Atrophy of civilization

I woke up to mom’s incessant taps on my bedroom door, which was an indication that it was 11 AM and I should wake up now. With eyes still half-shut, my hand reached towards my phone. Before unlocking it, I did a quick sign of the cross because I was taught that the day should start with a prayer. And with a pandemic going on, I decided to put this advice to practise. You know, just in case. I opened my notification panel and swiped away 3 unread messages from the family group, 27 unread messages from the group that had crossed the 1 week mute period, and I started reading the headlines from a newspaper I had subscribed to. I had stopped keeping a track of covid statistics since mid-April; it was evident that the statistics are only going to ascend, so I stopped bothering. Then I read the headline ‘9 people die on  special shramik trains’. I thought about whether to open the article, or scroll to the next one. Without much thought, I decided to skip it and promptly scrolled ahead to sift through the other updates. I didn't want to subject myself to information that spoke of suffering of the labour class of my country. It saddened me to read about them, how they were starving, walking for miles barefoot under the scorching sun, only to get beaten with lathis at state borders. I felt guilty of my privilege when I read about them, so I hid my head under the sand and refrained from trudging in that zone lest it 'disturb’ me. Come to think of it, it is such a spineless thing to do.

I wish it was that easy for them though. I wish they could close their eyes and go back to sleep because this was all just a bad dream. No, the country wasn't under a lockdown, no they hadn't lost their jobs, no they were not starving, no they were not homeless. This would all just go away if they stopped looking at it, pretended it wasn't really happening, and merely scrolled past. Like a game of peek-a-boo, but all your problems go into hiding and you never have to find them. Alas, they weren't the ones in an air conditioned bedroom. They didn't have the privilege to act like this was a dystopian image far from reality. This was, in fact, their reality. And they were at the receiving end of it.

If you have access to this article, and are reading it on your phone/laptop, it is clear that you too, like me, are leading a minorly-inconvenienced convenient life. Since the day we got introduced to this pandemic, a lot of things changed for us. We had to learn how to work from home, to cook for ourselves, to hold conferences in Zoom, and to stay home for weeks without losing our minds. And frankly, it was a bit difficult, but it wasn't impossible. It was merely a change, and we took our time to get accustomed to this change. But for some people of our country, the consequences of this crisis wasn't a change per se, it was an added hurdle in the series of hurdles we had always kept throwing their way without the slightest hesitation. The ground reality was the same both before and during the pandemic, it was only being blatantly exposed now. Like an MRI accidentally detects a tumour, Covid-19 detected the cancer in our society that had started metastasizing long ago. Without dwelling into the vestigial Kshatriyas and Shudras phase of our ancient system, let me simplify it by relating it to something more recent than distant. It began when we denied weekly off to our house-help, when we grumbled about how the metro construction was blocking all the roads, but never noticed the man standing under the sun each day building us that very metro. We could pass the same faces every day, but it would be impossible for us to recognise them because they never existed for us. They were just auxiliary characters in our society who served us silently, and were expected to remain such. The only thing they were entitled to was their daily wage. That's how the system functioned. And that's how we let it function. Until of course, the exodus began.

We had forgotten them so conveniently that we never stopped to think how this lockdown would affect them. What would happen to that major class of our population who made sure all the wheels were oiled well to keep this country running? I do not come from a position where I can point fingers, because I don't know the first thing about ruling a country. But I have been a citizen of this country long enough to know that we openly and shamelessly, walk over the dignity of our labourers without a flicker of guilt. Not once have we stopped to even acknowledge, let alone appreciate that they were the hands that built our country. Every piece of infrastructure that took birth in this land was made by them. From the schools we study in to the trains we travel in, everything was a fruit of their labour. We may have planned it, but they were the ones who executed it. Actually, it is no surprise that we turned our backs on them with such ease and nonchalance. Because they were never whole entities for us, they were just their 12-hour shifts. We never really saw what happened to them when they went back home to live their life with their meagre incomes. We didn't give them a voice, so how would we know? We didn't co-exist with them. We existed, and meanwhile we permitted them to exist along the margins, only to come to the centre when we needed them and then scurry off again to the margins from where they were barely visible. Who gave us that right? Who are we to deprive them of their integrity? George Orwell in his book ‘Animal farm’ had a satirical dig on our society as a whole, when along the course of the book, the motto ‘All animals are equal’ gradually changed to ‘Some animals are more equal than other animals’. That book was published in 1945, two years before India earned independence. And after 73 years of our independence, it is so disgraceful to note that the dig still applies very actively to us.

