Lost in Thoughts

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...

~A take on depression~ I can't write. No, I can't. It is there where my pen staggers. My pen. My trusting friend. Truest and beloved. He that never failed me. Never failed my heart. Staggers here. He pauses, confused. At the tumult. He, that has translated worlds unheard of, from within the depths of my mind, stammers here. Is it a void that sucks in all the color and clamor from the world outside? My pen, that had advanced onto the paper, stops and looks up questioningly. Or is it a gray bubble that holds you within, sealing you air-tight from the nice world outside. Frail and floating, sluggish and slippery, with nothing to hold on to? No. I don't think so. One can still let the colors blind him. He can still belong and feel snug as a cat on her favorite couch, when outside, yet somehow feel alien. Not any of this fancy void or bubble business. My pen frowns, radiating keen disappointment. Two very strong imageries to be put down on paper. But a comprehens...

A clean mattress. A whole night's sleep. A body that is your own. A smile that is true. Seemingly petty? Indeed. But not for those women-those that we avert our gazes from; those women that wake every night when the world sleeps, dabbing hurridely, cheap makeup for one stranger. Or sometimes they say, more than one. In an era where brothels still exist, little girls and women have tales to tell. Not happy ones. Here is one small sketch. Mellow lights. Enter young girl with a candle, humming as she moves. Walks to the center, places candle atop desk. Picks up the mirror and two lipsticks. As she starts applying, she looks doubtfully into the mirror and turns to the audience. Peach or pink. (looks between the lipsticks) What is it that you prefer? Not that I care. But that you do. (Walks forward, leans in conspicuously) Come young man, the candles burn bright. The night beckons with its secrets. Quick! tell me now, Peach or Pink, What is it that you pre...

Dearest Mortal, Can I ask you for something? Don’t refuse me. Please. Sometimes I can feel. Sometimes. It is but for a moment. An unanchored shard of memory from somewhere inside. A sharp prick of emotion that punctures in and radiates. A shock of nostalgia sweeps through. An old window, wooden and worn. A shaft of sunshine. Flecks of dust dancing and drowning. The sprawling outdoors with its languid lanes a squint away. I reach for it- an arm through the shaft, the slap of the summer wind and a familiar throb as a surprised skull meets the sturdy panel. I can feel it. Almost. Pebbles, staunch and shiny. Crunching beneath bare toes. Long, lined fingers. Ten in number. Square nails scrubby with dirt. One scab here, one scar there. Sinking and slipping with every step. Hollow clutters as a few slip down, tumbling into anonymity. A slight creak of spine as it stoops to pick one. Supple finger-pads  against queer lines that goes round and round the pebble. A slight frown as...

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...