Footsteps, Raindrops, Heartbeat

It had been raining all morning and people were crowding the food court. She had left early for lunch in order to catch a good spot by the window that overlooked the street. She sat there sipping her chicken noodle soup, reading a book. As the hustle of the people increased gradually it provided and interesting contrast to her private little world at the table.

Footsteps began to come alive in a certain rhythm around her. Step, step, step… Before she knew it, the letters on the book became blurry as she focused on the sounds of the footsteps. She began timing her sips to provide her own creative drumming to their rhythm. Step, step, sip, step, step, sip, step, step…

Unaware that she was mildly chuckling while she did this, a gentleman asked if he could use the seat in front of her. Her shoulders shrugged automatically in affirmation.

Thankfully he didn’t force her into any small talk and left her alone.

Raindrops danced on the glass roof providing additional effect to the music that was now playing in her mind. Drop, step, sip, sip, drop, drop, step, sip…

Before she knew it, her heart was beating a bit louder than usual adding its own input to the Jazz. The whole atmosphere was coming together like a homogenous whole. It was as if each rhythm was working in synchrony with the other. Does the sound of the raindrops automatically make people walk a certain way, or make the heart beat a certain way? She wondered.

The music had now become colourful and was now blooming like flowers. Footsteps, raindrops and heartbeat were the instruments and she was the conductor. Step, drop, beat, drop, beat, step, step, drop, beat, beat, beat, drop, step, step, drop step… beat, beat, beat, beat….. beat… beat… Her heart was now racing witnessing this terrific phenomenon. The experience was indescribable.

Now sipping, now listening, now absorbing, she had created this unique, personal, intimate feeling that no one can ever share with her. And yet it was a part of everyone around her.

Her eyes began to tear up as she experienced the beautiful unity in her surroundings, when the gentleman in front asked, “So, are we taking the 5:30 train home honey?”

Normal

She found comfort in her mother’s anger. It may have been a strange thing for most people around her. Yet, it was a fact. She felt most comfortable when her mother was having “one of her days” – which was during most days of her childhood.

She rang the bell a few times. No answer. The house wasn’t locked. She knew, mum was inside. She waited on the porch for a few minutes. The wait seemed to be never ending, because, she was tired from a long day at school and terribly hungry.

But patience had become second nature to her. She stood still, staring at the door before knocking one more time. No answer.

Her brother would soon be home from school as well. He would be hungry too. He would know what to do next, as he was older and seemed very mature to her.

Finally she sat on the front steps, dropped her schoolbag on the step below and started digging inside the bag for remnants of some old snack. Nothing.

The evening was quite normal. People around were going about their business as usual. Kids drank their milk and came out to play. She observed. "Clean clothes would be nice", she thought, smelling her school shirt. At a distance she saw a bunch of women in white sarees marching away with big banners and signs in their hands. All she heard was a rhythmic, musical rumble. She couldn’t make out the words properly. She observed. Her brother finally walked toward her, after getting off the school bus. What a relief!

She ventured to knock again. No luck.

He decided they needed to call their father. They went to the neighbour’s and asked to use the phone. The neighbour’s house was dark and scary. The delicious aroma of dinner was quite a tease, though. Unlike their parents, this family wanted to save electricity, she concluded.

Her brother’s voice was bit shaky during the call, she noticed. “Father would be here soon”, he said.

“May be we should call out to her from the backyard”. She knew he would have better ideas! They went behind the house, dropped their bags on the grass and started calling out after their mother. The calling became a game, to find out who was louder. It developed into a competition of sorts and they fell into a fit of laughter, at the end of it.

That sure made her forget about how hungry she was.

After having tried to knock and ring the bell a few more times. They decided to play detective and tried to get in through some window. They were all locked.

Finally dad was home. The door opened effortlessly. “I was busy writing and studying”, mum said. Her hair was a mess. There was no delicious aroma of food. Dad raised his hand to slap mum's face, but didn't.

Father decided, he would have to cook today. She would help.

Although, the neighbours stared at them in disbelief during the evening, she and her brother had learned to ignore them. This was their “normal”. Their, very own, personal “normal”.

The Last Creation

As the long evening shadows danced around him, he lay on the beach watching the sunset.

His body stiff. His mind filled with agony. He felt this urgent need to be free. Free from the creation, the painting, the sculpting, the writing. Instead he wanted to BE the sculpture, the painting, the story. He craved the sublime - that existed beyond his physical self. He knew such a thing existed, because he had experienced it often through his creations.

Somewhere in some palm tree, a bird waited for her eggs to hatch. She sat in her nest admiring their creation. The nest was perfect this time. It had enough room for all 4 of their eggs. They hoped at least two would survive to grow old. She waited patiently.

He was growing impatient. How much longer? He did not know. Not knowing was tedious.

The bird seemed to know it all. It came very naturally to her. All she cared about was the eggs. No confusion.

