Things about her….Poetry in our life

Sometimes I get a little suspicious of my wife. No, No, don’t get the wrong idea! Not the kind of suspicion Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith shared for each other. I have never been able to understand how she manages everything and I am not talking about household chores. For instance, I have never been able to remember any traffic routes but she seems to have a google map in her head. Is it possible that she may have been chasing criminals on these very roads earlier in the day? Whenever we are planning a vacation, she already seems to know a hell of a lot about various hotels, places to visit and places not to visit and so on. Is it possible that she might be on some international espionage assignment and is yet able to make it home to cook dinner? I guess I will never be able to figure things about her, so I will just restrict this article to our conversation the other day.

I was writing a poem. I am not a poet; I just try to rhyme things and at times use my poems in my stories. After thinking for a couple of hours, I came up with the following lines:

It wasn’t my place to be, for I am only a traveller,

an observer, an onlooker, at best a road dweller.

I once called things I owned, proudly as my own.

Now the world is mine to use, all things known.

 

She was standing over my shoulder. I expected her to say something good about the poem. She kept looking at the words for a minute and then moved away with indifference. I looked back and asked her, “Hey! What happened?””Nothing” she said. Now with my experience of the last five years, I knew that “Nothing” is never “Nothing”. So I decided to prod on.. “I mean, what you think about the poem?” “Ohh! It’s nice”, she said. Now “nice” is another word which I know is  not nice by any standards. While a man would mostly do the stuff himself to  impress a lady, a woman would only offer help when the man is ready to admit that he is stupid. So I said “I am not able to complete the poem, can you help me with this?”  “Oh you are a writer, you will figure it out” she said without looking at me. What did I do wrong? I had already admitted that I am not smart enough to do the job. Why wasn’t  she helping? Oh yes! Once you have admitted that you are stupid, you also have to make the lady feel her supremacy.  “You do these things so naturally!. In fact you do everything so beautifully! Just see what you feel about the poem.” Finally, she was interested!

 

“Hmm.. maybe we can change some words. For example “place to be” does not seem to fit in and neither  does  “all things known”. We may also have to change  “road dweller” and “use” she said. “So what do you have in mind?” I said hiding my annoyance over the fact that I had spent  almost four hours in finding these words.  She spent the  next ten minutes scribbling, striking words out, writing and then rewriting and mostly staring at the paper. After ten minutes, she came up with the following version:

 

I do not stop, for I am a traveller, an explorer,

My pilgrimage is long, for I am still a seeker,

I chose the world over the crossroads of “own” and “renounce,”

The world I own as an observer, an onlooker, at best a road dweller.

 

I kept looking at the poem, trying to find my words. Now I am beginning to think that they train their agents in all kinds of art including poetry as well!

A yellow house, a thing that dropped out of the sky and a thing of beauty...

‘How do you write a story? I mean how you come up with all these ideas?’ she asked me. This was something I had never asked myself. I never had to. Not trying to boast, but after writing the first line, the story just oozes out of me. It is the first line which is difficult to imagine. She did not believe me when I told her this.  So she offered to suggest the first line of the story. I was more than willing to oblige.
 

‘It was a cold dark night’ she said. ‘Really? You wish to make it that simple for me? C’mon try again.’ I suggested. She thought for a minute and came back with ‘The house was yellow’- nothing more. I had the first line. Now it was upto me. My story followed like this:

“The house was yellow. Or it must have been yellow at some point in time. Now there is only a hint of bright yellow hues it once may have sported. She had said that it was the most beautiful house on the street. I jokingly said that she must also be the most beautiful girl on that street. She blushed. We had met at a marriage. I roamed around her for three days before she agreed to meet me alone. We talked about ourselves and each another. We laughed at silly jokes and shared our idea of  the future. Suddenly we could see a future together. I promised to come to her home soon and ask for her hand in marriage. She said I should not make promises which I may not be able to keep. I could not understand her doubt. Men have a tendency of having very high confidence on their abilities for as long as they live off their parents. She had to leave. She dropped a chit with  her address  and I picked it up”

