If It Weren’t For The Pappadams

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It was one of those days when I had forgotten how pieces began, or how they ended. I was listening to Bujji on loop because, what is taste? Not wanting to get stuck in the hamster wheel of productivity, I was taking a break from Instagram. Professor S had posted something and my phone had to let me know about it because, what is respect for space? She had written on Breaking Away. As usual, I heard her speak as I read through the piece. There is an uncanny resemblance between her voice and her writing and I felt like a creep for reading it in her tone. She tells stories like she was born to do nothing apart from that. She had posted an album of five pictures. I was reading the fourth page and I thought it was lovely. I did not want to swipe and read what was on the fifth page because I was contented and anything more would ruin that feeling. But, I also badly wanted to. She had written the piece encouraging everyone to take part in the competition. After reading the piece, a normal person would feel like their brains were illuminated, a strong desire to write, a surge of words like the tireless April rains in Bangalore. But, it accidentally strummed the wrong string in my brain. I badly wanted to write again. I wanted to complete the Breaking Away piece that I shelved a few weeks ago because I thought I could not write anymore. But, I still do think I cannot write. Then, I was mad at Instagram for showing me Professor S’s post. I was mad at Professor S for writing, that, for a second I thought it should be made illegal to write something so beautifully.

I spent the next two hours of cancelled lab sessions crying under the blanket in my dark room. After drowning myself in a shallow plate of Rasam Saadham and Potato Poriyal, I told A that I was going to deactivate my Instagram blog, delete posts from my WordPress and go into hiding. I told him I was going to give up on writing because I was not good at it. To him, I’ve said more “I want to run away” than “I appreciate your existence”. The idea of running away is so intriguing and seemed simple that it became my first option whenever something intimidated me. I look up Zostel Alleppey and listen to Santhosh Narayanan’s music every time there is a minor inconvenience in life, because if the sea and some clumsily melodious songs cannot make my life better, what can? I want to run away from home because I want to know what being out of one’s comfort zone feels like. I want to run away from people because I was scared I would hurt them. This time my inability to write made me want to escape from writing itself. A said that I must be in a good head space to write. The rational part of my brain agreed without hesitation. But the other side whispered constantly that I must stop writing, delete everything and forget that I want to become a writer. After I finished crying throughout the next two hours of scheduled lab sessions too, A called me. He asked me why I wanted to write so badly. My lips trembled and I looked at the yellow walls of my room blankly. What should I say? It was not even a relevant question to ask people like me at this point of time. Words reject us every day and that is our biggest heartbreak. A question like this is dripping iodine on the broken heart. It burns and I want to scream, but eventually heals. But, it still burns.

Every person who tries to write goes through this phase without fail, and I try to console myself. Amma thinks I am snapping at her because I have problems. Problems in air quotes. When I yelled with tears brimming and shivering, that I am not able to write and my head felt heavy, Amma’s nose scrunched, and her lips and eyes bounced on all the corners of her face. Yes, what is the big deal if you are not able to write? If you can’t write, then don’t. It’s not like the world will come crashing down on you. But, what if it does? I am unable to do the only thing I know, and believed that I am sort of good at. Professor S once asked us to write about words. I wrote about how words play hide-and-seek with me. In the feedback, she said, “You have such a close relationship with words and I admire this in you”. I really want to believe it. I have been secretly fangirling over Professor S and her writing in college, as well as on Instagram. I have never talked to her outside the classroom. Very rarely even inside. I have always wanted to grab a chair in the department, sit on the other side of her table and talk to her as Hedwig stares at me. But, what would I talk about, to her? I already knew her through her smiles and her writing. Do I know Shadow through Professor S or do I know her through Shadow? It is always confusing. Good writers make me feel like a creep and I don’t exactly like it.
Appa once said that I can only write when something ploughs the contents of my heart like the pieces of raw mango spiced and stirred with a ladle in a pickle jar every day. He did not mention pickle jars or mangoes, but I like to remember it that way.

