The year that was

A year that taught me more, gave me more and took away more than I had ever imagined! Unabashedly, I must confess the year belonged to the novel and all mighty Corona Virus - like a scripted play, a news item from a faraway land turned into a domestic threat and finally evolved into a game changer epidemic of the year!

And the epidemic brought about a change – a stunning change that kept me gaping and guessing in equal proportions…it changed the human in me, the employee in me, and alas the wonderstruck traveller in me as well! It broke into my notions of the “now”, of the “permanent” and of things that would never change..it toyed with my swinging emotions, my heart oscillating between hope and despair through the year….it exposed the fragility and brittleness of what I thought was “within our control” – all age-old concepts of domesticity, business, home and society thrown into the wind just like that!

But it also brought me closer to places, things et al that I ignored in the mechanics of daily living..a little pause that helped me observe..the buttony eyes of the tiny squirrel in the garden, the aroma of cashews melting into a sheet of ghee, the palette of the twilight sky, the silence of the village life..and countless phenomenon that just ground into powder as I zipped through from one routine to the other..

It also brought me closer to myself, my loves and my hates – the warmth of mother’s coffee and conversations, the good fortune of hot family meals, the endless chatter of a little woman that fills all the spaces in between..the falling in love over and over again with the numerous characters in my books..the ecstasy of thrillers that I devoured in my pyjamas and sprawling on the home couch – art, literature and movies all streaming into your home at your will and time..

It also brought me face-to-face with some sad truths- that I can never bake that ‘insta-worthy’ cake or a pizza that can earn a culinary star…some talents are best kept away from the precincts of your resume..the pointlessness of safekeeping your shoes – one for each ‘occasion’ when all you need is a pair of home slippers to float from home to office and back…the natural unruliness of your hair and that you could survive through a year without a single visit to the salon and yet look beautiful in your own way..

Yes the year turned me upside down but it also turned me inside out – shedding a few layers of skin that I had mistaken for a part of me – what is left for the new year is the pink and pure version – ready to glow, ready to add more and ready to face off the new year..

If only

 

If only…

If men were as good as their mothers thought them to be

If women were as good as the odes in their honour

If leaders were as good as their manifestos

If employees were as good as their resumes

If employers were as good as their websites

If families were as good as vacation brochures

If children were as good as in the commercials

If godmen were as good as the scriptures

If the food was as healthy as the wrapper claimed

If we remembered each favour just as we remembered each small folly

If we said every word that we spoke in our head

If humanity were as good as the history we write

If the year was as good as the resolution

If only..

 

Jallikattu– much more than a bull

 Jallikattu represents India at the Oscars and is a proud symbol of Malayalam moviedom and what it stands for ..authentic storytelling, realism and characters that have a soul beyond stardom and glamour.

While the plot simplistically put is about a group of villagers pursuing a wild bull run amok, the story and the undertones are much more than meets the ‘bullseye’..the portrayal and the symbolic irony of the beast in each human is raw and hits you hard as the story unfolds..it is a reality check for all that is happening around us..

Jallikattu is definitely a stunning audio visual narrative and the voices of the villagers, the forest and the violence that erupts is gripping to say the least. It also captures the misty beauty of the bridges, the trees and the village with elan and speaks a silent story of the forest, its creatures and the greed of the human. And then it traverses beyond the borders of beauty to the skin of humans and the little sparks that are enough to bring down humanity to its knees – a surreal comparison to the reality that splashes across our newspapers…All it needs is a bull to unite, divide and kill – a mischievous parable of the little things that spark outrage in our country.

The recognition also comes well justified for the efforts of the ensemble cast that put its soul into each character and they exude rawness and realism that blends beautifully into the story. A simple reminder that you do not need big names, flashy ‘item songs’ and exotic locations to make a good movie – a truthful story well said is perhaps enough?

The movie stays with you for a while and rakes up a thousand thoughts – of the helplessness of the bulls, the muscle of the powerful, the thoughtlessness of mobs, the focus on the tree rather than the forest, the methodical murder of forests and unsatiating greed of humans..

