Circus Mind

United by marriage...divided by gender-roles and responsibilities?

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Wed, 13 Jul 2016 03:14:00 +0000

Who doesn’t love vacations?

But when they are streaked with unnecessary worry, or preparation involving cooking and freezing meals for all the days of your vacation, or phone calls asking where a regular item in the house is kept, it stops sounding like that much of a vacation.

It happened to me when I was newly married and had been living with my husband for about three months. And then I had to be away. For three weeks. To go for my graduation in India.

Until we got married, my husband had been living in hostels and with roommates for nearly 10 years and was very comfortable eating outside. Every day. He loves food. So his food outside can get sumptuous often. Add to that the stress of his job and self-created odd long hours. It’s no surprise that he had been freshly diagnosed with high cholesterol. At 29.

Naturally, I was worried about going away. I repeatedly told him to cook at home for the three weeks and eat well. Avoid outside food. Who knows what oil they use? Right? To his credit, he did eat at home at least for a few days.

So it was just a worry about his food and health but that led to the question – why should it be so difficult and worrisome for wives to take a vacation for a few days when husbands have been gifted with all the faculties that are needed to be engaged in cooking and taking care of themselves?

Or doing the laundry for that matter. Dusting. Cleaning the bathrooms. Choosing furniture and upholstery. Deciding the décor. None of these activities that are essential to running a household are dependent on gender-specific faculties. And yet, most of these are usually gender-divided by social definition. Women are the queens of most households in India. They organize the meals, the feasts. They decorate the house. They may give out instructions and the men may ‘help’ them. But it’s women that run the house, right? They’re in charge.

We decided to consciously change this in our marriage after my worry-filled trip to India about whether my husband was eating well, and many other realizations about how a gender-divided household might fall apart if one of us was away even for a little while. Missing socks/ties/keys/screwdrivers/bulbs anyone? It debilitates both partners to have a hard gender-divide in the house, we felt. So we decided to try and build an equal household.

An equal household where no one is responsible for anything but everyone is responsible for everything. A household where no one has to give out instructions but everyone does their part. Whatever needs to be done gets done by the person who notices it. No hang-ups about something being feminine or masculine. As far as our household is concerned, we are its two owners and we do whatever is needed to keep it in good shape. More than upkeep, it is critical that both partners know the workings of everything in their life together – at home or outside. No one is helping anyone. Because that automatically excludes one person from being a complete part of the household. We are being two equal partners in an equal household. The winds of change are surely blowing in many quarters, driven by need. We are hoping to be the drivers of change in our marriage instead of having it be forced on us.

So now we pick the décor together, something that resonates with both of us. When we move, we set the house together, every drawer in the kitchen, every shelf in the house, so that each of us knows what is where. It surely takes time in the beginning but it works like a charm afterwards. We cook together but it is not uncommon to see my husband cook for the whole day frequently if I am working on something, and now when he cooks he is never hollering for me to ask where the spice/ladle/can-opener/anything else is. Similarly I don’t wait for him if a piece of furniture needs fixing. Sometimes I sweep and mop, sometimes my husband does. I don’t feel overwhelmed at all the things that need to go into keeping the house running like a well-oiled machine. Making life effortless takes some effort in the beginning. By doing things as needed by whoever notices them, we hope to get to a stage where no one feels the pain of it. We also hope that it gets us to a stage where one of us will gladly and capably take over everything when needed because our partner does so much for us at other times by just being a complete equal.

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This post was originally written for Bonobology.com.

Our kitchen is not a woman's territory. I'm not its queen.

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Tue, 12 Apr 2016 16:02:00 +0000

Picture this.

My husband and I are having lunch at a friend’s. Our friend’s mother-in-law has made a delicious chutney that we cannot get enough of. My husband loves it so much that he asks Aunty for the recipe. And Aunty gives it out. To me. Without once looking at my husband.

As far as Aunty is concerned, my husband is almost a son-in-law to her, being her son-in-law’s classmate. And generally, mothers-in-law from small-town-India don’t discuss anything close to recipes, especially recipes, with sons-in-law.

Unlike my mother, who happily and comfortably gives out recipes to my husband. Because she has seen him cook. She has seen us cook together. Everyday.

It wasn’t easy for her, seeing her son-in-law work in the kitchen. She would fret and fuss, and try to take over for him. She began to relax and enjoy my husband’s cooking only after we explained to her that this is how we function, and we’d both like to cook for her on her vacation in the USA.

USA. That’s where the story began when I migrated from India after getting married. In the roughly 24 hours that it took for me to get from India to the USA, my life changed utterly and completely. From barely having free time on hand with a full time job, B-school, friends and freedom, I went to having absolutely nothing to do in a suburban home in North-Eastern USA. A hectic B-school schedule had left me burned out so I couldn’t read or write for leisure. So it was natural for me to try to fill my time either with wifely duties, primarily cooking lunches and dinners, or by binging on Netflix and potato chips.

Soon it felt like it was all I was doing in the day – cooking lunches and dinners. If I decided to watch Netflix to pass long afternoons, I lost time with my husband in the evening. Having had all elements of my identity taken from me, and a ladle handed to me instead didn’t feel like a good bargain at the time. I tried to summon the image of Goddess Annapurna but only my new reality stared back.

So, here were the facts of my life:
a. I wasn’t a cook by choice but it became my identity in my new marriage.
b. In the harsh winter, there wasn’t much for a newly married couple to do outdoors. Indoors, we could (again) binge-watch Netflix (minus the potato chips).
c. My husband cooked well. I had discovered his extremely delicious Biryani, Baingan-ka-Bharta and Aaloo-Matar Sabzi on the one-off days that he cooked.

So I decided to ask the husband for help. Sometimes sweetly, sometimes beseechingly, I explained my point of view. And I proposed that we cook together every day.

He was on board with the idea from the start. Putting it in action took longer and was more challenging. He was willing at the level of logic, but centuries of social conditioning about gender roles, passed on through the generations made it difficult for him to adopt this new lifestyle wholeheartedly. He would get on the bus every time I called it out, and then slowly veer away by habit. But we were trying.

The only thing that may have helped my husband cross over to the kitchen counter from the couch, to the kitchen from the living room, was that we began to have great fun cooking together. It obviously made life easier to have two hands on the deck than one. It didn’t make me feel singled out for the task. And it allowed us to bond…

Bond over a love of food, that he passed on to me. I have acquired a love of food and cuisines, living with my foodie husband, and so we love to explore new cuisines in our cooking. We bring home new ingredients (our favourite example is Cactus) to work with. We go on world tours in our kitchen – starting with our own Andhra or Iyengar South Indian Meals, to Maharashtrian, Bengali, Gujarati, Malayali, North Indian and even Mexican, Cajun, European and what not. On days that we are bored, we experiment, and fuse influences – the Polenta with the Andhra Pulusu, or the Manchurian Sevaiyyan Upma.

Now, I have come to love cooking since it is with him and for him at the same time. It gives us a few hours every day to spend together…chopping, mixing, boiling, tempering, baking, brainstorming, experimenting, sharing, dreaming…it all happens in the kitchen. Every meal becomes either an experience or an experiment. It is either pure pleasure or learning. We both take the credit, we both share the blame. And we create something fundamental to human survival every day, having fun while doing it. In that, Cooking is our favourite creative together-thing to do.

Who needs Netflix anymore? Tonight’s entertainment is ‘Cooking’!

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This post was originally written for Bonobology.com.

Heart Pickles

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Tue, 19 Jan 2016 04:05:00 +0000

Whole hearts have short shelf lives.

It doesn’t take long for them to break.
So here’s a recipe.
For when the heart is shattered
Into a million little pieces
That
Cannot be put back the same way.
Ever. Again.
A recipe
For when it has gone sour
From all that has happened
Or been done.

Take a jar
And throw the sour pieces in.
Along with the salt
That people have rubbed into your wounds.
And the turmeric
Of their coloured judgements, perceptions and opinions.
And the red chilly sting of their harsh words and actions.
Be careful
To not let the water of your eyes
Corrupt this concoction.
Moisture is dangerous.
The oil of people’s expectations,
On the other hand,
Only helps.
Mix it all together with your bare hands.
Feel the raw texture
Of everything that has happened
Or been done.

The next part is important.
Weave a soft muslin cloth
From your compassion towards yourself.
Seal the jar with it
To keep the mist from your eyes away.
Like I said,
Moisture is dangerous.
Put the lid on
And let it sit for a while.

It’s ready
When you cannot tell one element from another.
The pieces of your heart
Are softer, a little less sour.
A little more of everything else.

The next time life seems bland,
Take a clean, dry spoon
And serve yourself
From this jar of delicious pickled wisdom
Gained
From all that has happened
Or been done.

Savour a piece of your heart
Broken, softer but preserved for posterity.
Because
Whole hearts have short shelf lives anyway.

Unfinished Business

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 18 Dec 2015 01:49:00 +0000

The table was blue. Foldable. Just about 2 feet tall. It had a light blue piece of sunmica fitted on its top. Accompanying it in the set was a small chair. I forget the colour of it now. It was a gift, the set, for my kid sister. And it was used well. On afternoons that she would industriously sit and work on her homework on the blue table.

She outgrew them, the table and chair. Then, the base of the table came off, leaving behind just the blue coloured top, more a board now. But we kept it, like everything else that is always kept in an Indian household because it might come in handy someday. And it did.

I discovered the book ‘Painting With Pastels’ in my uncle’s book collection and brought it home, along with sandpaper, Camel Oil Pastels, charcoal pencils and a red box containing drawing clips. I decided it was time to explore my creative side. So I used the blue board and clipped some sandpaper to it using the drawing clips, carefully putting them back in the red box whenever I was done. I began enjoying myself, turning out paintings that were far beyond my expectation. My mother, not one for keeping amateur drawings out of sentiment (it applied only to stuff), even decorated a corner of our room with my paintings. And that made me feel like I had a future…with the blue board, the sandpaper, the pastels and the drawing clips.

It all came back to me while watching a rerun of Dhobi Ghat yesterday and watching Arun (Aamir Khan) sit with a similar board and paper and clips. Except Arun was a famous painter. I am not.

The blue board is gone. Finally thrown away. The drawing clips misplaced, lost. The pastels long worn out and discarded. And gone with it all is my potential. The one I never tended to. The one no one ever asked me to tend to. Because I was scoring well in the sciences. And set for a career in engineering.

That's how the things I cared for and enjoyed fell by the wayside in my journey with the crowd. I became an engineer because that’s what we all do. It was after years of walking with the crowd, like you do on crowded pavements in big cities, that I turned around one day. And I saw the fallen pieces by the wayside…of the things that I cared about. And then I started jostling my way back through the crowd…to the places where the pieces had fallen. To pick up from where I left off.

