A Cardboard Box With Your Name On It

Moving was never easy. Cities, affections or even bad jobs. So, when moving houses you assume that a new space and fancier flooring will be a breezy change. One that you will slip right into and one that will barely affect your daily life.

You underestimate the impact old walls and spaces can have on you. It's only when you stare at the darkened outlines where paintings, pictures and bookshelves were once hung do you realize- bits of you are made of concrete and iron and bits of houses are always made of blood and flesh.

There were stories your friends told you during sleep-overs. Whispered snippets of love, loss, too much giggling followed by furious hushing. There's a spot in the room where you'd always crane your head the minute you woke up- to avoid the light. The room fit to your curves, you to its.

You've walked around the terrace having late-night phone conversations while playing a game, of duck under the clothes line and come to the other side, without missing a word of what was being said. You've lived through seasons and declared that there was no chance rain fell anywhere else the way it did on your balcony. You've always sworn that the wooden floor would make deliberate loud sounds if you walked in with stilettos too late after a party. You'd learn to leave your shoes outside to minimize noise and parental wrath.
The road in front of your house curved slightly, your friends always waited for you there. Impatient because you'd promised them “two minutes”, almost fourteen ago.
Your brother and his friends, during a party, spray-painted the terrace wall with a song lyric. You let your house keep that tattoo. You were a cool parent like that.

You'd learnt to hole up in your room for days when you were upset or wanted to write. You also learnt to hide your expensive shampoo and body washes during the summer. You see, your brothers room was on the terrace and got hot water in the day. He'd want to use your bathroom and the nuances of “take a coin-sized helping of shampoo” were lost on him.
There was a rocking chair overlooking the street, where you'd stay curled up Sunday after Sunday. There were books you had to go through and that spot promised poor cell reception.

                                                   

You're packing up books and growing up years into boxes. They're proving to be too small and frankly not too sturdy. You find the other earring you lost years ago, curled up under your dresser. You leave it on the bare floor because some things work better when they're not a pair. There's a book you'd bought and promptly lost, you pack it into your bag.

Your friend who you've lost touch with, had one night long ago left you scribbled messages in a tiny, tiny scrawl on the upstairs wall. You'd furiously searched but never found those so you leave  a message of your own.

And it stands there against the sunlight- once your house, now a proud, paint-chipped cement anthology of stories and secrets.

It Rained & Only The Bravehearts Noticed

There were never any surprises in life. Except when the milk got over. Her calculations were always off on that and she ended up with too much cereal and not enough milk.

Most other things, she argued, you learnt to anticipate. Death, for example. It was fairly inevitable. The very existence of something guaranteed its demise. Attachments were a dark alleyway leading to disappointments and frustrations. It amused her then, when her friends would look painfully stricken and say, "I could not see that coming. It took me by surprise. I wish I could have told." 

She was certain that the element of surprise was the most deliberate construct. People loved the mystic, and this entertained their fantasy that things happened beyond reason, and always for a reason. One that would make itself known to you, like a yogi, a few steps into the future. It was a tautological argument. Things didn't happen for a reason, they just happened and few steps into the future provided you with enough time to come up with a justification strong enough to delude yourself into believing that a grand scheme is being unfolded right now, possibly to the tune of a cosmic harp, all for your benefit. She never understood why we gave ourselves so much importance.

The only mystic she knew in life was rain. It seemed to be the soundtrack to her emotions. A fairly powerful drug that could intensify whatever you were feeling at the given moment. Loneliness turned into melancholy, happiness into crazed bliss and average prose into meter-be-damned poetry. It was why she loved and hated the season the most. It crawled softly under her skin and took control of her otherwise planned life. The rain would fall in sheets and remind her of when they were in college and had galaxies of time to spare. Large heartedness had been a fad that season and yet they marvelled each time they saw it on someone else. 

Even today rain caught her by surprise. Not by sheer timing (you just had to look out for it on days the Met department predicted clear skies). But, by its effect on her. It wasn't your skin that was getting wet. It was everything else under the surface that was soaked to the bone. You were liquid inside and you could flow to where the day took you. Perhaps into an icy oblivion, to losing yourself in the vastness of another person, or to a drink in a glass. You could intoxicate another with every sip, knowing full well that there'd be nothing left of you, when they were finally drunk. 

This was why she bolted her doors and stayed inside all through June to September. Everything else in life was accounted for. Except rain.

                                                      (This april, caught in a shower in Saket)

The In-Betweeners

Picture credit: here



He liked running his toe between the space where the stone tiles met. From afar it looked like a seamless coming together, to him it was a beautiful falling apart, cracks cradling nothingness and free falls. Where life could be lived noisily, with the wind coming at your face, into your hair, while you're one with speed and connected to a feeling that lives in the pit of your stomach.