‘This is not a very good story. I can already guess the ending. The guy will not be able to marry the girl and will visit her house after 20-30 years in the hope of  meeting her.  Let me give you another line’ She interrupted. ‘Try me’ I said. She wanted to give a really weird one this time and she did. ‘It just dropped out of sky’. I could not lose face after having made such tall claims. Here was the story I knitted :

“It just dropped out of sky. The question. They were shocked. How can I even think about getting married before I got a job? Men at this age do not think very far in future. I had received a letter from a girl I met in a marriage and who I loved like crazy now. We had been exchanging letters since then. She could not wait any longer. I was to visit her home and ask for her hand in marriage. I had to decide quickly. There was no other way. That night I stole cash from my father’s safe. I had sent her a letter mentioning that she should meet me at  the railway station from where we will run away into a world far from here. For opening one’s eyes fully, one must first take a punch on one’s nose. And I took a couple. She was watching from a distance while her goons beat the hell out of me and snatched the cash. All this while, I did not blink even once. I kept looking into her eyes - those deceiving, devious eyes. I wanted to remember those eyes for my life.

 

My brothers had lodged a complaint against me with police. I spent next two years in jail, never forgetting her eyes for a single moment. It gave me strength to go on.”

 

‘Okay I am impressed. But for my satisfaction, complete the story with this first line – ‘a thing of beauty is a joy forever’. She was getting adventurous with her lines. To write a standalone story with a single line is one thing, but to join two completely different things and come up with one outcome is another. Well, I could only try!

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Apparently the sentence was only half true as far as I was concerned. No matter how much I tried, I could not recall those beautiful eyes I fell in love with, only the deceitful version of them. After coming out of jail I had nowhere to go to. No future to look forward to. There was only a resolution – revenge. Life took dramatic turns and I took all kind of ways to earn money and I did.  It was my chance to take revenge. So here I was looking at the yellow house. The house which was yellow once. I kept waiting till she came out in her balcony. She looked at me. I tried to summon my anger, my reflection of her deceptive, devious and deceitful eyes. Then I turned back and started walking, with a new image, a memory which I had cherished for long ever since I met her. Those beautiful black eyes - a thing of beauty is a joy forever”

My story was finished. She could not speak for a minute - maybe a little too spellbound. She was mesmerised with the narration. While she closed her eyes to think of another line, my hand reached into my pockets and produced a chit with an address. It was time to let go of it.

A train called Destiny Express

He seemed to be a reserved kind of person, the kind who could spend hours without uttering a single word. He was reading a book and I was trying to read his face. As a kid, I really liked train journeys. Those days, we did not have wherewithal to travel in reserved compartments. Rather than sharing a berth with eight other travellers, I preferred to sit on the door and watch trees and clouds running with the train. It was easy to pass time watching the landscape changing every minute. It also helped me avoid my fear of crowds. The fear was not there always; only after I lost my four  year old sister in the Kumbh mela of 1981 (sounds clichéd but true). Since then I have always been trying to escape; from my family, from myself and from all eyes who remind me my helplessness.

Travelling is not only a tool of escaping but also a part of my job now. I must say travelling comfortably in AC coaches may be a luxury but I could never develop a liking for it.

I decided to use my standard conversation starter. "Hi. I am Ajay. I think I have seen you somewhere. Have you ever been to Gorakhpur?" I said. It was as if somebody had jolted him from a slumber. He took a moment to get normal and smiled. He said his name was Vishal and he was from Shimla. He had obviously never been to Gorakhpur and as expected could not locate me in his memories. I commented on how weird it was that some faces look so familiar and that it feels as if we had met before. He said he had read a book somewhere which said that people who feel at ease with each other are generally related in an earlier birth. I had heard this before, but to keep conversation on, I acted surprised at this new knowledge.

He worked as a librarian at a public library in Shimla. According to me being a librarian is the second coolest job one can have, first being a book reviewer. I wish to read books throughout the day but unfortunately with my kind of job and a tendency of motion sickness, I am not able to devote too much time to it. He was a great believer in God, faith and destiny; the three things I stopped believing in, a long time ago. Having spent countless nights praying and crying myself to sleep; having visited numerous temples and having rushed to unknown places with even the slightest possibility of finding my sister, I had stopped counting on divine help.

