Dinner Blues

'Its been ages since we went here', I say to him, as we walk out of the movie theater. The place in question is a small, slightly seedy looking joint that we used to frequent 'once upon a time'. Deciding to risk our palates, that have been spoiled rotten by 'credit-card meals' at fancy joints, we step onto the cobbled pathway that leads us into the garden restaurant.

This was the place that we inevitably landed up at, every Saturday and Sunday night when we were at the University, fleeing from the standard 'mess' food. Then, it seemed gourmet fare to us, as we dug into the Manchurian, the oily Schezwan rice and noodles and the deep, deep fried spring rolls with gusto. The entire gang would land up, talking nineteen to the dozen, pulling each others' legs, gossiping about inconsequential things late into the night. Then, the familiar war over the bill, the division of money between the vegetarians and the non-vegetarians, the hunting up of exact change and the five rupee tip, (thought to be extravagant by many). Now, years later, here we were again, albeit just the two of us.

'Was it always so dirty and dingy?', I wonder out aloud, trying to save myself from the horde of mosquitoes that has descended on us. The chairs look dirty, the tablecloth is an unwashed relic from some God-forsaken age and the waiters are just like the tablecloths !! The food, when it finally arrives is just the same as it always was. Oily, starchy and now, unappetizing. After a couple of bites, I give up. He does the same, with a wry smile. As we pay the bill (which is far higher than either of us remember), we decide we're not stepping into this place ever again!!!

After a late night cup of coffee and a few sips of wine (to negate the ill effects of the meal), I get into bed hoping that my stomach is still as 'cast-iron' as it used to be. Luckily, the meal has no lasting effects !!!

Which brings me to the question, when did I turn into a snob? Or is it just age that has caught up with me? I remember the derision with which we once looked at the folks who thought 'our' food joint was cheap and unhygienic. How we laughed at those who turned up their noses at us and how comfortable we were in our skins. Where have those days gone? Have we really changed so much?

These questions have no answers. The meal ,maybe, is symbolic for all that has changed over the last decade. Now, the clothes are more upmarket, the two wheeler has been replaced by a car, the hangouts are expensive and the 'small joys' are not so small anymore. We have become status-conscious and 'discerning' in our tastes.

But I wonder, are we really in a better place than we used to be or are the good old days firmly behind us now?

Dhobi ghat

Washing clothes has always been a passion. The warm soapy suds, the swish of clothes as they sink into the embrace of bubbles, the way they emerge- clean and fresh, is a like a rejuvenating experience. Waxing eloquent about this mundane task may seem unpoetical, but it is an inherited genetic trait.

My earliest happy memories have been of lazy Sundays when I woke up to the sound of clothes being washed. (On other days, school took away that pleasure) The rows of clothes hung out to dry on the terrace and their sun-dried warmth cannot compare to the 'dryered' clothes of today. Sunday was also the day when the bedsheets were changed. So going to bed was a pleasure, lying on clean, sweet-smelling sheets.

My mum was of the opinion that washing one's own clothes was good for the character. So, once I crossed into teenage, washing clothes became a compulsion. It was an amazing cathartic ritual. All the frustrations and angst of the difficult age found a release in the pulverization of denim.

When I moved into my own place, one of the first things that I did was erect a clothes-line. Nothing said 'home' better than wet clean clothes hanging at the window sill. As I hung out my first lot of clothes, I could remember my mother doing the same thing every time we moved to new cities. I used to find it amusing then and slightly foolish. But now, the familiarity and comfort of the 'dhobi ghat', I can understand.

The entire exercise is one that I still follow. Not for me, the washing machine or the 'bai'. I do it the old fashioned way, with the warm soapy suds for company.

Indian Summer

Parched land
thirsting for rain.
Dry, dusty landscapes,
wan, brown trees.
Dried up lakes
River skeletons with the stones showing..
Clear blue skies
with nary a dark cloud..
And in the midst of this all
A solitary cuckoo,
Invoking the Rain-God,
with piteous hoarse cries..
An Indian Summer...

A Story.

The whole village came to see him. The child who had arrived feet-first into the world. In the small town of Kundapore, the birth was nothing short of a miracle.
The mother, proud but exhausted after the difficult breech-birth, smiled wanly at the visitors, as they flocked outside the birthing room, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the baby.
Slowly, the word spread. To arrive feet-first in a world, accustomed to seeing the bawling red faces of babies popping out first, was a sure-shot way to fame.
The child was hailed as divine and taken all over the town to be shown off. His baby feet were touched with reverence and the old and ailing all gathered round to seek his blessings. Hs touch was supposed to cure all sickness, impart luck and avert the evil eye.
Growing up, we never knew the story. All we knew was that we had a great-uncle, who had weak legs and limped around the house in great pain. We had never seen him walk normally, without wincing at each step.
Perhaps, all the luck he brought into the world had rubbed off, right off him. The lucky child, could not bring himself any good fortune.