So no matter what happens at the Oscars, (is it our colonial past that we need the Oscars to finally ‘stamp’ a good movie?) Jallikattu has opened up the conversation of ‘Indian movie’ that goes beyond Bollywood, song-and-dance routines, pastel ‘ghagras’ and almost breaks open the path for more regional movies to have their time under the sun!

Let's make a Diwali!

Some moments – they bring in light into our lives – not too brash not too harsh – not LED…just a small wicker lamp that slowly and soothingly light up our lives.. And as we recognize those moments, Diwali happens..easy, numerous and countless in its occurrence! Perhaps our whole life is spent finding these moments or letting these slip by and reminiscing of the Diwali that could have been..

This Diwali, I want to pause, not run..to recognize, not look away..to indulge, not remorse..So I paused to see the sky and the sunset – to witness a Rangoli in the sky – bright colours bursting into a million palettes- effortless and inexpensive. I chose to overlook the stuttering and the blundering of a Rangoli design at home, instead recognized the glimmer of innocent enthusiasm in my daughter’s eyes as she painstakingly worked her way through a design – her effervescence summing up a thousand diyas… I chose to not feel deprived without the usual quota of delicious sweetness boxed into ‘office gifts’ ..instead indulged in the sweetness of home cooked delicacies laced with mother’s love - more sinful and more addictive than the ghee-dripping ‘mysorepa’ that usually finds its way home during Diwali..

And like all festivities, there is a bit of history, a bit of justification and a bit of story that we like to weave – and so while I may not be able behead any serious evils, the least I can do is excavate some goodness instead..recognize the goodness of family and friends around me, the luxury of my life where square meals do not haunt me and the freedom of good times that I can bestow myself without guilt or fear..

Maybe the evil lies within me – the evils of procrastination and prejudices – age old habits that never die so easily…the evils of disrespect and discrimination – we all are guilty of gluttony – overstuffed societal norms and overdosed morality..This Diwali – let’s put these into the fire – light up a few lives, burn out a few evils and sweeten a few moments – not all Diwalis need a box of Kaju Katlis?

 

 

Beast in the Nation

I mastered my fear, mustered my courage

Seething fury, disillusioned

Questioning the Beast that sat on his mighty throne

Would you rape a mother?

He tilted his head in slight disbelief

Would you bury a daughter alive?

He now almost look amused

Would you kill brothers by the dozen?

To this he broke into a raucous laughter

He pestled something to powder

Chewed and spat a bloody red stain

I looked closely

There it was  - powdered remains of equality, justice and secularism

In a deep crimson red of shame

That was the last I saw

Before bullets came pelting

 

 

Forties- Here I come

 
Forty or not
Still the teenager that rebels and retorts
But not reined by ‘what people think’
 
Still the daughter who loves to be spoilt
But can indulge another child with equal love
 
Still the lady who cries at the cinema
But can control a burst of fury or two when needed
 
Still the child with dreams and flying wings
But can ground and anchor at the right moment
 
Still the woman who will not bow
But will in gratitude of the haves
 
An emotional pulp of sensitivity and senselessness
An oddity of principles blurred with habits
A heart that breaks very often
A spine that hates to yield
 
Yes forties are something
When grey hair tugs at your heart than your scalp
When ‘middle aged’ seem real and dangerously close
 
And yet they are nothing
For I still look up, beyond and below
For I need my rainbow, my sunshine and my earth
For I still look within and around
For I need my iron will and molten heart and warmest hands
 
 

Maveli Dreams

Little yellow circular pleasures – kaya chips they say in Kerala..

They froth and swim in a dreamy pool of coconut oil..

A bit crispy, a bit damp, a bit of mother’s touch..

They pop into ecstasy and announce the arrival of Onam.

