Thursday Nights

Her heart was pounding loudly. She was shaking with anger as she tried to rush through the files. She hated it when things came up at the last minute. Her boss always assumed she would take up work way past office hours.

Today she had no time to spare though; she had to be home on time. She had tried telling him, she had some important appointments but he had just smiled as he put those files on her desk. One of these days she was going to give him a piece of her mind, she thought to herself.
She brushed aside these thoughts and tried to focus. She could still make it on time if she got it right in one go. She had to; she could not afford to be late today. Everyone was going to be there tonight and she did not want to miss on any of the fun. She waited the whole week for Thursday evenings and today was extra special.

It was nine o’ clock by the time she was able to get out of her office. It had just begun to rain. Oh, just my luck she thought. It was best to catch a taxi she convinced herself. Pay day was just around the corner and she could afford these small luxuries every once in a while. After all, she worked so hard.

She kept fidgeting with her watch as she sat in the taxi, urging the driver to speed up. She was exasperated to see amount of traffic on the road. It seemed the whole city was out on the streets, conspiring against her. She closed her eyes and tried to think of the evening ahead instead.

Family gatherings were so much fun. It was the only thing she looked forward to in her life. The friendly banter, the knowing smiles, the loving concern…
Kitty was supposed to return from Washington today. There was sure to be a lot of drama. She could imagine the scenes. How mother would well up and how she would probe. How Kitty would get annoyed, tempers would flare and Sarah would try to calm everyone down. All the high drama would end in a lot of crying and hugging. Oh, how she loved family dinners.

She was jolted from her reverie, as the cab came to an abrupt halt. Here you are madamji said the driver. Too much traffic Madam he started. She threw in the extra twenty as she ran up the stairs. She could hear her clock chime ten through the front door, as she fumbled with the keys…

She cried a sigh of relief as the opening music played on. She was just in time for the show…

All but a Cloud

It is all but a cloud,

Just blow it away ..

Even if it is dark,

You can will it away..

After all it is a cloud,

It will float astray..

One minute it is there,

and gone in the next..

For all you know,

It may not really Rain ..

She

She sat there hugging her knees, gaining some comfort from the warmth of the cup that she held in her hand. The rain made her shiver.

The house was surrounded by tall Eucalyptus trees. They seemed to obscure all the dreary sights of the world outside.

It was like she was in a cave, watching the forest drench itself.While the rain kept the beasts at bay.

She wished it was not so. She wished she had a glimpse of the world outside, of teeming life.

If only she could spot gleeful children, running around in circles, or young lovers holding hands in the rain.

That would perhaps bring a smile to her face. And then the beasts may not seem so real.

The Other Day

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 21; the twenty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The other day, I was a little girl again, making a bouquet from wild flowers with friends…

The other day, I was riding my bike, free falling with my arms wide in the air…

The other day, I was sitting in the dickey seat of my father’s car, with my legs dangling outside…

The other day, I was listening to the radio, singing along with every song they played…

The other day, I was reading my favourite book again, atop the guava tree in my backyard…

The other day I was keeling over with laughter, over a joke I had heard again…

The other day, I was a growing up in a small town, far away from the shimmer of the city lights…

The other day, I was learning to play the guitar, hoping to be a rock star someday…

The other day, I wanted to become a lawyer. To fight for truth and everything else I stood for …

The other day, I would have taken a bullet for my friends; I loved them to death…

The other day, I was hopelessly in love, never thought the feeling would fade…

The other day, I was home again; amongst familiar chatter and buzzing door bells…

The other day, I was trying to find the broken pieces…

Hoping it would feel just like the other day …

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Virgil the Hamster

Every day I peek outside,searching for a familiar soul,lurking in the darkness somewhere
Every day I am disappointed...
Every day I console myself with the melody of laughter of imaginary friends,floating through the abyss
Every day I am enlightened...
Every day I go back in time and think of all the good times we had , not so many winters ago
Every day I shake myself back to reality..
"You have dug too deep", says the Missus ..."They don’t venture so deep anymore"
They all scurry along just below the surface...Merry as ever ..
Every day I hope..

Journey

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 19; the nineteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

If it was up to me, I would be climbing trees just for the heck of it …

But then Mama said, “We will buy you some pretty frocks for your birthday this week "

Frocks never made it easy to climb those trees.

If it was up to me, I would come home with muddy feet…

But then Mama said “You ought to be playing at home. Give up your tom boyish ways."

If it was up to me, I would be whistling away melodies.

But then Mama said, "Young girls ought to have a shy demeanor. How can you be so un fille?"

If it was up to me, I would be playing cricket in the gully…

But then Mama said,” Pretty girls ought to have a fair complexion. You ain't going to play with those boys no more".

If it was up to me, I would never be cooking …

But then Mama said "It helps to start early. Good wives make perfect Rotis"

If it was up to me, I would never give up so much..

