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.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
WITHOUT YOUR KICK...
Sometimes friends are like magic tricks. Momentary and colourful. I could never cut an entire body in four symmetrical halves, or present a pigeon from a big hat. I never tried swallowing a coin. I was sure; I’d never find it behind my ear. But the Magician could do these things. He could do a trick, and do it again. I used to sit in the front row amongst sweaty, excited children, just to see how he could turn a rose stem into a candy bar. I was awestruck as a little girl. I was always handed that candy bar after each magic show ended. Then at bedtime, when I bit into it, that candy bar always turned out to be rubber.
STAGE ONE : CLASS 3 - 9
The friendship germinated in an awful Bengali class. I’ll call her ‘Yellow’. Yellow and I were as thick as thieves. We jumped on jungle gyms, shared icy bites of orange stick, devoured the five-rupee chow and religiously made pretty friendship bands every year. Over chatar-matar and jhaal chips, we have also had serious conversations about how boys were dirty and mean. Yellow was my first best friend. She was fun, smart, she could draw well. We hardly had anything in common, but we were soul sisters. I remember sometime in class 4 or 5, we had a Christmas Fete in school. I had around 15 rupees left. Enough to buy lots of goodies - a five rupee papri chaat, a five rupee aloo chaat and a five rupee orange stick. We gallivanted to the last stall in line.
It had a lot shrieking and activity. I saw the hullaballoo was over a Rahul Dravid poster. Yellow was a big fan of Rahul Dravid. But for 15 rupees, Rahul Dravid was expensive. Well, I didn’t mind spending my 15 rupees for her then. She was very happy and she gifted me a really cute badge. It had Winnie the Pooh on it, and it said: “You are special”. I still have it. I think. Yellow was always more mature than I was, she always had the better idea, the better taste in music, the better advice. I enjoyed Dunston Checks In, she enjoyed Animal Planet. While I giggled over a newly learnt word called sex and repeated the word over and over again, she thought it was improper. I was impulsive, uninformed about the world, stupid and emotional. But I knew one thing. I could do anything to make my best friend happy.
Class 9 onwards, the constraint became slightly noticeable. Yellow found better friends who were more mature with finer sensibilities. Well, by then our friendship had gone beyond repair. I missed her, and I could never understand why someone who knew Richard Bach could not be friends with someone, who didn’t know Richard Bach. We went to the same high school, where things never got back to the same. I forgot about my scratches, hits and misses and lost friendship bands. I met a new colour.
STAGE TWO : Class 11 – 2nd year college
I’ll call this friend Brown. Brown and I got talking because we were in the same carpool. The telephone helped us become fast friends. We chatted for hours, dissected every little detail in our past, went for lunches, had our share of coffee conversations, truth and dare games, and confession nights.
We were apparently tackling a stage – where we had liberal views about live-in relationships and contract marriage. We had similar opinions about our parents, who were then agonizing.
On her 18th birthday, I decided to do something special. I remember I had painstakingly made 18 cards for her, writing hard enough to roll out a tear-drop. I had also baked a cake. It was also the first time, I was cooking. My first meal, which wasn’t for family.
I remember writing a million pages for her in her school diary when we left school. Well, that was expected. The best friend had the best memories, the best times, knew the best secrets. Brown and I, didn’t have too much in common either. The first big difference was - she was a science student. Her men were dark and lanky, mine we charming ones, who could never be trusted. She understood The Beatles, I was beginning to like Jim Morrison. She could whip up great dishes, I was happy with Maggi. She was an introvert, I was comfortable with strangers. Trouble began when she roped in a boyfriend. Trouble doubled when the boyfriend fancied me. Thus, the tears came pouring down. She wouldn’t believe I didn’t like dark, lanky men. And I didn’t believe, she’d accuse her best friend. Suddenly movies were not fun together, conversations finished before the coffee, we stopped sharing and we stopped caring.