Friday Fiction: Sticks And Stones May Break Their Bones

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 20 Mar 2015 14:32:00 +0000

A thump on the door startled Rima. She had just woken up and was dragging herself across the living room to the kitchen. She opened the door to realize that the thump had been the day’s newspaper, rolled-up, as the hawker threw it with precision towards the house while passing by on his bicycle. It was early in the morning in the Indian city of Lucknow. Even through the fog and dim light of dawn, Rima saw the headline.

‘CHIEF MINISTER ANNOUNCES RS. 700 CR MEMORIAL ON MG ROAD.’

Rima stomped back into the small living room with the paper and milk packets.

“Can you believe this, Amma?” She was fuming. “I lost my job over this! What a joke!”

She flung the paper onto the center table and stomped off into the kitchen. Her mother, Lakshmi, watched helplessly.

It had been three months that Rima had lost her job. She had been in shock the day she found out, barely able to speak when she came home. Lakshmi had been concerned, “Are you fine? Come, I’ll make you hot chai, you must be tired.”

“It’s closing, Amma.”

“What’s closing, child?”

“The restaurant. Koh-i-Noor.”

“What? Are you sure? That can’t be.”

“It is! They are demolishing everything on Mahatma Gandhi Road!”

“They can’t do that! That market has been there since before I was born!”

“It’s for a government project, Amma. Everything is going!”

Rima had cried herself to sleep that night. She had been angry over the next many days. “It must be some senseless government project that takes decades for completion! They cleared the whole market for it! Did they think about people like us?! What else can one expect from them?”

She had then hoped that it was all a mistake, that the demolition wouldn’t happen and everyone would get their jobs back. And when the newspapers had announced the start of the demolition, Lakshmi had watched as Rima went about her day mechanically, frequently staring into empty space. It was only after a photograph of the empty piece of land had appeared in the papers on the front page along with an obituary of the MG Road market that Rima had begun to gather herself.

One of those days the neighbouring Mrs. Tiwari had offered some sweet halwa brought from the temple, and a suggestion – that Rima continue Lakshmi’s work of tailoring from home. Rima had dusted the old sewing machine that day and reached out to Lakshmi’s old customers. That is what kept her busy and some money coming these days. But not enough, as they both had realized.

Presently, Lakshmi saw Rima switching on All India Radio and sitting down with the sewing machine to stitch blouses and salwar-kameezfor ladies, and pretty cotton frocks for their daughters. The news came on after a while and they heard more details about the memorial project.

‘Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh, Smt. Jaya Devi, yesterday unveiled plans to build a memorial to social transformation in the capital, Lucknow. The memorial will include statues of social reformers and of Jaya Devi herself, as well as fifty statues of lions, the party’s election symbol. The memorial is estimated to cost 700 crore rupees. The proposed site on Mahatma Gandhi Road has already been cleared through a demolition drive that affected many old businesses and establishments.’

Rima continued stitching. Lakshmi had suffered the same drudgery for years after her husband had passed away, to make ends meet and educate Rima. Rima’s job had allowed Lakshmi to finally stop her work and tend to her own deteriorating health and increasing pain. Lakshmi hadn’t had much of an education. But Rima did and she was still doing the same work. Lakshmi couldn’t watch anymore. She decided to step out and visit the site of the memorial, a short walk away.

The last time Lakshmi had been to MG Road was when her husband was still alive. It was Diwali and they had wanted to buy earthen lamps, fruits and flowers, and show Rima the festivities and Diwali lights. At the end of the evening, they had eaten some chaat by the street, not far from Koh-i-Noor. They hadn’t been able to afford luxuries like restaurant meals, and Lakshmi had been happy to just see the restaurant from outside. Lakshmi remembered her initial hesitation in letting Rima work there when Rima had spoken of it.

“Amma, there was a job posting on the college notice board today.”

“Really? What job?”

“You know the restaurant Koh-i-Noor?”

“Of course, everyone does. Why did they post a job in a women’s college?”

“They are looking for Home Science graduates. They want to welcome women. Both in the kitchen and as waitresses.”

“And you want to work at that hotel? What will people say?”

“Amma, it’s such a respected and legendary place! And they want to hire women. This is not 1970!”

“You can work in a school or a bank.”

“I’ll have to study more or give exams for schools and banks. This is an immediate job and salary.”

“I don’t know. Do what you want.”

So that’s what Rima had done and got herself a job as a waitress at Koh-i-Noor. To make Lakshmi feel comfortable about her job and workplace, Rima had taken her for a modest dinner at Koh-i-Noor after being paid the first salary. Lakshmi had come back happy and proud after seeing the plush environs of the restaurant and the genteel crowd that dined there, as also meeting some others who worked at Koh-i-Noor.

Koh-i-Noor was gone now. With the market. There was left a bare piece of land waiting for stone statues instead of real people. The memorial had taken away more than Rima’s job; it had taken away the city’s memories.

Lakshmi had to do something. She just didn’t know what. For starters, she decided to visit the site every day.

The memorial soon began to generate a different kind of buzz.

‘MUD SLIDE AT THE MEMORIAL. NO CASUALTIES.’

‘SANDSTONE PILE TOPPLES AT THE MEMORIAL. 1 INJURED.’

‘MALFUNCTION AT MEMORIAL: CRANE STALLS.’

‘2 INJURED AT THE MEMORIAL. CAUSE UNCERTAIN.’

It became the talk of the nation as well as the neighbourhood, creeping into Mrs. Tiwari and Mrs. Sharma’s late afternoon courtyard chat.

“What is with all these accidents at the memorial?”

“Very bad. It must be the Vaastu, wrong direction or something. Some of the businesses on MG Road were suffering, no?”

“Could be. They should consult an astrologer and pacify the planets.”

“What a curse on the city I tell you!”

“No doubt!”

Lakshmi had been spotting what was a semblance of satisfaction on Rima’s face when she picked up the paper every morning now. She herself kept visiting the site day after day. It gave her a sense of doing something, anything for Rima.

The prime time news on the national TV channel Doordarshan was playing as usual when Rima was cooking dinner that night. The accident-rife memorial made the headlines there as well.

‘The Prime Minister, today, expressed concern over the continued accidents at the site of the upcoming memorial in Lucknow and directed the Uttar Pradesh government to look into the matter. Chief Minister Jaya Devi is expected to visit the site tomorrow and take stock of the situation.”

And sure enough Jaya Devi came along. In her cavalcade of cars. Lakshmi was there, as usual, even before a crowd built up to get a glimpse of Jaya Devi. Temporary barricades were quickly erected and Jaya Devi stepped out of her car. As she started to walk towards the site, Lakshmi screamed out, “Minister Madam, this memorial’s foundation is made of skeletons and hungry stomachs! Stop this project before more people die!”

Jaya Devi looked to see where the voice came from and knew it was Lakshmi’s from the calm and determined look on Lakshmi’s face. Guards were angrily directed towards Lakshmi but she disappeared in the crowd. Jaya Devi collected herself and proceeded to survey the memorial site.

Only one statue had been completed with difficulty thus far, not the expected three. The bespectacled visionary father of the Indian constitution stood at one end of the site, with his right index finger pointing towards the future. Jaya Devi spoke to the workers at the site first and then proceeded towards the statue. As she looked up at the 18-ft tall statue, she heard a loud sound and saw the extended index finger of the statue crack at the knuckle and crash to the ground. Jaya Devi had jumped aside just in time but shards of sandstone flew at her from the fallen fragment. Within moments, she was whisked away by her guards.

Lakshmi had been waiting across the road for the visit to be over. Her eyes met Jaya Devi’s just as Jaya Devi got into her car. In that moment, Lakshmi found herself wishing she had a third eye like God Shiva to burn Jaya Devi to the ground.

The headline changed the next day.

‘JAYA DEVI TO MEET PEOPLE DISPLACED BY MEMORIAL.’

Rima smirked.

“See, Amma? The government finally remembered us. What a change of heart!”

Lakshmi smiled ruefully as Rima walked into the kitchen to put the milk to boil. Whether it was her words or all those accidents that had made Jaya Devi take the initiative she didn’t know. But she saw a glimmer of hope for Rima now.

Jaya Devi had decided to visit people in their own homes and that had got people gossiping that it was to win support for herself in the next election. It wasn’t long before Rima heard a knock on her door and found Jaya Devi standing there, with the whole curious neighbourhood gathered outside the gate. Rima politely invited the minister inside, as a guest should be, and offered her a seat.

Jaya Devi was just about settling into a chair to talk to Rima when she suddenly stood bolt upright, staring at a photograph of Lakshmi on the wall, next to that of Rima’s father’s. She asked Rima whose photograph it was.

“My mother’s, Madam.”

“Where is she?”

“Madam, it should be clear where she is, there is a garland on her photograph!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t…”

“She is dead, thanks to you! She had bone tuberculosis and the salary from Koh-i-Noor was paying for her medicines…until you closed it down. Her blood-and-bones were sacrificed for your statues of stone!”

Rima broke down, crying. Jaya Devi was already baffled when she saw Lakshmi appear near the door, saying, “How many more accidents must I cause? How many more lives must be sacrificed before you stop? Isn’t mine enough?”

The sight of a pale Jaya Devi fleeing Rima’s house fed the neighbourhood grapevine for days. Meanwhile, the papers announced the very next day:

‘MEMORIAL SHELVED. COMMERCIAL COMPLEX TO BE BUILT INSTEAD.’

Rima took the newspaper and stood in front of Lakshmi’s photograph, just like she had all these days, but had nothing to say. She just laid it on the table under the photograph, wiped a brimming tear and walked off into the kitchen with the milk packets.

Radios and televisions, too, announced the change to the nation.

‘In a move welcomed by the Center, Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Jaya Devi has announced that a Commercial Complex will be built on MG Road to resurrect the shops demolished for building the now-shelved memorial. The employees displaced earlier will have their jobs back on completion of the project. In the meantime, a supporting pension will be provided for all such employees from the funds allocated for the memorial. The Chief Minister was unavailable for comment on the change of plans.’

Lakshmi knew then that she had done all that she could for her little girl and that Rima had a future that held more promise and possibility than Lakshmi’s life had.

Lakshmi could finally go away in peace.

Image courtesy: http://commons.wikimedia.org/

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This story was written for the second round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2015 with the assigned prompts being:

Genre - Ghost Story

Subject - A statue

Character - A waitress.

What Lies Within

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Tue, 17 Mar 2015 21:02:00 +0000

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am not a morning person.

I used to wake up at 5:00 AM for years while training for Basketball; 4:30 in the summer. And then again for tuitions through junior college and first year of college. I’d wake up early to meet friends for morning walks or runs. But every time other than that, every chance I’d get, I’d sleep in.

