Mr Facemaker

I have a substitute cook these days. This man has a specialty of pulling the best faces you'd ever want to see in a man. 'Bharat,' I'd say-' why is there so much salt in this bhindi?' and he'd place his lips in a straight line- furrow his brows and slump his shoulders. Or, 'Bharat, why have you cooked a pressure cooker full of daal for just two people?' and he'd glare at me with raccoon like eyes, throw down the striped kitchen cloth and stomp off to the living room. Or even, 'Bharat, why are all these bottles lying face down, without their caps in the sink?', and his face would go into contortion overdrive.
True, he's just a substitute for my old and trusted cook, but so what- that doesn't give him the freedom to go around acting like one of Enid Blyton's characters! Sometimes, I'm tempted to tell him that his face may just freeze in the same grimace- if the wind blows in his direction!
The best face, however, was when he was leaving to go to his one room shack at night, and he reconfirmed 'have to make baigan in the morning for lunch, right?' and I asked him why asking right now- will you dream up the recipe at night and he smiled his crooked, paan stained teeth, looking more like an imp than a cook- maybe the greatest joke he had encountered in his life!!

Songstress

There's a tiny sparrow's nest just outside the kitchen window. This little nimble footed creature mostly hops to and fro through the metal wire grill, stopping for a few seconds to chirpity- chirp- chirp- chirp her way through. She's a lady cause only the lady-bird would do so much hopping, chirping and yet have enough stamina and energy to supervise her nest.
Sometimes her chirping is an incessant one, like she's urging the father to get some food- other times it's a soft almost melodious trill as she hops about her household work.
I imagine her nest (it's high up against the rafters so can't see it)- a warm comfy place built of straw and bits of dried leaves and twigs- holding a couple of hungry twittering mouths.
Once, early morning, as I was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, I heard the continuous twitter, much like a drone- and craned my neck outside the window to check what was happening. Wonder of wonders! The little Mrs Sparrow held a massive twig in her mouth- obviously too big for her to hold alone and frantically calling for help. I looked this way and that- thinking if I could just help her this once. But Mr Sparrow and I were too late as the twig fell down three floors below. I noticed the little birds. Though they seemed to stop chattering for a minute- just a minute, the next they were just the same- with Mrs Sparrow probably rebuking the father on why he'd left the birdlings alone at home for so long.
Life hands us lots of opportunities and chances. If one goes, we needn't be disappointed. There is always something better planned for us. God-the great mother hen of all of us, watches over us and ensures we always get better twigs. 
Always.

Winter oh Winter mornings!

Though I'm a self confessed fan of the great Indian summer, staying in Mumbai for the past eight years has brought back a sense of nostalgia I didn't think my weary bones had called for-
The slight tingle of the nascent Indian winter, characterised by that oh-so-welcome distinct crispness in the air!
Back home in Lucknow, known for it's exemplary winter days, the slight nip in the air- that feeling of distant Diwali around the corner- the air full of unlit firecrackers, the imaginary rustle of tearing off the labels from those string bombs, the smell of gunpowder permeating your fingers and making you dizzy with delight!
Of course, it's not as pronounced in Mumbai, will never be. Diwali isn't the biggest festival here- it's more of an occasion to burst 'em crackers to see which one makes the loudest noise.
But now, what I wouldn't give just to feel the starting of winter in the air!