 

Plucking flowers and shredding leaves

Flitting butterflies bursting into colours

A tradition of ‘pookkalam’ erupts every morning

Beautifying the courtyard of every Malayalee

 

Banana leaves swaying and waiting

The coconut flakes melting into curries

The rich ‘ada’ dissolving into milky oceans of payasam

Grand Onam feast is ready – colours and calories aplenty

 

The cottony white mundu caressing the resplendent gold ‘kasavu’

Ebony oily tresses cascading down the damsel ‘mangas’ of Kerala

Traditional weaves and handloom warps brimming with pride

Beauty, couture and culture draping the Onam ready Malayalees

 

Eyes brim with Maveli dreams of prosperity

Minds afloat with hopes of Maveli times of future

Masked – yet the smiles trickle out

Sanitized- yet the hands reach out to help another

 

The Malayalee awaits…Maveli days of cheer

 

 

Scent of the Chembakam

When the 'Chembakam' releases a haven of smells into the garden, I knew what I missed all this while in the confines of a home in the city. 

When the solitary 'Chembarathy' shines bright and red among its green companions, I know I am home – home to the greens of the plantain leaves, to the browns of mango leaves that have given all their mangoes away, to the ochres of jackfruit leaves that have a few token jackfruits left behind on the trees..

When your mornings are intruded with birdy chirps and calls of insects unknown..you unknowingly keep the beep of the incoming mails aside to participate in the sounds of the nature..when butterflies peek curiously while you relish a newspaper and a cuppa, you exhale – the stress of a virtual office seems distant in this tableau..

When ‘a handpicked tulsi finds its way to the morning tea, when mother hurriedly plucks ‘payar’ (lobia?) and cooks up lunch in a jiffy, when you inhale a medicinal plant to cure that nagging cold…you know that ‘garden to home’ takes a whole new meaning and that nature is never too far away.

When amongst the din of deadlines, daily updates and drumming, you hear the rain splattering and the winds wailing, seeking your attention - you unconsciously give in - disconnecting from the superficial stress of an email, connecting, caressing the monsoons as she ‘arrives’…

When you stumble upon a browned, donkey eared Nancy Drew as you clean and sweep, you are transported to eras past - the Enid Blytons of innocence that gave way to droolworthy Hardy Boys, a bit of Dickens, a bit of Kundera and Gibran – all pouring into your adolescence and finding its way through your adult mind – the scribblings of friendships and smells of places of your past..

As the sensory experiences add up, work from home turns to work from ‘home-home’, home to your roots, to your past, to the coconut trees that tower over the landscapes, to the rains that mischievously tickle and drop..to the rains that sometimes loses its manners and pours its monstrosity from up above – but who is complaining as I sit in my verandah and witness it all ?

Friendship remembered..

Maybe not the best of times to celebrate a friendship day but perhaps the best of times to revere and relish the friendships we have infused into your lives, so deep and so wide that they no longer feel different from our lives.

Friendships that changed each life event, that made each milestone seem different and created a ‘tag’ for each stage of our lives. Friends that interspersed with our lives so unknowingly that you can no longer differentiate the era from the friendship…

So you can never walk through your childhood corridors without the memories of the uniformed buddies who gulped canteen food and gossiped with the same energy… you can never remember Math without the ‘combined study’ sessions with a set of confused school buddies where we ate more and understood less of Math…you can never forget that cusp of adolescence without remembering the endless nights of girl talks…

You cannot but reminiscence of days of rebellion and ‘I know it all’ phases where your pride, your professional studies and your thoughts all mingled and molded in the company of friends we kept.. the journeys of studies and cramming, of thoughts, dreams, and ideas, of those ‘retro denims’ and hideous hairstyles – never a moment that you can savor without the friends who circled around you every moment…

And when life took you on uncharted territories of employment ,matrimony , motherhood and the likes…old faces, new faces all followed us through – some holding anchor, some ‘compassing’, some jesting, some steering and some simply ‘present’ to make the voyage a meaningful one..we aged, matured, ripened (and rot?) with friends in tow..