I’ve tried a lot of things to make a habit out of waking up early on days that I have no need to. Who doesn’t like a few extra hours in the day? Plus our culture puts a big premium on it, shaming people who like to sleep late or claim to be night creatures. So there’s that. There is a lot of leadership literature about how it is the one absolute thing that matters for those wanting to lead, succeed. No one likes to think they are squandering away their potential by catching a few winks or being on a daily routine that is time-shifted by four odd hours. But most of all, it was the feeling of failure and defeat at being unable to wake up early if I wanted to. It disgusted me to think that I wasn’t in control of when I wanted to sleep, that my need for sleep ran my life. It was a constant exercise in exercising my will and failing.

The story was similar with exercise. And trying to eat more fruits. And leafy vegetables.

Don’t get me wrong, I like to exercise. But I’m not fanatic about it. I don’t miss it if I skip it. I don’t get an adrenaline kick out of it. I like to cycle and hike. I exercise if I have the right people giving me company, outdoors. The gym is the last place I will walk into willingly. Fruits are the last things I will pick to eat willingly. And leafy greens take too much effort to cook on a daily or even alternate-day basis.

So it was clear then. I was on my way to being a failed, fat but undernutritioned person. Until last year.

The last one year has been a gradual exercise in consciously crafting my life and making conscious choices in living, rather than letting my habits and preferences drive my life. And there was only one way I could get around the person I was to reach a new place in being.

Trick myself.

The first trick was in the nutrition department. A cousin introduced me to the concept of Simple Green Smoothies. Just take any leafy green vegetable, and any fruits, and bananas and a liquid base. Blend it all together. And drink! Simple Green Smoothies introduced me to the taste of raw Kale, Red Lettuce, Arugula among others, apart from Spinach! And my fruit consumption skyrocketed in terms of quantity and variety. It’s one of the best ideas that I have come across and it ensures that I get my daily dose of fruits and greens!

Next I tricked myself in the exercise department. So I couldn’t go out in the bitter cold and I hated the gym. But I had enjoyed aerobics when I had tried it in the past. So I looked up some free dance workout videos on YouTube. And finally found the key to enjoying working out – having fun and variety! I had always wanted to try Zumba and I found some great videos online. Dance workouts were fun. There were quick strength workouts too, needing no equipment! I tried kickboxing too and found it to be an extremely intense and fun workout. I now workout every day, sometimes for 10 minutes, sometimes for 45. I get my heart-rate up and finish with a good feeling about exercising (my will)!

The last challenge was the long standing war against the alarm clock. I had to find a way to trick myself there, too. I had tried other things like keeping the phone at the other end of the room, or even in another room. But nothing had worked.

What worked was an old-fashioned alarm clock purchased at Ikea, the kind I used to have when I used to train for Basketball. It didn’t have a snooze button and I associated its sound with my Basketball and school days…when I used to wake up early easily. And I kept it in the bathroom. Along with a good book, because I love reading. These days, once the alarm rings (usually before 5:30 AM), I have to enter the bathroom to switch it off, where I close the door, switch on the light and spot the book. Or some days I just sit myself down. I just lock myself in there. And that’s it. That’s what worked! It’s been nearly 5 weeks that I have kept this up successfully. I do go back to sleep some days if I don’t feel well rested, but only after having been awake for 30-45 min.

And just like that, by tricking myself in the right manner, I became an early-waking, exercising, fruits-and-greens eating person. There are obvious benefits to it. But the larger implication is this. We lie to ourselves about who we are. I had convinced myself that I am a night creature. I am yawning by 9 pm these days. That I don’t enjoy fruits and am okay without them (the greens I like, they’re just tedious). The fruits and greens aisles get more of my attention these days than anything else and it has percolated into the cooked greens department as well (hello, sarson da saag!). That I hate exercising. I hate skipping it these days.

So who was that person with those false assumptions? And who am I now? Whoever I may be, growing is WHAT I am.

And that is what lies within me.

Potential.

Possibility.

A new me.

This post about starting a new life was inspired by the new Housing.

Little Wing

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Wed, 11 Mar 2015 11:20:00 +0000

Everything was bare when I landed.

There were no leaves on the trees. No grass on the ground. There were no familiar faces around, save for my husband’s. There were no small streets, no pedestrians, running in and out of small shops, buying soaps or shampoo sachets or 500 gms of an ingredient missed on the grocery list the previous day. It was empty. Many might have called it a clean slate, a fresh start. I wasn’t so sure. While there was an entire lifetime to look forward to, there was nothing in my immediate future, the every day, that I was waiting for.

I wasn’t to wake up every morning and get ready for work; I had quit that while moving to this new country. I couldn’t even look forward to stepping out of the house, the explorer that I am; the weather was sub-zero and bitter and I wasn’t tolerating it very well…I wanted to curl up in a ball and hibernate till spring. I had no friends around to go meet in the evening and share a few laughs with. In fact, I couldn’t even drive, what with just having learned to drive and there being snow all around…so how could I go anywhere? The only reason I got out of bed in the morning was to make lunch since my husband comes home for lunch. His being home for that one hour or in the evening was the only thing I looked forward to. But once he was back at work post-lunch, I had a long insufferable afternoon all to myself with no work, no one to talk to and none of my favourite things around…just the television and junk food. No wonder I loaded up on pounds very quickly.

Things got a little better with summer coming around but a feeling of despair when my husband wasn’t home never went away. I kept thinking of the life and friends I used to have and just what a contrast life was in this new country. I was trying, maybe too hard, and failing to make peace with this complete isolation from everything I had known as my life before. Before long, it was winter again and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to cope with another one with the way I was feeling.

One day I noticed the patio of one of the apartments in our complex. It was filled with birds hopping on and off it. Sparrows, mostly. I wondered if it was because the patio was located right above some shrubs that had managed to hold on to their green needles through the merciless winter. Were the residents putting out food for the birds? Just out of curiosity, I scattered some rice grains on our patio that day. No birds showed up. I had been wrong. And I was deeply disappointed. A small flutter of hope, the hope of having a similar patio filled with birds, had been nipped. I drew the blinds shut.

A solitary sparrow showed up the next day and pecked at the deck. I assumed it had just lost its way and landed up at our door, unexpectedly spotting some food. But more came the day after. At dusk we nearly had 20 sparrows hopping on our patio pecking at grains that we had strewn. I was giddy with happiness and couldn’t stop smiling!

I’ve never been a bird person; it was always furry animals for me…cute little mammals. But the amount of joy I derive from seeing the sparrows making their regular rounds for bird food is pleasantly surprising. Some days, there are boisterous Starlings that make a stop. On snowy days, even birds like the elegant Blue Jay and flaming-red Cardinal pay us a visit. My days don’t seem long or lonely now. All I have to do is look at the patio and see the sparrows happily hopping around. I cannot talk to them, I cannot touch them but somehow them just being there makes me feel happier and less lonely. What’s more, they have taken my despair away on their little wings, leaving me lighter, brighter and happier.

In the face of things that cannot be changed or controlled in life, sometimes just one thing…some thing…to wait for and look forward to brings hope and lets one carry on from one day to another. Sometimes, that thing is a few sparrows on the ledge…hopping happily and chirping as if to say…you’ll be okay!

This post was inspired by Lookup by Housing, enabling people to look up to a better life.

In Search Of Closure

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Mon, 23 Feb 2015 17:07:00 +0000

We were waiting for Bombay Tikki Chaat…not by the side of some street cart in India, with the right sights and sounds to accompany the taste, but at the table of an eatery adjoining the Indian store in our little American town. It was our weekly grocery shopping day. We had just stocked up on our Indian groceries – The daals, the masalas and the vegetables that hold more memories than nutrition…karela, drumsticks, methi, kundru, lauki, gilki, munnga – and were indulging in some Indian delicacies that were rare in our part of the world.

It was during this time that my eyes were aimlessly ambling around the place, taking in what I had seen so many times for the want of anything better to do, and I spotted her. She seemed new in the kitchen. I knew that the eatery had lost a young employee, who used to man the counter, to marriage; she had been around the previous time, when we were savouring our Bhel, saying her goodbyes to the aunties who had taught her so much and working with whom had been so much fun…she would try and come by whenever she was in the area. The fall in numbers seemed to have been made up for by bringing in this clearly experienced older lady.

I saw her peeking out from the kitchen once, walking up to the counter another time. She was looking curiously at a special child and her family, who were waiting for their food. The next time she came over to the counter, with no warning and no consideration for the place or the people around, she asked the mother of the special child aloud, “What has happened to your daughter?” The only response she got was, “Nothing at all!” She smiled in embarrassment, the mother looked away uncomfortably. She returned to the kitchen.

It is common for parents of special children to be harrowed by questions, mockery and snide remarks. Some people are plain curious, but not concerned. Some have no understanding. Some are uncomfortable to be around them and ask questions or end up making inappropriate remarks because they don’t know what else to do. Her question sounded like neither of those. It did not seem to carry any mockery in it. Her tone was not that of someone looking for some cheap kicks or trying to make small talk out of pity. She did not seem to mean harm. There was something deeper that one could sense in her question.

That sense took us back to the eatery later that evening. It was closing time and the lights were out at the front. We feared the door might be locked and we might not get to speak to her but the door opened when we tried. A ghostly glow from the fluorescent lights in the kitchen dimly lit the eatery. There were chit-chatting voices and close-of-business noises coming from the kitchen. We called out and an elderly man came out. We explained that we wanted to speak to the new lady; we had heard her question earlier in the evening and were curious why she wanted to know.

The lady came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron as she walked. We didn’t know how to even start the conversation; just that it was one that needed to be had. So we asked her why she was asking about the special child in the evening. She seemed to hesitate, as if we were trying to incriminate her. We tried to make her comfortable by asking our question differently, respectfully. And then she told us.

She had had a husband once. They were set to migrate to the USA from Punjab. The visas had been stamped and the bags had been packed when her husband died of cardiac arrest a day before their scheduled flights. They had sold everything. They had packed up and closed the India chapter of their lives. With no husband by her side, what was she to do in India? So she travelled to the USA anyway a few months later to start a new life.

Her daughter was with her. Within a few years of being in the USA, around the age of 15-16 years, her daughter developed a condition that rapidly incapacitated her. Within a shockingly short period of time, a teenager that was full of life was reduced to a disabled person completely dependent on her mother for everything. The girl couldn’t walk, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t eat by herself and she was completely relegated to the bed, nearly a vegetable. The lady cared for her daughter for nearly 3 years before the daughter died at 19 years of age. The doctors never had any answers and nobody ever found out what had ailed the girl.

She saw her daughter’s face in the face of the special child that evening. She was happy to see that this girl was around, alive and happy. And she was looking for answers, for why her daughter might have been taken away from her.

She was looking for comfort. For a clue. For closure. Maybe some compassion.

I see the lady sometimes at the Indian store or the eatery now. I do not know her name but I know a part of her story…one that has taught me to look beyond my own pain, to show compassion and to choose life in the face of great loss. And for that, I will always remember her.