Soon enough, she thought I didn’t know too many guys, didn’t know how to dirty dance with that good-looking prefect, afraid of tattoos and always nervous about sipping a beer. Times had changed. We had grown up. We were part of a change, that wore pink bras under white kurtas, we were part of a change where bhadro bangali boys knowingly had beef at Oly Pub, we were part of a change where we thought, larger the love-bite the braver the woman. And as I saw Brown, blend into the crazy, vacuum world, I still couldn’t do a dirty dance or get a tattoo. As she says, ‘Madhura, you’re going to die an old maid.’
And then, when the Magician placed a row of eight eggs on a giant wooden box, we wondered what the next trick could be. It was a new trick. He covered the box with a huge cloth. And as we prayed for a rainbow, or Humpty Dumpty, he whisked the cloth roughly and a galaxy of eight colourful stars shot up. They were beautiful – red, yellow, blue, green, brown… and as they twinkled on the ceiling, I realised, without that brown star there, and that yellow star over there, I would have never enjoyed the magic show.
STAGE ONE : CLASS 3 - 9
The friendship germinated in an awful Bengali class. I’ll call her ‘Yellow’. Yellow and I were as thick as thieves. We jumped on jungle gyms, shared icy bites of orange stick, devoured the five-rupee chow and religiously made pretty friendship bands every year. Over chatar-matar and jhaal chips, we have also had serious conversations about how boys were dirty and mean. Yellow was my first best friend. She was fun, smart, she could draw well. We hardly had anything in common, but we were soul sisters. I remember sometime in class 4 or 5, we had a Christmas Fete in school. I had around 15 rupees left. Enough to buy lots of goodies - a five rupee papri chaat, a five rupee aloo chaat and a five rupee orange stick. We gallivanted to the last stall in line.
It had a lot shrieking and activity. I saw the hullaballoo was over a Rahul Dravid poster. Yellow was a big fan of Rahul Dravid. But for 15 rupees, Rahul Dravid was expensive. Well, I didn’t mind spending my 15 rupees for her then. She was very happy and she gifted me a really cute badge. It had Winnie the Pooh on it, and it said: “You are special”. I still have it. I think. Yellow was always more mature than I was, she always had the better idea, the better taste in music, the better advice. I enjoyed Dunston Checks In, she enjoyed Animal Planet. While I giggled over a newly learnt word called sex and repeated the word over and over again, she thought it was improper. I was impulsive, uninformed about the world, stupid and emotional. But I knew one thing. I could do anything to make my best friend happy.
Class 9 onwards, the constraint became slightly noticeable. Yellow found better friends who were more mature with finer sensibilities. Well, by then our friendship had gone beyond repair. I missed her, and I could never understand why someone who knew Richard Bach could not be friends with someone, who didn’t know Richard Bach. We went to the same high school, where things never got back to the same. I forgot about my scratches, hits and misses and lost friendship bands. I met a new colour.
STAGE TWO : Class 11 – 2nd year college
I’ll call this friend Brown. Brown and I got talking because we were in the same carpool. The telephone helped us become fast friends. We chatted for hours, dissected every little detail in our past, went for lunches, had our share of coffee conversations, truth and dare games, and confession nights.
We were apparently tackling a stage – where we had liberal views about live-in relationships and contract marriage. We had similar opinions about our parents, who were then agonizing.
On her 18th birthday, I decided to do something special. I remember I had painstakingly made 18 cards for her, writing hard enough to roll out a tear-drop. I had also baked a cake. It was also the first time, I was cooking. My first meal, which wasn’t for family.
I remember writing a million pages for her in her school diary when we left school. Well, that was expected. The best friend had the best memories, the best times, knew the best secrets. Brown and I, didn’t have too much in common either. The first big difference was - she was a science student. Her men were dark and lanky, mine we charming ones, who could never be trusted. She understood The Beatles, I was beginning to like Jim Morrison. She could whip up great dishes, I was happy with Maggi. She was an introvert, I was comfortable with strangers. Trouble began when she roped in a boyfriend. Trouble doubled when the boyfriend fancied me. Thus, the tears came pouring down. She wouldn’t believe I didn’t like dark, lanky men. And I didn’t believe, she’d accuse her best friend. Suddenly movies were not fun together, conversations finished before the coffee, we stopped sharing and we stopped caring.
