A goodbye I never wanted; a goodbye I never got..

A goodbye I never wanted; a goodbye I never got..


“Hey, you left without saying goodbye,” she would complain as soon as I would return from school. She would make this fake angry face and I would run behind her, without getting changed. “Please na, sorry na,” I would coax her. She would suppress her giggles, eventually bursting into a smile. It would be priceless.


Did I tell you that she’d make the best aaloo fry in the whole damn world? Did I tell you that she was best fashion designer I’ve met? I’m sure all my barbies are nodding their heads inside the showcase! I didn't need siblings because I had her -- we’d fight, act snooty, ignore each other and then patch up, after which, she’d treat me to all the goodies that she would whip up in the kitchen.


She was my ‘secret’ locker. She knew names of everyone I liked, I hated, I fought with and all of that. I’d come back from school with a bagful of stories, and she’d listen to me with utmost attention. Just to ensure that she’d listened to me properly, I would finish off the verbal diary session with a quiz - and dammit, she would pass with flying colours, all the time. Ludo, snakes and ladders, monopoly and carrom would be dished out of the cupboards as soon as schools would shut for vacations.


But she’d also complain about me to ammai, just like annoying siblings do. “Oh, she didn’t study the whole day,” she would announce unceremoniously as soon as ammai would arrive from office. But as soon as ammai would get angry with me, she would pounce on her, promising that she’d ensure it doesn’t happen again. She’d make me sit on my study table, promising me a hot cup of tea and all her magic from the kitchen. Did I tell you that nobody would be able to plan surprises in her presence?


She’d tease me, annoy me, love me, yell at me. She’d cook for me, play with me, take care of me. She’d sing and crack the silliest of jokes. She’d solve puzzles in a jiffy. She once asked me this puzzle: “A man was called for an interview that would be from two to two to two two. What was time window?” She was a human spray, and we all would laugh at her when she’d spray at us and she would cover her mouth with her hands to prevent any more liquid damage! She was the most animated lady I’d seen!


When I'd be irritated with my tailor for messing up with my dresses, she’d say, “This is the latest ‘passion’”. Please note that the response would be the same for any sort of goof-up -- tight, loose, wrong design, wrong fabric! Oh and she’d give me pocket money, too, on special occasions and otherwise.


In the midst of all this madness, I grew up. But, so did she. She grew old, and older; frail, and frailer. But her charm remained the same. Our equation, that didn’t change.


One day, the tables turned around. She left without saying goodbye. I was angry. I told myself that as soon as she’d come back, I’d say, “Hey, you left with without saying goodbye,” make a fake angry face and wait for her to make me giggle. And wait I did, but she didn’t return. I had an angry face all through, but I closed my eyes and saw her face and I couldn’t be angry anymore.

The Second Innings

They looked at the scorecard and it didn’t look very encouraging. With two wickets left, the they were not even close enough. The last two wickets tumbled and the men trudged towards the pavilion with their heads hanging low. The opposition came in to bat again and posted a close to impossible total on the scoreboard. It was almost over.

“It’s a one-sided affair, boring,” quipped one of the commentators, loud and clear. “They’re staring at a certain loss,” chipped in another. “This pitch tends to behave like a tough nut on the last day of the Test. The numbers are stacked up against them,” said the third commentator, quite convinced that the only possible result was a loss, not even a draw. “Don’t forget that the side they are facing, they’re champions,” reminded another.

Inside the dressing room, the air was pregnant with a grim acceptance. There was no way the match could be steered in their favour. They’d given up. Accusations were flying, tempers were flaring. The skipper stepped out, trying to clear his head and sort the mess. But, the boys’ morale had hibernated.

The day had come. The openers were dreading stepping out into the crease. The captain tried to pep them up, but no, nothing worked. And just like their fallen energies, the wickets kept falling. Some of the batsmen had begun to blossom, but the opposition had outsmarted them. It all came down to the last wicket. The captain was there in the middle, doing everything he could to crawl to a win.

“Howwwwwwwzat?” yelled the bowler, followed by the chorus of slip cordon. The umpire took a pause, perhaps, the longest wait for the captain and his boys. His heart was ramming against his chest, he so desperately wanted the umpire to say “Not Out”.

