Ocean in a bowl

I have always pondered over aquariums. The transparent surface, the glossy exterior and the clear waters.
The bottom is covered with a layer of golden sand and variegated pebbles.
Often tiny weeds are planted on the sand and they float around precariously in the pristine water.
It is as if there is no layer between the eye and the water.
My existence as such had been a lonely one.

I was trapped in the monotony of life that prevented me from connecting to the outside world. I was limited to living my life in a matchbox-sized apartment, eating meals from a box and typing furiously on the laptop all day.
My talks were restricted to colleagues, a pleasant smile in case I bumped into my neighbour at the gate and talking once a day to my parents about the routine everyday stuff.

Nothing ever transpired to make my life more exciting.
It was an automated clockwork that ran its course the same way.
My weekends were interspersed with the same activities except for some activities taking a bigger share of time.
A sliver of my time was spent in the dissection of my feelings.

I had forgotten to care for anyone around me. It was as if I developed this hardened exterior and could take no nonsense from anyone.

One fine evening, my thoughts reverted to my aquarium.
What if I chose to bring home a tiny fish? Would that be symbolical of my ray of hope? Could I attach my feelings to this speck of a fish that roamed inside the aquarium?
I played with this idea for a while. Was this a good idea to introduce a fish into my ecosystem? I was practically not programmed to handle another life that needed attention and care.
My constitution didn't support frivolity.
But this was my last straw of humanity.
This would mean that I could care for something, feed a mouth, watch it wade through the waters.

I spent more than three hours in the pet shop looking for my perfect companion. I chose a small aquarium and two guppies.
I picked up some filters, weed, sand, coloured stones and everything else the shopkeeper deemed necessary for their survival and well being.
He marketed it so well that for a minute I was gleaming with pride that I made them feel at home.
Armed with my supplies, I reached home.
I cleaned my side table and carefully set up the aquarium. I also placed a warm lamp by the side to give my aquarium a cosy feeling.
I was satisfied with my effort.
I kicked back to see the tiny fish swimming in the waters.
I had put in two pellets of fish food which were floating on top.

What a set life I wondered. These fish were merely used as a bait to end up in someone's home like mine. They were placed in well-lit bowls and taken care of meticulously so that they could be sold to a customer.
No worry about whether they could survive in these cramped glass jails.

The enormity of the ocean was something that could never taste. Their lives were lived in the shackles of these transparent prisons.

Often they become the centre of attention only when they were referenced to as on object of beauty.
They were the jewel in the crown of my loneliness.
I just needed that fish to knock some sanity into my perturbed mind.
I needed some validation from the society that I wasn't alone.

What about them? They are fed at the right time, their filters are cleaned regularly, the weed is trimmed to make enough swimming room,
The oxygen levels are checked and water is changed when it gets filthy.
I mean life is handed to them on a platter.
All they had to do was swim around in circles to keep their sanity.
They would be as lonely, ignored, probably die without ever feeling the brine ocean waters.
They would never break free from these glass walls into the wild when they are adorning our lives.

At this point, who gives whom a better chance at life?
Are we doing the right thing by capturing them from their homes to fill our lives or saving their chance of becoming shark food?
The answer is tricky.
Whatever it may be, whose life is defined by whose presence?
Is my life better because I have a fish to take care of? Or is the fish lucky that he landed up with someone who can take care of him preciously?

I'm a waitress

 I adjusted my apron for the hundredth time today. I straightened out some loose strands of hair by bounding it close with a bobby pin. I had to reapply my lipstick.
Sprayed some fragrance. This was my job.
I had to look extremely appealing to the customer. I stood tirelessly in my stilettos and hobbled across the smooth floor. I smiled while the customer took ages to decide between whether to order dessert or stick to a salad. I waited while the kids played with the menu card and the parents were glued to their mobile screens confused on whether or what to order. I had seen customers leave after gulping four glasses of water. Often due to their fickle mindedness,
I was under the radar getting reprimanded for not attending to them quicker or looking prim.