The confused net of shadows on the beach was growing darker. The water, more brilliant. The existence more beautiful. Yet, he felt as if it was not enough. He wanted more. He had planned this very carefully.

An egg cracked. The bird, let go.

He would not face the pain of creation anymore - The struggle, the strife for perfection, the hollow of imperfection, the constant feeling of something missing. A pit in his stomach. It would soon be over. He would soon, BE the sun, the shadows and the ocean, all at the same time. He took a last deep breath. He let go.

The egg hatched into a little bird.

Now on the beach… now in the nest.

Soon he would be able to soar up and fly in the air - a free bird, a mere observer. Yet, trapped.

Life in a Carboard Box

“I wish people didn’t move so much. They would just stay put where they belong and be content with it. These days they just seem to vanish. No life-long neighbours no life-long friends. I wonder what it would be like to be born and grow old in the same house, to know every wall and brick and have every wall and brick know you back. Homes have now become commodities, simply a means of exchange. Money. That’s what they are, money! What a dreadful thought. What happened to nesting?”

She sat by the bay window sipping at a cup of tea. The tea left a coating on her tongue, that irritated her. She sat there, pondering, nevertheless.

The doorbell rang and annoyed her furthermore. “Who now?”, she thought. She decided not to open. It rang once more.

And again.

Banging the cup on the floor she walked to the door to open it.

“We are offering a great deal on the vent cleaning service, Miss.”

“That’s rude of you to assume the vents in this house aren’t clean!” She frowned back.

“When was the last time you had it cleaned madam?”

She wondered what the right answer would be to drive this man away. They won’t be needing any vent cleaning. Not any more.

Then she decided there isn’t a right answer and just replied, “Not interested, thank you” and shut the door to his face.

She always felt bad later. Maybe she should have asked him for a drink. It was a hot day outside. And maybe he had walked from door to door, all morning trying to make a living. Poor chap.

She picked up her half finished cup of tea, not wanting to drink it anymore, and poured it out in the sink.

The shiny speckles in the granite counter looked sad. Sad, that she was going to be leaving them soon. She looked at the walls that she had fondly spent hours in picking the right colours. She looked at the sit-out and wondered if she will ever have a great sit-out like this one ever again. The trees around provided a perfect shade and privacy. She could even lie there without wondering if the neighbours were watching.

She walked to pick up a magazine she had left by the bay window and saw the “vent cleaner” pass by her house again. This time, ringing the house in front. The lady of the house had actually let him in.

She didn’t feel so bad for him after all. The young couple who had bought the house last week are probably keen on getting everything cleaned.

“I would have to get my new house cleaned as well”, she thought. And before she knew it, she was already thinking about new paint colours and new ways of decorating her new home.

They had sold their house at a much higher price than they had paid. That extra money meant too much, in their current situation, having lost her job and all.

The Unspoken

The smell of the idle air in their musty, little place was comforting. The bed, soothing. No one was home and he had the 10X10 room of their one bedroom apartment to himself. He dug is head further into the sheets that had darkened from lack of a scrub.

Ignored by the world as being mute, Rashid preferred his world in the bed. Here he could speak, he could express his feelings. It was a fatherless world with no judgments being passed. He simply lived, breathed, observed and lived again. He built wonderous places and wore extravagent clothes. He travelled within this creation and spoke to anybody in any possible language.

His father was getting old and more demanding day by day. Rashid had grown deaf to the constant bickering about his inabilities and his weaknesses.

His father had been harassing him to look for a job, lately. “We can no longer sustain in the meager sum I make. I am getting old and can no longer go on slamming metal in the workshop with my arthritic hands. Get on your feet you ‘good-for-nothing’ piece of junk”, he would groan.

In this sublime world, Rashid spoke. He spoke poetry. He spoke lyrics. He spoke passages by Rumi, Kabir and even Shakespeare. He dug is face deeper into the mess of pillows and sheets and entered the creation once more.

Rashid was four, when he stopped talking. The doctors concluded it to be some sort of a traumatic result. They didn’t find anything physically wrong with the boy.

His dream world was getting more vivid day by day. The people and places seemed more and more real.

At four Rashid had decided not to speak ever again. He was twenty-two now, barely educated and a dumb piece of junk, according to his father. It was evening and the father returned, breaking the peace of a lazy afternoon. His temper shot the roof, when he saw Rashid laying on the bed, yet another day. He threw the hammer in his hand towards the bed. Rashid woke up with a start holding the edge of the bed.

Still shaking and trying to decipher the real world from the dream world, he picked up the hammer. His eyes now gathered the crimson of rage. He got off, steadied himself and moved closer to his father. Now scared, the father moved toward the open door and into the passage way. Rashid, continuing his mad charge, pushed him out of the apartment and on the steps. He closed up on him, with the first blow knocking the father down, followed by a second one that went straight for the head.

