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If ever two pairs of eyes had locked before, it was not like this. The world could have crumbled into dust and he wouldn't have looked away. And she knew it, too.
Her smile spoke volumes, as she looked up at him.

All of the "First time we laid eyes on you" stories danced in her mind as she saw the scene in front of her.
"If you don't mind, may I have my daughter back?"
He didn't even blink, "You've had her a while, I need to catch up."
She rolled her eyes, "You didn't seem particularly eager to lend a hand, back then..."
"Haan, toh possible nahi hai no, baby, otherwise I would have!"
He'd managed to tear his eyes away from his daughter for the one reproachful look before he turned back.
"Arre sweetheart, let her nap na, or are you training a future all-nighter champion?"
Reluctance was an understatement for the extreme lack of enthusiasm with which he handed the baby over to the nurse, who walked over to the cot, and put her package in carefully, smiled at the couple in front of her, and left.

He sat down next to her, and reached for her hand, "Remember...?"
"Yeah, we weren't too far off the mark were we?"
He smiled over at the cot, "No, we were soooo off. Come on, she's way better than what we'd imagined. We hadn't thought of those pretty little fingers, no? And have you seen her nose?"
She laughed at him, and kissed his hand, "Told you that you'd be a ridiculous doting daddy..."
"Haan toh itni pretty hai woh, pyaar nahi aayega kya?"
"Nahi, nahi... Karo, jitna bhi karna hai. But listen... Serious baat hai..."

He snapped back to look at her. "What, is everything okay?"
She sighed "Arre ya baba. Abhi no stress... But you realize that she's going to grow up and be like beautiful and all? We're going to have to hire a bodyguard..."
They both looked over at their daughter, who chose that time to stretch and sigh in her sleep.
"At least 3 bodyguards..."
"You're right."
"And a guard dog."
"A doberman. And a guard cat."

The Epitome

A life in rewind

“Babe, I don’t mean to tell you what you already know, but maybe you need some more nutrition, hai na? I know you’re more than capable of eating for two on a good day, but you know you have to do that every day, right now na?”

She rolled her eyes at him, but obediently pulled the plate closer again. “But this is boring food! There’s no taste to this!”

“Haan na, baby, itna teekha tum kha sakti ho, baby thodi khaayegi…”

“Why? I’m sure she’ll love some achaar… Let’s try na?”

He dropped his head into his palm and laughed, “We’ll try tomorrow. For now, eat.”

She grumbled and picked up the spoon, turning towards him for another complaint, but he was too quick.

“Mmm, now you can take your time with your food, and I’ll get a nice nap” he settled comfortably on her extended legs, a pillow between her thigh and his head, “Go on, take your time.”

She sighed, sniggering to herself, and got down to finishing her food.

***

‘The mornings came too quickly these days’ she thought to herself, as she stretched and heard him already putting on his belt. The unmistakable clink of the buckle told her she’d missed the morning banter.

“You’re not coming back in, to bed?”

 He glanced at her in the mirror and smiled at the routine they’d carried on for years “No, sweets, it’s late today. Gym mein thoda zyaada time lag gaya. But I’ll come home early, and we’ll do coffee and Bournvita”

“Can I have beer?”

“Can I first have my baby?”

“Take her now only, she’s a bore, just like you. She wants to go to work.”

“Just like me, or just like you?”

“I’m a lazy ass, you’re the one who won’t come back to bed.”

“Mommy darling, you’re dying to get back to work, and you know it. You’re probably already drafting an intro mail for your daughter and setting her task list up. Okay, I’m off. Kiss?”

“Ew, no! I need to brush.”

He leaned down and kissed her belly, then grinned up at her “I wasn’t asking you.”

She began to laugh.

***

The door opened and his perfume drifted in to her before his voice did. He was on the phone.

“Hunjee, abhi ghar aaya hoon. Just got in.”

She mumbled into her pillow “You can get off the phone now, at least.”

His voice smiled out from her earpiece, and his breath tickled her shoulder “But then I won’t hear your pretty voice say ‘I love you’ over the phone na?”

She growled in response “I love you”

“Okaayy bye…”

His hand was rubbing her back now “What happened, bad day?”

“No. I’m just surrounded by idiots who don’t know their hands from their feet.”

“So, bad day.”

He was making noises with glasses and all.

“No, no! Wait! I’ve made you filter coffee. Thandi hai, bas thodi garam kar do.”

He paused, and turned to her with a frown “Why are you making me coffee at night? Don’t tell me you have work to do yaar…”

She grimaced. He wasn’t going to be happy “Not much… Just a little…”

“Yaar toh din mein kar lete na, why would you leave it for after I get home?”

