Let's get it RIGHT.

MR RIGHT is an overrated man. He is good looking with dollops of intelligence, caring, possesses the splendid rarity of a funny bone and perhaps in a sophisticated term, he is ‘rather debonair’. MR RIGHT is like the perfect broth relished by Goldilocks, the charming prince, Cinderella kissed, and the chivalrous knight, that fights like a dauntless dragon. This unbelievable man is hard to pursue. On every spray of a fantastic shooting star, or on every passage of a mail van, there will be at least one woman crossing her fingers and wishing for her MR RIGHT to sweep her off her feet, off the ground, off her mind, to the stars and well… the other poetic things.
The question is… Do women seek for perfection, or imperfection that can be honed and nurtured into a priceless avatar? Sometimes women get unreasonably paranoid to find their men in a time-table format - for instance, if he remembers every birthday, profusely sanitizes his hands after playing with the dog, respects punctuality, and strangely ‘forgives and forgets’. On the other hand, women detest it, when men are obediently late before every date, seal promises when befuddled, or artistically write ‘psychedelic’ on their pants. Of course, there are a set of women who enjoy negligible imperfection – for instance, if the man in question refuses to dip his biscuits in Nutella sauce (which is a heinous crime) and the woman in question introduces him to this new cuisine imposingly; or if he whines inconsolably about the defeat of Manchester United, she tells him how not to be a moron and accept things more maturely. Another set of women, (with refined culinary skills) always like to mother their men. They don’t seek for perfection or otherwise, they only reiterate their wondrous ability to make a man out of a boy. Some women find perfection in charming men who are award winning flirts. They enjoy every false promise made to them, every intelligible banter with dubious meaning, and believe every pretentious sorry. Good flirts have an unavoidable charm – a charm, which every woman would love to be a victim of. Now again, is that quite right?

I’d like to say, the only perfect entity, conforming absolutely to description in the universe is our dear, globe-shaped Earth.

Put me to rest

Break my heart in little ways,

Softly,with great care.



Tell me a half-written story and

read me an ending that was never there.

Bring me words with little magic,

Sing a song half-way, leave a sentence unfinished.

Wake me up in the middle of a dream.

Show me a rainbow without indigo.



A story that ends, lightens my heart.

Songs that finish, make me sing.

Words, nouns, complete lines make sense.

A dream that transports allows a dream.

The seven symmetrical hues catch the

first breath of wonder.



Walk away sooner.

From sights, sounds, meanings and books.



Break my heart in little ways,

Softly, I pray.

A strange thing happened when I shampooed.

As far as I know, the day began with me grumbling. I had to cancel my plans with my baby niece and head to work like a normal Monday on a lovely Saturday. But before that, I stopped at a parlour for a nice, inspiring hair massage.

I know creative ideas are spotted in bathrooms. Inspiration can also be derived from politicians, messages can be decoded in dreams, love can be found in tattoos, reflection can be sought in malaria, but forgiveness while you shampoo?

While Mr Black T-shirt muscled his fingers to wash my hair, I let it all go. There were too many people living in my head, rent-free. Today, I politely asked all of them to find another place of living. I thought, it wouldn’t be easy at first, considering most of them hadn’t paid their dues. And honestly, I was a little tired trying to remind myself of who did what and when and why and how could she and how dare he?

I usually hold on to a grudge till I exact my revenge. I’m not the one to say, ‘I forgive you, we’re friends again.’ I’m the one that says, ‘Serves you right.’ But today, I’m ready to be the forgiving, more mature, sensible, charitable or whatever ugly-ass word you call it, kind of person. Now, that doesn’t mean we’re friends again. That certainly doesn’t mean, we can jingle to old times. That just means, I’m done with your loud music in my head and I need to turn off the noise, so that I can listen to better stuff.

So, there. You’re free to be with those who value you. You’re free to be with those who love you and care about you. You need to realise, that I’m not the one to catch you when you jump off a bridge. I’ll be the one at your funeral, saying, ‘We were really close in school’, or ‘He really was a star footballer’. So, there, get out of my head and invade the minds and hearts of those who understand you, trust you and protect you.

Tomorrow, if you swallow a bitter pill, there won’t be a thousand trumpets blowing in my heart.
Tomorrow, if you call for help, there won’t be a special prayer to see you fail or watch you run into a golden unicorn.
Tomorrow, will be easy and ordinary for the both of us.

We’re not friends anymore, remember that. But I’m okay if you wish to have an icecream sometime.
And there I was - done with my excess baggage. And my shampoo.

Emni Likhlam

An athletic diver jumps into the deep blue width of an ocean. A soundless splash and he streams through the ocean like a rocket, touching the blue earth at last. That’s exactly how it goes in me. That's how I feel when expectations are fulfilled.

Hunting letters written in good handwriting to a possible boyfriend that were never posted. Reading them aloud in my head, only to sound like a total ass. Now that’s love, dug out from the drawers.

Remembering a 10/10 in Maths that was only possible because I cheated. The little pleasures of seeing full marks, without my credit.
Praying for the night to end. Ma’s gone to get me a little doll, they said. Seeing a tiny brother the next day. The joy of holding a real doll that can breathe.

Seeing a long-forgotten best friend on the road. Throwing about mean words in my head. Perhaps imagining a tight slap across her face. Relief.

Readily sharing my spirit. Going on and on about my wishes, dreams, fear, the future and even elaborate tales of eating breakfast, fairy tales and the rain. Ripping out my heart until it says, you’re done for the night.

Biting my lip and rubbing my eyes to dig out an ant. Then justifying it was the ant that caused the tears. Lying my way out safely.

Looking at the stars from my balcony. Knowing fully well, Thamma had roast chicken for lunch and beef steak for dinner. Consolation.

Watching a beautiful scene in the movies. Say somewhere in fascinating Switzerland. Watching good-looking people glide across snowy caps with stuffy gear. Waiting for my turn to do it someday. Adventure.

Hearing stories about forgiveness. Reading fancy quotes on how one should forgive and forget, because it’s the only way to move on. But I’m still not ready to let go.

Heady with victory. Beaming with an everlasting smile. A hundred trumpets blasting away in my heart. Only because things didn’t work out for a certain somebody. Revenge.

Sitting across a dirty sea in Bombay. The waves never stopped dancing. The wind carried a whiff of garbage, but never stopped whistling. The rocks were shabby, but appeared to be lustrous black in my eyes. That’s how nature felt.

Simply, amazing. All of the above. Can I, for once be the richest one alive and awake to all the feelings designed in the world?

DRAWING

I drew a picture on paper.
It never had a name,
But it had a face.
It had meaning,
till I realised,
it’s the only picture I could draw well.
I drew it when I was happy,
when I was jealous,
when I found a memory.
and lost a race.

But one day,
I drew a flower.
I coloured a star.
I knew how to draw a volcano.
It had names,
and faces.
and no meaning.
Till I realised,
I don’t remember the picture I used to draw well.

"Kalkaji aa jayiyo!"

From the gloomy days of sambar, I have stepped into the rich, fattening city of butter chicken – where amongst Mother Dairy, accelerating vespas, and brawny(not brainy) men contribute to the invigorating spirit of New Delhi.

Besides the cathartic sensation of hindi galis, I was beginning to enjoy the company of a sinful man. Now this very sinful man believed, the gym next door would make the world unhappy.


Near the second gol-chakkar at Kalkaji, just next to the Dental Clinic resides this honourable man. He has been stationed there for a long time. This man is a pot-bellied, pleasant looking chaat-waala. Never seen him wear anything but white; stainless and crumpled. He’s stout, brimming with self pride and ability. He knows your dirty thoughts - which primarily begin and cease with food. If you turn away, he flicks a small chopped dice of aloo and slowly clouds you with his slightly spicy, slightly chatpata aroma. And when you surrender, he is more than happy to tell you, why happiness is food.

He is heroic – his tikkis are unmatched.If you have ever tried to tame hunger, you should never approach this man. That makes him angry.