The neighbours, who now gathered like flies, were appalled to hear the words from Rashid’s mouth, “I am free, finally, I am free”.

 
(This story was inspired by a news item in Sakal, Pune)

One Red Bag, One Revolution

Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday there should be a day called Oneday. Because Oneday is the day when everything seems to happen in the stories and it seems to change lives. So, here it is. I have discovered it!

Now the story…

It was neither a wallet, nor a pouch, neither a sack, nor a carryall, neither a satchel, nor a purse. It was a bag - a red, leather bag - handcrafted by some craftsman in some forgotten village. It was a gift from Grandmother. Sarika never forgot her last words.

It was not happy being red. The bag that is. It was definitely not happy being red. There was not much it could do about it. It simply was. The little floral motifs however were pretty. Everyone seemed to adore them, especially Sarika.

Then Oneday…

The bag was angry when Sarika stuffed it recklessly on her 16^th birthday. Her parents couldn’t approve of her and she had to leave. Her thoughts were too revolutionary. It was too early for change.

She left home for good with the bag as her only possession. She dropped it angrily on the rusty old bed in the women’s hostel where she had found refuge and began to cry.

The bag was sad. The floral motifs seemed to be wilting. Nothing made sense anymore. It was all confusing. Right now it hated its colour even more. Why red? I hate red. It thought.

Sarika must have wept all night.

“Perhaps tomorrow she will decide to get me a new colour!” The bag thought.

Sarika finally fell asleep in the comfort of hope.

She got up in the morning and got ready to face the people in her college. It was going to be tough, after the article she had written in yesterday’s papers. Even so, she was ready to face anything now. Although she always wanted to be a writer, she had no idea that her career would take off with a crash!

There were people from the press right outside the apartment. “What made you write something like this?”  One of the journalists asked.

The red bag gathered strength. It hoped for the best. It prayed for a new colour. Sarika ignored everyone and went to the college. She would feel better when she saw her professor, who shared the same views as her. Society needed to change. It was time.

Days went by. Months. Years. Sarika never married nor had any children.

She wanted to be normal all her life. Couldn’t. The bag was stuck with red all its life. They stayed together. Her grandmother’s words stayed with her all her life.

Then Oneday…

It was Sarika’s 80^th birthday today. She was used to being alone by now. She had managed to change the world a little. She was happy that women like her were finally free from social obligations.

Once again she remembered her grandmother’s words. “You are different Sarika. Don’t be afraid to be so. Be who you are and fight for it if you have to.” She fought. What had been a revolution once, was now commonly accepted.

The bag had lost its colour. It was hardly a red anymore. The years of wear and tear had taken its toll. It had been pieced together many times and the scars showed.

The  journey with Sarika had been a roller coaster ride. It was a perfect time to die.

Dancing Fingers, Breathing Toes

At a very early age, I learnt the language of hollows. Hollows that are formed by the absence of sound. Hollows of unsung notes. Hollows formed on paper by empty curves of ink. I learnt to see the world in hollows – as that which is not – as trapped empty spaces.

She ran towards my two year old self as I stared back in wonder and amazement. I grew up to find out that I was eating a worm in the back yard with my back towards her in the kitchen. How did she know? Little did I know then, that the whole process of growing up would be full of awe.

 I didn’t know then, that when I would be eight years old, she would pull my face towards her and her eyes would say out loud, “NO” to communicate that I was misbehaving.

I didn’t know then that, they would have long conversations while I played with trucks in the absence of sound.

I would often hear the neighbours using voice to stop their children from mischief. Mine, used action. My neighbours would yell and run after their child throwing a tantrum. Mine just ran after me and pulled my face towards them, while I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I didn’t know then, that when I would be a teenager and come home after curfew hours, a light would light up in the bedroom even before my car pulled in the drive way. I always wondered then, “How do they know?”

I would learn later how my diapers got changed in pin-drop silence. How my visit to the pediatrician would be thick with silence. How the trips to the cottage were filled with lose silence. How their fights bore a painful silence. Every type of silence had a flavour.

When I would be sick my mother seemed to know what I needed without me having to ask for it. I guess, all mothers have that sense. There was something extraordinary about mine, though. Every little thing that happened to me seemed be like a wave of energy passing through her body. It almost felt like she breathed my breath through her toes. Her whole body seemed to be sensitive to my feelings and it seemed as though she had ears all over her body.

The air splitting among their combined fingers would then, communicate worry to each other.

I didn’t know then, that one day, I would also learn to see through these dancing fingers and give meaning to the quietude.

As I was growing up, our conversations became visual music to me. The hollows that our dancing fingers would create had become the life-blood of my relationship with my parents. Over the years the touch became more and more expressive and the conversations more elaborate as I excelled in their sign language vocabulary. I do visit them often, as I long for the expressive silence.

Today they are old. They seem to have lost the need for the dancing fingers and the breathing toes. The simple quiet air between them has become eloquent.