“Arre abhi shaam ko aaya…”

“So, we’ve talked about this na, why would you take up a project at night?”

“It was important…”

“No yaar, you do your project, then I’m going to sleep. I’m tired.”

He walked off, cup of coffee left on the table, a plate of food in his hand.

“Scoot.”

He looked up at her “Jaldi kaam khatam karo, and sleep. Don’t waste time. Again, you’ll stay up late, and be tired tomorrow.”

“No, I’m done.”

“Done with work?”

“No, work is there, I’ve pushed delivery time to tomorrow evening.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to spend time with my husband. He’s quite sexy, you know.”

***

“Pastels look gorgeous on you”

She stole a side-glance at her almost-husband “You know what a pastel is?”

He nodded, under pretence of straightening his glasses “Like the signal is a green, the pista ice cream is a pastel green; I remember.”

She stifled her laughter as her father gave her a look from across the mandap. Probably not the best time to get in touch with her sense of humour.

“Babe, suno na…”

“Hmm?”

“Aapko mujhe prompt karna padega. I have no idea what anyone is saying. Thoda distracted hoon na. Those pastels and all.”

“Damn it, I was hoping the fam would do that bit. Mujhe ghanta pata hai, what to do…”

They both stopped laughing as the pandit gave them a dirty look this time.

***

“Listen.”

“Hunjee?”

“If I quit my job, pick up my Rani of Jhansi sword and come off to your city, and convince your family, would you seriously consider spending the rest of your life with me?”

“Sure. But where would you get the sword from? And who would pay your rent?”

“Arre that I’ll manage. And rent maane, I’ll take over your business, siphon off funds as expenses, and make it vastly successful within the financial year, so you’ll never find the money taken out.”

“Oh, accha. But market down hai, and regulations are against us.”

“Haan, but I’ll probably pull a Richard Gere from Pretty Woman. Have you seen Pretty Woman?”

“What is the Richard Gere reference, but?”

“You’ve not seen Pretty Woman?”

“I HAVE, I don’t get the Richard Gere reference.”

“Oh. He basically buys big companies that are floundering and sells them off bit by bit.”

“So, you’re buying me out and selling me off?”

“Not you ya. Your company. And I’m not buying, I’m going to seduce you to sign it off to me.”

“You know it’s not really MY company to sign over to you.”

“Older people love me. That’s my concern, not yours.”

“Aight. Let’s see. My signature will come last, if you succeed in the rest.”

“Haan, but then you’ll spend na, rest of life with me? Even if I dissolve the company?”

“Kyun nahi? Raja ban ke jeeyenge.”

“I’m serious.”

“Huh?”

“I’m serious.”

“About?”

“Will you consider marrying me?”

“Babe, we talked about this…”

“I don’t give a fuck. Do you want to?”

“Yes”

“BRB, getting my sword.”

***

 

She packed up his shirt, and his t-shirt. And the note he had sent her when she’d won her major milestone. And the box from the chocolates. And put them all the corner of the cupboard.

The house still resonated with his voice. The city still threw scents of his presence at her. Her phone was strangely lighter now, and her inbox strangely empty. The ding of texts wasn’t as fun to hear anymore.

Maybe it was a coincidence that the rains had started when the final page of their storybook had been turned. Perhaps some lucky little girl in the future would read the child-friendly, happily-ever-after version of their story. Their original story was more like the German old wives’ tale version, with a gruesome ending. At least, it was gruesome for her.

‘It’s not like you’re a mermaid or a secret princess, really, what did you expect?’

She shook her head at her momentary lapse of practicality, and mentally put away the silly flights of fancy away with the clothes and the past few mementos she couldn’t bear to throw away.

Scents fade away faster than people do. But they hurt more. Scents remind you about love in a weird, integral way that kicks you in the gut and lifts you up, at the same time.

The collar, crook of the arm, and mid-torso of the shirt in her hands no longer smelled of him. It no longer reminded her of being engulfed in the protective bubble of their fairy-tale.

***

“Suno na.”

“Hmm…?”

“I think we need to talk…”

Diluted

Dear Old Friend,

How are you?
Where the fuck are you?
And how the fuck did we get here?

From knowing which page you scribbled on
When the lectures stopped being fun
To not knowing if you're okay?
To not calling you when things stopped being fun one day?
From knowing not to let you spend
Too much time with that one friend
To not knowing your heart broke last year
And you still aren't a stranger to those tears?
From jumping in joy when you got into your dream course
To a "Wow" on Facebook among a 100 others?