His frying pan almost reflects the size of his heart. His magic potions of pudina chutney, imli, dahi, namak, pyaaz and mirch are sealed in clean glass bottles, shimmering under a bare bright bulb. I forget the name of his shop on wheels, but what I remember is, his perfect temerity about the bliss he was about to give.
He folds his sleeves and lets out a slight grunt before the magic show. He places a tikki hastily but not ruthlessly so, in his pool of gleaming oil. They instantly turned golden, almost like a command.

Passersby walk on. Some stand next to the book shop beside his territory. Some move on to better things, while the ones who know what joy is, stop. They gather around his shop; the magic show is on. The tikkis are still frying.

Aware of rising appetite, with maddening speed he rushes the tikkis to perfection. A dollop of dahi, a dash of imli chutney, pudina chutney, lots of pyaaz, mirch and a few sticks of bhujiya. Happiness has arrived.

The job is done. As the audience begins extolling, he smiles with complete knowledge of being the best. He watches the unruly tongues flap in joy,while the calorie-dreading woman bites knowingly into the ball of sin, quietly wimpering, 'Iski ma ki…'

CULINARIES

A bright, resplendent golden sheet of sun spread over Matthew’s face. The morning had whipped in a strange kind of happiness, as the smell of baking brownies wavered across his nose. He walked to the kitchen and noticed a perturbed Mrs Fernandes testing the flavour of roasted walnuts with her arcane senses. He felt at ease. She was alright after all.
He was anxious when he told her; she wasn’t allowed to drive, like the other ladies in the neighbourhood.But Mrs Fernandes preferred a quiet surrender and returned to her half-done dough mixture for the raisin cake. She stirred, and stirred till the contours of the container did not leave any mucky marks of beginners.
Matthew marveled a little, and then his eyes fell on the crumpled brown dress on the ironing board. He remembered how Mrs Fernandes longed for that floral skirt, embroidered with intricate craftsmanship. Ever since, Mrs Gupta visited the ‘County Special’ store, all she did was gasp about this cheap store and especially this bright floral skirt. But Matthew hated the sheer unwelcome gesture of skirts.He hastily selected a Victorian brown dress with careless long sleeves. She never waged war even then. Instead,she went home and plated a dish of fine Singaporean prawn with Asian flavours. She had spent a lot of time, carefully carving the yellow capsicum, till she decided it wasn’t needed at all.
Matthew walked back to his bedroom and closed the door. He lighted a cigar. He remembered how he had caught Mrs Fernandes relishing the vermin of those brown cigars. She was almost ecstatic and sensed a forbidden feeling of freedom, when Matthew caught her by neck and punitively drove her into the wall. She squealed a little, but submitted weakly. Later on, that night she brewed a cup of fabulous coffee with rich cocoa - and he wondered whether it was a bold expression of anger, mixed with no milk and very little sugar. Just the way, he enjoyed his coffee.
He closed his eyes, and recalled the last Christmas eve in Delhi. Mrs Fernandes had worn a Bohemian scarf gifted by Mrs Gupta’s daughter-in-law. What was the need to follow popular culture? Matthew resented the bright colours, the bizarre, feverish designs, the twists and tangles of stripes. Mrs Fernandes d stacked it away onto the old pile of clothes. The Christmas was merry indeed. She had prepared a beautiful roast turkey with apple sauce. That grandiose meal was hearty and the glint of the sauce…
The door knob made a rude noise, as Mrs Fernandes walked in with the tray of brownies.The burnt smell of chocolate and the delicate texture of the brownies filled the room with delayed mirth. Matthew tried an encouraging smile, as she offered him a plate of gorgeous brownies. He bit into one. The brownies were so soft. Matthew wolfed the entire plate.

He did not know whether it was guilt or remorse, terrible heart ache or sheer avarice that suddenly caused him to stir wildly on his arm chair. He was filled with pain and he clutched his chest like a toy. He tried to get a glass of water but miserably lay still.

The sun slowly began to temper, as the light wind carried the smell of the walnut brownies down to the street, where sweaty children played hop-scotch.