There Was Someone Else

All he could see were silhouettes of people. People. A lot of people. An overcrowded blue space. He grew restless. The bed sheet above the rubber lining was wet with his sweat.

He knew he was sinking. Sinking deep. He felt the strong pull. It dragged him further and further down in the deep, dark, crowded, blue valley.

Inhaling seemed impossible. The struggle seemed futile. He fought with whatever little consciousness remained. Finally with all his strength he inhaled. The sound of his own breath startled him.

The breath was nothing but a blurry reminder of existence. His left arm seemed heavy with a dull pain. It was the intravenous.

Either the semi-consciousness of his own existence or the lingering knowledge of something that had gone wrong, made him gasp harder for breath. His heart was overcome with a sudden knowledge of grief. An overwhelming sorrow.

Unaware of the sound of his wailing he tried to move.

“What’s wrong?” a sound asked. “Do you need something?”

All he knew that he felt like crying out loud. The grief was beyond himself.

More sounds of people.

The clouds seemed to be parting from his memory. He remembered and asked, “There was someone else”. Where was she? Who was she? What happened? The questions started emerging slowly from behind the fog.

He became aware that he should stop crying. He tried to steady his voice. “My wife?” he asked.

“You need to rest, we will talk in the morning” answered one of the voices.

He found himself relaxing his back on the bed. He fell back into a dark abyss.

He started sinking again. Deeper this time. Those dark images were pulling him. They were persistent. He couldn’t resist this time. Who were they?

Among the black shapes he seemed to remember something. He recalled a familiar figure. He wanted to sink deeper. He wanted to move closer this time. The valley grew darker. He sank lower.

The pull was magnetic. The darkness seemed beautiful now. He did not struggle against the force.

He started feeling more at home. He knew who the familiar figure was.

It was she, his wife.

The Touch!

Going at a speed of 120 km per hour on some highway in North America. All I could hear was the speeding road underneath. Everything else seemed to move in slow motion. The roads were relatively empty and I had the car on cruise control. The habitual changing of lanes etc… had become second nature with no deliberate thinking required. 

It was summer time and the dead trees were back to life and full. So innocent! As if there was never a winter that took their beauty away! As if nothing happened. The sight was a darling. The dark green trees and the grey road darkened by a recent shower. The eyes were focused on the horizon. There was another hour of driving to go.

“What’s the point?” Marjini said switching places with Chandovati and moving to a softer cloud. Her eye lashes were heavy and she could barely focus.

“Well, that’s what people in my area of service have been doing for centuries and therefore it is necessary to follow those traditions so that future generations know about them.” Kshiti continued defending her point.

“That’s exactly my point. Do they really need to pass on these traditions to future generations? I think humans are blessed with a brain and they should use their own rather than their brains of some past generation.” said Marjini in her usual calm and heavy tone.

By this time Ramya was pouring madira for the rest of her guests. Each one was wearing a different variety of beautiful light, white gown. The air was cool and breezy. The clouds were perfectly white and soft against the blue sky. They moved involuntarily into a circle to accommodate the conversation of the guests. It was difficult to distinguish between the flowing white gowns and moving clouds.

Kshobhini entered with her usual boisterous self and big smile on her face. She added, “You know something, Rama has been wondering, whether humans should continue celebrating his return from Ayodhya. He feels it was too long ago and doesn’t see the significance of it anymore.”

Kshiti seemed offended by this statement. She could not get used to the idea of letting go of the traditions. Someone must have seen something good in them, at some point, she thought.

“People who started these rituals, were as human as the people following them now. There is no reason to believe they were wiser than humans today.” Ramya added.

Marjini had emptied a few glasses of madira by now and added to the conversation, “What’s the point? There has been tremendous relocation of humans across the globe. Therefore the rituals are losing their geographical context. Using mango leaves for pooja in Canada is ridiculous. Mango trees don’t grow in Canada!”

"For example: Indra has always been fond of Canada and goes there all year round, even during freezing temperatures. Canada does not get the rainy month of Shravan, which seems to be significant only in India, because of the high dependency on rain.” Kshobhini seemed to know what everyone in the heavens was upto.

“But other religions follow their customs and traditions why shouldn't the Hindus?” Kshiti continued her defence.

Marjini had a silly, drunk smile on her face and said, “well, I hope people are more intelligent than that.”

“The historic and legendary stories teach people lessons of life. They tell them right from wrong.” Kshiti insisted.

Chandovati who had been quiet all this while said, “When we started the human race, we programmed them to tell right from wrong. They probably need some reinforcement, of these in-built values and this can be achieved through a lot of things today. Like books, music, internet, movies etc... They are not solely dependent on the old texts and stories anymore. Reciting things from a language, that is not in everyday use is silly and should be gracefully discarded. Sanskars only happen when you not only understand but relate to what is being said.”

