Lost in Thoughts

I grew up in a little two storey building with purple walls and white grills, overlooking the sprawling temple complex. Our small, square windows opened out to a sparkling pond with painted steps on one side and the precisely sculpted grey stone murals on the other.  Myths and legends to me came straight off the temple tower.  An authentic luxury.  Early mornings were marked with a large cup of steaming milk and s lokas slipping from within altars, streaming into the air. Our balcony was tiny and could accomodate not more than two. Further inconvenience was caused by the dozen young tulsi plants in their plastic tubs. I watered them graciously every morning and evening. A little too graciously. But it wasn't a problem. Father's shoulders were always free for his princess of five years. We would stand there, grazing the peeling pink walls and look down at the road.  The old vegetable vendor would come first pushing  his rusty green cart heaped with fr...

I turned 40 today. My glass is empty for the fourth time and the bottle rests precariously on the edge of the table. It’s been about three weeks since I came here. To this house. And I am afraid I am losing my mind. But in a good way.  They have voices you know, certain houses. They whisper into your head. Sometimes they talk. And sometimes they stay quiet. Dead quiet. But in the end, insanity is inevitable.  I am not worried about insanity. In fact, insanity is of essence. Especially when you are an artist,  pockets empty and your head even more so. I find inspiration in these voices that I hear here. Turning them into strokes of paint on my canvas gives me strength. I have been painting endlessly since I came. One newfangled idea a day. It is almost like I am famous again. I can still feel the gallery lights warm on my skin as if it was yesterday and not 20 years ago. And I am willing to endure anything in the world to have it again. Even insanity. There is...

II. The Monochrome Closet I find it amusing. Is ‘amusing’ the word really? We often brand the incomprehensible ‘amusing’. But that is mine to decipher.  Meet my Grandpa. A kind but grumpy old man, irritated at the slightest of changes- a retired officer used to having his way. A hundred hands always waiting upon him round the clock. The big shot of the town.  He strides in his usual haughty strides as he walks into the room today. Out swings his closet door. His monochrome closet, as I call it. White and black. A rare brown here and an occasional grey there. He stands in front of the gaping closet, scratching his chin. “Aren’t they all the same?”, I think. Dare I not say it out loud. He carefully picks a pair out, looks at it for a moment, straightens and walks out into the kitchen.   I hear my granny over the chatter of cardamom and basil leaves within her prize pot.  “Do I have to tell you everything?” Absolute silence follows. Even the sp...

I. The Solitary Sweet A single slice of sweet sits in its box. The wrapper is mangled and not one scrape has been spared except for this-one sweet, tantalizing cube. Unlike the rest that were graced with an agonizingly short life, this particular piece of forlorn sweet is on its third solitary day.  You see, my uncle and granny love this particular variety. From this one specific shop. Rumored to be made by an old man who guards the 75-year old recipe with his dear life. A rare treat. Cautious as he might be and old as she might be, every walk past the ebony table left their fingers sticky and lips smacking in satisfaction.  “It doesn’t matter!”, they say, when I point out that the poor specimen was becoming increasingly elastic with the moist breeze sneaked into the assaulted carton. “In fact,'' they say, glancing hungrily at it, “it tastes better!”  Yet, there it sits- a piece, the last. The mother saving it for her son and the son checking his growlin...

It was definitely a surprise for me as I booked an Uber that mellow Egyptian morning.My eye-brows hitched  as the driver’s profile popped up. She was most certainly a woman, wasn’t she? Indeed. A fair face framed with a neat hijab and a tight smile. Not going to be one of the rides that find me drooling in the back seat!                     I ride shotgun. Maneuvering deftly through the chaotic streets, she draws down the little shade overhead. I hadn’t noticed that I was unconsciously squinting through the sunlight. She adjusts the window to just the right level, so as to hold my hair intact. I smiled at the empathy. Women have their way of doing things. Not an empty phrase. “So...How long have you been driving?”, I ask. “25 years”, words tumble out with a hint of pride. “My own car”, she pats her baby with pride. “My gift to my-” A horns blares loud. She makes one sharp swerve.  A shiny car raced by in demo...

            Today this little girl ran to me, her unruly hair still rebelling the worn blue ribbons. Her little fist was tightly closed behind her back. I caught a jagged piece of paper peeping out of it. I smiled and feigned surprise as she held out her sacred present to me. It was indeed a paper, ruled and smoky with graphite, torn hurriedly from her little notebook. She bobbed on her toes as I read those words. The words of a child, clinging hard to the printed blue lines, a few slipping here and there, then arduously heading back to near-perfection. It was a poem- About a cow and a dog. How an arrogant dog disturbs a depressed cow and ends up having the lesson of his life delivered via a nice, well-aimed kick. Not too impressive? For me though, it’s something I would recall as a ripe old granny, knitting uselessly by the fire-place, and smile.             She was a girl who had poverty riding on her shoulders, withou...