People were a lot like that too, with each other. They only ever made sharp, acute sense when lines were blurred. Not everything was above board 24x7. Not everything fell under neat labels. Sure, it was here that most riots, chaos and heartbreak existed, but it was only from here that poetry stemmed. The relationships which eventually gave way to definitions breathed their first and last in this place. The tiny gap where two stone tiles met.

Take love, he starts to argue, how does it start?
It's always inching its way out of a Glee soundtrack of questions. Do you love me as a friend? Am I your boyfriend? Will we marry? Is this forever? If you let this cacophony settle down, there in the quiet and peace of blurred lines you could shyly shake love's hand and perhaps even share a drink.

Find your own lines to blur, he's now urgently advising you.
The first thing you'll lose then is control. Control of how you thought this should turn out, what is the ideal next move in this template you always told yourself you'd follow. Control of how you should act, what is right and good for you. There is no resolution in blurred lines, no conclusions or peace of mind is ever  found here. 

So, tell me why does everyone want to visit here every now and again? He'll ask you suddenly looking you straight in the eye.

Don't fidget or rush to deny it. He always answers his own questions.

Because, they never feel more alive anywhere else than in these in-between relationships which end perhaps even before they begin.
You should enjoy them for what they are, he drawls this out .
Take from them your poetry and music. The validations that you deny you're seeking. Take from them everything your being needs and then go back to your definitions.

Don't try and live here too long, you'll suffocate the beauty of the nothing. You'll make sweaty, desperate attempts to box this. And remember then, what I'm saying now. In between the concrete porn that you call your cities, in between your constant attempt at a work-life balance, in between your manicured parks and the days you design around yourself, exist the lives you wish you had. They're breathing slowly, and they're yours to hold for a minute.

Don't try to cage them and don't stay too long.

Refer To The Black Box

 Picture credit: here

There was a steady rhythm to scrubbing a table clean. You started at the centre, took that cloth and swiped it hard in a circular motion. Assured that ballet dancers aspire for a similar flourish in a pirouette, you moved to the sides. Soft, clean strokes worked better than getting angry at the stains. Sadness, coffee rings and stray tomato pieces disappear faster if you're gentle and firm. 

                             

This remained his favourite part of the day, scrubbing the tables clean so that the next customer could write his own story- broken hearts always left crumbs and empty sugar sachets, long-lost friends left coffee rings and forgotten ash. It was those he was careful of, those that left the table as pristine as they'd found it- too afraid to own it, to leave a mark, to be remembered or perhaps found. 

The constant back and forth carrying orders,could make you feel like God. You heard snippets, learnt bits of their stories and yet you couldn't interfere, these kids really had to sort it out on their own

                                                   

This city is no longer strange. Perhaps, moving here 25 years ago felt surreal. The 26th year is different, the tourists ask me for directions


to his question, I have no answer. Will I marry him? Yes. Should I? No. But he only asked me will I, didn't he?

Leave a reply on her voicemail. If she still wants to do business with you, she will call. Honestly, everything does not need to be analysed over coffee. Hi, one banana muffin please


come for a holiday with me. I signed up for the tour but the thought of spending a vacation with complete strangers makes me lonelier than I have ever been


away for far too long. I don't know their dreams anymore. Do they like peanut butter with milk, or do they prefer pizza. Are they even my children anymore, or hers to call her own


manuscript, but we can't publish it now, can we? I know school jealousies should be behind us but there are somethings a 9 year old version of you will hold on to so tightly that 27 years later


a bomb in the middle of the district exploded and all I wanted to know is if they blew up the shop where I had eaten those beautiful brownies the last time I visited


her home. Her beautiful, sterilized home where red was not a colour but an explosion that really should have been contained


before it got out. You can live in a certain part of the city all you want, if your child gets lice at the age of 12, I'm judging you


and those books you loved. I loved them with you. The movies you saw, I held your hand through the reel. It seems unfair that suddenly it's my taste that's under scrutiny


was his beautifully cut jaw-line. I'd have run my finger along its length but I was afraid it would have ripped the skin on my finger tips open . Blood is never a good look on a first date


which ended in me having to pay the bill. Ordering lobster is a decision one should make when one is clear whose bill the meal is going on


for almost an entire day. I guess that makes him a recognized artist and me a proud father. Do you want to see the slideshow again


we're back at this restaurant? The food is delicious but don't you think that waiter is always lingering within ear shot


my heart to pieces with that text, but she doesn't know I read it and I can take another bullet for love.

Start with a clean cloth in the centre and move towards the side, that way you can really get the entire surface clean in a single go.