Contrary to my first impression of him, he was talking a lot. He shared with me how he was orphaned when he was seven years old. He survived working at tea stalls and completed his education by working as a runner boy in government offices. With help from some common connection, he met a girl. They got married and have two kids now. I looked at a wrapped gift peeping out of his bag and commented that his kids would be happy seeing him back with gifts. He said he was also carrying a gift for his wife since it was her birthday.

I told him to wish her from my side as well. He casually mentioned that they celebrate her birthday on the day they met. Now I was genuinely surprised. He said the reason was that she did not know her real birthday. She was separated from her family in the Kumbh mela and left at an orphanage by someone. I could not speak for a minute. With great difficulty I cleared my throat and asked, "In which year was she lost?" "1981" he replied.

Colour of her Hair!!!

They were our neighbours for two months now. In our kind of community, good neighbours are very hard to find. But here they were, sharing all festivals and other occasions with us. It’s like they did not have any other family and friends. Social rules have been changing very fast, from joint families owning farms on country side, now nuclear families are in fashion - families like ours. We generally trade our social interactions with our independence, obviously giving importance to the latter. Meeting like- minded people in such setting is nothing less than a boon.

 

There was a knock on the door. The couple was standing on the door with a suitcase packed in jiffy. They had to leave in a hurry due to some emergency and wanted us to take care of their daughter. We loved her, so we did not mind. Looking at the anxiety on their faces, we did not ask the expected duration of their absence. We did not have a kid so having her at home was a happy experience. We spent a lot of time with her. She was very curious and used to ask questions like why is her hair black while ours were blonde. She used to think that we sunbathed too much, that’s why it happened.

Everything was going great till about after two days she started calling us mom and dad. We felt weird but took it as innocence of a kid. She too us to her school and introduced us as her parents to her teacher. A week passed, we realised that we did not have contact number to our neighbours. So we tried to ask the girl about their whereabouts. She gave us weird looks as if she did not understand. She said that her parents have obviously not gone anywhere since we are her parents. We were now getting irritated. There was something eerie that night.

I was leaving for office when my eyes fell on the picture frame near the keyholder. It was a picture of me, my wife and …….. her!!!! I clearly remember that this was the photo we clicked a year back and till that time neighbours had not moved in. I kept staring at the picture as if trying to locate it in my memories. I shouted and my wife came running. I pointed at the picture anticipating that she will scream. She did not find anything unusual with the picture. I asked if she cannot see the little girl sitting in my lap. She was not supposed to be there. My wife looked at me questioningly and said that ofcourse she was supposed to be there since she is our daughter.

Right at that moment, the girl (supposedly our daughter) entered the room. Guess what was the colour of her hair????

The chair, the ghost and my dog.

It was a perfect winter evening. There was enough smog that you did not need to exchange glances or smiles with strangers therefore no need to worry about your appearances. I must have really come far since I was out of thoughts generated by my subconscious mind. I was thinking of turning back when I noticed there was a man sitting on a chair which had only two legs. No matter how hard he tried, he could not balance the chair. It was an amusing sight. I kept watching him, but not for long. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to approach him. “Can I help you”- I said. “Indeed” he smiled at me and vanished into this air. Next minute I was sitting on the chair and trying to balance it. No matter how hard I tried, I was not able to get up. And as happens with all the nightmares, I woke up sweating and trembling.

I got up and walked towards the fridge. I had moved recently into this house and was getting accustomed to it. There were many doors and I ended up opening the wrong door. After switching on the lights I realised that this is not the kitchen, but just before closing the door, my eyes fell on an object which I could never forget. Not on that night, not ever in my life. A chair with two legs. My knees suddenly became weak. The problem with the Heart attack is that it does not come as easily as they show in movies. You have to go through the full agony of realising the implications, the fear and the pain. You have to feel every drop of sweat dripping down your forehead and a chill down your spine. It is wrong on so many levels. Your whole life’s disbelief in ghosts come crashing.