Professor S’s piece was a ladle, but it stirred the contents of the pickle jar in the counter clockwise direction. I didn’t want to wite anymore because I can never write like Professor S. I backspaced the Breaking Away piece I was writing because I can never tell stories like Professor S. I archived all posts on my Instagram blog as my sanity did not let me delete them. It was over. What should have been a sigh of relief, slowly choked me. Professor S’s piece was not flashy. It was simple, real and shameless. She tells me secrets from her life and trusts me with them. When I attempt to tell stories of who I want to be, she poetically writes who she is. It is a sin to write truthfully like her. I can never do that, so I have to run away. Far from writing, ladles, spiced mangoes and pickle jars. A said that there is no running away from this. Maybe for him. These people who effortlessly tell stories are the best and the worst people in my life. The best because they make me want to write. The worst because they make me want to write. A once wrote a story about his coconut head and I am not a nice person who denies it comfortingly. I suppose he has a coconut head because normal heads cannot fit that stupendous story-spinning loom inside them. He would not believe me. He would even laugh it off because storytelling comes to him instinctually. People like this, I tell you.

A has an incredible taste when it comes to food and that is partly why I hang out with him. When he is not ranting to me about my unhealthy habits, we go out looking for the best beef fry in town. His Mi makes the best beef pickle and that is another reason why I tolerate him. I was frying Pappadams for the first time because A wanted to introduce me to a terrific combination that I am forever grateful to him for. Meen curry, rice and Pappadam. I had to think twice or even thrice because my mind’s taste buds refused to blend fish and Pappadam. But, when it’s food, I trust A more than I trust myself. I burnt the first two Pappadams dark brown like faces of angry old men before I fished the third one in edible condition. A and I also ended up munching on the old men faces one each because fish curry rice tasted multiple times better inside a Pappadam blanket. I now realize how a good piece of writing is like the third Pappadam. The act of writing itself is like frying Pappadams for the first time every time. But, I want to delete everything, run away and go into hiding after my first Pappadam. A would be proud if I told him I finally understand what he had been telling me all these years. But if tell him it was a pack of Pappadams that did the job, I will have to forget about my share of chicken cutlets that his Mi sends.

Hello, Writing. How have you been?

I write this with no aim. I never imagined I would google ‘Personal essay prompts’ ever in my life. I felt like a drug buyer in a black hoodie when I did that – a little guilty, very addicted to writing but also aggressive due to the inability to do it. Being rejected by words is the most depressing experience and is the highest level of insult. I am writing about not being able to write. I pity my pathetic self, that does not know to do anything else. I do not stare at the walls for hours anymore, looking for words. Even if I do, I believe I can now peer through the orange paint, cement and get to the bricks. But, words still will not come to me. V, in one of her letters reminded me about Renaissance artists who took years of gap while painting. Professor S asked me to paint or sketch and get inspired. She said it was okay to run out of words in the head. I really wanted to believe in what they said. Bongs put his fingers out, counted and told me six words. “Don’t be hard on yourself da”. I am trying.

As I type this, the ceaselessly blinking insertion point gives me more annoyance and anger than hope that I will be able to write. It keeps waiting for me, but is also exasperated by the time I take. It sighs and rolls its non-existent eyes at me. As graphic as it can get, the blinks of the insertion point are like a series of irritated foot tapping, with crossed arms and a grumpy look. I do not completely hate it, because it diligently sticks around even if I type paragraphs and then slowly backspace them like a sadist. I do not use notebooks and pens because they cannot erase some words prooflessly. It is at this point, when I am struggling to get words out on the screen, I realize I had taken the insertion point for granted. I think of the number of times I have worn it out by typing, re-typing, deleting. Now, can it hear my grind my teeth in stress? “Enough of the revenge”, I want to yell at this thin line at the end of the paragraph that keeps blinking and asking me to write more. What is it? A monster with unending hunger for words? A mesmeriser who lures me? Or a will-o-wisp that glides away as I get close to it?

On certain days, words are like a house cat. And on others, they are like the cat on the streets. Both never come to me at my convenience or hear me out, but I assumed I will be daubed with attention when I least expect it. They failed me this time. The cats have gotten comfortable with their siesta when the sun shines in all different shades of gold, and their deep slumber when the sky begins to darken. Now, they also entagle yarn as a hobby. They care least about the hours it takes me to detangle and wind them into balls. I have reached a point where I do not wind the yarn anymore. I let the cats play with them till they tire themselves, hoping for the day they come to me when I call them. But, this is more miraculous than tangled yarn winding themselves up into rolls and balls.