 I mean what’s a waitress right? She brings you food and drinks smiles at you while you eat and then you think it’s because she wants to get tipped. Well, guess what we aren’t paid so well. A lot of what we earn is through generous customers. The coffee I brought you is exorbitantly priced. Probably half my wages.

But if you don’t tip me because of the poor taste or ridiculous pricing, you see my reputation is at stake. Because I work in an upscale restaurant, my pay isn’t proportional to what you spend on a cup of coffee. What you are paying is for the air conditioning, clean cutlery, blaring music and the assurance that you won’t be asked to leave despite the whole table sharing a measly drink.
 I have had to work two shifts covering up for a fellow worker when she was ill. My weekends aren’t really for kicking back and sauntering around the house in comfortable pyjamas. My time offs are erratic. I may or not get one.

 If I voluntarily choose to take one, It may get deducted from my base wage. I have stood taking orders the whole evening. I have walked on these mirror-like floors in pointy heels. Stood in the kitchen in the heat, grime and smoke when people complained that their food was taking too long to arrive. Carrying tall glasses of hot coffee on glass trays, almost jogging lest the customer crib that the taste was lost in the transit. Carried extra packets of sugar, milk, coffee powder, salt, pepper, chilli flakes and whatever else they deemed imperative to accentuate the taste of the dish.

 No one has ever blamed the customer. For us, you are the source of income and therefore you automatically fall in the god-like status. Some of you think it’s a favour that you are doing by tipping us. Well, no. You see I don’t have to go beyond my job description to get penalised because the soup was too watery or the dessert was too sweet. But my stakes are high. If I don’t go back to the kitchen and arrive with a replacement or persuade you that the chef is new, my tips are automatically deducted.

 Some of you are smarter. Pay by card or those fancy apps that you can leave without leaving me anything.
After seventeen hours of standing, carrying food, taking orders, my face starts to show signs of tiredness too. I have always asked you if your food is good. How many times have you asked if I’ve eaten? I’m supposed to take a break when the customer stream is sparse. Nobody decides on what’s that number. My eyes are always on the lookout for when a customer would walk in, see that there’s no one to attend to them and decide to just leave.

Mostly I’m hungry when I take your orders. When I bring your drink, I wish I could pause for a drink of water. When I watch you eat and wait for you to spit more instructions, I wish I could sit and breathe. When I watch you waste food, it pains me to see that what I cannot afford, you are squandering.

 See, my face is allowed to be tired, stomach to feel ravenous, legs to ache and feet to swell up after incessant usage of shiny stilettos. My hair is allowed to be astray. My lipstick is allowed to bleed after being subjected to the barbecue smoke.

My eyes can look like a raccoon after being sleep deprived for days. I still have to muster the courage to apply a pancake layer of makeup and smile. None of my frivolity is what you have signed up for. My job is to take that all with a smiling stride.

Bring you the food and dessert, vouch for dishes that I would never order even if I could afford it, serve you with utmost grace. Pray that the food is delectable and wait for you to leave so that I can flip the menu card hoping for some tips. It is that on this tipping scale of balance that my life hangs. I pray for you to like me so that I can bring food to my table. Ironical and sad.

Food critic

I opened a new cafe in 12th avenue. It was my dream. The whole place reeked of incense sticks and potpourri.

Balloons and streamers adorned the doorways. It was well lit. It looked enticing. 

Brand new furniture, spotless floor and gleaming chandeliers.

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the kitchen.

People had already lined up outside to get a share of the goodies. The store marketing team had done a good job announcing the inauguration through colourful hoardings.

Customers had also been promised a hefty discount on their first purchase.

I  wanted customers to return for the taste. I  was fervently praying that once the promotion reached the end of its life, it didn't claim customers with it.

I also knew the importance of good publicity. Most people already frequented restaurants that they were familiar with. Since it was also about appealing to the niche area of taste, the chef had to have an edge over the other eateries that prompted customers to halt here.

It also meant that they had to outweigh price with taste and stopped by even if the prices were exorbitant.