So this Friendship Day though I never understood ‘days’ and their meanings, I do feel a sense of longing, love and despair - did I hug enough, laugh enough and talk enough while I had the chance? While we mask and isolate ourselves more, can we hope for those nights of abandon and days of chatter and conscience cleansing conversations?

Perhaps this too is a phase where your zoom calls and virtual meet-ups will merge into the memory that we can create of a phase of COVIDness and isolation..and where memories are being made, a friendly face and a warm hand will never be too far away?

Good movies and moviemakers

While we have lost many a film personality this year, the loss of Sachi the movie maker seems to weigh heavily on my mind today especially since I recently got smitten by his latest and (greatest?) – Ayappanum Koshi…

A movie par excellence, a movie without faults and a movie that has a balanced head and heart – a rare feat that movies can boast of. And the intelligence of this movie maker is so evident in the fine balance he strikes between the blacks, whites and greys that there is never a decisive moment when we the audience can decide who is the ‘good man’ amongst them all?

Ultimately it is a simple movie of conflict between two men; but talks so much more and extends to such boundaries that only a smart movie maker can do without preaching or moralizing the characters. A lesson on how entertainment and humanity can be packaged together into crispy dialogues and stellar performances, a lesson that comedy doesn’t really need to be mindless and a lesson that simple stories with a good heart can touch the audience far deeper than computer graphics and ‘super stars’.

And I can’t but touch upon the generosity with which the filmmaker has finally lent a ‘voice’ and ‘character’ to its lady actors – finally a movie where the woman has a mind of her own and can stand there in sunshine and not under the shade of the male characters (which is the norm?). During trying times of inequality, here is a movie that breathes justice – whether it is the equal weightage for all characters, the strength given to the ‘lesser mortals’ on screen and the vulnerability that is portrayed by the ‘lead’ characters – truly a democratic movie that shines light on the greys of the people, the power of the powerful and the flaws in the upbringing of men..

It is a loss for movie lovers, a loss for humanity and perhaps a cue for film makers to shirk that need for ‘super star-struck’ characters, the need for ‘macho tones’ for men and take to earthy characters, sincere portrayals and movies that simply have a ‘good heart’.

All lives matter

The rot lies within us and the symptoms tumble out in our daily news – a choke here, a rope there, a mob here and a monstrosity there – all telling us a tale – a tale of lost lives and lost causes and a tale of the history that we have crushed to pulp.

We were the fortunate generation which came into life after the carnage and bloodshed, the generation that was born into a life of equality and nondiscrimination – cocooned from the revolts and revolutions that changed mankind. But what did we do with the silver platter – we ate out of it with unabashed gluttony, we ensured that we never looked into the eyes of the starving soul who peered into the platter and we finally hid that platter away from the eyes of the ‘others’ – it is after all for our ‘selfish consumption’.

The slavery, the misogyny, the partitions, the walls and the apartheid that took lives but hoped to establish a sense of justice and ‘fairness’ to the world just seems like a rather good waste of human lives - we still practice these ‘honourable’ traditions but it is packaged with finesse and powdered with rouge and sometimes masquerade itself as policy and practice. But the disguise doesn’t do its job as the person at the receiving end will feel it all – the injustice, the bias, the untold words and visible signs break hearts, end journeys and choke lives.

We all are party to the pandemic around us – not the physiological one, but the silent and mental one that is floating around the globe – sometimes unchecked, sometimes asymptomatic and sometimes fatal. We are the generation of ‘tolerators’- we tolerate if it doesn’t affect us, we tolerate if it is not a ‘big deal’ and before we know it the insults have turned into slaps, the grope has turned into assault, and the bias turned into murder – will we still tolerate? An answer which time or struggle will tell.

The Bangalore Breeze

The breeze of Bangalore – that one seductive temptation that I can never deny - is back …brushing through my hair a moment and fondling my cheeks another..it is an allurement that indulges my senses and a vice that I never break away from..

