Conversation

“Will you stop humming the same old song???”

“No, I am bored. I will stop if anything interesting happens”

“See, you picked this place. You should have chosen some big city...but you chose this place overlooking the lake. This place is peaceful. Nothing is meant to happen here”.

“Hmm...very true. Beauty after some time becomes boring...but something ugly over time becomes fascinating”

“You are definitely weird”

“Now, what makes you think so?”

“See, I am not interested in intellectual mambo-jumbo. All a star wants is to be left alone. Please let me twinkle in peace.”

“Somebody is grouchy tonight! Hey look two lovers!”

“Verrrry interesting...yawn.This place is full of lovers.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Has anyone told you that it’s the most repeated of dumb questions in this universe?”

“Answer me…”

“Oh…I liked a girl when I was young. But she was much older to me and before I could do anything about it…she had a supernova explosion and is a black hole somewhere”

"Oh!you poor thing"

“It’s no such thing...I am happy but for the fact that I have an annoying Neighbor”

“Oh, that’s so sweet...”

“Tell me ...are you gay or something?”

‘Oh! No...I am just nice and romantic…you don’t get it”

“True. I don’t”

“Look down there…two people in love…suddenly the place looks enchanting. Ah! The magic of love”

“Whom are you kidding? Look at those teenagers? They can’t even make up their mind up about their favorite color...are you telling me they are in love?”

“I do not think age has anything to do with love”

“Have you been reading too many billboards? Those two people walking hand in hand…in thirty years won’t even remember each other’s name.

“How the hell do you know?”

“Of course I know...I just read it...Its no joke when they say it’s all written on the stars...it is. Peer down...it’s written just above my right shoulder.”

“Oh god! He is going to dump her when she puts on weight”

Down, the two lovers looked up…and the girl said “look at that star...it looks angry and the one beside it, kind of looks sad”.

The guy smiled and said “Honey you are so lovable when you say such silly things”.

of moonlight and memories

She couldn’t sleep. The alarm clock showed 1.30am.She got up and dragged her feet to the kitchen sink and got herself a glass of water. She stood near the kitchen window and drew the curtains aside. Moonlight slowly filtered in as if it were a thief. She looked out at the trees and the sky with its stars which twinkled at her as if to say “can’t sleep, eh?”

Moonlight brought back memories-memories of first love and brown eyes. She had not thought of him for years. But sleepless nights are when memories haunt; when “the might-have-beens” come knocking.

It was a moonlit night when he had kissed her; her first kiss. It was divine. She was just 17.She had ran back home and had not slept a wink. She had felt elated, giddy and drunk with joy. Every few minutes she would touch her lips as if to trace the memory of his lips. Now 35, sitting in the moonlight at the kitchen table…she touched her lips, and smiled. Now she couldn’t think of anything which made her that giddy!

She wondered if she was being unfaithful to her husband .She could hear him snoring gently. In her romantic mind she felt thinking of someone else in moonlight was more dangerous than anything physical.

But then, can one erase beautiful memories? Is it even feasible to forget some one who long ago had made you happy just because you are with someone you now love?

She went back to the bed room…looked at the silhouette of her sleeping husband…smiled at her thoughts…and wondered “maybe in his sleep…he too is dreaming of his first love”.

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What made me write this story?

It’s a combination of many things-it’s my way of taunting all the people who were shocked by my last post; have been watching too many French movies off late; and a conversation about fidelity I had a long time ago-how do we define it? And I wondered if one were to think of their past love with fondness would it amount to being unfaithful…so the story.

superman's son

With their blonde heads together, they all huddled in a group.

Bob said “My Dad is Batman!”

Tom replied “My dad is Spiderman.”

Peter hesitated. The other two looked at him questioningly. Looking at them he said “My dad is superman!”

They did their hi-fis and went cycling back to their homes.

Of course they knew their dad’s secret. And they knew that their dads wore disguises so that that the villainous criminals don’t know that they are being watched.

So Bob’s dad wore a fat man’s disguise; Tom’s dad was bald and looked old; And Peter’s dad was very thin with a slight pot belly.