Today when I see migrant labourers, waiting in long queues for food, or waiting outside railway stations with their flimsy hopes of getting back home, I wonder what their thoughts must be when we shove microphones at their faces and ask them to narrate their experience so we can have an idea of it. Do they curse us whilst looking at the camera, knowing that there's a person at the other end of the screen who must be watching them, feeling sad for them? Do they let out a hollow laugh because our sympathy does not solve the least of their problems? When they walk on the road, dragging their measly belongings, with a mask around their face that's supposed to protect them, do they think of us? Us who failed them? Do they think of ever coming back? We fed them two meals a day for years and we assumed that was us doing enough. Today we have proof that it was never enough. And our prolonged apathy is what has caused this catastrophe. Covid-19 may have unearthed it, but we were the catalysts all along.

And the most apalling thing of all is, no matter how bad we feel right now, no matter how devastating it is to read about their plight, when the pandemic ends, and things finally return to normal, we will forget about all of this. We will forget about their ordeal, we will forget how we betrayed them and failed them, and we will continue living life per usual. However, even if we try to erase it, I hope they don’t let us. I hope they never forget. I hope they remember our misdeeds, our apathy, and I hope they keep reminding us how we failed as a nation to protect our vulnerable, how we failed to provide for those who needed our help the most. How we sat in our houses built by those very people, and empathized with them but did NOTHING to prevent it. We were the initiators of this extremely unfortunate crisis, but the repercussions were only felt by them. And I hope they make us pay the price for it. Because that is the only way to keep it from happening again. Our race forgets too easily, and our race categorises people into ranks that we don't openly acknowledge, but we all know they exist. For too long we have kept a class of people 'beneath' us, when they should have been a part of us, 'among’ us. All the NGOs and fundraisers working towards the betterment of our migrant labourers combined would not be enough to find a permanent fix to this problem. The blood is in all our hands. And it will take us a long time to wash off those stains. This is another freedom struggle, freedom from our apathy, the march has already begun. Be a part of it.

Doctors are not Gods.

Unpopular opinion: Doctors are not Gods.

With the ongoing corona crisis, a lot of attention has been drawn towards doctors and other healthcare workers who are out there in the frontline doing their best to avert this crisis (which they actually do on a regular basis, even without a pandemic). And I wholeheartedly mean it when I say that they are the backbone on which we are relying in current times. When we get out of this, it will be because of them (and certain other people). I also don’t mean to take anything away from them when I say this, but doctors are not gods. They never were. Not before corona, not now. Allow me to explain.

Medical literature is a work in progress . There's this term medicine uses, 'idiopathic'. It basically means the cause is unknown, we don't know why a certain disease/disorder occurs, but we are trying to find out. Now, I don't have a lot of experience, in fact, I'm still just a student, but from what I have learned and observed, when it comes to a lot of diseases, we are mainly prolonging the consequences, controlling the symptoms, and wading you through them a bit more comfortably until they disappear altogether. Sometimes they disappear, sometimes they don’t.  But there’s only so much a doctor can do. Because medicine is still undergoing research, and it always will. We know a lot more today than we did yesterday. And we can control morbidity and mortality in a much better sense now. But that still does not mean we know everything. The human body is complex, there’s a lot that goes on in it that’s beyond our understanding . So if you go to a doctor with the mentality that they are gods, and all your bodily woes will find a recluse in their expertise, I'm sorry to say that you will only be disappointed. Not because they are not good enough, because they are. They are the best version of healthcare that is available currently, and they are the best shot you have. But  medicine is still just evolving, and medical literature is not in a position yet where they can give you answers for everything. When you go to a doctor with the notion that he/she can help you with your illness, yes, they most definitely can. Because that is all that he/she is. A person in a position who can treat you, nothing more, nothing less. And in order for them to do that, they need your time, your patience, and they need you to understand that it is going to be a process. You cannot have unrealistic expectations of getting cured miraculously. They don’t have any supernatural powers like god. They are regular people like you and me. Medical science has not recognised miracles, and doesn’t know how to make them happen. If you want to see miracles, you can go to a temple or a church or a mosque, because you are not going to find them in a doctor.