The human mind is very strong. It conjures up images and the face of the man sitting on the chair was in front of my eyes. For the first time I realised that it was a face which could not be described. I am not sure whether we can call it a face. The man was now sitting on the chair. The chair was perfectly balanced on its two legs.  He whistled. My dog came running. My dog was now sitting in his lap. The chair was balanced. Somehow the fact that the chair was balanced seemed to be much more significant that all of this. Fortunately the human mind can only take as much so I collapsed.

I could never go back to that place even for collecting my stuff. I moved to the city and drowned myself in work. My kids help me remain occupied in one thing or other. I miss my dog. The life has changed, except on winter evenings…..

I have a grudge against Inner Peace

In last one week, I have tried almost everything. Morning yoga to classical music; spiritual discourses to meditation, but the promised land of Inner peace is nowhere to be seen. I must be doing something wrong. Some say it’s a rookie mistake, like new joinees in a gym look at their biceps in the mirror the most. I tell them, it’s only logical since only they can observe a lot of change when after pumping iron for only 5 minutes; hands seem to be 10 kg each.

Why don’t I get Inner peace?

I want to know the reason please.

Quick Quick! That’s my plea,

Whether I choose it or it chooses me.
 

With each passing day, I was more inclined to believe Fran Lebowitz who said – “There is no such thing as inner peace. There is only nervousness and death.” But I was willing to make one more effort, so as a good seeker, I picked up a pencil and started writing down probable reasons and their likeliness for me seeking the peace. Here was the result:

I do not have any depression, jealousy, anxiety or fear,

I am not a slave of desire, can see my future so clear.

Undoubtedly I have a clear purpose, an aim, an objective,

I think I am troubled by peace itself, in a robe that’s deceptive.

 

Sometimes the journey for seeking peace starts with peace itself. Human mind is an ever seeker and it will keep seeking till there is something to seek.

So Inner peace, I have a grudge against you for coming to me so quickly, now I have to seek something else. What about that girl with long legs!!!!

I baked a cake....

This is not a cookery blog, and this article is not about recipe to baking a great cake. It is about my experience of baking the first cake of my life. I will try and avoid technical details, but let’s face it, it’s a Goddamn cake and I will have to include some technicals.

 

The first ingredient to make a soft melting chocolate cake is not chocolate, but a convection mode microwave oven. Buying an oven proved to be ignition point of battle of the sexes. While I was going through various functions, my wife was concerned whether the design will go with kitchen furniture. Ultimately, we both won, even though it meant extra Rs 5k on my pocket.

 

I got the usual ingredients like all-purpose flour, sugar, butter, cocoa powder, eggs, walnuts etc. I was super confident of the proportions, however I thought I will involve my wife in the baking process. So I casually asked her to check if everything was ok. First thing I remember was a lecture on usage of so much butter and that white butter was better than yellow butter only that I did not know where to get white butter from. Second was of course, sugar. Apparently I was using twice the sugar than acceptable standards laid down by International super-intelligent wives associations (ISIWA). So I lost half the butter and equal amount of sugar.

I poured what was left of everything in a bowl and started beating the mixture. The cake mixture was then poured into the baking mould and kept for baking. Believe me or not, those were one of the most testing 30 minute period I have ever faced, with unending sceptical looks of my wife.

30 minutes were over and it was time for the result. As expected, I had again fallen short of expectations of ISIWA. The cake did not seem to be soft enough. Apparently the reason I was given was that I had not beaten the mixture sufficiently. Also it has nothing to do with cutting down butter content in the mixture.

And then came the time for taste test. While she had the cake in her mouth and I had my throat in mine. Well the thing about a good cake it that while it goes in mouth, it is tasted directly from heart. It’s a soul touching nirvana moment while it lasts. I knew I had passed with distinction.

My friends – Butter and sugar are nothing. Love is still the best recipe in the world. And I can afford to proudly say that today because it was undoubtedly the best cake we ever had.