They would sit together in the park and discuss in length about the exploits of their respective fathers..

Something had happened which had Peter worrying. Last weekend they had been to a fair.

There were dragons and women dressed prettily sashaying around. Peter wanted his daddy to carry him on his shoulders so that he could get a clear view of the parade. There were a lot of fathers who were doing the same. Peter’s dad had obliged.

After some time he asked Peter to get down saying that Peter was too heavy for him. His father was looking really tired and was sweating. For the first time Peter felt that his dad was not really strong. But in the excitement of the parade, he had forgotten all about it.

After a few days, just when he was about to fall asleep..he heard frantic screaming from his parent’s room. Peter thought “oh!the aliens must be here to carry my mom away! I have to help daddy to get into his superman costume” and ran into his parents room.

He was shocked to see both his parents on the bed clutching each other and howling. He looked down to see a small cockroach hovering indecisively. He went into the room and stamped on it. He looked at the relief in his parent’s faces and walked out.

He went into his room and closed the door. His father was not superman.

India packaged

I am an old man. I am a romantic. I am an artist. No, I don not paint nor sing nor am I involved in plays. One need not do all that to consider oneself an artist. When one loves his profession…he automatically becomes an artist. Now, you will ask…what is that I do and babuji, you have every right to ask. I sell India .Haha! Surprised? I do…I sell the soul, the essence of India…wrapped in a leaf. Amateurs call it paan.

Now, see it runs in my blood. The shop I run…was run by my father and my grandfather. My dad used to tell me that the Diwanji himself would come on his evening walks and eat paan made from my grandfather’s hands!

I am no more a young man…but there were times when I would give a shy smile to many a lover who would get two paans packed on his way home. I have been witness to many a friendship which blossomed while talking over paan; it’s the paanwalah’s prerogative to see the look of satisfaction after a sumptuous meal. I have flirted with many rich women who would stop their cars to buy meetha paan from me. That was my specialty…maybe because I am a romantic at heart…and it took a lover to get the meetha paan right. When my wife was alive I would make her my special paan whenever she was angry. And it worked every time!

Making paan is no easy job. In many ways its like making love….takes a lot of intuition and a great deal of practice…and of course a will to experiment!

Like any artist…I spend everyday amidst myriad colors and beautiful fragrances seducing my senses…One has to lose oneself in the process…surrender your heart...Only then can one get the feeling in the taste of paan right.

One of my customers..a poet when discussing paans had described paan thus....

The leaf should be light green...like the wing of a parakeet- broad and fresh. You choose each leaf as if you are choosing a silk shawl to your beloved. The leaf represents the vastness of our land and of our hearts. Then you gently, with slight soft strokes apply lime paste (choona)…a pink sheath like the blush on a rose bud to remind you of the pink palaces of Jaipur and the pink cheeks of Himalayan beauties; then you place a few pieces of beetlenut to remind you of the sand dunes and majestic camels of Rajasthan; grated coconuts to remind one of the sea breeze as one lies on a boat on the Kerala backwaters.

Gulkan for the million love songs emanating from this land….many unrequited; grated cherries to remember the painted lips of many a bollywood actress; cardamom to tell about the hidden lands of north-east and spell out the mysterious hinterlands…of dark eyes in secret alleys and the Indian love for the elusive; Badam and pistachio powder to evoke one’s love for Kashmir…those mist covered valleys and snow capped mountains!

Dilbahar chutni to remind one of the beloved waiting at home anxiously…and just a drop of navrathan chutni for the added fragrance...reminiscence of lucknowvi nawabs and umrao jaan!

The paan is gently wrapped as if too much pressure would hurt the soul of the paan ,piercing a clove through it and making eye contact with the customer ...giving him a gentle smile, one hands over the small packet of essence of India to him.

After listening to his oration..I sometimes brag that I sell India to my customers!

I do not know the veracity of those statements...I only know that making paan gives me pleasure.And seeing my customer relish it..in it lies my redemption.
Every single time I wait to catch the look of pleasure on a customer's face…that expression is my reason to live.