More often than not, judgement is made in case of doubt through online reviews

.

 Public figures, celebrities, influencers or even a common man who posts experiences online or in a reading medium provokes the shy one to take a bite.

Most people get influenced by positive reviews, food photos that look delectable or the quaint ambience.

Few people care about the food if the other criterion is satisfied.

It takes humungous effort to drag an accustomed to a different restaurant customer without the discount or positive reviews.

I engaged Manohar to write his review. 

I had ordered my chefs to prepare their best dishes. 

A slice of red velvet cake smeared with cheesecake frosting, a dark chocolate muffin filled with the warm gooey blueberry jam and a tall glass of piping hot chocolate with chocolate sprinkles and a twirly straw stood to wait. 

The chair had a comfortable leather cushion, the table was arranged to face the window. Soft piano music filled the room. 

The lights were dimmed. 

The air smelt strongly of freshly baked cakes. The ambience was perfect.

All Manohar had to do was to describe the experience in exaggerated words. 

Praise the food to the sky and compliment the hospitality.

He also the job of subtly mentioning that this place was expensive, but taste surpassed the hole it drilled into your pockets.

Manohar was a ruthless critic. 

His reviews often resulted in restaurants being shut down overnight. 

He brought the food to life through his pen. 

He knew the exact words to describe the taste. Many a reader could feel the taste reaching them. It often left them dissatisfied or craving.

His words could result in the restaurant gaining stardom overnight or shut down to shambles. To get him to say a positive word was a herculean task. 

Even for a cup of tea, Manohar shredded it to basic elements such as temperature, sweetness, quantity, value for money, the cup it came in and the taste. He described exactly how he felt on drinking it, what it lacked and where it could have done more than being a nonchalant cup of tea.

Manohar arrived at the cafe. He pushed the cold handle and exhaled sharply. 

This is what he was used to doing. Arrive at restaurants, sample a few dishes, take copious notes and publish it in a forum.

The few minutes he spent in the restaurant decided its lifeline. 

It was almost impossible to get his approval once he wrote scathing remarks. 

Manohar knew no second chances. Once a restaurant was deemed unfit, it had to disappear from the locality.

He took a quick look around at the ambience. 

The cafe was sparsely crowded. There was only an old couple who shared a latte between them.

The wall was adorned with posters of yesteryear movie stars. A few quirky quotes caught his 

attention. 

The day's specials were announced to him on a whiteboard in scrambled writing.

Tiny lights hung from the ceiling. He inched closer to his designated table. The store minions hovered around him.

He patted the chair and settled into it. The assortment of food items on his table stared at him invitingly.

He picked up a fork and stared at it for two seconds. 

It gleamed in the warm yellow light. He cut off a sliver of the red velvet cake. 

He poked at it with his fork. He sniffed it, stared at it for a while and took a dubious bite. He paused and wrote extensive notes on his notepad. He then attacked the chocolate muffin. He touched it, felt its texture and ripped it open to let the blueberry jam flow into the plate.

He stopped and took notes again. His expression was grim. He pursed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. The minions bent forward to hear his query. He dismissed them with the 

wave of his hand. He then took a sip of the cocoa. 

His opinion was already formed. He wrote detailed notes and stood up to leave.

I was burning with anticipation. 

Manohar had not uttered a word. 

He took one final look at the cafe and proceeded towards the exit.

I  stopped him.

"So?"I asked. I wanted to hear his experiences first hand.

"Well, clearly you have not done your homework" Manohar snapped.

"What seems to be the issue, Sir"

"I have detailed notes of every single thing that could have made my experience much better here"

"Well, I'm nothing if not open to feedback. Please enlighten me"I  was livid.

Manohar gave a defeated sigh.

"Well, you chose to hear about it rather than reading. Let me explain."He sunk into the cozy leather cushion and started

"Who is this cafe for? Is it for people who have a lot of money and time? 

Or is it for people who have to save up even for a cup of coffee here that they think it is daylight robbery? Is it a networking hub or a forum of sorts for movie buffs, bibliophiles or art lovers to catch up?"