So the breeze has successfully chased the demons of summer away from the city and sweat and swearing that comes with the sweat seems to have vanished at least for the moment. The sticky sweltering beads of sweat finally waved goodbye and left me to peaceful existence – the violence of summer seems to have finally left the home.

The breeze takes me to the greener memories of Cubbon Park – of walks in the parks, of the bubbles floating through the greenest grass, of family outings, of the crunchy peanuts that a determined vendor thrusts into your hands, of a father who loved the exertion of long walks. And not long after, Lalbagh beckons me with the breezy mornings that we spent in its august company, the ghee dipped dosas that we ravished at the legendary MTR, the floral patterns that baffled me with its odd angles and patterns, the squirrels that bravely touched the bread crumbs left behind.

How easy for things to whirr past into memories, how difficult to now comprehend the ‘lockedness’ of our existence – how we never used the space we always took for granted, how we never socialized while we had all the chances thrown at us, how we never hugged as much as we could. A simple trip to the park now looks complex, ridden with fear and paranoia. And the grass, flowers and the squirrels reign undisturbed by humanity.

But you can’t lock down the Bangalore breeze- it flutters, teases and rejuvenates at its free will. You can’t shut out the Bangalore breeze for it is a phenomenon that must be experienced, loved and savored – some good things still live in the city after all.

The Child in the house, the Child in me

Sometimes, we adults are so engrossed in the world that we have created for ourselves and the world that we have built in our minds that we miss the very obvious. So when the child in my house throws questions at me- I get irked, provoked, discomforted and sometimes simply stunned into silence.

My usual day at ‘work at home’ as they call it - is a blend of sheer labour peppered with exasperating interactions and sometimes ending with bloody corporate volleys. But as the job and the self blurs into oblivion, she interjects with innocent queries that bombard me as philosophical bombs that shake the very premise of my ‘usual workday’. Questions like what do I do..what is a team..who becomes a boss..why is it called a boss – questions that I never sat down to evaluate in ages, questions that make my conscience squirm and questions that make me rethink my existence.

A child in the house is worth having a thousand therapists, guides, moralists, fitness gurus and one large alarm bell in hand  - she makes me jump start the day the ‘healthy’ way as I fulfill the ‘righteous mother’ role, she ensures that I eat the food that I have labelled as ‘good’ for her (and errr me too now without a choice) and she ensures that I keep my feet in motion in strict adherence to the 20-20-20 principle – wonder how children learnt this in the first place -  for every 20 seconds of your legs on the couch, there will definitely be a shout for something to make you move your legs!!

And as you try to break through the adult stresses of work, health, money and material things  - the child in the home suddenly sprinkles you with magical dust- the magical dust of simple joys and simpler desires -  so you will realize the therapeutic power of cutting, rolling and colouring paper strips and appreciate the soothing effect of crayons and paints that colour your fingertips. She will teach you a lesson or two of the magical beauty of fulfilling small desires , of breaking your adult ego, of the freedom that frog jumps give you and of succumbing to humility when you cannot touch your toes as lithe as her!

Slowly and steadily the child in the house brings out the child in you too – and you start enjoying the curiosity of how a home-cooked dish will turn out, you start looking forward with feverish anticipation for the rains and you start to lick the remnants of an ice cream out of a bowl as the last drop of liquid paradise melts in your mouth! Childhood never looked so close and easy!

Saudade

Each person has a certain yearning, an element that fires her up and it would have to be the mountains for me. The longing is more acute as I live, walk and now lock down myself within walls of a city that smells of concrete and steel.

My journeys through the small hillocks, valleys and the mighty mountains keep breaking at my mind as waves of the past, the murmur of the mountain breeze crisp in my ears, the scent of the evenings in a valley enlivening my senses. The mountains never leave you – they stay where they are but keep calling out to you from up above and keeps you wanting for more.