10, B Street

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Baskets and bags hanging from the balconies on either sides of the road waiting to be pulleyed up once they are filled with milk packets and sometimes they are waiting to get rid of the garbage covers, welcome you to B street, Shanti Nagar. Here, one can often get confused by the electricity wires that resemble clothes line. Vegetable and fruit vendors walking up and down the street, pushing their carts and advertising by yelling the names of their product, is my morning alarm. Parking vehicles in this street without being shouted at by the reckless drivers in this area, is almost as difficult as tightrope walking. Constant honking is a ritual, here. This busy street is not left alone by the kids who love to throw plastic balls right at the balconies. The street takes a break from the chaos in the afternoons. It is the time of the day when kids stagger back to their houses from school like their energy had been sucked out of their bodies.

One’s evenings commence with kannada hymns played at the chapel, next street. Taking a walk across the streets in Shanti Nagar could be one of the best things to do in the evening if one loves dogs and enjoys petting them. The smell of sizzling chicken in the roadside eatery fills the air. Post-sunset, the street remains brightly lit, with its aligned, amber shaded street lights. Bikes speed past the street throughout the evening. The balconies are usually left open in the evenings, inviting the chill air of the city. At this hour, one can hear endless cooker whistles. Meal preparation for the next day is done at this dead of night. The road is abandoned by the vehicles, but not the still active kids of the street.

I complain about the leaky taps all day. On Sundays, the balcony has no access as washed clothes take over the whole place and the whole house smells of liquid detergent. I hate how the heater warms water so quickly. This means I have to get out of the bed soon. Coming back home from college and plopping on the cozy corner in the tiny living room, is the best feeling ever. I sit on this single bed to finish my assignments, have dinner and watch Netflix. One, because it is extremely comfortable to almost drown in a corner of the house. Two, because that is the only place we get internet. Mobile chargers, power banks and laptop charger have all made their home here. I get easily annoyed by the kids who incessantly throw plastic balls at my balcony during my nap time. They sing Despacito in gibberish and that makes me smile a bit. Moisture seeps through one of the walls and turns into an abstract art, pigeons knock on the glass windows, taps squeak every time they are opened and shut, cooker whistles freak me out in the middle of the night. There were so many reasons to hate this place. Things were imperfect. But, it is home, after all. And I miss it more than anything else.

The Tinted Jar

This is the story of a girl. A little girl who wanted to gather and store stories in a tote bag. Or, it is the story of stories. You decide. The girl had a butterfly net, binoculars, magnifying glass, brown bags and tie straps on her, always. On days when the sun shone the brightest, on days when it was not so bright and on days when it rained, she would catch stories of smiles. Stories of piping hot tea, buttery cookies and a wrinkled face which always had flour in the creases. They were stories of an old woman, her Gran who had unwritten and untold stories in a small tinted jar. Gran owned a little café in the town. The smell of boiling milk filled the tiny room, all day. Gran’s frothy tea and cookies were the talk of the town. It is surprising how she had new guests everyday, and some old faces returned once in a while to visit her. They would hold her hands to express their gratitude, and leave. The little girl, being her curious self, tried to catch these stories, so that she could fill her tote bag and they will all be hers.

She sneaked into Gran’s café kitchen one evening and hid. Gran pulled her hair in a bun and started boiling milk in a huge barrel, to make tea for all her guests. What the little girl then saw, surprised and confused her at the same time. Gran climbed on a short stool to reach for the jar of stories and opened it. Glittery particles filled the air when Gran stuck a spoon into the jar and shovelled a little of what was inside. She then stirred it into the milk that was bubbling and ready to accept the other ingredients. When Gran took the tea cups and cookies to serve, the little girl followed her quietly. The guests Gran had today were a young couple who were quarrelling over something, an old man who sat in a corner, an old woman who sat in the middle of the room reading a book and a group of bikers. Gran, with a smile, served the tea, while the little girl waited in one side of the room with her butterfly net to catch these stories.