Soon enough, she thought I didn’t know too many guys, didn’t know how to dirty dance with that good-looking prefect, afraid of tattoos and always nervous about sipping a beer. Times had changed. We had grown up. We were part of a change, that wore pink bras under white kurtas, we were part of a change where bhadro bangali boys knowingly had beef at Oly Pub, we were part of a change where we thought, larger the love-bite the braver the woman. And as I saw Brown, blend into the crazy, vacuum world, I still couldn’t do a dirty dance or get a tattoo. As she says, ‘Madhura, you’re going to die an old maid.’
And then, when the Magician placed a row of eight eggs on a giant wooden box, we wondered what the next trick could be. It was a new trick. He covered the box with a huge cloth. And as we prayed for a rainbow, or Humpty Dumpty, he whisked the cloth roughly and a galaxy of eight colourful stars shot up. They were beautiful – red, yellow, blue, green, brown… and as they twinkled on the ceiling, I realised, without that brown star there, and that yellow star over there, I would have never enjoyed the magic show.
ATYPICAL BONG - (fiction)
New York had made my mother more “English” according to her self analysis theories. Being a Bengali herself, she exultantly snubbed other Bengalis, and labelled them in general, “typically bong”, for everything they did, or mouthed.
“Lots of keys, rice, and illish maach”, is what she usually associated them with. Therefore she preferred appointing white skinned freckled babysitters for me, when she traveled a thousand miles to work. Miss Scott, always ensured strict discipline at home. Fried eggs toast and juice, is what she usually propagated as a nutritional and low-fat menu card for all meals. My mother fired her after a week, when she discovered, an extra dozen of eggs missing quite strangely
.
Reluctantly, she decided to have me put, at our neighbour, Mrs Chatterjee’s.
They were a couple,only a- -year-old, settled in New York, who found comfort in simplicity. Mrs Chatterjee, appeared to me, as a symbol of the extinct. Her hair was neatly braided, with a fine straight line of vermillion, parting her hair. Her sari,was wrapped in exact folds, and she wore a bunch of golden bangles on her left hand. Her apartment was warm, flushed by radiators. Her sofas, and rectangular carpets were mostly mismatched. Her table was messily covered with a white table cloth, stained with yellow patches, upon which perched a happy plastic jar of butter cookies. As my mother chalked out the hours I had to be with Mrs Chatterjee, the only response I heard from her was “Yes,yes”, as she stressed on the last syllable of the word, in a funny accent. I assumed, she did know a bit of English. As my mother left, leaving the large wooden door to close on its own, Mrs Chatterjee walked up to me. She ran her fingers through my hair, her eyebrows twitching at the lack of oil. She climbed on to the tallest bookshelf, balancing effortlessly on a chair, and snatched out comic books of 'Feluda'.She never harped on any healthy menu card, nor did she mind, if I picked my nose, but she always had one eye hooked on me, and the other on her lentils. I felt comfortable as I sprawled out on her carpet,flipping through her album on Durga Pujo.
“Its different, you know,” she said, “Its different when people are engrossed in puchka races, and the entire city is lit with tiny rice bulbs, and your getting dolled like a bride”, she laughed. She spoke of how fish was mandatory in every Bengali household, and how her uncles use to burp proudly, after every meal. To her, unlike my mother, Tagore and “Topshe maach”, were not the same, and nor were the streets of Park Street or North Calcutta. I loved to see, how Mrs Chatterjee, was so drawn to her roots. She loved talking about Kolkata, she laughed with full force, quite unabashedly and ate without any calorie fret.
Every time, my mother came to pick me up, Mrs Chatterjee offered the left over lunch bit. With a practiced smile, my mother agreed to oblige her.