Relationship Rasa

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Tue, 17 Feb 2015 20:03:00 +0000

Sweet. Sour. Salty. Bitter. Pungent. Astringent.

Shad Rasas. Six Tastes.

The Sweet.

To build, to calm, to satiate.

The Sour.

To cleanse, to increase absorption, to stimulate.

The Salty.

To lubricate, to digest, to improve other tastes.

The Bitter.

To detoxify, to lighten.

The Pungent.

To clear the passages, to aid circulation.

The Astringent.

To promote healing, to absorb, to tighten.

Six tastes. More than nutrition. An experience. A sign of completeness. An indication of wholesomeness in nourishment. No element too important. No element unnecessary. Too much of any and the balance is lost.

In Moderation. Whether it is in a Meal or Marriage.

Image Source: http://www.eattasteheal.com/ETH_6tastes.htm

We idealize relationships without conflict. We idolize people who never disagree, never fight. We want to be like them. And we feel guilty when we face conflict with those we love.

But conflict, disagreement, difference of perspective among individuals is natural, even healthy. It makes for variety and diversity. It steers clear of tunnel vision. Even siblings brought up under the same roof do not always see eye to eye. How can two individuals coming from different households always agree with each other? The style of conflict resolution may vary from plain denial and suppression to blame, manipulation or a peaceful discussion. But to expect no conflict to arise at all in any relationship seems unnatural. Just like one needs each of the six tastes in moderation to make a meal complete, wholesome and nourishing, I believe that one needs all six tastes in moderation in a marriage to make the relationship complete, wholesome and nourishing.

The Sweet.

To build bonds, to calm the mind, to satiate the soul. The tender moments. The light caresses. The thoughtful deeds. The sharing. The understanding. The sweet surprises. The smiles. The stuff that memories are made of.

The Sour.

To cleanse the mind, to increase absorption of each other’s perspective, to stimulate conversation and debate. The disagreements, the disillusionment, the disenchantment. To help extract valuable insights into the other’s mind, heart and soul from it all.

The Salty.

To lubricate life, to digest everything easily, to improve other tastes and make light of the heavier emotions. The naughtiness, the jokes, the laughter. The fun that brings a smile back on the face.

The Bitter.

To detoxify the relationship, to lighten the weight of unspoken words and unexpressed emotions. The anger that masks hurt. Better said than not. The vent that prevents clogs in the relationship.

The Pungent.

To clear the passages and allow fresh air to flow through the relationship, to aid circulation. The spice in the relationship.

The Astringent.

To promote healing of the hearts, to absorb love, to tighten bonds. The cooling touch, the soothing words, the sorries, the special gestures for making up. All the stuff that makes you fall in love all over again.

A Sweet base with a hint of Sour, a dose of Astringent, a sprinkle of Salt, some sprigs of Bitter and a dash of the Pungent and there you have it!

With Moderation. The perfect meal. A memorable Marriage.

Friday Fiction - Lotus Pond

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Sat, 07 Feb 2015 04:22:00 +0000

The sun had set on Mumbai. Most people were beginning to think of home and hot dinners, as was Krishna. It had been a long day and he had been standing for nearly twelve hours. His tired feet craved respite. And his throat, sore from uttering hoarse cries all day, craved some hot tea.

The red light district of Kamathipura was coming to life after dusk. Notes of Bollywood songs wafted through the air. Colorful lights brought on the semblance of a festival upon the lanes, a daily festival of carnal pleasures. Brazen girls dressed in bright, skimpy clothes and caked with make-up waited on the sidelines. They looked fresh at this evening hour and a lot like Krishna did in the mornings with his sareeand make-up and flowers that he clipped to his short hair. A hijra, one of the millions of eunuchs in India.

His saree was creased now, his hair disheveled and his make-up streaked with sweat as he walked home through the evening bustle. He reached his house and unlocked the small brass padlock. It was a room, really. But it was his world, his home. He switched on a single fluorescent tube light that came on lazily after a few blinks, and sat down on the foldable cot, letting out a big sigh.

He felt fairly rested in a while and proceeded to wash his face with cheap local soap, change from the saree into a pant and shirt, and do his hair afresh minus the flowers. Sometimes he felt like he was playing a part in a play, this daily switch between a woman’s attire and a man’s. Presently, he made himself some tea on the kerosene stove and settled to examine his bag for the day’s gains.

There was cash – coins and notes of denominations paltry and significant. Enough to let him and his mother survive, day-to-day, month-to-month. There were a few other things, too, in the bag …things people gave away in fear and just to get rid of a hijra cursing and bothering them on the local train. Today it was some pictures of Gods, some coconut pieces that had been offered at a temple, a string of holy beads that Krishna immediately kept at the altar in the room and a packet of biscuits. He had never seen these biscuits earlier and they looked expensive. Different, too. He didn’t much care for biscuits and knew that Ma despised expensive indulgences. His thoughts immediately went to Rani. He would give the packet to Rani.

Krishna cooked some porridge and then left to get Ma from the brothel where she did some odd jobs. Today he was carrying the pack of biscuits for Rani, who was sitting with her dolls in a corner in the inner quarters of the brothel. He went to her and said, “Look Rani, I have got something for you!” The child’s eyes brightened when she saw the packet in Krishna’s hands and she grabbed it eagerly, squealing, “I’ll show it to my Ma and come!” Krishna followed her. Some of the prostitutes stood chatting in the small hall, waiting to be called by Madam for a customer. Sweety was one of the quieter ones. Krishna didn’t know her well, just the fact that she was Rani’s mother. Presently, he saw Rani showing the biscuit packet to Sweety with a lot of excitement. Sweety looked at Krishna and started walking up to him, packet in hand. She asked, “Where did you get this from?”

“On the train.”

“On the train?”

“Yes, from a gora. You know, foreigner?”

“Oh. It must be good if it is from foreign.”

“Initially the gora wouldn’t give me anything. But I didn’t budge. He gave me some loose change and this packet.”

“It does not say biscuit anywhere. What is it?”

“How do you know? What does it say?”

“I read it. It says right here, see? Trader-Joe’s-Gluten-Free-Crispy-Crunchy-Chocolate-Chip-Cookies.”

“You can read? And I don’t know what it is then.”

“Looks like biscuit only. And it has some free gift also. It says gluten free no?”

“Like those free stickers Rani got with the bubble gum?”

“Yes. She will like it. She has never got a foreign gift before. Thank you.”

“Oh it’s nothing.”

Sweety then went to Rani and announced that only if she got good marks in the exams, she would get to open the packet and take the free gluten gift. Rani immediately took up the challenge and ran away to study.

Sweety resumed her place at the back of the group of girls while Krishna made small talk with them. He had always felt safe there in the brothel. He was a eunuch and was no threat to the girls. They were bodies for their customers but around Krishna they felt like people. Krishna, too, felt like a person in their midst instead of a fearsome, loathsome hijra, since some of them treated him like a friend…talking to him about his day, teasing him, sometimes even sharing their fears and worries in the garb of jokes. It was the closest Krishna had to a social life and friends.

As Krishna and Ma walked back to the room that night, Krishna noticed Ma’s deliberate pace and put his arm around her protectively and to support her.

“Tired, Ma?” he asked.

“Oh no, just the usual.” Ma dismissed him.

“Why do you still work there, Ma? It’s not too much money and it tires you.”

“It’s all I know, son. I came to Madam very young. It’s a wretched place but it’s familiar.”

“Ok Ma, tell me how did this Sweety get to Madam?”

“Why do you ask?”

“No, generally. I found out today she knows to read. What is she doing here?”

“Poor girl. She used to be married in the village once. Seems to have studied upto eigth standard before getting married, too!”

“Oh!”

“Her husband’s family had always troubled her and one day they attempted to burn her for dowry. She fled with an infant Rani in her arms and took the first train that stopped at the station. The last stop was Mumbai.”

“But how did she end up here?”

“Pimps. They can smell girls who are lost from a mile. They brought her to Madam. Her name used to be Swati but Madam thought Sweety was better for trade. That’s how that innocent girl got caught in this web with little Rani. God! My back hurts!”

“We’re almost home, Ma. We’ll eat some porridge and then you can get some rest, ok?”

Krishna was aware of the challenges a single mother could face in Kamathipura. Ma had been one and she had struggled to protect Krishna at every step. And there was only so much protection a prostitute could give her child.

Krishna remembered the string of holy beads that he had got while begging that day. Krishna was not religious but Ma believed in God and His power. So the next evening, Krishna took the beads along and gave them to Sweety for Rani’s protection and studies. He wanted to help Rani and Sweety somehow. For some reason he felt like protecting this quiet girl who had got trapped in the flesh trade and was working so hard to give Rani a decent life.

Two gifts in two days was enough attention for Sweety to make her curious. In the tired hours of the next morning when Madam sat massaging her arthritic legs, Sweety asked her if she knew anything about Krishna. Madam’s manner in these mild morning hours was quite unlike her sharp-tongued demeanour during business hours. Sweety was massaging pain balm on Madam’s legs and soothed by that, Madam started talking softly.

“Some people are just born with bad luck, I tell you. Like our Krishna.”

Sweety continued the massage hoping that Madam would continue talking, afraid to interrupt.

“First, he was abandoned outside a temple as an infant. That’s where Soni, his mother, found him. Now how can a woman walk away from a crying, hungry child, tell me? So she took him as her son and brought him here. You see, she was also one of my girls back then.”

“Oh really? I didn’t know that, Madam.”

“Then what! Rub some more balm on my left leg. So yes, the boy started growing up here spending time inside the quarters for most part. Never went to school. I tell you, Rani is lucky to go to school.”

“That is true, Madam. I want her to study very hard.”

“That she will. Krishna never got the chance. As if it wasn’t enough to be abandoned on the streets, he got kidnapped from these lanes one day when he was playing with the slum boys. Didn’t come back for two days. Two days later, he turns up castrated and in very bad shape.”

Sweety let out a sudden gasp and her nails nearly scratched Madam’s legs.

“Oh! What are you doing? My legs are already hurting!”

“Sorry Madam! It’s just that it’s so horrible.”

“What to do. No one knows who did it but I think it was the local hijra mafia looking to add numbers to their troupe. Krishna must have fled. Soni was heartbroken but she didn’t give up on Krishna. She has always considered him to be her son, a man, but God knows what he is.”

“He has truly suffered a lot.”

“Worse, he couldn’t find any work when he grew up and was forced to join those same gangs of hijra beggars to make a living. Now he begs with them on trains every day, dressed up as a woman. And at other times, he dresses and behaves like a man to be Soni’s son. What a life, what bad luck.” Madam said as she began to rise to retire to her quarters.

When Sweety saw Krishna the next day, she felt tenderness that she had rarely experienced before. What was his fault? What had he done to deserve being abandoned and then castrated? She felt compassion for him and smiled with kindness when their eyes met. She saw surprise in his eyes but then he smiled back with admiration.