Suddenly, there was a heavy thump on a table. It was from the one the couple were sitting. Leaving the girl alone, the boy walked away without turning back. The girl continued to sip her tea casually. This was when the old man noticed the woman reading a book that he had written years ago. The man staggered to her table and started a conversation. They seemed to have a really good time, bonding over writing. Meanwhile, the bikers had begun planning the next trip, in spite of today being the last day of the previous one. The little girl caught as much as she could and ran back to the kitchen. Now, when she spilt it on the slab, all she could think of, was Gran. She thought of how Gran added stories to everyone’s lives and made beginnings out of endings. She thought of how the stories from the same jar had different effects on different people. She thought of how Gran, instead of keeping her stories to herself, gave it out generously. Now she knew why Gran was happy almost always. The little girl quickly pulled the stool, climbed on it and looked at the jar. It was half empty. Her shoulders fell in disappointment. But, she quickly remembered. She emptied all the stories in the tote bag, into the jar. They were all her stories. But, not anymore. This feeling was much better and the tote bag felt lighter. From then on, the stories that she collected went straight into Gran’s jar, who had no clue about how this was happening, but was just grateful.

Hugs

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Apart from Shawarma, spicy Chindian food and gallons of Coca-Cola, there is one thing I miss with all my heart. Hugs. Social distancing is doing no good for a person like me who needs five hugs to survive the day; who chooses warm hugs over warm chai. And no one is talking about it. I miss the ‘good morning, I love your outfit’ hugs in the bus stop. The tired hugs in the ladies room. The ‘bye-bye’ hugs and the ‘been really long’ hugs. I miss feeling safe, heard, understood, complete, relieved and a lot of other things that make me a little less anxious. It has been a while since I had an oxytocin high and I am desperate for it. I believe that hugs have a healing effect that works even when words don’t. A light pat on the head while in a hug, is like a reassurance that things will get better. Someone loosening up in a hug is a sign that they are vulnerable and are willing to let me know.

The bone-crushing, muscle-snapping hug puts a smile on the face despite making it difficult to breathe. The lazy hug in the morning only to be reminded to brush the teeth ASAP, is such an energizer. A hug is that one puzzle piece which fits perfectly for every situation. It is a medium through which pain and pleasure are shared. It is the quickest and the most inexpensive therapy one can give and receive. Thinking about it puts me in awe and makes me want one badly. I am uncertain of when I can hug my humans again, but I just wish that I hugged them a bit more longer the last time I got to.

The Girl Who Never Lets Me Take Pictures of Her

🌻✨

I don’t know if she knew it, but the day I met her, I felt that we were going to be best friends and drive people crazy. Was it because we had similar stories? Maybe. I admire her for the strength and beauty she is. Once she finishes crying, she smiles. She even laughs a little, but, always had her face covered with her left hand. I do like her perfectly shaped, long nails and the crown tattoo on her middle finger. But I badly want to see that beautiful smile that she chooses to treasure behind her palm. My slightly swollen pair of eyes are enough for her to understand that I had cried over something, the previous night. Mascara and eyeliner cover-up business does not work with her.

We have spoken to each other about our insecurities and have been amused of how similar the two of us were. She has told me stories that have not been unveiled to anyone else. I have seen the side of her that a lot of people have not and, so has she. Every morning she shows up with a smile that is as beautiful and bright as a sunflower. She later tells stories of the previous day, and I always wonder what gave her the energy to be this positive. Sometimes she sleeps in class and sometimes she creates her mandala masterpiece on a lipstick-stained tissue paper during the lecture. She even giggles at memes when the professor is teaching Indian Constitution. She also says that this is not where she belongs. But, I think that this exactly is, because she has a hundred stories to tell, and they are all worth listening to. We have spent a whole hour discussing about school life, and she came up with the most hilarious and embarrassing content that I could relate to. She does not hesitate to tell the world who she really is. She is unapologetic, and that makes her even more beautiful.

She knows that one Samosa and a big blob of the slimy ketchup from Arrupe Canteen would solve half the problems in my life. Also, now that we have found an Idly Kada for breakfast, she exactly knows that the two extra vadais would make me stop talking about things and people who are no more significant in my life. We connect through food. With her, I can eat fryums soaked in noodle soup and chilli vinegar with fried rice without being judged. She says she ‘likes’ to eat with a fork, just because I would use the spoon. She makes sure that the first spoon of Parppu Buwwa from her tiffin box goes into my mouth. She never forgets to stuff my favourite chips in my already full mouth. She always put others before herself. She feeds me everyday as I yap away, she is brutally honest when I come to her with teary eyes, she says that I have all the answers to my questions and I am just not ready to take it, she tells me I look pretty even if I turn up like I’m homeless, she asks me about my day and makes sure I am okay. And that’s why she is my mom in college.