“It’s excellent”, she squealed, as she mistakenly swallowed a small fish bone, her eyes turning bloodshot. As we walked out of Mrs Chatterjee’s
my mother complained that the dal had too much oil,and the fish had too many bones.
Tuesdays, would be great fun at Mrs Chatterjee’s. We use to walk to the park, and carry a little tiffin box with dry fruits to munch on. We spent hours, imitating relatives. She sat on the grass with me, her sari stuffed messily in the center.
I remember, a couple of teenage boys jeering at her, when she asked me to take a picture,as she posed with big sunglasses and a cowboy hat. The hat had caught her fancy, in a fair last year, and since then, it had been one of her great claims. The young boys clung onto their stomachs and broke into peals of laughter.I couldn’t really do much, besides complain to my mother that night. She cared little and gulped her beer, nodding at intervals.
The next day, with the help of our charwoman, I neatly placed a few chicken fillets on the chopping board. I draped a floral shawl around me and drew a thick perpendicular line of red with my felt pen on my forehead. I giggled, at my own sight, somehow feeling beautiful secretly. I tried hunting for a maroon lipstick, couldn’t find one.My charwoman, fried the chicken fillets and I arranged them on a plate. I brought out two little bowls and poured out tomato sauce in one and Tabasco in the other. The meal looked grand and I was proud of my innovation.
As I softly made my way into my mother's room, with the meal in hand,I was disappointed to find her awake.
And she was disappointed to see what I was wearing. Without a word, she pulled out a large suitcase. I sat on her bed, tears trickling down, as my plate lay untouched and her silence pricking.
She emptied her cupboard, and mine too. Stacked up her files, her laptop,music, my toys, and we drove, somewhere far away.
…
It had been two years since I visited Mrs Chatterjee’s. My mother got a new job, and we had a new life ahead. We walked to the sea-side to celebrate. The large stretch of the turquoise ocean was spectacular. My mother yelled, “Say cheese!”,and I put on a pair of sunglasses, with a funny cowboy hat, and smiled.
“Lots of keys, rice, and illish maach”, is what she usually associated them with. Therefore she preferred appointing white skinned freckled babysitters for me, when she traveled a thousand miles to work. Miss Scott, always ensured strict discipline at home. Fried eggs toast and juice, is what she usually propagated as a nutritional and low-fat menu card for all meals. My mother fired her after a week, when she discovered, an extra dozen of eggs missing quite strangely
.
Reluctantly, she decided to have me put, at our neighbour, Mrs Chatterjee’s.
They were a couple,only a- -year-old, settled in New York, who found comfort in simplicity. Mrs Chatterjee, appeared to me, as a symbol of the extinct. Her hair was neatly braided, with a fine straight line of vermillion, parting her hair. Her sari,was wrapped in exact folds, and she wore a bunch of golden bangles on her left hand. Her apartment was warm, flushed by radiators. Her sofas, and rectangular carpets were mostly mismatched. Her table was messily covered with a white table cloth, stained with yellow patches, upon which perched a happy plastic jar of butter cookies. As my mother chalked out the hours I had to be with Mrs Chatterjee, the only response I heard from her was “Yes,yes”, as she stressed on the last syllable of the word, in a funny accent. I assumed, she did know a bit of English. As my mother left, leaving the large wooden door to close on its own, Mrs Chatterjee walked up to me. She ran her fingers through my hair, her eyebrows twitching at the lack of oil. She climbed on to the tallest bookshelf, balancing effortlessly on a chair, and snatched out comic books of 'Feluda'.She never harped on any healthy menu card, nor did she mind, if I picked my nose, but she always had one eye hooked on me, and the other on her lentils. I felt comfortable as I sprawled out on her carpet,flipping through her album on Durga Pujo.
“Its different, you know,” she said, “Its different when people are engrossed in puchka races, and the entire city is lit with tiny rice bulbs, and your getting dolled like a bride”, she laughed. She spoke of how fish was mandatory in every Bengali household, and how her uncles use to burp proudly, after every meal. To her, unlike my mother, Tagore and “Topshe maach”, were not the same, and nor were the streets of Park Street or North Calcutta. I loved to see, how Mrs Chatterjee, was so drawn to her roots. She loved talking about Kolkata, she laughed with full force, quite unabashedly and ate without any calorie fret.
Every time, my mother came to pick me up, Mrs Chatterjee offered the left over lunch bit. With a practiced smile, my mother agreed to oblige her.
“It’s excellent”, she squealed, as she mistakenly swallowed a small fish bone, her eyes turning bloodshot. As we walked out of Mrs Chatterjee’s
my mother complained that the dal had too much oil,and the fish had too many bones.
Tuesdays, would be great fun at Mrs Chatterjee’s. We use to walk to the park, and carry a little tiffin box with dry fruits to munch on. We spent hours, imitating relatives. She sat on the grass with me, her sari stuffed messily in the center.
I remember, a couple of teenage boys jeering at her, when she asked me to take a picture,as she posed with big sunglasses and a cowboy hat. The hat had caught her fancy, in a fair last year, and since then, it had been one of her great claims. The young boys clung onto their stomachs and broke into peals of laughter.I couldn’t really do much, besides complain to my mother that night. She cared little and gulped her beer, nodding at intervals.
The next day, with the help of our charwoman, I neatly placed a few chicken fillets on the chopping board. I draped a floral shawl around me and drew a thick perpendicular line of red with my felt pen on my forehead. I giggled, at my own sight, somehow feeling beautiful secretly. I tried hunting for a maroon lipstick, couldn’t find one.My charwoman, fried the chicken fillets and I arranged them on a plate. I brought out two little bowls and poured out tomato sauce in one and Tabasco in the other. The meal looked grand and I was proud of my innovation.
As I softly made my way into my mother's room, with the meal in hand,I was disappointed to find her awake.
And she was disappointed to see what I was wearing. Without a word, she pulled out a large suitcase. I sat on her bed, tears trickling down, as my plate lay untouched and her silence pricking.
She emptied her cupboard, and mine too. Stacked up her files, her laptop,music, my toys, and we drove, somewhere far away.
…
It had been two years since I visited Mrs Chatterjee’s. My mother got a new job, and we had a new life ahead. We walked to the sea-side to celebrate. The large stretch of the turquoise ocean was spectacular. My mother yelled, “Say cheese!”,and I put on a pair of sunglasses, with a funny cowboy hat, and smiled.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
IT HITS YOU... LIKE NO OTHER
Perhaps romance has got to do with weather. Which is why, it is never constant. Bangalore weather is back to its charm - cold winds, a half grey-half blue sky, a tingly smell in the air, little pools of puddle.
Perhaps, this is calling a forgotten feeling.
'Pehla nasha is always brief. It is perishable, which is why it hits you like no other when it does. I had met him through a common friend. Pure attraction. He was an athlete, round faced, donning a dark stretch of floppy hair, with a bright, wide, captivating smile. Well,I thought he was really cute. Our common friend tried her hand at playing Cupid, though she partially succeeded, I'd like to take credit myself - for playing Cupid and Juliet at the same time!
Like no other expected route, we began with the basics: chatting. Our chat sessions were consistent.We knew each other's timings, we knew who had to say 'hi' first, without sounding imposing. I shrieked when he sent a 'smiley' and I knew when he smiled as I sent him a 'wink'. Our chat sessions sometimes drifted into the crack of dawn, which is when our conversations touched a deep crescendo - dissecting earlier crushes, relationships, likings, tastes, turn offs, music and needless to say, consistently avoiding the need to say 'bye'. Progression was called for and then our late night conversations re-located to 'create message'. The only thing we knew better than our texts, were the different schemes Vodafone offered. Well, the best things in life are not free - love too,had a price. I remember how excited and responsible I felt when I messaged him every day- either waking him up, asking him about his day, explaining my entire POA to him and patiently waiting for all the replies, pronto. FIRST MOVER ADVANTAGE : I was in Compulsory English class - day dreaming. Finally, the most awaited ordeal had arrived. He wanted to have LUNCH with me. My first date. The venue was SUBWAY. January 18, 2007 (perhaps a date, I strangely remember) - I had computer class that morning, and I was aching for the clock to strike 12 noon. A friend of mine, decided to drop me at SUBWAY. We reached the venue and I was strictly asked to stay inside the car and make him wait for 15 minutes. I was apparently committing a blasphemy by being on time. Well, we had lunch (he treated,he had to look debonair) and then we walked to Forum. Then we had Baskin Robbins ice-cream. And after a while, we ventured out on the busy street of Park Street.Nothing seemed more perfect that afternoon. The only thing I wanted to change that afternoon was his t-shirt. It said 'Bagh Bachao, Jongol Bachao' written in a terrible Bangla font. Park Street knew it all - KFC, CCD'S, Barista's, McDonalds', Golden Spoon, metro rides, and the rest, they obediently witnessed all clandestine meetings. I remember,before my University exam he had compiled a CD dumped with soft romantic numbers for me. Perhaps, music expressed much more than what he had to say. I drew him a cute Dexter card, returning a polite thank you. I'm usually out of interesting words to say, when there's too much in my heart. On one occasion, I remember watching the film 'GOAL' with him ( of course we were watching it together on the other end of the telephone), and I did appreciate the stimulating number of 'goals' in the film, while I actually didn't understand anything about the off-side and on-side. I always disliked football. But that was the day, he introduced me to Kaka. Swift, talented and most importantly, hot as hell. Soon enough, I became Kaka's biggest fan on earth. I remember, he had made me a super awesome collage with the best of Kaka's pictures. It's still lurking around on one of my Facebook albums. My friends liked him. They found him sweet and nice. Trust me, it was a huge relief. My best friends had to approve of him. He was always an introvert. I never tried forcing him to open up his deepest feelings. He took his own, sweet time to say something when he was ready. In fact, he used to take a lot of time to share his feelings. Sometimes, he would go on days without end, hiding his secrets, fears or fancies. Sometimes, it would irk the devil out of me. I was steadily getting worried because I hardly knew enough about him to even write a pamphlet. Opposites attract, I guess. But may be for a little while? The 'firsts' are always special. Same reason, why my Pehla Nasha will always be special to me.
Like no other expected route, we began with the basics: chatting. Our chat sessions were consistent.We knew each other's timings, we knew who had to say 'hi' first, without sounding imposing. I shrieked when he sent a 'smiley' and I knew when he smiled as I sent him a 'wink'. Our chat sessions sometimes drifted into the crack of dawn, which is when our conversations touched a deep crescendo - dissecting earlier crushes, relationships, likings, tastes, turn offs, music and needless to say, consistently avoiding the need to say 'bye'. Progression was called for and then our late night conversations re-located to 'create message'. The only thing we knew better than our texts, were the different schemes Vodafone offered. Well, the best things in life are not free - love too,had a price. I remember how excited and responsible I felt when I messaged him every day- either waking him up, asking him about his day, explaining my entire POA to him and patiently waiting for all the replies, pronto. FIRST MOVER ADVANTAGE : I was in Compulsory English class - day dreaming. Finally, the most awaited