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...

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...