Over the next many months, Krishna started to actively collect knick-knacks for Rani, sometimes even buying them and passing them off as gains from the day’s begging. He wanted to see Rani happy. He wanted to see Sweety happy. Sweety, too, started to talk more with Krishna. It was nothing in particular but Krishna had never felt so happy just making small talk. They talked about all kinds of things - Bollywood films, Mumbai, people Krishna saw on the train…and about Rani. Sweety’s eyes lit up every time she spoke about Rani. She wanted Rani to study a lot and be able to leave that place for a better life. Krishna really enjoyed seeing her gleam like that.

Once in a while, when no one was watching, Krishna managed to hold Sweety’s hand. It had taken a lot of courage the first time. He didn’t know if she would like being touched by a eunuch or if she would feel repelled. He had tried anyway. That first brush of their elbows had only elicited a shy smile from Sweety and Krishna had known – she would be the only one after Ma who would see him for a person. They had continued talking and it had been Sweety who had placed her hand gently on his knee as she laughed at his description of a fat priest he had seen near the temple. They held hands every chance they got now, and those few stolen seconds made life worthwhile for Krishna. He had found a companion to talk to and to give whatever he had to offer – a hand to hold and a shoulder to lean on.

It had also been Sweety who had asked, “Will you be my family? Rani’s and mine?” Krishna had drawn his hand away, whether in surprise or shock he did not know himself. He couldn’t find the right words.

“I am a eunuch! Not a man! How can we come together?” He had never considered the possibility. He was happy to just have a nameless something between them. A sense of solace maybe.

“Man? Man! What good did it do me to marry a man, Krishna?”

“Sweety, I…”

“Was he man enough to protect me?”

“But Sweety…”

“And what about the man who tricked me and brought me here?”

“Sweety listen…”

“And what about the men who use my body every day here?”

“Sweety, what about Rani?”

“What about her?”

“What will she tell people? Am I her father or mother?”

Sweety felt weak. She leaned against the wall on the terrace of the building and said, “All I know is that you have been more fatherly to Rani than her own father, Krishna. You care about her, make her laugh, help her grow. Remember the holy beads you brought for her? And that packet? She studied so hard for those cook…cookies and the free gultan…gluten gift, that she got third rank in class! There was no gift in the packet by the way. It was a trick, these foreign companies. For the first time I feel there is someone other than me who is watching over my child. If that isn’t family, what is?”

Krishna said, “Sweety, I love you and Rani. But I am a eunuch and I don’t want the two of you to be hurt because of a eunuch’s love!” Saying this, he walked away and Sweety saw him disappear into a blur brought on by her tears.

Krishna did not believe in God but he had a personal God in Ma, who had saved him, protected him and loved him. That night, his thoughts fought a battle so furious that he was forced to pray to his personal God. He told Ma everything that had happened but instead of being horrified at the idea, Ma had smiled.

“Do you know that your name was not always Krishna?” She said. “I named you Krishna the day you returned after the kidnapping because Krishna, the beautiful dark God, had once taken the female form of Mohini and fulfilled a devout warrior’s wish to be married before he died in battle. That day when you returned maimed and stripped of your gender, I decided that you were that God…man in spirit, woman in body.

“If you decide to make Sweety and Rani your family, it will be a divine union. You both will be everything to Rani, and Sweety will not have to bear the burden that I had to. I am happy that you have a chance at experiencing the happiness that a wife and child can bring. I never thought you would. Think about it, son.”

Krishna stopped at the temple the next day, on the way home but didn’t go inside. He had no need. He changed clothes in a hurry that evening and went to meet Sweety before the day’s trade began. When he saw Sweety, he saw hurt in her eyes. He dragged her aside and pulled out a lotus from his bag. She looked perplexed and asked, “What is this?”

“Will you and Rani be my family?”

“You brought a lotus flower to propose?”

Krishna smiled and said, “Ma always says the lotus is a flower that grows and creates beauty even in a dirty pond. That is what we will do. We will come together like lotuses in a pond of dirt…this pond of dirt…and create beauty. Ours is a divine union and this lotus is my offering.”

Tears streamed down Sweety’s face as she took the flower. Krishna wiped her tears and they both smiled warmly. Just then Rani came running from the room and saw the lotus. She squealed and took the flower from Sweety’s hands. And Sweety and Krishna watched together as their child began prancing around, humming to herself with a lotus in her hand.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn’t make sense.

-Rumi

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This piece was written for the first round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2015 with the assigned prompts being:

Genre - Romance

Subject - Gluten-Free

Character - A Single Mother.

Friday Fiction: Loss Of Appetite

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 07:11:00 +0000

Because you're always in control of fiction. Or are you?

The appetizers had gone cold. It was the monthly Fab Five lunch. Agreed, the name was cheesier than the Cheese & Garlic Bread they had ordered for the table but over the years, the girls had developed a sentiment for the name that had led to its retention. ‘What were we thinking!’ had given way to a mellower ‘We were too young to come up with anything better’. Whether it was nostalgia or the lack of creativity, Madhu would never know but the name had stayed. So it was the monthly Fab Five lunch.

The girls had done this for the last ten years. Ten years since they had left college. Brought together in college more by their vulnerabilities than by anything they had in common, they had managed to stick together over the years…five girls drowning in the flowing river of time and holding on to each other for dear life. They had decided on graduation day that they would not become other people…people who gave excuses for drifting apart from friends. And if they were in the same city, they would meet every month, no matter what. Miraculously, it had worked. Of course, there were times when one or another of them would be missing…away pursuing a master’s degree or travelling for work. But they had managed to retain their base in the same city and there they were, the five of them at lunch again!

The ritual may have remained the same and even attained a sacred nature for the five over the years but other things had changed. Today, more than ever, Madhu was feeling restless. It had been slow, this change, but like most changes that happen ever so slowly and one day just hit you in the face, this change was staring Madhu in the face today.

So the appetizers had gone cold. As had the conversation. For Madhu anyway. Madhu had always managed to maintain interest at least until the end of the main course. Today she found herself noticing the taste of the appetizers (not at all worth their price) and the clatter of cutlery around the restaurant a whole lot more. She realized this and brought herself back to the table and the conversation. Nisha was talking about Football. Or how she didn’t like it. And how Sandeep was always watching Football while she either cooked them dinner or sat quietly by his side flipping a magazine.

Devika took over and said at least Nisha had the time to flip magazines. With a baby at home in her case and no help from Ajay, she barely found time to sit and breathe. She wished Ajay would help out more with the baby but he was either always on work calls at home or catching up on the news for work. Tara joined in and wished Devika good luck, trying to get her husband to help out with the baby. She lived with her in-laws and found out soon after her wedding that Vipul wasn’t much more than a baby himself, having everything served on a platter to him by his mother and now by Tara. Even if he were willing to help Tara at home, she doubted her in-laws would approve of it. She should have stuck to her decision of staying single and pursuing her career. With which Naina agreed wholeheartedly, having gone through the same experience and deciding to move out but the damage already being done and Naren not doing things much differently. She had given up on trying to change him or their life.

Madhu’s friends were gone. They had been replaced by women who only sought each other out to vent out their feelings and they weren't very good feelings from what she was hearing. They had been successful in not becoming like other people who found excuses and drifted apart from friends. But they had become the other people who constantly complained about their lives to their friends without doing anything about it. Madhu had no appetite for that. Or for this lunch.

At last, dessert was served, although Madhu wondered if it was sweet enough to wipe out the bitterness that was creeping into their lives. Bills paid and good-byes said, Madhu drove home through late afternoon traffic on the weekend and Rishi recognized her exhaustion soon as he opened the door. His words ‘Shall I make us some tea?’ sounded like magic as she stepped into the house. She could only manage to say ‘I’d love that!’ through her wide smile. She splashed some cold water on her face and joined Rishi in the kitchen to find vegetables chopped for the dinner that they had planned on cooking together.

Rishi settled at the dining table with the tea and said, “So how did the Fab Five lunch go today?” and the contrast of her life with her friends’ dawned on her at that moment. She smiled and proceeded to join Rishi to tell him about her insight and just how much she loved him and their life together. It felt good to be back home.

Written for IndiSpire Edition 47

A Language Called Love

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 23:50:00 +0000

What is language?

The method of human communication, either spoken or written, consisting of the use of words in a structured and conventional way.

Yet, we have used it for everything but communication. Language is alternately defined as a system of communication used by a particular community or country. Language, in today’s world, and more so in multilingual countries is that – an ingroup/outgroup dynamic. A tool to include or exclude people from groups. An identity that feels threatened by the presence of other means of communication, other languages. Language, today, is more form and less substance. It is the choice of words rather than ideas being shared. It seeks to exist for the sake of itself rather than for reaching out to others. Language is a manipulative tool that comes with its own politics.

But language is also any nonverbal method of expression or communication. Language that goes beyond the words and connects two people, whether or not they are able to use the right words. The language called Love.

All children know this language. All adults know this language around them. It is only in the adult world that we pretend it matters what language we speak in, more than what it is that we are saying. And we shove our languages down each other’s throats.

I remember going to Hampi a few years ago – alone and with barely any knowledge of Kannada. And I remember meeting two most loving women during the time. One of them spoke halting English but from the moment she met me, she took me under her wing. My safety, my comfort, my food…she ensured that everything was taken care of and I had nothing to worry about. It was the time of a great flood in the region and there were torrential rains. I had to report to her every day in the interest of my safety and also to let her know what I had seen around Hampi the previous day. With broken sentences but full hearts, we talked and helped each other and language never became the reason our ideas couldn’t reach the other. It was a time when words mattered less, communication mattered more and love led the way.

I remember, too, fondly my white mother in Slovakia. English, as a language, was technically foreign to both of us and yet, her love for me and mine for her are not defined by whether we understand each other’s languages or are part of each other’s cultures. Love is the only thing that binds me to her, millions of miles away. I do not believe that external concerns like our language and our words ever come into the way when someone is willing to care so deeply and love so selflessly. Even complete strangers and foreigners can find ways to connect if there is a will.

Language politics have been at the forefront in small personal groups and large national groups for some time now. Everybody is scared that their language will die. Everybody is petrified that their culture will be wiped out. It is ironic that these concerns come from some of the oldest countries in the world. Culture has been evolving and languages have been dying or being born for thousands of years. What matters is whether they have helped us integrate or segregate.

The bottomline of all human existence should be concern for another human and today, language stands as one of the barriers to that. When people of a state demand that others must learn their language or leave, they are putting a mode of communication above a human being. When people continue to talk in a common language in a group ignoring the single person who does not speak that language, they are putting a tool and the illusion of their identity above including another human in the group and making him or her part of the conversation to bring in more ideas. It is only the language of love that transcends any differences and really connects people, uniting them in understanding rather than bringing out their differences. And this New Year, my hope is for the entire world to adopt the language of love for the sake of fellow human beings.