But then Mamma said "You are turning into a fine young Woman, Simi!"

If it was up to me I would never be on this Journey…

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Wasabi pea

This ain't no heaven, and you ain't my Angel Sweet

You my precious one, are to be my Wasabi pea

Is it too soon to tell you , what a cruel world it is Indeed ?

That you ain't going to get by , by being sweet..

I am going to coat you with spice, and give it a little twist

Then my little one you will be a Wasabi pea

Just what this world needs ..

Yellow Submarine

There lay the Yellow Submarine , old and rusty , abandoned by the sea .

The one that  had once sailed beneath the waves, in the sea of green .

It used to be a happy place to be.

Now there were no dreams fluttering in and  no laughter drifting out from within .

It was no longer the place to find simple joys , life was not as it used to be .

Where did the children flee?

Did they all, not want to be living in the yellow submarine ?

"There is no yellow submarine," said the bright child."Only fools live in a dream."

But then there it lay , gleaming in the sun , right next to the Green.

Zits

It was the summer when a lot was breaking out from inside me, apart from the Zits on my face..Was it not conspicuous to the world outside ?

But then Mamma said, "You are a shy boy Ronny.Girls will like you despite your zits.Don't you fret sweetie".

It was the summer I heard giggles everywhere I went and hushed tones too..Did everyone not know already ?

But then Daddy said, "You should come play squash like men your age do Ronny.Get rid of your puerile ways."

It was the summer I tried to fight it the most .. Could I not lock it away in the closet,for it to be never shown ?

But then Daddy said, "You are a queer boy Ronny ".

It was the summer when everything was exploding...Just like the Zits on my face.

Deepal

Theirs was a typical Love - Hate relationship.From what eight year old Meenal could reminisce, it seemed like Deepal had been around forever.Following her everywhere like a shadow.Sometimes even to places, where her shadow abandoned her.
Deepal was the wiser one.She was always the one to show her the right path,the brighter side.She would finish sentences for her,occasionally, her thoughts too.
There were days she wished she could make her go away,to Neverland maybe.She wished she could put an end to her constant chattering.Sometimes she did too, but then she would regret it the very next moment.
It was always easy to cajole Deepal after a fight.She would never sulk for too long or make her suffer.She would come back to her ever so wise though.Always saying "I told you so".That would make Meenal hate her even more.
But she loved Deepal.She was her only comfort on dark rainy nights when Daddy was away and Grandma was fast asleep.The only one who would hear her sobs as she cried herself to sleep every night thinking of Mommy.Sometimes she would make up funny stories just to make her laugh.She would tell her that Daddy was not really mad at her but missed mommy too and that in the morning everything would be brighter.
As she sat in there, huddled up,thinking about Deepal ,she heard footsteps in the room outside."I told you Daddy would find you in here ", Deepal said. "Hush", she said.
Just then the knob turned and she saw Daddy giving her the sad look he always gave her . " What are you doing in Mommy's closet sweetie ?",he said. "We were looking all over for you. And who were you talking to in there ? ".

The wind in my face

I recently went on a recreational trip with my parents after a long time.The last time I went holidaying with them,  was way back in college when I was still living with them.
As we landed in Goa, my dad handed me this itinerary he had printed out(rather had had his secretary print it out for him).He told me since our train was late , we were running a little behind on the list, but that we should be able to catch up next day if we left by seven in the morning.As I exchanged looks of astonishment with my equally amused husband, I told myself this was not going to be the holiday I had wanted it to be.The picture I had in mind was all of us sitting by the beach ,sipping our drinks , enjoying the sun and sand engaged in the usual family banter.
Alas that did not seem to be on the list ! I was disappointed to say the least but as I tried to snap out of it,I could hear the driver answering my father's inquisitive questions.He drew our attention to these brightly coloured Portugese houses which lined up the winding roads.I listened with rapt attention as he unfolded the history of Goan architecture and the unique property laws of Goa.
Ideally I go on a holiday,equipped with all the local trivia via the internet.I have even carried print outs on some occasions.I am not the kind of person who talks to people on trains , flights or makes friends with complete strangers.Talking to the driver is also on that list.But by day two of our Goa trip, I had become very fond of the driver.I had learnt more things about Goa than any website can ever put up.We went to all the popular tourist destinations where I was overwhelmed by the hordes of people who had descended from Gujrat,Maharashtra,Bengal and the likes.I was taking it all in ,on the side, along with the Goan culture.As I bargained for curios at the local Bazaar, I discovered that there was so much more to Goa than the beaches and the firangs.We picked up yummy pastries at small shops around the corner and ate Kwality Ice cream by the beach.I also did the unthinkable and visited some of the local temples. I came back feeling spiritually uplifted.
In fact this was proving out to be quite the opposite of the exclusive getaway I had in mind.Despite that I was having a lot of fun though and by the time we left Goa , I felt like I was leaving a place I had grown quite fond of.
As I sat reminiscing about the good times in my AC compartment on our way back home,it dawned upon me that in our need for exclusivity we tend to limit our experiences.Also there is a growing need in us to live the good life,to announce to the world that we have arrived.This is probably the sign of changing times ( A good sign that too ) , but as I sit in the comforts of my AC compartment, I cannot help but miss the wind in my face.

