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!

Roosting Home

The other day, when I was forced to abandon the sweet kachoris I was having in the warm fuzzy world of my dreams, for a visit to the cold practical bathroom, when the first fingers of dawn were yet to spread their silver light across the dark velvet sky, I heard the distant crowing of a rooster. Rooster? My still sleepy ears perked up. I hadn't heard the squeak of a mouse in recent time, forget a whole rooster!
Strangely, the sound of a rooster crowing always brings back fond childhood memories.
I remember Board exams and getting up early to memorise awful chemistry stuff- who cared what vulcanisation was anyway- and the sound of the rooster crowing somewhere in the distance signalled the beginning of a well deserved ten minute nap before rushing off to take a bath before my sister. Our backdoor neighbours, I assume, had quite a jungle living with them- parrots, rabbits, white lovebirds, a cat, a mangy dog (who wasn't mangy as we discovered later but bore the marks of a severe cat- dog fight and was now best friends with the same cat) and a tall and handsome rooster. The same rooster who was as much a part of my growing up as Bon Jovi and Tom Cruise.
However since I'd moved to the large and cold suburbian town of Mumbai after marriage, I longed to hear the same sounds which shaped my adolescent years. Sadly, there were none- for in this huge bustling crowded place, who had the time or place, to pet a rooster?
That's when it struck me. Sitting in the bathroom, with the gleaming marble floor reflecting my dishevelled state- I realized this was it. 
Mumbai was home now. And the rooster had followed me home.    

3:30 am

'Who do you write for', asked the wily sage, bent over a bible type of book, the incandescent lamp casting a glow around his flowing beard, his smooth white hair. 'What do you hope to gain from your writing and why do you write', he continued. I moved forward to answer him but no words came out of my mouth. I looked around at the fading tent, the dissolving ground and the rapidly disappearing form of the sage. Wait, I wanted to stop him but he soon faded to a mass of nothingness as a goat came and chomped up the few blades of grass left behind where his tent once stood, atop a snowy peak. When I looked down, I saw the soft snow had become weathered wooden boards beneath my feet and they were crumbling away and I was falling... falling through space, feeling a little like Alice down the hole, my hair flying around my face, the wind slapping me into wakefulness as I rubbed my eyes and looked at the time. 3:30am, the wall clock blinked radium green. 

'You have the power to move millions', he said, as I gazed respectfully into my master's eyes. 'Don't waste it', he said, as I sat at his feet, massaging them with rose oil. How do I do it, I thought, but before I could say anything, he got up and left me, staring through the bamboo blinds onto the grassiest patch I had ever seen. As I watched, the grass grew taller and bigger, even growing inside the thatched hut, soon it was everywhere and all around me. I started drowning in a sea of green and as that sinking feeling set in, I woke up with a start. Time on the bedside clock: 3:30 am.

'Be true to yourself and the words will flow. Don't try to be anyone else. The innocence of your words will dent a thousand hearts. The pictures you create will bleed long after you've finished. Get started now', said the gentle doctor, guiding the chalk over a dusty blackboard as the words formed and dissolved in front of my eyes. No time to waste, he said, as the benches and chairs started shaking. Soon the plaster started peeling off and bricks became dislodged, flying in all directions, while I looked around confusedly, for the doctor. He was lost already and as I dodged a heap of bricks, I suddenly turned right and woke up with a jerk of my neck. Time on the mobile screen: 3:30 am

The left of the right

I'm a right brained person. I have known it all along- where I excelled in creating poems out of words, my sister bested her own score in Super Mario each time she played. Each time I would take the joystick I'd make such a mess-because my hand-to-eye co ordination was pathetic. While I would struggle with the controls, my sister and mother would collapse in heaps of giggles. It was the same story with learning to drive. After days of unsuccessful attempts and sneering jibes and months of why-didn't-you-stop-at-the-placemarker-you-killed-the-pedestrian, I finally gave up. Who wants to drive anyways, I thought- what are drivers for- and i've been extremely lucky to have been blessed with a driver all my working life.
Another manifestation of my right brain-ness is my high school marksheet. Topping the school in English- to barely scraping past in Math. I hated Math and all it's branches- and secretly was pleased when they didn't lay too much emphasis on it for the MICA written exam. Analytical abilities are tops- cause I realised it's just interpretation of English- but pure Math? No way!
But as the years progressed and so did my station in life- I was faced with the daunting task of interpreting sales numbers on excel, having to head a small-ish empire. That's when I think, my un-used left brain decided to take over. 
Now I'm proud to say, that I have a balanced head on my shoulders!

The relativity of reality

(Inspired by a chance status update on FB)
Are people really as happy as they seem to be? With their trophy spouses, posing in front of exotic locations and delectable cuisines? 
Isn't there a real life somewhere- one, where the pains of everyday disappointment are not masked by fake smiles? One, where the place settings on the breakfast table isn't just-so-right with the orange juice and the fluffy omelettes? 
It is every person's wish to be successful and happy. Since we cannot be happy all the time we invent little manifestations of our has-been happiness- postcards, events, joyful words.
And when we start living the lie, we find it hard to accept reality.