She could sit in front of canvases for hours together. Paint drips from the brush and crawls down her elbow. Her coffee mugs are all stained with the colours of the rainbow, for she loves the feel of some bitter caffeine on her tongue as she creates smudges and shades on the canvas. The mirror always had the privilege to see her colour smeared face, before she washed it away. That was her. A piece of art, herself.  

Dear Ved, It’s Okay

Is it the dimly lit Social? The teary eyes of Ved? Or Tara’s maroon sweater? I
do not know what made me feel warm. The visuals of Ved’s bloodshot eyes
looking into that one yellow bulb, yearning for a crack of light in his life, repeat themselves in my head every time I listen to this song. I want to be very honest and tell Ved that he would not see light if he curled up behind the curtains. I want to tell him that there is no possibility of light if he put out this torch of love, with his ego. But, will he listen? Tara tried. She grabbed Ved’s hand, and with all her strength, tried to pull Ved out of the darkness. When Ved did not yield, she sat beside him and coloured the walls black, trying to make him comfortable with the dimness. She failed, though. And that breaks a corner of my heart.
When I asked her why she is so concerned, she turns to Ved and said, “Agar tum saath ho, har gham phisal jaye. If I am with you, every sorrow that comes to me would slip away with ease.” At this point, I am confused. I do not know if I should take Tara’s side or Ved’s. The latter has no more energy to justify his behaviour. A tired Ved puts his head down on the table. He is weary of searching for himself. The one that he had lost, in the buzz of life. Tara
struggles to convince Ved that it is okay. She is ready to embrace his flaws
when she says “Main dhal jaati hoon teri aadaton se. I mould according to your habits”. But, it’s too late as Ved, himself was in hostility with the man he has turned into. I have always felt that they did not deserve to be in this tornado.
If you asked me whether this is a song that I love or hate, the answer is not
clear in my mind. Is it fair if I say that I love how Tara constantly fights with the
demons in Ved? When Ved sings in melancholy and anger “Tum saath ho, ya na ho kya farq hai. Whether you are with me or not, it does not make a difference.”, I want to prove him wrong. I want to tell him that Tara is the light of his life, for she has it in her name, itself. Turning away from her would only increase his duration in the darkness. I wish Ved could see Tara through my eyes – an angel who had mirror for eyesight, that reflected the inner beasts of Ved. Sometimes, I think, this is why he did not dare to look into her eyes. He feared confrontation. But Ved, it’s okay. Just give her a chance. I am sure she will sit next to you until you fix yourself. I know this because she assures “Bin bole baatein tum se karoon. I will talk to you without speaking”. What a rollercoaster of a song this is.

Aren’t Kalyanams for Fools, Tara?

O Kadhal Kanmani by Mani Ratnam (DOP: PC Sreeram)

Tension, smiles, flirtation, lust, love, fear and the pain of separation. This Mumbai Local has been the cradle of every single mood of Adi and Tara. From Adi yelling “Makku Chaniyane, go back!”, to Tara questioning Adi “Ipdi thaan ponnunga pinnaadi sutthuviya?”, they fall in love with each other, slowly and silently. It was because of the train that Adi caught to Ahmedabad, he got to see the side of Tara that broke down and the side had lost hope in marriage. It is because they missed the same train, they get to make their own song on ‘Loopy’ and dance in a hotel room like two excited kids. From expressing their sexual desires on their way to Tara’s hostel to carrying her luggage and the goldfish bowl to Adi’s house, the Mumbai Local stayed a silent spectator when the youngsters took a quantum leap in their relationship without realizing it. When Adi disappeared without a note, Tara looks for him in the train and quietly sits in one the empty coaches, disappointedly. Till the very end, their fear of commitment was silenced by the rumble of this train. Adi and Tara decided to go with the flow. But, the howling wind and the racing Mumbai Local had other plans for them. It is this train that restored Tara’s faith in eternal love and proved that Adi can become Mark Zuckerberg irrespective of his relationship status. Tara, an architect who intricately designed her life and Adi, a gamer who had spring under his shoes for new experiences, were ready to receive the kind of love that is perpetual, but just were unaware. Thanks to the whistles of the Mumbai Local that brought their stars closer. Without this train, would Adi and Tara exist and hold a place in our hearts?