And here is where ‘might’ might matter but a small hillock is no less superior and can bring wafts of freshness and breezy pleasures to you, a small winding path to the valley brings much more than better views. A valley and a small hill town cleanses you of your material greed, it teaches you to love the air, to enjoy the warmth of a hot tea and to immerse into the sunset and dewy sunrises of the valley!

But there is something about might  - the mightier than the mightiest – the Himalayas- it reigns supreme as the emperor of the clouds. A sight to behold, a sight to experience and a sight that will remain a part of you. No matter which profile, which side and which view, the sight of the Himalayas evokes an emotion that I am yet to encapsulate into a word. Whether covered with mist, embroidered with snow or cascaded with rain – its bewitching beauty never fades and in the company of pristine clouds, it stays there in all its royalty and glory.

So the feeling of Saudade – the deepest longing for the mountains, for the Himalayas or maybe just the little hill town next door. So today I am on a winding journey through the memories of trips to the mountains, of the coldest shivers in the snow, of the piping sweetness of masala chai and the rainbow of shades that embraces the mountains every evening.

A mother to a mother

It takes a mother to appreciate another -  I realized too late into adulthood.

As the pains of ‘labour’ (why do they term it labour I wonder?) drilled through my abdomen and a new being erupted into this world, a small prayer and wonderment at the breed of “mothers” escaped my thoughts. As I was splattered with heady mixes of milk, vomit, puke and baby gurgles – I could not but think of another mother who would have experienced the same a couple of decades back..

And now as the baby smells disappear and the voices of a micro woman emerges in the household, I can’t help being thankful for the mother who steadied the spine, leveled the head and softened the heart in her upbringing. There was a strength in her softness, courage in her silence that she tried to imbibe into my upbringing and I try in vain to infuse into my own motherhood diaries. 

As the constant duels between the right way and the way of a daughter rise up in my motherhood journeys, I always look up to the mother who gently changed my course during times that I veered off the ‘right trajectory’..she had a way  - of correcting without forcing; of enlightening without insulting – the right balance where ‘advice’ and ‘sermons’ were well distinguished.

And in a time where she was not exposed to the science, math, media and jargon of motherhood (that we today are confused than strengthened with) - she held her own and took out the right ‘hat’ that was needed – brought out the love when loneliness prevailed, the friendship when adolescence blossomed, the guidance when life-changing perplexities accosted and a simple hand when all you needed was that support to face the world. A simple reminder to myself that there is no one way to raise a daughter and that motherhood is a tango that needs the right rhythm, pace, energy and intent to make a mark.

And perhaps she also prepared me for a world that was more evil and complicated than my ‘pigtail’ days – as capitalism, in-sensitivities, fanaticism erodes our humanity – the tenets of simple goodness, humility and equality that she sowed always sprouts in support of the battles that ensue.. Perhaps she also prepared for a ‘me too’ in anticipation - arming me with the confidence and the steel to brave the battles of unfairness and discrimination that lay ahead..

My motherhood challenges continue and if I am but able to give half of what was bestowed to me, I would perhaps give myself a pat on my back.. If I can but raise a daughter who loves with purity, who finds happiness in simplicity, who appreciates beauty without judgement and who can stand up for the woman she is – I could rest in the comfort that I repaid my mother at least in part of what was inherited.

Mask It Oh Corona

Mask It

Muffle it

But the virus is within us

Migrants can starve

Fear has class, creed and categorization

Humanity has socially distanced us

Alcohol and ambrosia are synonymous

Let medication and a square meal come later

We sterilized our hearts of sensibilities

Work from home all the men folks

Slave and “donkey away” women folks

Men’s hands sanitized of blood and sweat

Mask it

Muffle it

But Oh Corona – you too breed inequality

You too exude the Divide!

Fatherless

How do you get used to a father gone from your midst? The grief first shrouds you, then pulverizes your soul and finally drills a gaping hole that would never get filled..it remains there as a reminder of what was lost and what can never be found.