We see violence against doctors increasing, is it because you hold them answerable and accountable for a life? That’s absurd, even God cannot guarantee life. No good doctor wants a superlative stature for himself. The primary problem arises when you stop treating doctors like fellow humans. Some years in medical school doesn't change the fact that they too are normal people in need of compassion, respect, and yes, rest. So I am sorry to say, but doctors are not gods. But maybe we can call them superheroes. Albeit, they were not born with superpowers, they studied a decade or more to earn them. Not very different from the rest of us then?

Love in the time of Corona

This is a really uncertain and difficult period we are all going through. It is the kind of stuff we read about in books, or watch on television. I mean, I read once in the bible that god would bring epidemics on earth, but I never thought it would actually happen. Here we are though, it is real, it is happening. And with it, it has brought a lot of vulnerable raw emotions. I’m not being naive or overtly optimistic  and telling you that this pandemic has brought us closer together as a community (which basically is the problem) (See what I did there?) Because a virus is not what I thought would bring us closer, I’d imagined it to be much less detrimental and a lot less life-threatening. However, I cannot deny a growing sense of belonging that we feel right now, a strong sense of kinship towards the planet and its people, irrespective of nationality or race. Here are a few experiences and observations of mine that made me realise that when we have everything to lose, we become the version of ourselves we were always meant to be. We embrace humanity.

I was flying, or rather fleeing, from Dubai to India, and this man next to me on the flight notified me that his mother had been suffering from a cold since a week, and that I should probably find another seat. He could have easily alarmed me and could have even gotten himself detained from the flight, but instead of worrying about his travel exemptions he chose to do the right thing. And there was this other passenger who asked a stranger for some sanitiser because he didn’t have any, and the stranger obliged because that’s what we have to do right now. We have to look out for each other.

We reached out. We spoke to people we haven’t spoken to in months and asked them if they were okay. We told them to wash their hands, stay in, and protect their elderly; these are things that are not usually a part of our conversations.

There was this video shot in Italy that went viral, people were in their balconies singing songs together, a couple was slow-dancing and everyone just looked hopeful.  They all tried to find little joys during their period of national lockdown, and it was heart breaking yet endearing all at the same time.

Some celebrities took to social media, and sang for their fans, tried to entertain them. I want to stop for a second and believe that they did it out of pure goodwill. Nobody paid Chris Martin to play songs for us on instagram, it was just a free concert! They had the ability to spread some cheer to those who were quarantined at home, and they made the most of it.

Most importantly, we saw doctors and nurses and all the healthcare workers sacrifice their safety and comfort to fight this for us. They spent sleepless scary nights trying to treat those affected, and tirelessly did all that they could to evade this crisis. Even when they didn’t know how to help the situation, they continued to do their duty. And nothing we do will ever be enough to repay this huge debt. But the least we can do is whenever you go to a doctor next, treat them with respect and compassion, and like fellow-humans, not like gods who can magically ease your suffering.

I believe when we come out of this, we’d have unfortunately lost some lives, our economy, and maybe even our paycheques, but not all would be lost. It would have instilled in us a much-needed sense of togetherness that we cannot do this alone, we have to be united if we are to ever find the light at the end of this tunnel. When we come out of this, it won’t be just the result of our brilliant healthcare workers, or the efforts taken by our government. It would be because humans recognised humanity, looked out for each other, and fought together (but at a distance) to destroy this virus that unfolded mayhem across the world. When we come out of this, it would be the result of love, brotherhood, and the sense of responsibility that we felt towards the people of this world, and the value that we gave to human life. Because for once, we didn’t see them as rich or poor, or categorise them based on race or religion. We saw them as just that- people. We recognised how little it takes to destroy our existence, and we embraced that vulnerability and forgot about our differences. We ensured that we tackle this crisis with love, compassion, and of course, our brilliant human mind that makes medical care possible. And when we get out of this, I hope we remember. I hope we never forget how trivial our species truly is, and how it is so important to protect it, and leave our prejudice and hatred at the other end of the world. The world that existed before a  27 kilobase virus threatened us with annihilation.