Did we get diluted along the way?
Like feisty aerosols, did we evaporate?
I hope that explains it
Where our late-night-staircase,
Standing-under-a-bus-stop-in-the-rain,
Don't-really-mind-if-I-get-late-going-home-again bond
Disappeared to...
Because then, the next time it pours
And water seeps in;
Spraying off buildings & dripping on the floors
It can drip on to textbooks,
Seep into bags,
And amid the crowds of bone-drenched, monsoon-harassed,
You & I
Will be on the same page again.

Just Like My Mother

I dreamed that I was my mother, last night. Draping a sari in front of the long mirror, encased by clouds of talcum powder, and grown-up perfume that only she was allowed to use.
The sari was beautiful, if a little too stiff for my frame. But as I stood, sweaty from all the pleating, pouting at myself in dissatisfaction, you reached over my shoulder for the talcum powder. And whispered "Let's not go" into the crook of my neck, making me giggle and forget about my reflection.

I dreamed I was my mother, last night. Walking into a protocol-drenched gathering, smiling politely at seniority, and grinning with camaraderie at everyone else. The difference between her and me was the outfit next to me. I don't know what colours non-official parties see more of, I only know my whites, blacks, and olive greens. I don't know which colours you wear, but I'm guessing irony plays out here... There's only one out of the three that I grimaced at; the blues were never blue enough, the lines never strong enough... You had to be... After all, you wore wings.

Standing next to you, sipping demurely at a single drink for the evening, discussing how consumer markets and audiences were changing, talking about tech & convergence, I dreamed I became my mother. Only difference is, she didn't have a vastly connected, dynamic, scary world to discuss and take down. But she took on and took down her own world in context, and still does.

I dreamed I was my mother, last night. Proudly wearing my achievements on my sleeve, and you on my arm. Fixing your cummerbund in place, fussing with a sari that just wouldn't sit tight, and coming home to someone in the mirror who I could be proud of, with someone on my arm who I am proud of. Holding my own in every conversation, walking home at the end of the night as someone my mother would be proud of.

Because the sari stayed in place, and the head remains high.

WIP - One Haleem, & the Perfume of a Thousand Kebabs

The crowds didn't do much to stem the free-flow of sweat down her back. She silently cursed, wondering if it were anti-sanskar to do so while shopping for Iftaar food.

"But then again, you're going to eat this as chakna. I think that's haraam enough for one night." She sniggered at her own internal monologue, and took a deep breath as the smell of the tandoor danced towards her.

He liked red meat, she made a mental note to pick up seekh kebabs last, to make sure they didn't dry out. She stopped at the haleem stall and asked for a plate. Home was haleem, he had said.

"It's shitty to feel transplanted and out of your comfort zone," she defended; her internal monologue taking offence at her brain pointing out the obvious. There was no ulterior motive at all, to this last minute search for food, it was just the right time, and a universal favourite!

She shrugged it off, threw in an extra plate of seekh kebab, and crossed over to the other side of the road, ready to head home.

"Oh crap, I need a mixer." she looked around for a general store, frantically digging through dimly lit memories of late nights in bars, for the accompaniment to honestly the worst whiskey in the history of time. But it was sitting in a bottle at home, smuggled away from the offsite, and he liked it, so why not? "See? More proof. I didn't get a thing specially for him. I was using that stuff to cook, anyway.", she sniffed to herself, rubbishing the argument.

"I don't think that damn whiskey dreamed in all its brewed & barreled time on earth, that its life would come to this."

She walked home, in a huff at herself, hugging the food, and more soda than she'd ever had in her fridge.

Standing outside her door, he thought how odd this could end up being. "But why odd, there's nothing odd about hanging out with each other. You've done it multiple times. It wasn't weird then." 

But the context...

"Ignore it."

He took a deep breath, and rang the bell. And laughed to himself as he heard the music from behind the doors. She opened the door as he was mid-laugh.

"Hi! Er, are you laughing at my doorbell?"

"I didn't expect that to ring..."

She giggled, opened the door wider, leaned past him, and rang the bell a couple more times. "There's a song for that..."

His laugh caught in his throat as she pulled back.

There was something about the scent of kebabs that arrested your senses. Something irresistible about cooking meat sparking its scent across the night air.

She was fresh out of the shower, he guessed, the whiff of Johnson's Baby was unmistakable. But her hair retained the allure of the tandoor.

"You got Iftaar food?"

She turned around and made a face, "Okay, that's an uncanny guess... Tukka maara?"

He grinned at her, "Haan, I thought you'd return the favour of all those times back when you'd come to my city."

"Uff itna predictable, I never thought I was. We can get pizza if you want. That also pairs well with the subtle smokiness of your DSP."

"Kebab se shuru karte hain, then we'll see. Let's see what your Bombay can do with tandoor."