And it reminds you everyday of the joys and bonds of being a daughter – being a princess to your father – with a father’s death, the ‘daughter of a father’ also dies. It tells you of the smokescreen life that we lead – all the materiality in the world and the flimsiness of it all – it takes but a moment for all this to come crashing down – it took but a few moments for his laughter to end and his presence lost forever. And then I think of the callousness of my complaints – my job, a worthless promotion, a verbal spat with someone and an endless list of troubles…Troubles I call them? How does it even equal in the greatest grief of all – of a parent gone and never to return?


And life changes forever – every silent hour is deafening, absence more prominent than ever before – not a musical note that I can appreciate without tears in my eyes, not a laugh that I can end without thinking of him, not an art performance that I can breathe in  without thinking of the man who introduced me to all the art and artists of the world. And perhaps he left behind a bit of him in me – and each musical note, each chore at home and each rational thought 
brings me closer to his being. 

Perhaps I honour him with each pure thought, each kind word and each rational act and I owe him my unbiased upbringing, my anti-extremist views and the will to never merge into the ‘crowd’ – for with his life he showcased the simplicity of a good life – all it needs is unconditional giving, a will of your own, fair thinking and the grit to live by your own ethos and principles. 


And what remains is me and the zillion moments of beauty that he introduced me to for who am I without him – perhaps an extension of him and all I can ensure is to live by his tenets, continue the web of relationships that he spun to perfection, fight for the equality that he always ‘did’ than ‘said’ and continue my journey for appreciating art for simply being art and never anything else.


So I ask myself again -  how do you get used to a father gone? The answer is never…

We lost him

We lost him

The goodness in him

The unconditional giving

The more doing than the showing



I lost him

And I lost myself

Never a father’s daughter again

Never to be ‘spoilt bratted’ ever again



I find him

In myself and in my deeds

The principles that he sowed in my heart

The uprightness of a head held high



I find him

In the world wide network he wove for himself

In the beauty of art that he breathed till the last

In the purity of relationships that he lived and died by

The serendipity of Jackfruit chips

I know not if I am more grateful for the jackfruit chips or my mother making the chips. The waft of coconut oil drowning tiny yellow specks of jackfruit is more nostalgic than aromatic to the ‘Mallu’ in me. It takes me back to the days of innocence and vacations where ‘chipmaking’ was a family festival.

Jackfruit chipmaking is perhaps a unique duo of art tangoing with supreme skill - from identifying the right jackfruit from the garden to the laborious task of slicing and plucking the right ‘chola’ leading up to the grand finale of frying and spreading! And all of us swarming around in the little kitchen to enjoy the puffy yellow chips right off the steam….

Its not about the jackfruit really but the whole exercise and bustle that brought all the inmates together – while I stood averse to the white gooey milk that oozed from the jackfruit, I was delighted to munch and crunch those heavenly chips as it still dripped with fresh coconut oil.

Closer to recent times, it was also a reminder of home and the spoils from the garden of familiarity – the prickly fruits that burst in full display from the window, the  coziness of sitting in one’s kitchen as you pop fresh chips while chatting with your mother – things we took for granted but now realize the serendipity of it all..

Grateful for the jackfruits in my new ‘urban’ apartment garden, for the comfort of a mother and the chips laced with memories and rootedness – it isn’t really about the jackfruit after all?

Finding the silver lining

It is strange how we have evolved so quickly into a ‘lockdown’ society and stranger that we have so beautifully succumbed to the ‘lockdown societal expectations’ with the same pace as the virus.

It is ironic that our lockdown problems also are as divided and as inequal as the world before Corona. So while some of us are trying to perfect our Dolgano coffee and busy getting the froth and foam right, some of us are struggling to find a place that we can call home. The haves are busy burning their flab while the have nots are scurrying for their daily grain. The need for health care and the lack of it dangles over us like a detonator ready to explode on one side. And we are sweating over our ‘lockdown lifestyle’ changes on the other. It is but one global cyclone that takes us with it – some of us spinning within its cloud, some trying to break free and some sitting by the wall watching the show unfold.

The economy, starvation, job loss and the little ‘lockdown paunch’ all worry us in varying degrees but truth be told, we are all worried. And as if the virus and its sticky nature wasn’t bad enough, we have the new lockdown norms and deluge of social media posts pulverizing our little space of confidence and calm. From new good habits to creative outbursts to fitness postures and not to forget the Dolgano – I am now worried about which one of these achievements can I call my own – performance pressure never leaves you does it -  even in the familiar territory called home?

But I am trying to look further to find my own silver lining – counting and bundling up the good things one by one…the honourable Time that we had shut the door on but who came home this Corona season – not its usual evasive self today but more the lazy idler at home. The ‘familyness’ that I have never experienced with such proximity since I left home since schooldays – when was the last time we all had our meals together without looking at the clock? The daily chores and housekeeping find me appreciative of the efforts of the help that came and we took for granted in our BAU lives. And that we all have the amazing will to brew up our own storms within the four walls  of our homes…

So in my isolation, I find my bonding and in my social distancing, I am drawn closer to my friends and family. A time and a place to be your own and be with your own – life does offer you a small rainbow each time and I did find my favourite blue after all!

Back to the roots

It takes a virus to let go of the trappings that have cobwebbed our life over a time that we have lost count of. While we are lost to the rioting, sedition accusations, the politics of politicians and the economy mombojumbo on one side, the world is gripped with a virus that has no cure and a greater fear of the unknown.

Through the year, people died and killed in the name of gods and religious sanctums..we fought to enter religious sanctums and we rebelled to expel people from various institutions…and now ironically the very same institutions and religious sanctums lie vacant…could we have said our prayers and indulged in good thoughts without this carnage?

Social distancing- the new buzzword that we now need to live by – can our country be finally cured of molestation and murders as these cannot be usually conducted at three feet distance? Where justice and courts could not distance criminals and crooks, the virus can finally unleash fear of consequence to the ravenous perpetrators of crime in our country?

Our consumer indulgences and entertainment lines had blurred and shopping and splurging became synonymous with ‘pastimes’ and now when malls, cinemas and shops put their shutters down, we stuffed our tail between our legs and picked up things to do within our home and with family. A little book, some home cleaning and simple conversations with family can also help us pass time without breaking our bank in a mall.

And for all the attention we showered on our gadgets and all the respect we offered our wifi speed, social interactions within the precinct of our homes was more challenging that social distancing.  The food without filters and family conversations that didn’t need broadcasting on social media suddenly seemed a novel idea to our whatsapp obsessed population.

We don’t now need to have a day that is instagrammable at home, we are now free of the pressure to look good as we no longer step out of our homes and our namaste feels cooler and peace and happiness could be simply achieved by washing our hands with soap.  The virus reeks fear but also oversimplified our complicated lifes!

You are More

You are not your pay check
You are not your waistline
You are not a diversity statistic

You are More
More than the flawlessness of your “fair and lovely” skin
More than the Michelin stars in your gourmet kitchen
More than the “spic and spanness” of your home

You are More
More than the sweat and perfectness of your child rearing
More than the shards of the broken “glass ceiling”
More than the alacrity of your daily chores

You are More
More than a well fit wife of your husband
More than a martyrium mother of your child
More than a decorated daughter of your parents

You are More..not Less…Woman you are More!

Clouds of Fear

 I fear the times

Of the clock moving at a pace that bothers me

Of the sudden departures from our family portraits

Of the fragile bonds that could break with the slightest tension



I fear the planet

Of the air that pollutes and poisons

Of the water that droughts and floods

Of the forests that destroys and weather destruction



I fear the nation

Of the words that cannot be spoken

Of the hands that cannot be held

Of the walls that stagnates our thoughts



I fear the heart

Of the emotions that we empty ourselves off each day

Of the beauty that we are blind to

Of the humanity that we blench and colour with brutality