"I do not really.."I began.

"I'm not done yet."He snapped

"Definitely you have marketed this place through the city with colourful hoardings. Your staff has paraded around with infographic flyers, but you don't know who should be picking up the flyer. 

Now coming to the ambience, this place is well lit with fancy lighting what is the ambience you are aiming for? Is it for a quiet evening, a romantic one or a hangout place? Can I work in peace? 

Can I host an interview or catch up with a friend? 

With your extensive menu, what kind of food are you targeting? Do you serve the main course, starters, dessert or drinks or all? Should people host their luncheons here? Should people stop here for a snack or eat a full course meal?"

"We have everything on the menu.."

"Well, I cannot judge the quality of the main course based on the dessert you served me. What picture is it trying to portray? Should people order just dessert? Or is the main course a sham?

Your walls are filled with posters. I'm no movie buff. These posters mean nothing to me. Am I your audience? Should I still come here? The quirky posts are just rip-offs from the internet. I mean you can do a decent job there at least? The menu on the board is illegible. Should I squint my eyes each time I'm here trying to decipher what it means. If I ignore all this the food was nothing unique. It was the same as everywhere else.No unique presentation or taste. The red velvet was still warm that the fork went right through it. Maybe wait for it to cool down. You cocoa was a standard powder blended with milk. The blueberry chocolate muffin was no prize either. The jam I presume is from a local store? And..."

I had heard enough.I was furious.

"What do you know about running a restaurant Mr Manohar? My staff has kept this place pristine for you. They were waiting like slaves till you finished eating so that they could cater to your every whim.

My marketers have worked arduously day in and day out to ensure that the news of our cafe reaches the radius of a wider audience. In this location, do you know how much rent I have to pay?

Do you know how much I have to pay the chef? For your information, the main course chef is different from the baker. Have you done any course in culinary sciences? What do you know about presentation and innovation? Red velvet has to taste the same as everywhere. If I add in something new, will that still be called red velvet? Won't you then say that is should use the correct recipe and stick to my basics? Can you bake something that you have described?"

"See, you are taking this personally. I was invited by you to write a review. This is my view of the experience. If people take offence or form a decision based on my words, that is in return what you are expecting too, is it not? I can never run a cafe or bake a cake. I have no experience in culinary sciences. I don't have extensive knowledge on how to market or promote my product. All I know is my pen."

He stood up to leave.

I stood in wonderment. Was I not the one who chased this food critic to his office and waited at his door for a whole day?

Who was this guy? He who just knew superfluous words was judging the profession of my chef who toiled his way in hotel management course.His taste who could never be satiated gashed out an innocuous soul who spent hours sweating in the kitchen. Still, there were flaws, his presentation, innovation and everything outside of his job description was under the radar.

What are we looking at? Why does someone with good language, strong words get to repress the simple hard worker?

How was it fair that his judgement played a key role in my revenue generation?

These questions, I could never answer.

What is it

Every crayon I ever used to color

Between the lines of a vague picture

Diminished by the day and duller

Every tint merging to a wondrous mixture

Doesn’t that tell you

That no matter how disparate the hues

Paint a wonderful picture when they accrue

Did the beauty lie within the eyes of the spectator?

Or the shades metamorphose my canvas that muted the denigrator?

Every ingredient I carefully choose

To add to the secret recipe, I conjure

Cinnamon, rosemary and thyme

Blending with the aroma, with the precision of a rongeur

Does the taste arrive with the pinch of lime

Or with my love does it ooze

Every thread of emotion that runs

Through my veins and blood

Ire, worriment, joy and melancholy have begun

To congregate a human of their own

Is my identity defined by each of these facets?

Or does my personality result in the union tacit?

Tea

It was an excruciating day. I stopped at a nearby tea stall to drink a warm cup of cinnamon tea.

The tea would alleviate my stress and help me cope with the challenges that life was hurling at me.

I nestled the cup between my palms, letting the warmth radiate through my skin.