There has to be something common. A common element, a common principle that can be followed anywhere you live on earth. Simply a philosophy may be. Or a thought that would guide us through life rather than bind us to rituals. A thought that would set us free from the bonds of culture and tradition and thoughtlessly applied scientific reasoning.

The road kept hushing below. The car and I had become the same object. The sun rested for a short while behind a cloud, creating a fascinating glow around it. I was occupied by it.

My heart felt full. Full and wet with something unknown. My eyes welled up for reasons beyond my understanding.

I was touched by something that was beyond language. Beyond religion. Beyond culture. Beyond anything tangible.

I drove rest of the way, eyes wet and all. Yet smiling.

Happy.

Inexplicable happiness.

The Collector

“Where are the others?”, he asked. “They are in the back of my truck”, Sands answered. “Be careful the long thin one is particularly torn. It was hanging in a fence when I picked it up. It is quite tattered.

“Long thin ones are the hardest to find. They are scarred and extremely difficult to mend. The chubby ones always seem happy but who knows what goes into making these. Thank you for bringing these to me. I know, collection days are especially long for you.”

“Well, you know, you got to do, what you got to do! How long do you think, to mend these?” Sands asked.

“Probably six months to a year.”

Far away, among the hills, played a little boy. He jumped on the puddles formed by recent rainfall and splashed water so it soaked him wet. The sun was out after a long spell of rains. The little boy of six found his shadow extraordinarily amusing. It appeared and disappeared as the sun did in the left-over clouds. He tried to catch it as he was jumping in the puddles, so that the shadow drowned. But it seemed indestructible. It appeared untouched over and over again.

His mother worked in the rice farm near by. It was plantation time. She yelled, “stop doing that you silly boy, you will fall sick again!”

“Dow dow ripple, dee dee tipple, tipple ripple, double doo!” the little boy sang his favourite song, as he continued with his mission to drown his shadow.

It had been a busy day for his mother. She finally wrapped up her share of the work and hurried towards her son. She lifted him by his arm and dragged him along, towards the hut. She must have spanked him a couple of times, because he was crying.

‘Tired’ was not a word in her vocabulary, as she began to prepare dinner as soon as they reached the hut throwing the little boy by the door.

Seeing that his child was howling, as he entered the hut, he was mad with anger. He struggled towards the child, trying to focus on what his wife was up to, he grabbed the boy and beat him until he couldn’t utter another word. Next was his wife’s turn.

After the daily commotion had died down, she came out of the house for some peace. She sat by the door holding her dear boy who had cried himself to sleep.

The sun was about to set. She saw a big truck afar on the highway. To her surprise, the truck proceeded towards her and came to a screeching halt.

A dark man stepped out of it with a big, bulky bag. “I save the indestructible ones and mend the injured of the past, in the hope of creating happiness. I collect shadows.” He said.

Packed in Puffed-up Plastic

Once there was a chip, a potato chip. The potato chip lived in a bag. A big plastic bag. This bag was currently in the hands of a man. A man named Salil. Salil currently sat on a bench. The bench happened to be near a lake. Lake Ontario. It was April. It was spring.

Crunching numbers was Salil’s profession. He learned through his educational years that he was madly in love with numbers. They were his passion because he thought of them as an entity with no beginning and no end. Numbers, to him, existed irrespective of space and time. Of all sciences numbers were the most abstract and yet the most pure and everlasting ­‑ an intangible as alive and real as the tangible. He thought of numbers as being omnipresent and unending. (It is believed that the first abstraction, which is shared by many animals and humans, is probably that of numbers). Mathematics was almost poetic to him. He saw philosophies and deep thoughts in his math problems. He thought numbers gave him little insights into the metaphysical. They almost corresponded with what was described as God in Hindu texts – unending.

People around him failed to understand this obsession with numbers. They thought his love for numbers was abnormal and weird. However, Anjali seemed to have understood him since the very beginning. She was an artist. If Salil was “yang”, she was “yin”. And they fit together perfectly. They were complementary opposites completing the whole.

Being an artist she understood his love for numbers. She understood abstractions. She believed that abstract concepts exist equally in art and science. But she chose art for its freedom of expression. Art did not lay any restrictions on how she could draw certain conclusions through her pieces. She believed in the wholeness of one’s existence - an existence without bonds. She understood that every human element is complete and incomplete at the same time. She found insights into the metaphysical through her art.

They had moved to Canada eight years ago. It had been a joint decision. They had thought that it would be better for them to be away from family for a while. They could concentrate on their careers and passions for sometime and then when the time was right, they would go back.

However, this cold country had somehow left them dry. They made new friends, but it was not the same. Something was missing. They couldn’t pinpoint to what exactly that was. It was an empty feeling that both of them had, every once in a while.
They hardly ever spoke to each other anymore. Their long talks about life and its wonders had somehow died. They were losing the “light”, if it were. Both of them felt this inexplicable loss. They say, a part of you dies when you leave your country of birth. May be that is what this feeling was about. It was sort of mourning for something that had died within.