He closed his eyes, praying to the big gun up there, for the finger to rise. Not Out, it was, as the umpire’s verdict came. He’d gotten a second chance and he made the most of it. He smacked them all around the park, his partner assisting him sneaking in the quick singles. And then, the skipper took them home with a glorious sixer. A captain’s knock. They’d beaten all odds, all predictions, all the mess, all the hurdles and come out, victorious.

The second chance. The second innings. They made it count and how!

The first love

There she was, looking for the outfit that would make her look drop dead gorgeous; afterall, it was her big day. Casting her eyes on every piece that could have fit the bill, she was looking for that ONE piece that would win her heart. But then, nothing did.

She walked on, her legs beginning to protest. But nothing seemed to be good enough. On the verge of giving up, she spotted the one dress that she’d been looking for. Her peach-coloured beauty. Dazzling with intricate works of sequin, she knew this had to be it.

With a gleam in her eyes and a spring in her step, she swayed forward to buy the dress of her dreams. She caressed the material with her hands, imagining herself clad in it, dreamy eyes showing how much she loved this one.

But then, not just was it much more expensive than she would have liked, it was also a couple of sizes smaller and the last piece in the shop. With a heavy heart, she had to bid adieu to the dress she had fallen in love with. She waited for months for the dress to hit the market, but it didn’t.

Compelled by the others, she had to move on. So, once again, there she was, in the market, to hunt for the dress that would make her look gorgeous. This time, she found a good dress -- a beautiful misty blue dress -- something that fit the budget and her frame. She looked no further, she was tired.

On her big day, the world and its wife stopped in awe, she did look drop dead gorgeous, but she didn’t look at herself in the mirror even once -- inside head, she still craved for the peach- coloured beauty. Sadly, even though the blue dress made her look beautiful, the peach dress would always remain her first love..

Oh Ma!

Language. It gives us many words. Words, we use to pour our souls out. Words that become windows to our thoughts. Words that name, words that specify, words that describe. But when the test of emotions is tough, words fail.

Intense fear. Ecstasy. Excruciating pain. A surprise. Shivers down the spine. A winch. Tired to the marrow. A much needed relief. Wonder. Beauty. Joy. Sarcasm. Disgust. Hunger. Thirst. Sleep. Sneeze. Cough.

Meeting someone you missed after a really long time. Tasting something you were craving for. Living. Laughing till the ribs hurt. Crying. Hurting. Winning. Losing. Trying.

Is there one word that sums up all these emotions?

No?

Perhaps there’s a person you remember.

Oh Ma!

An open letter to my parents

Dear Ammai and Appa,


Remember those times when I was little, hopping between you, my hands, secure, one each in your hands, tightly held, protecting me from stumbling? I remember. I want to hold your hands too, to protect you.


Remember those times, appa, when Saturdays would mean half days, and you would get back home with an assortment of ‘bakery’ biscuit goodies tucked in three-four brown bags? Today, when I spot ‘sugar-free’ cookies in the supermarket aisles, I pick them up for you, waiting for a Saturday to relive our cookie times.


Ammai, remember how you know everything that’s there in my wardrobe, every shade of colour that I own, buying matching accessories, collecting them inside a pretty little basket and surprise me occasionally for being a good girl? I have a little basket too, ammai, which is filled for the times when we meet once in a year. A basketful of shiny goodies, for being the best ammai. And I know, a thousand such baskets wouldn’t be enough.


Do you remember those Durga Puja preparations, appa? When you got your bonus? You transferred all the money to my account for me to buy that fancy Blackberry, when you had that polyphonic little matchbox as a phone? I remember. I’m saving money too, appa, for the day when I will be able to do the same for you.


Appa, remember the day you sobbed when you couldn’t get me the toffee, a ritual you never missed for a single day? Remember how you couldn’t get it when you didn’t have enough? I remember. I feel the same way when a shirt I pick for you falls out of my range. My heart sinks.


Ammai, appa, remember how you always wanted me to get promoted from Class 1, to Class 2, from school to college, from studies to work, from an intern to a trainee? I want you to get promoted too. From running behind a bus, to taking that auto, from that to enjoying a chauffeur-driven car -- I want to feel that bliss of seeing my parents live a life of luxury.