I let the vapour settle on my face and took in the intoxicating aroma of cinnamon. 

It was quite heady and strong. I sat on a rickety metal chair closely observing my surroundings.

The walls were covered with worn down posters of retro heroes. 

The paint was peeling off along the edges. 

The sound of samosas crackling in oil reminded me that I was ravenous.  

The place was clogged with people. Smoke clouded my vision. I could hear the sound of milk packets being opened.

The boiler was squeaky clean and was chugging away tea-infused aroma.

The tiles on the floor had so many scratches that I could see the hard concrete below.

The chatter of people filled the room.

What was it that people were chasing in posh coffee shops? 

Was it the price tag of exorbitance that they could exhibit in front of their peers or the fact that these shops used excellent marketing techniques to lure customers ? 

Or was it the free wifi that they offered?

What is the ado about a cup of tea ? 

All it needs is some milk, some tea leaves and sugar.No.

It is more than just brewing these three ingredients together. It has to be perfect and at the right temperature.

Not too sweet that it will give you diabetes or not so bitter that it feels like medicine. Tepid that you can feel the taste evoking your tastebuds. 

Not cold that it is lost in a gulp. 

For a lot of times in life, we have been told to toil, give it our best and surpass expectations. Every single time. For all the effort that didn't fructify, we have a satisfactory cushion to land back on that praises us for merely trying.

More often than not, we are lost in the trap of surreal truths that we are forced to accept just because it looks appealing. We don't judge the item by the innate quality that it is supposed to carry, but who advocates it and how it should be perceived. This game has perplexed me. The tea I was drinking that day was a miracle. It helped me clear my thoughts, gave me some perspective and valued my money. It satisfied my tongue, didn't overload my stomach. Can one cup of tea really do so much? Apparently, it can. The taste lingered in the mouth for a long time.

I didn't have to make small talk, listen to cliche music, order poor imitations of exotic snacks and peer into my phone. Swipe my card for a cup of tea and crib about it not having the same taste I had conjured in my mind.

After all, we judge a cup of tea by the cup it comes in and the ambience it is surrounded by.

I failed to understand how a perfectly brewed tea as this was lost in the crowd.

Was it because it failed to reach the hearts of those who judged based on its nativity? Was it because it was not enamoured by the elite?
Or was it because the mouths that were to heap praises on this humble brew were mutely mesmerized, that their lips sealed in quiet embarrassment to support their florid counterparts?

Ironically the tea that gloats in the mound of glory is not the hero of the story I was imbibed to believe in.

Stir fried bananas

As a child, I loved eating stir-fried bananas.

The recipe was probably simple, the bananas were steamed, peeled and then stir-fried in a pan with an array of spices.

The steaming had to be perfect. It meant that the banana had to remain firm, yet soft. The stir fry was an art in itself. Choosing the right spices, adjusting the right temperature to get a mildly sweet and spicy flavour was tricky.

There was only one shop in the whole of the city I lived in that it made it perfect. I would travel on two buses, walk for about half an hour from the bus stop to reach this place.

The shop was ensconced in the busy bylanes of the city.

More often than not, it was heavily crowded.

The minions would attend to the customers while the chef would be baked over the stove, expertly transferring the steamed bananas to the pan with spices.

There would also be a queue when it got clogged.

Someone who never stood in a ration queue to get supplies, stood in a queue to eat a local delicacy.

I waited patiently for my turn and every time I took a bite of that banana, it made me forget the arduous journey or the taxing walk.

I made me realize that I was still craving small pleasures. Even if I had to walk through the lanes under the scorching sun, I was willing to overlook them to satiate my tastebuds.

As time moved ahead, I moved to a different city. My job and other priorities kept me busy.

I forgot my tryst with the stir-fried bananas till one day a colleague mentioned about it.


He went on to explain how he discovered a place which sold this and it was delectable.

His vivid description instantly reminded me of my sweaty bus journeys.

I was piqued. I took the details and was determined to go there.

