he died.

A fortnight later when Loud mouth has collected himself over multiple evenings of whiskey; his absence seems to hit me! The late riser, slow learner and the watchdog of life that I am – I type out all that I remember of him. I am unwilling to forgo what remains of him – he was the man who made a grouchy child smile. The Candy man will be fondly missed.'

Scarier than Strange

Every Monsoon, I notice that something in this city has drastically changed. And not for good, something that I miss.

Like the previous year, this year too there are no frogs! It's raining but NO FROGS.
No croaking, no mating calls, no springing up along the stairs, no screeches from my maid, no kids diving into a large puddle in the playground to grab the biggest frog, simply no sight of them!

Every year (since more than a decade) some crow couples build their nest in the hibiscus tree, in the courtyard. Over the years, the numbers have diminished. 2008, there was only one who , build its nest really high up in the tree. [my grandpa taught me that when birds expect heavy rain, they build within the closures of the tree; when scanty, closer to the light and the sky. So every year I'd predict if it was going to rain good or not.] This year there isn't a single nest!

There are lesser sparrows flying into the house every morning, and even lesser bitches birthing a litter in the compound.

Something has gone wrong; I have a terrible feeling inside me, something that I can not reverse.

Than you Jeff

Reading 'A Prisoner of Birth',  helped K word something that she felt for eons but could never pen it with the simplicity she wanted to achieve. today she has - A man's qualification, demeanor and speech does not define his character. 

it's been a common foolhardiness on our part and am still trying to wipe it my conditioning.  For Childmom - who's a prime victim of shortsightedness.