The comfortable togetherness of the corner bar sets in without your noticing. Somewhere between the first sip of your first drink, and hitting the bottom of the third one, the inhibitions all nod off, and fall asleep. And you're sitting in the most companionable bubble.

He reached around her, trying to pick up her empty glass, "One more?"

She swept her hair off her neck, and nodded. He stopped, mid reach, looking at her fingers playing with her hair. "You made the kebab over a tandoor yourself, kya?"

"What?"

"Your hair smells like we're standing at the kebab stall right now."

She pulled back, "Oh crap, sorry, I'll keep it tied, I didn't get around to washing it before you came over."

He shook his head, "I like standing at the tandoor with you. Let it be."

She ducked her head, but he knew she was laughing.

"Yes, one more, please."

Dear I-Wish-Someone-Could-Tell-Me-It-Will-Be-Okay

Nothing will be perfect.
But you know that.
You're not a hopeless optimist.
Hey, but you are an optimist, haan.

You grow into it.
The world treats you well.
And sends you kittens and puppies with big believing eyes who shyly lick your palm and slide up to you while you sleep to cuddle your toes.

The world sends you wins.
But you see right through them
You pick going home to your cats.
And you value most, the brickbats.
Good job, you!

And from a shy kitten yourself,
You become a full on psycho cat.
It's pretty cool.
It's your callsign.

Honestly, I'm not sure you need a break in the space time continuum to make it.
You make it.
Or you fake it
And you help others make it.

Don't roll your eyes at me.

But don't stop rolling your eyes.
People will tell you not to.
But it's nice to acknowledge the ludicrous.
And to be the ridiculous.
You learn to be a clown
Even if you're breaking inside.

And you find people who see right through that.
And love you for it.

You meet heartbreak.
It wore stripes at one time, specs another, and pathanis at yet another.

Know what that means?
You've got a heart held together by superglue
Patent it.

You find the poetry in tears.
You cry so hard it scares you, but you're up the next day, striding into office because your team needs you.
Nah, they may not notice.
But they'll hug you at some time.
Tell them you hate hugs.
They'll find reasons to hug you
And to love you.

You become my role model.
Every time I look back.
Because man, what a hike life is
And what a damn Sherpa you are!
Just like your mom, you fight for perfection.
And just like your dad, you demand attention to work ethic.
But equally like both of them, you know how to acknowledge irrationality, differing views, and you appreciate people.
(Sometimes grudgingly, coz you don't really like people; being a cat, and all)

You don't need anyone to tell you it's okay
But you meet them anyway
You're born to them, in fact
And they're the people you tend to attract
Friends, Romans, countrymen
Absolute strangers
But well wishers.

But you know the coolest part?
You are clumsy as all hell.
You keep falling, keep getting into scrapes, keep taking chances, keep making an ass of yourself, keep cringing at all the idiotic things you do.
And you never, ever stop doing that.

The channe ka zhaad doth protest
And my case, I hereby rest.
Am I lying?
You'll only have proof if you go out of your way
To prove me insane.

Go.

Stale

Nothing tastes as much of regret as yesterday's coffee.
Unless it's that weird, woolly taste of your tongue...
Too many puffs, too little water, and a little too much anger.

The best way to express these days...
Is those last moments of quiet when you beat the alarm and grumble awake too early,
Only to take sips of coffee that's been chilling since you ran out the door last morning,
Stretching your toes because they're cramped,
Wondering what important things you missed yesterday;
And ignoring work texts because it's not 9.30 yet, fuck you.

Actually, a good caption for these days is coffee and ignorance.

Fun working-person tip: shutting the world out doesn't keep it out,
It gives everyone the liberty to waltz in to your personal space,
And remind you that you're not making your presence felt in their lives,
And make you feel like a piece of shit.
So you run out for a solitary beer after a hard day,
Coz you can't afford to make a friend to take along.

Coz you don't want one more unread notification.
Coz you only have some time before the alarm rings.
And coz that coffee will still lie in the fridge
Getting more frozen,
If you try to reply to your life every morning.

Another good caption:
Life as a Monorail.
Monotonous one way railroad track
From A to B
Flying through people and pollution
Picking up only grime
And letting the people off at their stops.
While you never stop.

Doing what you're supposed to, right?
But you never seem to be right on time
Or fast enough
Or the AC isn't cold enough
Or you're just too crowded.

But that's your job.
And you get no praise nor pity
For doing your job.
Only complaints on unnecessarily numerous social media channels and personal email stinkers.

So a few more puffs
A sip of water
A resolution to drink more water
A vague inkling to make plans for later
And that coffee.

Probably today
I'll manage to drink more.
Water.