The following Saturday, I woke up early and drove to the location. I wanted to reach before it got too crowded.

The place was quite upscale.

There was music blaring from the speakers.

The wall was vividly coloured with pictures of bananas and their history. Delicious pictures of this dish adorned the kitchen walls.

There were chairs and the smoke from the kitchen was controlled by exhaust fans placed at strategic locations.

In addition to this, the door of the kitchen was closed and the chimney was directed to the backyard.

So, the customers never really felt hot or asphyxiated.

I placed my order.

I was asked to wait for a few minutes.

I grew impatient. I kept shifting in my chair, keeping my eyes fixed on the kitchen.

Finally, my order arrived. It looked the same. The waiter brought it to me on an expensive plate with tiny flowers. He also gave me a complimentary mug of steaming tea.

He placed it on my table and wished that I had a pleasant experience.

He then came back with a jug of water and glass. He stood guard at my table in case I wanted anything else.
I signalled him a thumbs up to release him from his duty.

He smiled and went to attend to the next customer.

I poked the banana with a fork and dipped it into the fancy chutney of honey and secret ingredients.

It tasted delicious.

The stir fry and the spices were tasty.

This place was clean, close to the current apartment and they treated customers so well.

I also had a cup of warm ginger tea that would absolutely compliment my meal.

Yet, the longing of the previous place continued to haunt me.

The shop had more customers than the whole street itself. It was always crowded and some times when they ran out of plates, they used to wrap this in a banana leaf or a newspaper.

They also had rationed it to one plate per person since some customers complained of people misusing the queue system to buy more.

I had been on the receiving end of stares, groping and bad-mouthing since this crowd consisted of mostly men.

Despite the dingy surroundings, the oil covered walls and the grime-covered floor filled with chatter and smoke, every time I took a bite of that banana, it made me believe in life.

It had given me hope, filled my heart with joy and added music to my life.

I always walked back from that store with my stomach full and mind light.

I danced back to the bus stop with a song on my lips.

It never bothered me that it took me almost three hours to get home.

That one bite that took away the stress from my life was the missing ingredient in my meal today.

I wish

I wish I could be a mother cradling my child in my arms. Coax him so that he does not cry.
Occasionally treat him to ice cream. Buy him his favourite toy when he gets his vaccination. Make him soup when he has a cold. Take care of him as an angel would

I wish I could be the boyfriend of the pretty girl who travelled by this metro every day at 9 am. High heels, coloured lips and a fruity perfume. The clickety-clack of her heels, the swish of her hair, perfectly manicured nails made me sigh in admiration at her. I wish I could buy her flowers and look into her eyes. Yet, before my thought cloud was formed, it dissolved into dust.

I wish I could be a software developer. I can wear big glasses with a thick frame. Sport a short hairdo. Keep it casual with a worn-down T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans.
Carry a bag with a laptop. My work desk would have code scribbled in every book. I would have a big mug of coffee to alleviate my stress.

I wish I were a stylist. I could dress up celebrities like they were my dolls. I could give them fancy clothes, elaborate makeup and extensive embellishments. I would hover around them adjusting their hair, fixing their lipsticks or tucking in their saris. It would be a world of glamour.

I wish I were the bride of an elaborate wedding. Decked in jewels and a heavy sari, I would be blushing at the sight of my man. I would gracefully smile at all the pictures, be the centre of attention for a day. I would then leave my home with mixed emotions. Trepidation and joy both balancing each other on a fragile scale

I wish I were a child.
 I would have run across the park without worry.
Swung till the highest point and oscillate back with bated breath. Built sandcastles and decorated it with shells.
Eschew a rupee from my mother and buy candy.
Dig my nails into the mud looking for treasures. Give different answers each time someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.


I wish I were now back to reality where I’m an artist.
Not one of these people pauses on their way to enjoy life as it is.
Wishing for something better to turn up. I stood at the metro imagining my life as each of these characters.
I wanted a picture to frame.
To represent life as we see it.
All I could draw were colourful swishes on a white canvas.