Millennial rumble

When I first started writing this article, I wanted to talk about how my generation is doing so much for the society, and the world as a whole. How we are educated, well-read, open minded, and willing to get shit done. But halfway through as I was drowning in my vanity, I realised we are here because of the people who brought us here, and taught us those values that have shaped us. And for that, I have to thank our older generation. You didn't do everything right, but you did do some amazing things. If we are here voicing our opinions, it's because you sculpted a platform for us to do that, so we will take that privilege, and we will channel it towards change. And change begins with a conversation. I am here not to proclaim how we are the future of this country, or how you can learn a lesson or two from the millennials, but I'm merely here to talk. And perhaps you'll see why we needed this talk, now more than ever.

It was a beautiful day 20-30 years ago when we entered this world crying, naked, and covered in weird amniotic shit. Less progressive, less open-minded, and less malleable. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful world to be born in. Earth was greener, glaciers weren’t melting rapidly, and society had a set of beliefs that it stuck to.  And then apparently we did something wrong, all of us. Because today the earth is burning, glaciers are disappearing, and society still has the same set of beliefs it is tenaciously stuck to. So did we progress, or did we manage to somehow go down the graph?

Now, there are two things we can do about this. We can either sit back and watch as the mayhem unfolds around us, or we can pick our asses off the couch and do some damage control. The first vital step towards that is to stop enabling. For centuries we have enabled things that led us to this juncture today. The blood is in all our hands.

We enabled disrespect to our surroundings and the earth we live in. We exploited her resources, and wrung them dry until we were left to grab on to loose ends whilst climate change loomed upon us and threatened us with complete annihilation. When Greta Thunberg stormed into the house and demanded us to take ownership of what we have done, people rose in unison and witnessed a renewed sense of belonging to this planet, and the need to ferociously protect it. That was a fight put up by a 16 year old, and it shook the fragile egos of old men in power who chose to react with casual ignorance. However, nothing could dull the reverberations that were felt across the world.

We enabled fascism and corruption. We brought a government into power and we stayed quiet. They took away our economy, our jobs, our freedom of expression. Then they raised questions about our identity, the people we love, our citizenship. Then they made a rookie mistake, they threatened our secularism, and our constitution. That is when we took to the streets, we raised slogans, we preached about love. We showed them that Bhagat Singh and Ashfaqullah Khan were both revolutionaries, and this land belongs to both of them. We let the government dabble with their power until their actions or inactions brought us to a point where the ideals of our country and constitution became obscure and almost indistinguishable. That is when we finally found our voices. Alas, it took longer than it should have.

We enabled patriarchy for centuries! We let them tell us where we belong, we let them disregard us and our capabilities lest we hurt their fragile masculinity. From Savitribai Phule to Malala Yousafzai, the world has seen some brilliant feminists who tirelessly preached and fought for our rights. Yet we allowed men to tell us we were beneath them. Worse, we even believed it when they said that. You think I'm complaining? Yes I am. And I'm not even done yet.

Since the beginning, our country has persistently tried to pass off bigotry, and intolerance as culture. Our elders preach that homosexuality is wrong, that it is 'abnormal’ and 'unnatural’ to fall in love with the same sex. And we dare speak of marrying them? Blasphemy! LGBTQIA+ rights are apparently against our sanskaars. I feel these sanskaars are a lot like pigeon shit. Tenacious, and unwanted. Nobody WANTS to deal with all the pigeon shit that's on their windscreen. It's just that there are a lot of pigeons around, and all you can do is scrape off the shit until one day the pigeon finds another commode. For how long are we going to let them shit on our society? These are the same people who passed the trans bill and seemed to not comprehend the blatant misuse of authority. Who gave you the right to decide our identity? Who gave you the right to tell us whom we can love and whom we can't? Perhaps, you don't see it the way we do, and we can't blame you entirely. With all that spite inside you it's hard for you to see that, well,  love is love, honey. It transcends everything else.

I know I made things look very grim, but let's also try to look at the silver linings. There's a heightened sensitivity that I see in the society now because we, the youth of this country, have opened our minds to what plagues this society in all forefronts. