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.

Home in fifty words

Hissing of dosa pans.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Sparrows chirping merrily on a distant tree branch.

The air is busy. People rushing in and out of buses. Heavy traffic.

Muffled chatter and laughter. Retro music blaring from vividly colored speakers.

Bangalore that I knew and will always be.

Nifty fifty

I extended my arm through the cage where a pensive parrot swung on a tiny swing.

He looked at me listlessly.

I held a red chilli between my fingers.

He took a dubious bite. He flew back. He probably wondered if that is what freedom tasted like.

Tears welled up in her big brown eyes. She sniffled and continued to sob. The knife glinted in the afternoon sun.

“How are you tearing up when I’m the one chopping these onions?” Robert yelled from the kitchen.

I saw a herd of sheep outside the butcher’s shop. All lined up to be slaughtered. His cleaver shone menacingly. Every time a sheep was slaughtered, did the others feel relieved that it wasn’t them that day or gulp in trepidation about when it would be their necks under the blade?

I found a book at my desk with a note.

” Do not open until Christmas “it read.

The book remains untouched.

The note never mentioned Christmas of which year.

Someone pushed past me and cut the queue to purchase the metro ticket.

I was agitated and sweaty. I wanted to yell.

My throat was dry. If only I could speak, I would have asked for alms.

I was to interview a potential candidate. She walked in, prim, pressed clothes and professional. She answered all my questions incorrectly.

“Any feedback? “she asked.

“Yes, where did you buy your shoes? I have been looking for this pattern for years and they have never been  in stock”

A gust of wind uprooted my lily plant. The petals danced to the tune of the wind.

The balcony was filled with a heady aroma.  Was it the lily’s joy of uniting with the wind or tears of distress at being ripped out at prime?

I let a helium balloon fly up into the skies. The balloon bobbed and continued to rise up against the clouds.

It burst with a loud pop and the rubber came swooping down.

Is that letting go feels like? Lightheaded and then later insignificant once the air is lost?

She spat on me, stepped on my feet while I was asleep. She rolled her fists and punched my face. I was awake. I could take it no longer. I picked up my two-year-old niece and took her to the park.

“Don’t” shrieked Gayathri when she saw a man in the dark alley. He was holding up a knife.

“You will be witness to this.” she declared to me. 

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Can you please turn off the TV, some of us are trying to sleep “screamed my sister.