I’m working hard, not as much as you did for me, but hard enough, for me to be able to make that dream come true. I’m working hard for you ammai-appa, because, now, it’s my turn.


I want to buy the world for you. Oh, if only I could gift-wrap everything that’s there, everything that there could be. But, I prefer being a good person, something that you raised me up to be, something that you wanted me to be. And surprise you with everything that money can buy. And things that it can’t.


With much love,

Your only daughter.

A ‘Dosa’ of gyan

She wiped her brow, looking at the crumpled mess of half-cooked dosa batter, sitting adamantly on the tawa. The greasy spatula in her hands had murdered the could-have-been-golden-brown-crispy dosa. Ten minutes of labour promptly dumped into the dustbin.

She started over again. She dipped her ladle into the thick, white batter, tapped a bit to get rid of the excess and poured it on to the tawa that hissed at the breach. Slowly, just like an artist giving final touches to his masterpiece, she moved her hands in a circle, creating a perfect white disk. But then, that was just the beginning.

Just when the underneath of the dosa began turning golden brown, she slid her spatula strategically, patiently through the edges, retaining the shape, careful not to tear the delicate delicacy. Once the disc was fully peeled off, she flipped it with grace.

It isn’t just a dosa that needs to be crafted with care. Relationships can be a mess too, you know. Understanding the heat of the situation, being careful while initiating discussions, being gentle when issues are sensitive and turning things around -- all of these orchestrated together will give you the pleasure of enjoying a perfect dosa and a perfect relationship, too!

A cakewalk?

She was upset. They'd read her completely wrong. The walls seemed to be closing in. Finally, she couldn't take it any more. She pressed the button with her index finger and the monitor went to sleep.

She stepped out of the glass building, soaking in the breeze that seemed to soothe her broken soul.

The park looked inviting. A slow walk, she thought, would heal her.

So, she took the path curved out for walkers. She gazed at the full moon that illuminated the dark blue sky in a dull, intriguing way. She trudged on, feeling the ground beneath in a leisurely way.

A man in grey swung past her, turning behind, a question stamped all over his face. Soon, a lady clad in a yellow gunjee with her earphones secured in, jogged past, halted, plucked her earphones out, burning her with her gaze, her eyebrows coming close together in irritation.

Soon enough, there were people walking, pushing along, some through her left, some past her right, stopping, gazing. She felt her pace increase, she began walking as fast as she could, comfortably overtaking petite in yellow and uncle in grey, turning back and giving them a cold stare.

She stopped suddenly, wondering what she was doing.

All she needed, wanted was a leisurely stroll. But then, she wasn't even allowed to do that.

No place, where she could be, just herself.

She walked back into the glass case, tapping away like nothing happened.

All the glitters...

"On your mark, get set, go!"

The shrill whistle and the loud instructions meant that it was time for them to race towards the finishing line, blurred because of the distance threatening to consume them. She sprang up to life, dashing for the ultimate line that got to decide who walked away with the cake and who trailed back, head hung in shame.

She gave it her all, people from across the ropes staring at her in awe and wonderment. "She got nice shoes," shouted someone and suddenly, all the attention was now on the pretty little thing she was wearing. Grey and black with streaks of mad fluorescent, her pair of shoes were looking posh.

Suddenly, she began to lose momentum. Her legs refused to cooperate. "Oh, come on," she cussed under her breath, but her legs just couldn't seem to fathom how important that thin line at the other end was. She dragged them, through the pain, others egging her on.

She crossed the finishing line, after two of her competitors were waiting for her. "Such a shame," she could hear someone saying, clucking their tongue, "she had nice shoes to help her, you know."

She walked away, her head hung in shame, sitting down and examining her soles: they were bruised and torn, all the fragments of stone piercing through them, finding their way to nibble into her soft flesh. Her shoes looked pretty to everyone, but what they failed to see were the torn soles.

It's easy to want to be into someone's pretty shoes, but stepping into them could be a rather difficult affair. Looks are deceptive.

An early morning struggle

I hurriedly crossed the roads, taking one step forward and stepping two steps back, all in the flash of a second after my husband dropped me on the main road. I ran, curling my nimble toes inside my pink shoes whenever a vehicle came threateningly close. My lips curved into an elongated 'O', my palms patting and subsiding the yawn that spread to the eyes, my early morning sleep oozing out of my eyes in the form of saline water.

As I made my way to my office to teach an early morning batch, I recalled my bed, the comfort of snuggling into my warm blanket, deciphering the struggle of an early morning start. As several of these thoughts flashed across my mind, I saw a lady, clad in an orange saree, clutching her pallu and dashing past me. Confused for a while, I figured that the bus was what the woman was after. She ran for a good distance, relentlessly, refusing to slow down, her goal looking well withing sight. As the woman screeched closer to her target, it whirred away, faster than she'd anticipated, leaving her in the cloud of grey smoke that marked an indication of its departure. She stopped, unable to breathe, the tears threatening to invade her cheeks.

Perhaps that's what an early morning struggle actually is. A husband ready to drop me, without a crease on his brow, teaching students in an ac classroom -- all these count for comfort.

As I entered my classroom, with seven pairs of eyes eager to learn, I chided myself and made a promise -- to look at the world with my pink shades on, always.

A fall, a lesson

She was tapping away on her computer, the intense honking on the roads indicating it was the home-going rush. She tapped away a little more, waiting for him, thinking of all that had happened, a blunt pain pricking her insides.

The soft voice of the lady crooning away into her ears made her eyes warm, the tears, threatening to break the dams they were being held captive within. She was tapping away, without blinking, without reading, her eyes playing scenes on the blank wall; scenes that disturbed her sanity. A sigh escaped her parted lips.

Then she heard it, the unmistakable thud of pain, a couple of scared shrieks. He was downstairs and he would have been heading up to her. Was it him? Had the wicked stairs snatched the ground beneath his feet? What would it be? Would he be clutching his head in pain? Would there be blood? "Let him be ok, let him be ok," she prayed, desperately.

All of these clouds gathered in her mind in a split second as she raced towards the place where doom beckoned, her heart ramming violently, her lips dry. She saw a petite girl, clutching a broom in her hand, shivering and looking helpless. Two helping hands and a bottle of water, a considerate rub of her back and she was a little better.

As she walked back into her cabin, looking at her shoes lying in two different parts of the room, she realised, sometimes it takes a sudden jolt to tell us what someone means, to tell us how much we are ready to forgive and forget, how much much we are willing to let go, to ensure that the ones we love are happy and healthy.

Ego battles are best fought with strangers, for when we fight with the ones we love, we are just fighting with ourselves.

The petite girl, meanwhile, went about, brooming the office floors.

Guns and Roses

“Let’s do some duck-faced selfies,” she requested. “It’s trending,” she added, making the best of her know-it-all faces. He continued watching TV like it was nobody’s business. She walked away. I knew I had to intervene. “Hey, it’s okie,” I cooed, playing a harp inside my head. “I want to show my friends that I’m in love, but he doesn’t understand…” her voice trailed off.

What is being in love? Is it falling for someone, acting all school-girly? Is it all hearts and roses? When we say it’s love at first sight, aren’t we just falling for looks and mannerisms? What if the person outside is nothing like the person inside? Do we fall out of love then? Maybe yes.

More often than not, we bump into the realisation that the person we fell for is hardly the person we are with. It’s nobody’s fault, really. Situations change, people change, therefore, we change too. It’s not on purpose. The initial few months (or days), best described as the honeymoon period, is all about showing each other the best shades. It’s only with comfort that this external please-all mask erodes and the real person within emerges. Do we fall out of love then? Maybe yes.

Love isn’t easy. It requires stability, understanding, compromise, acceptance of mistakes and willpower. With time, tipping points are reached, tempers flare, accusations fly and there are tears. Do we fall out of love then? Maybe yes.

But sometimes, these things don’t matter. When we ask ourself what is more important: the issue or the person and if we chose the latter, we’re in love. If we can close our eyes and erase all the shades of grey that come as a package, and still say, “I love you”, then, we are in love. If we can see off the rough patches, while still holding hands, emerge stronger to still say, “I love you”, then we are in love. If even after waking up in the middle of the night to a snoring husband, we can murmur “I love you”, then we are in love. If we can forgive and forget and still say, “I love you”, we are in love. It’s not easy. But can we do it? Yes, definitely yes.

It isn’t hearts and roses. It’s guns and roses.

Story of her life

She was nervous. Her friend stood by her side, looking at her face, that had, by now, broken into pearls of sweat. She wiped her brow, looked intently at the cars, bikes and buses whirring past her, taking one step forward, and retracing her way back. “You ok,” the friend asked, but she didn’t bother replying. She squeezed her hands and trudged along nervously, rushing to the safer side of the road.

“What happened to you,” her friend asked again, rubbing her cold palms. “I’m a bit nervous while crossing roads. I saw one of my friends get hit by a car while crossing. It’s just paranoia, I guess,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders and disappeared into the building after a hasty goodbye.

About a month-and-a-half later, they’d made plans of meeting at an uptown restaurant; her friend was treating her. There they were on the opposite ends of the roads; she on one side, with her husband by her side; and her friend, with her boyfriend. The roads were twinkling with lights of the peak office hour traffic. The roads epitomised madness. In between the fleeting traffic, they exchanged enthusiastic waves. And then, in a swish, there she was, with her friend, on the other side of the roads, chattering away.

Her friend clutched her palms, surprised to feel them in perfect body temperature. “Hey! You aren’t a tad bit nervous. And look at you, all crossing the road like a pro. You didn’t even glance at the traffic when he whisked you here,” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you feel scared? I mean, tu dekh bhi nahi rahi thi, left, right,” she added.

She smiled, glanced at him, and said, “I trust him,” and said no more. Three words, story of her life.

Growing Up...

She was walking around, looking at the world through her pink shades. Everything seemed rosy. She had Dido crooning White Flag, a song about change into her eardrums. She trudged on, without glancing at anything, walking straight, gazing at the dusty horizon.

Suddenly, she tripped, fell off balance and landed with a thud. Her knees were bruised and bleeding, her palms were scraped. She got up, dug into her XL sized handbag, ruffled for a few minutes and grabbed her water bottle. Took a few sips and sighed. Suddenly, she removed her shades and realised that the sun had disappeared and the clouds had taken over. It began raining and before she realised, she was dripping wet. She placed her bag over her head and rushed to a nearby petrol pump, seeking shelter and answers.

Oh how the weather had changed without intimation, she thought. But then, isn’t that how life happens? She thought about all the people she knew. The once smooth faces of her parents now were lined with fine wrinkles. She drifted back to old times when hanging out with friends would mean simple harmless gossip over a five-rupee stick icecream. Now, her timeline was filled with wedding pictures and her friends with their babies. Yes, married and parents. Wow! Discussions had shifted planes from who’s seeing whom, to who’s cooking what. They’d grown up.

And then, the final strand of her meaningless time travel brought back her reflection in the mirror. Did anything change there? Not much, The height, sadly still the same. The face -- the same old boring one. Her eyes however, that used to twinkle with the advent of seeing the world, now shone with wisdom of having seen it. Yes, she’d seen it. Changes.

It stopped raining. The sun was tired playing hide and seek, so much, that it openly challenged the clouds, that had, by now, retreated like a cornered animal. She placed her shades back and it was rosy again.

A house then, home now

The house was nice. The tiles, they were neat. The furniture wasn’t over-the-top, but was compactly adequate. The bedsheets were decent, not too well-picked. She walked in, not looking at swishing her magic wand and turning everything around. The barren kitchen was being taken care of, little by little. Plastic jars, a kitchen queen, dinner sets of all forms -- melamine, plastic, china. Beautiful cane lamps splashed a new lease of life to the otherwise boring walls. Terracotta artwork displayed on intrinsically handwoven cane discs. Beautiful lamps on tiles that now wore a more polished look. Carefully hand-picked bedsheets and matching pillow cases replaced the old one. Soon, new curtains came in. Mats and carpets added blobs of colour to the floor. Everything had a designated place. Everything was chosen carefully. Everything was bought and gifted with oodles of love. Well-planned, every penny spent to its worth.

Bit by bit, they transformed their apartment into home. Their nest, their paradise. A house then, a home now. Homes aren't built overnight. You need to invest love and care. Only then can the beautiful transformation begin...

No kid-ding!

His bum rested on the soft, grey carpet that was spread out royally, covering every inch of the room. The TV was blaring away with some obnoxious-looking woman gyrating to a stolen tune. His big, green, inquisitive eyes were glued to the colourful plastic blocks that his mother had scattered over the carpet.

One by one, the 10-month-old meticulously picked up block after block, and began stacking them. There were obvious distractions -- the crooning woman on the TV was one for sure. He raised his tiny, wobbly head and looked at the TV for a while, but eventually, he got back to business, stacking ‘em away. When the block building was almost as tall as him, he took a second, admired his work of art and let out a squeal of delight, clapping his hands.

Soon enough, their cat, taking exceptional interest in the colourful screen of the TV, made a beeline for the idiot box. In a second, the masterpiece was gone; the beauty was lost; the blocks, shattered; all the efforts wasted. It hurt him, his eyes gave it away.

He looked down at the scattered blocks and without a hint of tears in his eyes, he picked them up, one by one, and began creating the masterpiece, again.

Second chance. It worked, hopefully.

The Dolls’ House

It’s surprising how life comes a full circle.

She plonked herself on the couch, that sunk under her weight, with a doll in her hands. She ran her wrinkled, trembling fingers through its tangled, plastic golden hair, her eyes lost in the depths of time. She saw a young girl, squealing, the giggles echoing in her ears. The dimples on her chin welcomed the wide grin. The wind caressed the curly locks away from her chubby cheeks. She giggled again, clutching her doll close to her bosom. She was her best friend, her companion. She’d check on her the moment she opened her eyes, bathe her, brush her hair and dress her up. She called her ‘Mia’. You’d never find her without her Mia. They’d eat together, bathe together and fade away in dreamland tucked in the comfort of her soft bed, together.

Time took wings and Mia was lost in oblivion, in some corner, with rodents feasting on bits of her face, and dust resting in peace in the dark circles of her eyes. Her old friend had moved on, in the company of ‘real’ dolls.

The phone rang, waking her up from her reverie. She hung up without a word, clutched Mia close to her bosom. She had become Mia, a doll adored until 'real’ companions took her place. And with time, she too, like Mia, was pushed into the darkness of oblivion, muted by life, with melancholy feasting on her soul. She looked at Mia, seeing glimpses of her life in the lifeless doll, uniting with her long lost best friend, bathing her, brushing her hair and dressing her up. You’d never find her without her Mia. They’d eat together, bathe together and fade away in dreamland tucked in the comfort of her soft bed, together. And one fine day, she became Mia's mirror image -- lying on her couch, a life-sized lifeless doll.

Life came a full circle.

En-light-enment!

She lay on her bed, the mattress sinking under her weight. She lay, gazing at the ceiling. The fan looked like a white disk, slicing the thin air around it. The bedsheet was moist and warm. She tossed and turned, wiping the sweat with the back of her palm. She gazed at the ceiling again, fixing her gaze on the white disk, creaking with every slice it accomplished. She was fascinated by it, except for her belief that it was useless; pointlessly slicing around. “The heat will kill me,” she thought, silently cursing the disc, its creaking noise and its uselessness.

Suddenly, everything around fell silent, creepily silent. She opened her eyes in a flash and it was pitch dark. She fumbled around, her nimble fingers trying to figure things around her. She felt like her insides were melting. Pearls of sweat were dripping down her spine, drenching the bedsheet and making it uncomfortably wet and warm. The silence was pricking her ears. The ceiling was out of her sight. She could feel the heat that her back was emitting. She sat up, the heat killing her. “I won’t wake up alive tomorrow,” she thought.

The disc whirred, startling her awake. She opened her eyes and saw the corridor lights peeking through the curtains. The light was back. She gazed at the ceiling, fascinated by the white disc that was now slicing away with all its might. She fell in love with it. She fell in love with the disc, it’s creaking noise and everything about it.

Give a person something in abundance and watch him curse it. Take it away from him, and watch him fall in love with it. Time. Teaches lessons everyday, every minute.

Nail-ed it!

She stepped on the escalator, scanning her grocery list in her mind, trying to figure out if she’d missed listing anything important. Lost in a wave of thoughts, her eyes fell on the woman behind her. She was dressed in a crisp blue suit, her hair prepped and beautifully set, her curls falling softly on her shoulders. She looked at her slender hand, holding the sides artistically. Her nails looked stunning, nicely shaped, manicured and neat. Suddenly, she looked at her own. Unevenly chipped nails, with stains of green peeking from underneath. The veggies’ sap must have seeped in, she thought. She quickly slid them under her dupatta. She was embarrassed; she could feel her cheeks flush hot, she could feel them turning into a shade of crimson.

She never grew nails, for she wouldn’t be able to knead the dough for rotis. She couldn’t pamper herself to manicures; not because she couldn’t afford one, but because she couldn’t maintain them. Everytime she chopped veggies, the knife would come threateningly close to ruining it.

Suddenly, she felt something. No, she didn’t feel sorry. She felt good. Her half-chipped nails, her flour stained t-shirts, her hair tied into an unkempt bun -- they were all worth the smiles and the burps that her culinary experiments resulted in. She didn’t need manicures to pamper herself; the empty plates and satisfied smiles nailed it for her!

It’s a scary world out there...

It’s funny how people change in a split second. It’s like, they’re all sweet and stuff and whoa! Gone. It’s like a magic trick, where the magician puts a rabbit on display, in front of the packed auditorium. And suddenly, pooof! It vanishes into thin air. Sweetness and goodness vanish these days too. People snub you, keep stern faces and look perpetually irritated. It’s shocking, you know, annoying too. It’s just like walking blindfolded on a bustling street -- what you think is a safe zone for walking isn’t really like that. You never know when a speeding truck is about to ram into you, kill you and then speed off like nothing happened. I worry. Unpredictability scares me. Unexpected reactions scare me even more. It’s a scary world out there, alright, but what makes the world scary, is the scariest part.

Holy Cow!

***The street is abuzz, with thousand glimmering lights dotting the skyline. Incessant honking, curses flying freely and tempers soaring mark the night. Amidst this chaos, I notice a cow, trying it’s best to carry a sack full of stuff on its back, dragging its legs as fast as it can. The honking intensifies, with people rolling down their car windows and yelling at the poor animal. Its owner makes a sheepish face, as he becomes the magnet of curses, doing everything he can to drag the cow faster, while dodging the scorning eyes that are burning him with their gazes. The cow struts on, at its own leisurely pace, the owner bows his head and shields himself on its side. The people on the streets are irritated and rightly so; the cow has unknowingly caused a major traffic snarl, leading to a lot of inconvenience. However, there is not much that the cow itself can do; the burden on its back is slowing it down. Meanwhile, the owner is torn between the angry people, who are right in their own way, and his cow, whose plight he can understand, but can do very little to help...***

Cut to our own lives. There are times when we dwell in the past, carrying it’s baggage on our backs like the cow. The baggage pulls us down, refusing to let go from its clutches. We hunch, slow down and at times stop, without realising the menace we are being to people around; people who watch the show and hurl abuses. Our near and dear ones, meanwhile, dangle between sensibility and sensitivity, unable to make a rational decision. Yes, in keeping pace with us, they slow down too, they stop too, answering the thousand prying eyes that have questions aplenty.

They know what we are doing is illogical and the spectators are on their money, but seeing us suffer and die a slow death kills them too. In the battle between protecting us from the reprimanding and unapproving ‘others’ and pushing us to shed the baggage, it is our close ones who are bruised the most.

Unlike the cow on the road that had no way of helping itself, we can make an effort. Like my friend explained, there are four categories of thoughts -- positive, negative, waste and common. While the positives ones are good and oh-so-welcome, the negative ones aren’t that bad either; they help us be prepared for the worst. However, as soon as we start indulging in negative thoughts from our past, they qualify for the third category which is waste. As long as our negative thoughts concern our future, there is something that can be done. But, as soon as they board the time machine to the past, they will ruin us, harming people around us with their diabolic sting.

It’s best to move on; shed the baggage and feel light...outside and within. Let our hearts and minds be a clean slate, imbibing the positive scribblings and rubbing off the negatives. It’s only then that we can live life, breathe easy and not create snarls anywhere.

Yes, a ‘holy’ cow taught me this. All of this! :)