Avantika Express

One of the most distinct sounds that is emblazoned in my memory, is the sound of an auto slowing down.
Back in the days when telephones were a luxury and the inland and postcard were the only mode of communication, there was a dread associated with that sound in my house.I remember vividly the anxious look on my mother's face, if one of those sounds halted in front of our gate,especially in the wee hours of the morning.This is when the Avantika express would arrive at platform number 3 on most days.
If we were lucky then a postcard would act as an harbinger to impending guests,with details of coach numbers and train arrival timings crammed along the sides.This would mean a trip to the railway station in our steadfast Maruti 800.As a kid I used to be excited about receiving guests at the station,most of whom arrived by the Avantika express.Avantika used to be the first train in the morning back then.I would love to go to the station in the wee hours of the morning , stepping carefully over people sleeping on the platform.It used to be enchanting  to watch the chaos unfold at the platform as the sun would begin to rise above the over bridge.Before I knew the station would be abuzz with life and people lining up at the water booth with toothbrushes and Dabur dant manjan.
I also remember that although the excitement in me was palpable but was not so discernible in the other members of the receiving party.Nobody else would be jumping around with joy for sure.One of the miseries of being an only child is that you never fit in.I always felt overshadowed by the five adults who surrounded me.You tend to be the odd man out all the time.
Coming back to platform No 3 , I remember my father being quite irked by my jumpiness and would try very hard to not to let it distract him from his daily crossword.
There would be the occasional confusion when due to oversight, the coach number would have been incorrectly mentioned in the postcard.This is when my father would send me running off in one direction and my uncle in another ,while he would stand at the main gate, sifting through the crowd for familiar faces.The confusion would mostly climax into a happy union and pleasantries would be exchanged.I was always greeted with  "Oh look how much you have grown.Last time we saw you , you were this small."Complete with gestures and all. One would think though, that considering the frequency of their visits, they had been privy to my growth as much as the chaiwala on platform number 3.
The pleasantries at the station, would then be followed by an elaborate session at home, where my grandparents would fill the newly arrived guests in, with all the minute details of their actual and imaginary ailments.I remember the contrast in ecstatic look on my grandparents face on the arrival of a guest and the edgy look on my parents face.
I have witnessed guests to stay for almost a month with my father or uncle making frequent trips to the reservation centre.These prolonged departures were always followed by a little treat at a place called Manohar's near the railway station, where all the ordeal of the last few weeks was quickly forgotten over delectable Chole Bhaturas and mastani Lassi.

But only a few weeks would pass and after the postman had made his daily visit,the jubilant shouts of my grandmother would inform us of another impending visit.These letters would be sometimes be as vague as "We are considering visiting you this summer".It would be after the arrival of one such postcard that my mother would dread the sound of a slowing auto.

Alas that was the golden era of my life but even today the sound of an auto in the wee hours of a cold winter morning, fills my heart with joy and floods my mind with all those wonderful memories.

The Room

If you were to believe me (unlike my mother), my oldest memory goes as far back, as when I was only a few months old. This memory of mine must have lied there gathering dust in the corners of my mind for millions of moments. Today I can’t recollect which one brought it back. But it came to me like a long lost friend, on a warm sunny day, claiming it’s due.

At first the memory was dark and rusty, with time though, it became brighter, just like the days I must have spent in “The room”. What I remember, is like a scene from one of those black and white movies where everything seems to be happening in slow motion. The way I see it or maybe the way I want to see it, is the view as can be seen from a cradle. I see a small dark room, small because I can see a door that encloses the room only a few meters away. I also can almost see the faces which peep through the door every once in a while. I can feel the sunlight coming through the small window, right behind me. I do not remember the sounds that float in through it, but even today on one of those December days, they sometimes seem to come back to me. Sounds which make little sense to me but fill my heart with joy.

I also remember how quiet it was otherwise in my room, almost surreal .I also vaguely remember a toy hanging just above my cradle keeping me preoccupied; On other times, the familiar faces, which ever ,smiled so lovingly.I remember the polka dot frock and my favourite bunny.

My mom is adamant in not letting me own this vision of my childhood. She tells me it is not for real and that even if most of those details fall in place, it is highly unlikely that they are from a memory. Her explanation for it is that it was all planted, that I collected all those details through the stories that were told. I probably constructed the whole image on my own and I have been going over and over in my mind for so many times that it rings true.

She could be right but  the romantic in me would like to believe that the memory is for real, and I hold it very close to my heart.