That morning Salil sat on the bench musing over all these things watching the seagulls and the geese. It was spring and it was still very cold and windy for him. He couldn’t get rid of his winter jacket as yet. He sat there staring at the waters of Lake Ontario. The water was a mix of emerald green and pthalo blue. He thought, Anjali would have loved this.

She had left that morning, with two words scribbled on a note pad: “Good bye”. He didn’t know why or how she had come to this. He did remember her complaining about something or the other recently. However, at the present moment on this bench, Salil couldn’t recall what that was all about. All he did remember was that she was not happy and he did not understand why. Anjali had said that he did not understand human relationships anymore. She told him to stop thinking about numbers for once and listen to what she saying. He had thought of her as being unreasonable at that point of time.

But as he sat on this bench today, he missed her. He missed her a lot. He wanted to talk to someone about his recent findings on “Aesthetics of pure mathematics” – a thesis he had been working on for sometime. Anjali had provided very useful insights into this from time to time.

He sat there on the bench feeling the chills of loss, when all of a sudden a seagull, unable to withstand the speed of the wind, brushed his hair and managed to fly to the ground. He jumped up with a start and before he knew it, the bag of potato chips fell and the pieces scattered all around the bench.

Salil was confused by this abrupt stop to his thoughts.

He bent down to rescue the remainder of the chips and bag, when he realized that the sun was out and bright again. It was spring. He picked up the bag and peeked inside. He was happy to have saved a few of his favourite snack treats. He smiled.

The helpless seagull had a brought a sudden revelation with it. He noticed his winter jacket and smiled again. He realized he had packed himself up in puffed-up plastic, just like the potato chip in the bag. Content with his own world and neglecting the world of his best friend that was Anjali.

Salil took his jacket off, let go of the bag of potato chips. He took a deep breath of fresh spring air. He looked at the horizon and the beautiful lake again.

Next thing, he found himself dialling Anjali’s number

“Hi Anjali”, he said, “I am sorry. I was packed in puffed-up plastic”.

Honey I missed the stop!

Ann hated it when she slept angry. She often woke up with a headache when this happened. He had slept on the train and missed his stop the earlier night. She had to spend the evening driving back and forth from the station and then chasing the train to the next station, which was 20 minutes away from home. No matter how adorable he looked when he slept, this habit drove her crazy. All the things she had hoped she would do, when she got home from a hard day’s work, she had missed. She didn’t have any time to wind down and had messed up her entire evening. They had fought and she had slept angry.

This morning she waited on the platform for her usual train. What was unusual was that she was a bit early for the train. She loved when this happened because staring at the tracks filled with little rocks lined by beautiful greenery on the sides was a sight that would stay in her memory through those freezing winter days. Also watching train turn towards the platform from the thick green woods gave a feeling of mystery to the train. It appeared as though the train crawled out of nowhere. This could be why the concept of “platform number nine and three quarters” by J.K. Rowling touched her at some level.

Today she was glad she was early because her mind was occupied with the ideas for a logo she was supposed to design in a couple of days. She found a few minutes to mull over the ideas before the train got there. During those solitary few moments Ann, unknowingly, started tracing the contours of the GO logo on the ticket shed. GO transit stood for Government of Ontario transit. She thought it was brilliant of them to come up with this abbreviation for a transit system and at the same time design a very witty logo. Witty logos, was what had attracted Ann to the field of Graphic Design. She always believed that she would love to come up with clever ideas like these and make brands more appealing.

Her eyes ran along the curves of the ‘G’ and the ‘O’ and then followed the line that went through them as though they were intersecting train tracks. “Genius”, she thought.

Ann, or Annapurna couldn’t recall when she had started calling herself that for the convenience of the “white man”. Sometimes when she thought about it, it felt strange to have adapted so well to this new name while her parents and her relatives in India still called her Anu or Annapurna. Sometimes she even hated herself for having accepted to this new “white” name.

She was sifting through her morning thoughts one by one when they announced that the train was going to be 10 minutes late. She was happy. She can now get her morning coffee as well. She hurried towards the coffee shop in the GO station. The coffee at the station was not that swell. But she simply liked the feeling of having a warm drink accompanying her train ride.

By the time she bought the coffee and reached the platform again, the train was there. She got in and occupied her usual spot by the window, as did the other passengers. Everyone had their seat sort of “reserved”. It was second nature to the usual GO trainers to occupy the same spot everyday.

Ann liked to drink coffee on the train. She could now sip at it and imagine things. She would imagine that she would meet someone on the train someday. He might not be handsome. But he will surely be a nice guy to talk to. She would talk to him about her work, her family, her days in India etc.. and he would enjoy it. They would have the same sense of humour and feel sad about similar things in life. They would share a common personality.