The Taste Of Nostalgia

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 01:08:00 +0000

Everyday-spices lined up on the kitchen platform. Myriad ingredients filling the kitchen cabinets. Vegetables that crowd the refrigerator trays.

Harmless. But potent.

Every once in a while you reach out for them but end up opening a bigger jar…of memories. And you land up right in the middle of a moment, tasting forgotten flavours.

The pepper grinder that smells like weekday dinners of Daddy’s favourite Pindimiriyam, the flavor hitting the back of your throat. And Charu-Annam with Kandi-Pacchadi, their distinct flavours blending together in a magical combination. A crate of eggs bringing back a Sunday lunch of Anda Curry that Mummy used to make for Daddy because he liked it so much…prohibited pleasures. Even the sad excuse available in the name of Okra takes you to summer afternoons, lunch plates filled with Bhindi ki Sabzi, Aamras and Phulka. Fresh bunches of cilantro resurrect the surprisingly rare Dosa with Hari Dhaniya Chutney. The ginger you are grating into the evening tea hints at Bamma’s Allam Pacchadi served with Pesarattu. And then her Rava Payasam. Special invitation dinners over Attaiya’s signature Dum Aaloo. Fun evenings involving homemade Bhel. Festival lunches with Mummy’s signature Sevvaiyya Payasam and Attaiya’s Tomato/Imli Pulihora and Shrikhand. The Pav Bhaji made for Sis’s birthday every single year. Mango milkshake. Aam Panha. Puranpoli. Avakai. Dosakai Pacchadi. Bengali Khichdi. Baingan Ki Sabzi. Masale Bhaat. Pulusu.

Sweet. Sour. Bitter. Hot. And everything in between. The taste of nostalgia.

Food is memories.

- Hassan Kadam in The Hundred-Foot Journey.

I now realize that food is also luxuries…having people who love you always be there to cook up their signatures and your favourites…having people who even remember your favourites or ask the simple question, “What do you want to eat?” And one must carry the burden of these memories and luxuries for ever after.

A kitchen of your own is a gain in many respects. It is also a loss of these memories and luxuries. No one is going to whip up favourites for you or ask that question again. It’s your turn to remember favourites and cook them up. As for your own, until you can go home and answer the question, “What do you want to eat?”, they must be relegated back to the big jar of memories.

Dark Side Of The Moon: Stories From The Other Half

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Tue, 10 Jun 2014 13:55:00 +0000

Chanda ko dhoondhne sabhi
Taare nikal pade...
Galiyon mein woh
Naseeb ke
Maare nikal pade…

(Left at the mercy of fate, all the stars set out in search of the moon...)

My father used to sing that song from the film Jeene Ki Raah sometimes while putting us to bed. It was a sad song for a lullaby, I now realize, but it used to sound beautiful in his tender and hesitant voice.

This is an attempt at that. Finding. Not the moon but its dark side. The side that no one sees. The stories that no one knows because they are destined to be lost by fate’s design. Sometimes it's patience, sometimes, politeness. The lack of one, another or both. It's perennial eclipse...of the dark side by the bright.

The stories on the bright side are told and retold much like the returning phases of the moon. But stories from the other side remain hidden and are eventually forgotten.

But these are the stories that make two halves into one whole. Without the stories from the dark side, the moon is but a two dimensional disc in the sky. The dark side adds dimension. The stories keep the bright side from devouring the dark. If they are told.

This is an attempt at telling those stories. At salvaging pasts. Forgotten faces, remembered feelings. An attempt at creating two equal halves in an unequal bargain. An attempt at adding a third dimension to life.

These are stories from the other half. Better or worse.

Of Old Paint Tubes And New Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Tue, 14 Jan 2014 10:30:00 +0000

Have you ever found an old tube of toothpaste or water-colour paint lying around the house, in a forgotten corner? Discovered accidentally in a cleaning spree? And you know how the paint or the paste comes out of that tube when you squeeze to check if it can be used?

Crumbly. Crusty.

That's what this is. This blog post. The first squeeze from a long-unused tube.

Crumbly and crusty.

But as is the case with many long-unused tubes, I am hoping this will squeeze out just fine next time.

Image courtesy: http://www.wikihow.com/Oil-Paint

I recently threw myself way outside of what leadership literature warns us of getting stuck and stagnating in - the comfort zone. I have done it before, in bits and pieces. But this time it went too far, I think.

I quit my job of 7 and 1/2 years without knowing what it was that was next.

I finished the course of studies I was pursuing, something that kept me busy well for 2 and 1/2 years.

I gave away all my books, barely packed any stationery.

I dismantled base in a city I dearly love, vacated what I called home and gave away my set of two wheels, and my independence with it.

My old clothes went too.

The family I grew up with went back to where we came from.

I gave away or left behind most everything. When I boarded the plane the night I travelled, all I had in my hand were two suitcases filled with new clothes and new shoes and the address of the person whose hand I will hold for life. The only thing familiar to me at that point was the clothes I had on. My excitement in that moment temporarily numbed me to the feeling of being stripped of everything that had defined me until then.

That Augustana song has always fascinated me, Boston.

I think I'll go to Boston...

I think I'll start a new life,

I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name,

I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather,

I think I'll get a lover and fly him out to Spain...

Oh yeah and I think I'll go to Boston,

I think that I'm just tired

I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind...

I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset,

I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice.

I used to hear that song and wonder in my low moments what it must feel like - to start over in a place where no one knew you and you had no history to define you. It's funny now I'm not far from Boston. It's funny that we dream of living in Spain some day. And the snow is actually nice.

But here I am where no one knows my name. Where I haven't seen a familiar face other than my husband's and best friend's in over a month. I haven't read or written a word. Haven't gone out on my own or explored the town. And although that's the whole purpose of being outside one's comfort zone, it was uncomfortable like I've never known before, this lack of any foundation, footing or familiarity...this floating from one day to another, just passively receiving information and stimuli.

I would have continued my state of float if I hadn't read this:

“People with interesting lives have no vanity. They swap cities. Invest in projects with no guarantees. Are interested in people who are their polar opposites. Resign without having another job in sight. Accept invitations to do things they have never done before. Are prepared to change their favorite color, their favorite dish. They start from zero countless times. They are not frightened about growing old. They climb on stage, shear their hair, do crazy things for love, and buy one way tickets.” – Gio Sguario (Translated from Portuguese)”

In the moment of reading that quote it hit me. The fact that it's not my possessions or what I do that defines me for myself. It's the reason I acquire those possessions or do those things. It's who I am deep inside, it's what makes me put myself in a situation like that in the first place. It's what gives me this optimism and faith to travel halfway across the world and begin building a new life, in partnership this time. It's what allows me to surrender a life and identity I built over 7 years and yet know that I can build it all over again. It's what helps me embrace this daily adventure of marriage and being in a new country without losing my wits. It's the realization that this is what I have always wished for and it has now been granted to me!! I may not be one of the people who would fit the description in that quote but I'd love to try and get there and that's what matters.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

I love that poem by Kipling, If. I now have the opportunity to live a part of it. I realize many would give a lot to be in my place right now. And if I didn't just say thank you and move on, it would be injustice to a lot if people's dreams, mine included.

So yes, I started out crusty and crumbly when I got here...like old unused paint tubes squeezed for the first time. But the paint tubes, pages and pens have been reclaimed and they will keep the fabric of life colourful and interesting for some time to come. Meanwhile,

I think I'll start a new life,

I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name.

Boston by Augustana on Grooveshark

Seven Years In Bangalore

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Sun, 30 Jun 2013 18:34:00 +0000

There is no Brad Pitt in this story and there is no Dalai Lama and this not as dramatic as an Austrian climber trying to take on Nanga Parbat. But it’s been very interesting to me personally…my seven years in Bangalore.

Yes, it’s been seven years since that first day of July in 2006 when I landed in this city called Bangalore. It was not my first time; it was the second and more lasting, thanks to that first 4-day visit back in 2003.

We were on an IEEE educational tour from college, back in 2003. I set foot in this city post a 30-hour train journey and loved it instantly. I don’t know what about it attracted me so much particularly back then. Today I know that it must have been the combination of all that defines this city. We visited institutions like IISc, CPRI, ISRO, Talisma by day and explored the city as evening fell. Many firsts marked that trip too…the first time I went bowling, the first time I went go-karting, my first visit to a discotheque. It was a great time, and it showed me the possibilities that life in the city held; I am sure the zeal of youth would had its own role to play in that fascination. But all in all, I decided then that this was the city that I wanted to work in and live in.

And it was granted (another one of those dreams that came true!). I was one of the only 6 people in our batch of recruitment to get placed in Bangalore. And so began what has been a period of constant discovery, exploration, growth and learning.

I have come to know Bangalore as a city that fosters experimentation, given the myriad things people do here in terms of their lifestyles as well as the institutions they build. And so I experimented too…with travel, writing, dancing, copywriting, theatre. And I have come to understand myself better, thanks to this experimentation. I am thankful to the city for these opportunities.

Of course the opportunities really come from the people of this place who run phenomenal institutions like Get Off Ur Ass, LRDA, iReboot, Evam (well technically Evam is Chennai but I discovered them in Bangalore), Rangashankara, BRTFF. For me, the best way to describe Bangalore and its people is

Open Minds, Open Hearts, Open Arms

I have met some of the most wonderful people in this city, including my husband, and have some very fond memories of them all. They are what makes this place so great and I am glad to have moved here and met them all. It is downright inspirational, the things that some of them do.

If I have taken to travelling, to photography, to writing freelance, to oratory, to theatre, to cycling…it has all been encouraged and inspired by some well-meaning people in a city that is easily the cycling capital, Toastmasters capital (80 clubs), eco-living capital and what not of India. This city makes you grow. It couples possibility and pace in such a beautiful manner. It is a city of communities that foster…everything. Barcamps for startups, running communities, cycling communities, travel communities, riding communities, book clubs, theatre groups, film societies, music groups and live bands…you name it and you can find a community. Groups like Second To None can thrive only in Bangalore. There is a sense of togetherness that leaves no space for snobbery. Unlike societies that revel in exclusivity, I think Bangalore and its people revel in a shared connection.

Which brings me to the mind blowing shared network that Bangalore is. Of course this sense and realization has been heightened after joining Facebook but even earlier, I always found it exciting how every new person I met was somehow connected to other people I had met in the city. This city is like a village where most people know most people. I love that!

Strangely, in a city that is called the IT hub of India and is recognized even in the West for that USP, I find the people connection to be stronger. This is a city that loves having tweet-ups and zomathons…people who interact online for a while feel the need to congregate in person for no good reason… that’s how they become friends and form bonds that last. And that’s why this city is perfect for me…it brings balance to this Libran’s life… between the virtual and the real, between work and play, between dreams and opportunities.

Like I said, not much of a story here…small-town girl visits Bangalore and gets smitten, moves to Bangalore with big-city dreams, meets wonderful people, hears unforgettable stories, visits more places in seven years than in all the 21 years before that, discovers what’s without and discovers what’s within, experiences fun-failing-frustration but becomes the best version of herself that she could be, meets the love of her life, gets married and begins the journey to happily-ever-after.

It sounds pretty everyday when stated like that but only I know how much this city has meant to me every single day and every passing year. I am leaving in 5 month’s time and it is breaking my heart. I can’t imagine it, not being here, in this lovely city. But maybe going away will make us love it even more. And the consolation is that this is where we will return when we do.

But no matter where I am in the world, I will remain a Bangalorean. This is the city I connect to. I grew up physically elsewhere but this is where I grew up in many other respects. This is where I lived, loved and laughed for seven years. This is the city of my heart…it always has been. And for that reason, I will always love it.

Dreams Come True...Yet Again!

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 28 Jun 2013 19:00:00 +0000

It’s been a month and it still feels like a dream…being married. A dream nurtured all these years, guarded against the voices of those who said it would never come true. It was a dream held close and it has finally come true. It wasn’t easy waiting for this one but I am glad I waited. One sees the pieces fit only in retrospect.

I had always wanted to find my own person, ever since I started thinking about marriage. Someone who would be right for me. Someone I would be right for. Two people who wanted to be together willingly. People called it a pipe dream, too idealistic. They said I was losing time and it was too late to find that person. I will not deny that at some point I started believing them. It was stupid. Knowing how dreams always come true, I should have known better. I should have known that at the right time, that person would walk in to my life the pieces would fit like the jigsaw. No effort, no force, no friction. But I did get scared about chasing an impossible dream. The alternatives scared me too. And so I just waited around for a miracle. A long painful wait.

I had heard friends tell me that when the time is right, it moves so fast it makes your head spin. And that’s exactly what happened. It took one question to set things rolling and start the roller-coaster ride. The last few months have been some of the most exciting in my life, the run up to a traditional Iyengar wedding. And they seem like they went by in a breeze. The initial hesitation around the new family. Getting to know people and making them my own. All the shopping and the time spent over the details. All the discussions, the planning. The fun and the tension. The laughter. It is still ringing in my ears.

The wedding itself seems like a beautiful dream. Meeting my groom after months of virtual presence. The last few days, the anticipation. The house filling up with people and their love. The joy, the happy tears. The small and big rituals, the effort to make it all special for me. It was all over before I had absorbed it enough I think. And I had become a Mrs. already!

It’s been great being married so far. There are a million things about it that are beautiful. Becoming the keeper of a family’s prosperity, the Lakshmi of the house. Learning the layout of a new home, a new kitchen, trying to remember where the sugar and salt are, learning a new way of doing things, new recipes to cook, discovering more about your better half through all the stories told over dinner. It’s also heartwarming to see how the new family adjusts too…the extra chair at the dining table, the cosy squeeze in the car to seat a new family of five, the space created in the wardrobe. It is not easy but it’s beautiful, this process. And you know you are doing ok when you actually feel bad to see your parents-in-law leave back for home while you stay back in Bangalore to continue college…when you start missing them a little bit.

And that’s how yet another beloved dream has come true in my life, leading me to the start of a new dream called ‘The rest of my life’. I already know there will be ups and downs, good days and bad, easy days and tough but I also know that it is going to turn out beautiful when I look back on it many years hence.

Over the years, my pot of gratitude has filled and overflown for the way life has turned out. Sure there were the troughs but they were meant to teach me something, the foremost of which was to believe in my dreams and wait for them to come true. I have been more thankful by the day in the last few months, so much that tears well up in my eyes sometimes just thinking about how perfectly everything has come into place. It’s the start of a lifelong adventure with the culmination of this dream and I am looking forward to every minute of it!

Friday Fiction: The Redemption Of Ahalya

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 14:52:00 +0000

He walked the dark, smelly lane leading to the rundown building in a manner that more than gave away his familiarity with it. He did this every week. But where it should have become habit and taken a place below the stream of conscious thought, he had been thinking about it more and not less. Where it should have become part of routine, it was beginning to stand out in stark contrast to it. Sometimes it was the only reason he lived through the week at all. To walk this walk to the rundown building No. 53 on Bhikaji Cama lane.

He entered the small landing on the ground floor and started climbing to the fourth floor. A few men sat on the steps outside doing nothing in particular but no one asked him any questions. They knew he would go to room No. 8, just like every week, come out at the end of two hours and walk out just as habitually as he had walked in, into the darkness that swallowed almost all those who visited No. 53 every day. No one dared to stay till dawn.

Today he didn’t enter room No. 8 without first waiting outside a few seconds, almost hesitant. He looked around and saw some women standing at the doors of their rooms in the dingy corridor. They stared at him nonchalantly. He felt uncomfortable. He had never seen their faces before. Never known their names. Was he even supposed to? Was anyone really? Did it even matter that they had names? Or what those names meant? Who gave them these names? He himself had started by only asking for the room number. And soon they had even stopped asking. He wiped the back of his neck once though he wasn’t sweating, something he unconsciously did when he was nervous. And then he stared inside room No. 8 for a second before stepping in.

“You’ve sprayed perfume today.” She stated more than asked.
“Well, I…I just felt like it. Do you like it?” He shifted his weight from the left leg to the right.
“That’s nice…you felt like it. It’s just that you’ve never sprayed perfume before. Why you would need to while coming here anyway?” She almost shrugged her shoulders.

Before he could say anything to make her feel nice she had reached the cot and sat down like she did every time, waiting for him to come over. It was hard to tell what she was feeling, if she was feeling anything at all. What did she feel, staying in this place day in and day out and just watching one man being replaced by another, one after the other inside room No. 8? The hangings on the wall never changed. The cot remained the same. Did the sheets change even? He had never bothered noticing the sheets before today, not even the first time. He had been too nervous. Not nervous like today though.

And she remained the same. Dispassionate, distant. Available but unreachable. She hardly ever said anything but she always listened. He didn’t remember when he had started talking to her though. Maybe one of those bad days at work. Who else could he have talked to, the lonely existence that he led? And then it had become a regular feature of his visits. In fact, sometimes he just talked and did nothing else.

She didn’t seem to mind. The rates didn’t change anyway. Sometimes she asked questions about what he was saying, as if she were genuinely interested in knowing what lives people outside building No. 53 led. But there was never a hint of longing to go out and experience those lives. Her acceptance seemed complete. Even of things he said. She never seemed to doubt the truth in them. But every time he had tried to ask her any questions about her life, she would only say one thing, “You should drink some water, you have been talking for too long.” And then she would get up and fetch a glass of water, breaking his stream of thought, their stream of one-way conversation, that connection. And then they would go back into bed or he would go back to his house.

Today he remained standing even as she sat on the cot; he stared at her intently. He looked at her face as she looked out the window, and he saw how her jaw line somehow seemed hardened on purpose. As if she were preparing to detach herself from what was to happen next. Shouldn’t it be easy now, for that detachment to come? After so many…but he didn’t know how many…years? Months? He hadn’t been able to find out in the last seven months. Suddenly she looked at him and broke his stream of thought, again, “So are we going to talk today?”

“What do you mean ‘we’ are going to talk? It’s only I who talk, you never do.” He was surprised at his own ability to say something like that but almost relieved at this turn of events. Her excuse for fetching water wouldn’t work now. He had only just arrived.
“It’s best we keep it that way.” She stated calmly and looked at the window again.
“Best for what? Best for whom?”
“For both of us.”
“But I’d like to know you.” He almost implored.
“You do know that people don’t come here to get to know each other.”She didn’t even look at him this time.
“Be that as it may, is it wrong if someone wants to know you?”
“What do you think?” She passed the ball right back.
“If you are going to stay here forever then maybe yes.”
“I do not see a reason why I wouldn’t.”
Whether it was the stream of conversation or a sudden newfound courage, he was only glad for that moment when he said, “You won’t because I’d like to marry you.”

Even before she could react he felt his legs go weak himself and sat down on the floor right where he was standing. He was staring at the ground like he had done something wrong. Even if he had found the courage to say what he had come to say, he did not have the courage to see what effect it had had on her. She would very likely be enraged at this outrageous idea. Did he even know what he was talking about? He did and he wanted her to somehow know that. But the words escaped him. He wanted to say so much to her but where could he begin? In the last seven months, she had come to mean so much to him. She was the only woman he had been with in all this time, ever in fact, and to him it didn’t matter that she had been with other men. He had come to love her in a way he couldn’t even begin to explain. He wanted to give her quiet dignity its rightful place in the world. He didn’t know her story and how she had managed to stay sane after so many…but how many…years? Months? But he wanted to give her a home beyond No. 53 and he wanted to have a home himself. A place where he could come home to her and have the same conversation they had every week but without having to leave at the end of two hours. Yes it did sound a little outrageous, come to think of it. And now that he had used up all his courage to utter the one thing he wanted to, he didn’t have the courage to see rage in those eyes that had never betrayed any emotion all these days. He didn’t want it to be his last memory of them.

But then he heard her sob and looked up at the cot. He couldn’t see her face; she had buried it in her hands but she was sobbing violently, her body shaking now. It was still impossible to tell what she was feeling, even if her cold exterior had broken down. And he continued sitting there and looking at her, too weak with the anticipation of what was to come to be able to get up and comfort her. After what seemed like forever, he managed to stand up and she looked at him. Her eyes still seemed blank and so did his, maybe the confusion had wiped away any traces of what they really felt about it all. It was a good blank slate to start a new beginning with.

He walked up to her and helped her stand up, clumsily wiping her face. She then bent down to touch his feet, no more a commodity but a woman who was loved by a man. For all those years…but how many…she had forgotten…of burying the part of her that was human and being treated like an object that belonged in someone’s fantasy, one sentence had changed her life and brought meaning to all that transpired in the last seven months between her and him. It was like waking from deep slumber, a bad dream, and remembering what it felt like to really feel an emotion, one that washed one’s existence pure of everything else that had ever happened…love. It would be a difficult journey to begin but that one sentence was enough to help her fight on.

He did not know what would happen next and how she could even be released from No. 53. There were many questions hanging in the air and he didn’t know where to begin but he thought a good place to start would be by embracing her – his love, his life – and asking the first: “What is your name?”

The Transition

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 18:58:00 +0000

The promise

Of a new direction,
New conversations,
New dreams,
A new life,
New hope,
Newfound happiness,
New experiences,
New memories.

The promise
Of a new chapter
And
A transition.
That’s what the Sun brings today.