A 'Tooth' Story.

The die has been cast. I meet him tomorrow, in the morning at 9.30. I have avoided him for longer than I should have and things have come to a head. So now, the confrontation is inevitable. I can almost see the familiar forehead wrinkled into a frown as he peers deep into my...... mouth. Well, its my dentist and the fear is very real.

For as long as I can remember, visits to the dentist were things to be dreaded. The chair, with all the gizmos attached, the whining drill that spoke of pain, the little plastic cups of water to rinse blood and debris out, the bright 'in your face' light, the masked man... Its like a horror movie brought to life.

This time round, its a chipped tooth. The traitor merrily decided to give way in the middle of a wonderful lunch with friends, much to my astonishment. All the daily flossing and brushing (twice, daily!!!) was apparently not enough. Shock, dismay, rage... I went through all the usual emotions and then picked up the phone to make the dreaded call... And the rest, as they say, is History.

So now as I bravely venture forth, into the land of broken teeth and throbbing pain I ask for love and endurance from my loved ones.. Wish me luck..

Untitled

I dream about
Rain-water, puddles and red gum-boots
Wet hair, cold feet,
a grandmother's warm hug.
Relics of a childhood long gone.

I wake up
to reality and long for
sleep.

Metamorphosis

I watch from the sidelines, as the three most important people in my life combine forces to create a miracle. The subject is a living room, cluttered beyond description, wallowing under lacy drapings, overcrowded side-boards and an unhealthy overdose of furniture. The aim, to create an 'ambiance'. To find a method in the madness.

Soon, my life gets taken over by wall decorations, upholstery, artificial flowers, lamp-shades and even carpentry. All three are possessed by the ghost of 'interior decoration'. I am dragged to parts of the city I didn't even know existed, to buy sheets of plywood and other odds and ends beyond description. All three bear frazzled looks and at times, I seem to be the only one inhabiting Planet Earth.

Five days later, everything is in place. The room is re-organized, the clutter sorted out, the lace almost done away with and the furniture regrouped. Newly framed family photos adorn the walls, a bar has been installed, bowls of potpourri set out.... Miracles are possible.

I look on with amazement at the closeness they now share. A simple project has transformed more than just a living room. I see them around my home, joking, talking, just as usual. But the smiles are a little warmer, the feelings a little stronger, and I feel the ghost of the 'interior' smiling down on us.

Rain..

Shimmering crystal drops encrust my window-pane. Tiny droplets run rivulets down the misty glass. My heart gladdens... The rains are finally here.

Rains have always held a special place in my memories. The earliest associations are of a new school year opening with raincoats, umbrellas and the unwilling squish-squish of gumboots, as I was sent off to school. Other memories are of rain pitter-pattering on the tin roof of the school dormitory at night, the sight of wind-swept roads littered with leaves, the smell of satiated earth, the sickly-sweet odour of rot in the woods surrounding the school, hot chai, served as a special treat (in a school that believed in the virtues of Milk!).. the list is endless.

Rains in college were magical. They heralded the beginning of fun times. Time spent at the college canteen, attending Philosophy lectures, bunking English, ignoring Psychology and escaping from History (the subject and the Lecturer, both). Long drives through the rains, getting drenched with nary a care. Rains were a time for romance. For stolen glances, covert looks, worrying about make-up getting washed away. For holding hands, sharing cups of steaming coffee, the works.

Now, times have changed. The rain arrives and all that I can think of are mud-covered streets, wet clothes that refuse to dry, the leaky ceiling near the bathroom door and the horde of insects that routinely invade my home. Mundane.. Very..

But,
There are times, like today when I get up to the sound of the rain, look out of my window and see my entire world transformed into Fairyland. Fresh green assaults the eye. The air is redolent with the smells of the Monsoon, and suddenly, I am transported back in time, where the rains did not have cares attached.

There is a lesson to be learnt in all this, I feel. At times, we get so caught up in the web of everyday life that we cannot appreciate the magic that is all around us. Maybe the rains have just cleared the dust off my rose-tinted glasses... and made me realize how special each day can be if only we let it..