This “HE” that she imagined was someone different from the actual “HE” in her life. Ann did feel guilty about having these thoughts sometimes, because the real “he” was the love of her life. But she allowed herself a little mental indulgence under the pretext that her boyfriend and she, did not have much in common.

He was a man of career and sports and bars and drinks. While she liked to get involved in social groups, talk about social issues and visit the art galleries once in a while. There was something in their relationship that she did not enjoy much. She couldn’t put a finger on what exactly, but there was something missing for sure. At the same time she was sure she loved him.

As she climbed in the train today her eyes met with a handsome young man. Tall, thin, wearing a lose T-shirt, nice pair of jeans and sports shoes. His face had a ready smile and eyes had the desire to live. He seemed enthusiastic from the way he was letting the passengers take their seats while he made way for them to get by him. Ann wondered why he wouldn’t sit when there were ample seats available. Maybe he wants to show-off his height, Ann mused. He smiled at Ann as she passed him by and she gave a polite smile back. She felt something. Her spine tickled. She realized she was still wearing the smile even after almost 5 minutes of the exchange.

She loved this feeling and she turned to see what this tall handsome man was up to. He was still standing and was looking back at her. “Wouldn’t you like to sit?” Ann asked in a hushed tone (so that the sleeping passengers wouldn’t wake up) pointing to the empty seat in front of her. He gave her the most heart-warming smile Ann had ever seen, and obliged.

As he sat in front of her, she kept sipping at her coffee and looking out the window, trying to think of a million different subjects she could use to break the ice. But not one was good enough for this magical moment.

“Do you really like that?” he finally asked pointing to the cup.

“Not really, I simply like to have something to sip during the train ride.” Ann said feeling relieved.

His tall legs were almost touching hers, the seats being so crammed up together. She noticed he had handsome hands too. It is important that men have handsome hands she thought. Although she couldn’t’ quite define what “handsome hands” exactly were. They just were!

“You obviously work downtown…” Ann tried to continue the conversation. He smiled and said yes. He did not say anything further and that irritated Ann a bit. She expected him to be a bit more detailed so that she wouldn’t have to ask him questions that seemed like a TV interview. “He probably doesn’t have a glamorous job like I”, the pride in Ann thought. Well, nothing wrong in a humble occupation.

“I am supposed to think of a logo by this afternoon and I had planned on thinking about it on the train. My mind seems to blank right now though.”

“You are a graphic designer”, he said, looking impressed. “Yes that’s just the way things turned out,” Ann said with a little attitude mixed with pride. This topic gave rise to an interesting conversation about graphics in cinema which lead to recent movies that he and Ann had seen and that lead to favourite actors and before they knew they were talking about food!

This amused Ann and she smiled to herself as she thought back about it, during her walk from the station to the office. The conversation had turned out to be exactly as she had imagined during all those tedious morning bus and train rides. She felt abundant.

She was happy. She had found a friend. A friend, who would talk to her on the train and keep her company.

This country found herself lonely sometimes. Not because she didn’t have enough friends or family here in Canada. Mostly because there was something about this society that alienated people from each other, in strange ways. Neighbours, for example would exchange little pleasantries but neighbourly relations rarely seemed to go beyond that. Not that Ann was a social butterfly. She preferred to be left alone most of the time. However she wanted more than “dinner” friends and “howdy neighbour”.

She and her boyfriend shared a special kind of relationship. They complemented each other in an interesting kind of way. They had their differences, but it was a comforting, cozy relationship on good days.

On her way back from work, Ann looked at the phone and smiled. It was her boyfriend. She knew he felt bad for the earlier night. She was happy that he had called after the day’s silent treatment. She was happy because now she could go home and sleep well through the night after the reconcilement.

She answered and heard “Honey I missed the stop”.

Once upon a time in Canada

I woke up one morning only to find NO milk in the fridge! Grrr…I am one of those people who cannot inhale the morning air unless they have their morning tea. Of course I like it made the Indian way, with milk and prefer it with masala. Hmm tea! How good it feels to clutch the warm cup in the palms on a cold morning!

NO MILK. These words started making their rhythmic appearance in my mundane thoughts. I was missing it already. Missing the daily ritual of internal dialogues I have, while sipping at the steaming cup. It is amazing how you get so used to your daily routine, that for one day you cannot have the morning beverage and world seems to fall apart! NO MILK. I reluctantly tried to wake myself up with a couple of glasses of water. And let me tell you, that it did not help a lot. NO MILK. I sleep-walked dragging my feet to the couch and sat in front of the TV, turned to channel 24 to look at the morning news for the weather. This was I, trying to act like everything was just normal and having no milk was not a big deal. It was not normal.

It was 6:00 o’ clock on a cold February morning. My eyes kept closing of their own free will. I was fighting the sleep. “I must wake up, go out and get milk”, I told myself, trying to focus my eyes on the TV screen.

SNOWSTORM! What! No way. I was startled and awakened without the help of the tea, that I so desperately wanted, a few moments ago. I still wanted it of course. But the snowstorm only meant that it was going to be a bit longer before I met my liquid friend. It meant that I had to put on my boots and winter coat dragging my ass out to shovel the unrelenting snow. SNOWSTORM! It seemed as though the “rhythm” kept going. Only this time, with a different word.

I got a psychological headache. Do you ever get one of these? It is one of those where you tell yourself that you have a headache because of lack of coffee or tea and voilà, you actually get one. SNOW STORM! By this time I was fuming at myself for not having remembered to buy milk the previous evening.

I had no option left but to drag my heels to my snow boots. I was still in my pajamas, by the way. With a stuffy nose and throat, the morning kind, I put on the boots and the coat and gloves and toque. This heating system really makes the eyes and nose feel abnormally dry, I thought. I ought to get a humidifier, I reminded myself.

I peeked outside through the glass on the door. There was a little mountain of snow right outside the door, so if I opened it the snow would leap inside the house. Since I had to get out somehow, I chose to use the garage door and get out from the garage instead of the front porch.

I opened the door that led to the garage from inside of the house. It was dark in there. As usual being lazy to turn on the stupid light, I started for the garage door in the dark.

KABOOOM! SHLAPP!

I fell face first on the bonnet of what one would call a car. Of course! I had parked it there the night before, being aware of the snowstorm warnings that were aired on the radio.

See what the lack of tea does to the human head? I couldn’t remember this simple fact! And darn, why on earth didn’t I turn on the light!

I tried to get off the cold cruel bonnet. Struggling with my boot that had got stuck in between the stair and the bumper. My knees didn’t know which way to bend. I didn’t know why I was so confused about the function of my own limbs, as there is only one way they can bend, really. Tired and angry at the bizarre struggle, I decided to lay there flat, face on the bonnet and enjoy the pain of the fall.

The metal felt cold against my cheek. With my palms facing the ceiling and boot still stuck, I took a deep breath and determined to give my freedom another shot. With the support of my palms and one free leg I pushed against the car so that I fell bum first on the stair. This would help me free my other leg. I have no idea how it got in there at such a bizarre angle.

I freed my leg and I realized my head was pounding. I could hear it. My body was shaking slightly and I couldn’t see a thing in the dark. I gave myself a few minutes before I got up and turned on the light. I shall never trust my night vision ever again, I decided.

I opened the garage door and got out. Finally breathing the freezing yet refreshing cold air. How stale the air gets inside the house!

The shot of oxygen did me some good. I could open my eyes now. The landscape outside was breathtaking. White snow dunes everywhere. The little, white, rolling mounds, of what were once cars, in front of houses. I hadn’t seen this much snow in years. It was beautiful, untouched and as white as white can be. Wall-to-wall. The snow on the rooftops seemed like icing on cake. The sky was a dark grey colour, lined by a narrow streak of yellow announcing the sun rise, spotted occasionally with yellow street lights. Black, white and grey, is all you could see. Breathtaking.

I was amazed at my ability to admire this work of nature despite bruised ankle, aching knees and pounding head.

I inhaled the fresh air again and coughed. Ooops a little too much inhalation! The chill went straight down my throat and I coughed again.

I had to shovel the snow. What a shame that life had to disturb such a beautiful landscape.

If I had painted it, I wouldn’t let anyone touch it.

I turned to get the shovel from the garage and started shoveling disturbing not only the soothing picture but also the silence. The sound of my shovel would probably remind the neighbors of their duty as well and the whole scene would be nothing but a messed-up piece of art. No one seemed to wake up though. It must have been 6:45 by now.

I returned to digging. My gloves were warm but they didn’t stop the freezing air from penetrating to my fingers. After a few digs at the snow, I was starting to feel the wrath of the weather. My knees and toes hurt. I had to take a break. I went inside the garage to warm up a bit. I stood there, admiring the outside scenery again, only this time raising each foot in the air, every so often, making sure I could still feel them. Usually I have a cup of tea in a thermos in the garage so that I can sip at it as I am shoveling. It helps me keep warm. NO TEA! Oh I missed it so much.

I went back to shoveling. I shoveled and I rested. I shoveled and I rested. This continued for a while, missing the warmth of the inside and the hot cup all this time. I was almost at the verge of tears by the time I finished the wretched task. I had also spoilt the beautiful picture of the snow dunes. If only I had remembered about the milk yesterday. I was helplessly angry with myself. The head was hurting even more now and my face had turned hot from the manual labour.

I went back in the garage after all the work and started the car. I don’t usually lock the car when I keep it in the garage. I reached for the seat belt and habitually turned a little to the right to buckle it in. And wait a minute…

I was stunned. Speechless. Almost delirious. What have I here?

A bag of MILK.