Friday Fiction: The Late Hour At The Bus Stop

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 19:01:00 +0000

She was late and it was a dark night. She half-jogged out of the office towards the nearest bus stop, hoping to catch a bus without waiting for too long. 9 pm wouldn't be considered late technically; it was just that she hadn't stayed back so late in a long time. She tried to calm herself down with the thought that she had done this before.

The road seemed unusually quiet that night. Maybe she was imagining it. The bus stop was in sight and it was in some sense a relief that no one was on the road; she wouldn't have to watch for any stalkers following her. She reached the bus stop and was surprised to find a middle-aged man standing at the other end. He looked at her for a fleeting second before looking away and staring at nothing in particular. She stopped in her tracks and stayed at her end of the bus stop, simultaneously sizing the man up. He looked like a regular beat-up guy, probably middle-class, with his untucked half-sleeved shirt and loose trousers that looked rather old. Was it a white shirt or pale blue? She couldn't tell in the sodium vapour lamp’s all pervading orange hue. He looked a little tired from the face. His chappals looked worn out too and he had a slight paunch. She figured he wouldn't be able to run too fast, even if he decided to do something. She was anxious, she realized. She just hope the bus would come by soon.

The minutes seemed long and she was tapping her foot impatiently before she noticed how much noise it was making in the quiet. So she stopped. She just kept looking in all directions, checking on the bus now and on the man in between. He hadn't moved and he didn't seem to care she was there. She felt herself relaxing, but only very little.

Just then, as she looked out to see if the bus was turning the corner, she noticed a bike come onto the road slowly. It was one of those RX100s; its peculiar sound even more prominent in the quiet. As the bike neared she saw two lanky young men on it. They seemed to be whiling away time, the pace at which they were riding. And then they saw her. And they saw her seeing them. She looked away instantly, filled with even more anxiety than before. And she suddenly noticed that the man had started moving towards her slowly. She began to panic. Could they all be in this together? Should she scream? Who would hear her? Who would help if they were all together? Should she ask him to stop? What use would that be? Should she feign ignorance? What was her back up plan? They had a bike and would surely chase her even if this man couldn't run fast enough. She blanked out in panic and just froze on the spot waiting for her fate.

The man was now almost standing next to her and she stood there stiff with fear, waiting for him to do something. The men on the bike were almost near the bus stop; she stared right ahead so that she could see both the men and this man from the corners of her eyes. As the young men came right in front of her, she saw this man give them a nasty stare all the way until they had crossed the bus stop. They had stopped looking at her, she noticed on looking at them for their reaction, and were giving the man a slightly defiant stare back. But they reached the end of the road and turned to the right to disappear. The man immediately started moving back to his earlier place and she noticed the very obvious relief in his body language. She had loosened up herself by now and was breathing again. She looked at the man but he wasn't looking at her; he was staring at the ground as if nothing had happened in the last few minutes. She wanted to say thank you but how would she start. So she kept looking in his direction, hoping he would look back. But he didn't.

The bus came a few minutes later and she climbed it, hoping he would take it too and she would be able to say thank you then. But he didn't board the bus. She took a window seat on the side facing the bus stop. She kept looking at him even as the bus started moving. And then he looked up at her. She smiled a smile of gratitude and nodded her head ever so slightly. He smiled back hesitantly and was out of sight in a few seconds as the bus rolled on.

Friday Fiction: The Missing Ingredient

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 12:00:00 +0000

You're always in control of fiction...or are you?

He slowly rose from the sofa and put the folded newspaper on the centre table. The wife had announced that lunch would be served. For 5 years now he had been enjoying lunch fresh off the fire instead of from a steel box, where it used to lay packed for 4 hours before being consumed. He walked by the dining table in the kitchen to wash his hands and took in the smell of the curry that would accompany the hot phulkas the wife would start making as soon as he sat at the table. He was already smiling with satisfaction at the thought of the meal that awaited him. He wiped his hands and proceeded to settle at the table at his usual place. The plate had already been placed there and the glass already had water in it. As soon as he sat down, the wife gave him a knowing smile and started rolling the first phulka on the board. In a few seconds she placed it on the heated iron pan and came by to serve him the curry and some pickle. In her habitual way she also served her preemptive comment – I don’t know how the curry has come out today. And then she returned to rolling phulkas.

As the first hot phulka came off the pan and straight into his plate, he tore the first piece and put it in his mouth along with some curry as the wife rolled a phulka and another phulka got heated on the pan. The curry was delicious but something seemed amiss. The salt was perfect and so were the spices. He tried eating the next piece with the pickle; it was a taste he was familiar with since many years. But it wasn't the same either. He felt unsettled. He tried to convince himself that the food was perfectly good but chewing on the next morsel the feeling worsened. He wondered if he had acidity. He didn't feel any less healthy than the previous day though. He chewed on half-heartedly, forgetting to tell the wife how the curry had come out, like he usually did. His thoughts were interrupted by her question – how is the curry, you didn't say anything? He mumbled something about it being good; he couldn't put a finger on what was wrong with the curry, or even the same pickle that he had eaten the previous day with a phulka and had seemed perfect. He finished the second phulka and told the wife he was full already. He couldn't carry on eating like this. She walked up to him, concerned. She asked if he was feeling ok and why he wasn't eating the usual 3 phulkas that day. He lied and said he had acidity and didn't feel like eating. She bade him to relax on the divan, stopped making phulkas halfway and made him some sweet buttermilk. He sipped on the buttermilk and contemplated on what exactly was missing in the meal. Meanwhile she made herself some phulkas and sat down to eat. He finished the buttermilk and went to the kitchen to keep it in the sink, taking the newspaper with him. He absent-mindedly sat at the table next to the wife as she ate lunch. And then he saw her hands and arms.

Her gold bangles and gold wedding ring were missing. He panicked. He held her hand midway to her mouth and asked her where the bangles and ring had gone. She gave him a perplexed smile and asked him not to worry; she had put them in hot water in a bowl to clean them and they were next to the gas stove. He asked her to put them on immediately as her hands looked strangely empty without those. She finished her third phulka, put away her plate and put the jewellery on after washing her hands. She then asked him if he felt better and would eat another phulka. He was a tad hungry so he said yes.

So she started to roll the phulka for him and that’s when it hit him; it was the sound of the bangles occasionally clinking, of the ring constantly moving against the rolling pin as she rolled phulkas, that had been missing in the meal. The sound that had become an integral part of every meal at home as she rolled out phulkas for the family for 40 years. The constant rat-tat-rat-tat of ring as her hands deftly rolled out phulkas. He smiled a satisfied smile at the discovery and waited for her to get his plate. He took in the first morsel with much anticipation and this time, the meal was complete.

Resetting Meters

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 18:56:00 +0000

It’s exactly a month since I aggravated a muscle injury in my leg by cycling with a strained muscle. And it’s been a month of mostly hobbling around with crepe bandages around my knee, applying ice packs and Diclofenac to the injury, restricted movements and missing cycling. Some days, even 3 weeks later, my knee hurt so much that I wondered if something wasn’t horribly wrong and if I’d cycle again.

But it did heal. And I did cycle again. For half an hour today, after a month.

So I reset the cyclometer on my cycle today. I am starting afresh. A month’s break from cycling basically brought me to where I was before I started cycling, as regards my stamina and body condition. This is essentially starting from scratch except I already know I love cycling. It’s going to involve building on stamina again, a kilometer at a time and getting back to where I was a month ago, more carefully. So I reset the cyclometer.

And today while cycling I realized that I can reset the meter and go back to square one at any point in time if I so wish. I can start from scratch whenever I want. I can build from the ground up as and when required. Whether it’s cycling or life.

The last few months, actually this year from the word Go, have been tough. I didn't lose anyone close to me or run out of money or have a food shortage or get struck by a fatal disease or anything. So yes, it could have been much worse and, truly speaking, life’s very good if I take a bird’s eye view right now. Nonetheless, it has been a tough year. And yet, the one thing that is right with life right now is that I’m alive.

And because I am alive, I can start again. I can reset the meter. I can take another chance at life. I can renew hope’s lease. And that’s the good thing about being alive. You can choose to start anew. You can embark on a quest any day you wake up and feel like it.

I wonder if it is Sisyphean, this having to go back to the start and try again. To live, to learn. I wonder if it is the curse of living. Or is it endless opportunity. But whichever way I look at it, starting again seems to be the only feasible thing to do, even if it is to retun. We are not aware of our curses and ignorance is bliss.

So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Start again. Cycle again. Hope again.

Until I'm alive. And because I’m alive.

Chains That Bind

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 08:39:00 +0000

We walk together,
Inseparable by design.
Left with no choice,
To our fate we resign.

And yet there is my ego;
I have an identity,
While the one chained to my side
Is nothing without me.

I have a name.
To go with it, a face.
I have ancestors,
Who came from a certain place.

I have this lineage
And a handed religion and caste.
The one chained to me
Has no sense of its past.

I have hopes and dreams,
Things to look forward to.
It has no future to worry about;
No aspirations, nothing to do.

Even when I am gone,
I will be a memory.
But this chained companion of mine
Will have no such luxury.

I am defined,
It is just an outline.
I am continuous,
My shadow exists only at a point in time.

With no identity to uphold,
No tags of religion and caste to bind,
No past to define it,
Nothing in the future to find,

My shadow lives only in the present,
Free from all that defines me.
It is then that I realize -
I am the one who is chained, she is the one who is free.

Pocket Change

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 11:10:00 +0000

I emptied it on the table
Pocket Change.
It clinked as it fell
And then settled
Into a silence.
An assortment of coins
That adds up to a lot
But looks worthless
One piece at a time.
In the age of plastic money
It is unnecessary
Weight in your wallet.
Bulky
Awkward
Belonging best in beggar’s hands.

Feelings
Are like that too.

Summer Afternoons & Seaside Towns

noreply@blogger.com (Anupama) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 19:51:00 +0000

Their food-smeared fingers kept drying in the mild afternoon heat, in the draught from the ceiling and table fans. The half-turned banana leaf, held down by a steel glass, fluttered but did not particularly distract them from the conversation. Beyond the realm where a common language facilitates an exchange, it was one that was driven purely by will and a willingness to share and understand. Words and phrases tumbled out haltingly, sentences were a luxury. But they talked, at leisure and length.

Of families. Some large and some small. Of family members. Most here and some gone. And then a story was told, of influence and ideologies. And of a fight against it all.

Of first borns. The first few years. Fond thoughts. Food habits. Facts and feelings. And of home life. An exploration of common ground and uncharted territories. An attempt to inform, to infer.

And their fingers still kept drying in the mild afternoon heat of a seaside town. But it didn’t matter. Between broken words and silences, they talked of each other’s lives and of an object of affection conspicuous by absence, an invisible thread tying the phrases and silences together to make sense. In its need to understand and be understood without the crutches of language, it was a conversation as complete as any other. And that’s what mattered on that summer afternoon in that seaside town.