ordeal had arrived. He wanted to have LUNCH with me. My first date. The venue was SUBWAY. January 18, 2007 (perhaps a date, I strangely remember) - I had computer class that morning, and I was aching for the clock to strike 12 noon. A friend of mine, decided to drop me at SUBWAY. We reached the venue and I was strictly asked to stay inside the car and make him wait for 15 minutes. I was apparently committing a blasphemy by being on time. Well, we had lunch (he treated,he had to look debonair) and then we walked to Forum. Then we had Baskin Robbins ice-cream. And after a while, we ventured out on the busy street of Park Street.Nothing seemed more perfect that afternoon. The only thing I wanted to change that afternoon was his t-shirt. It said 'Bagh Bachao, Jongol Bachao' written in a terrible Bangla font. Park Street knew it all - KFC, CCD'S, Barista's, McDonalds', Golden Spoon, metro rides, and the rest, they obediently witnessed all clandestine meetings. I remember,before my University exam he had compiled a CD dumped with soft romantic numbers for me. Perhaps, music expressed much more than what he had to say. I drew him a cute Dexter card, returning a polite thank you. I'm usually out of interesting words to say, when there's too much in my heart. On one occasion, I remember watching the film 'GOAL' with him ( of course we were watching it together on the other end of the telephone), and I did appreciate the stimulating number of 'goals' in the film, while I actually didn't understand anything about the off-side and on-side. I always disliked football. But that was the day, he introduced me to Kaka. Swift, talented and most importantly, hot as hell. Soon enough, I became Kaka's biggest fan on earth. I remember, he had made me a super awesome collage with the best of Kaka's pictures. It's still lurking around on one of my Facebook albums. My friends liked him. They found him sweet and nice. Trust me, it was a huge relief. My best friends had to approve of him. He was always an introvert. I never tried forcing him to open up his deepest feelings. He took his own, sweet time to say something when he was ready. In fact, he used to take a lot of time to share his feelings. Sometimes, he would go on days without end, hiding his secrets, fears or fancies. Sometimes, it would irk the devil out of me. I was steadily getting worried because I hardly knew enough about him to even write a pamphlet. Opposites attract, I guess. But may be for a little while? The 'firsts' are always special. Same reason, why my Pehla Nasha will always be special to me.
SHORT FIFTIES'...
THE LADY KILLER
Her eyes were fixed on him. His pulse started racing and his heart was pumping... red, unmeasured adrenaline. The dim bulb near the kitchen sink, just about made it romantic. He had been avoiding her for almost three hours. She winked at him.. brutally spraying the Baygon. The cockroach died.
BALLE BALLE!
I heard Mrs Sweety Singh had bought one of the exclusive pieces of fine art in Paris. The punjabi entourage of her community labelled it profoundly 'Wow Shao'. I popped in uninvited, to see the piece of Rembrandt Revisited. It was unquestionably 'wow shao' - A canvas full of stick figures.
ANYTHING FOR LOVE
It was Valentine's Day. Her plunging black off shoulder and his afraid deep brown eyes found company. She scowled, "You will not wander below my neck, unless its a diamond necklace you want to give me."
He sipped his Martini and reclined. The lucky lizard grinned unharmed on her shoulder.
FAIR IS BEAUTIFUL
She smeared ruthlessly - Dove, Ponds, Garnier, the cocoa butter paste, the strawberry lotion, the mix of orange pulp,curd and lime. The mesh of all creams now blended into something magical, unexpected. She settled to wash it off. The splashes of water, revealed her fresh face- now,full of pimples!
FREE WILY
Breaking bonds of experience,
Free as the wind,
Unchained as laughter,
I am running,
Like the shooting comet.
A red ball of light,
Ablaze with life,
Slicing the veil
Of masked night.
My spirit enameled
With the brightness of orange,
I feel no more
The bleakness of blue.
Boundless like oceans,
Unburnt like energy,
Now am free from the chains of
World and you...
Free as the wind,
Unchained as laughter,
I am running,
Like the shooting comet.
A red ball of light,
Ablaze with life,
Slicing the veil
Of masked night.
My spirit enameled
With the brightness of orange,
I feel no more
The bleakness of blue.
Boundless like oceans,
Unburnt like energy,
Now am free from the chains of
World and you...
ASH
The fire's on one end,
the fool on the other.
His heart full of ache,
And lungs full of smoke
Puff grey circles around my head.
He smells like ash
I break up with him.
SPOT ME
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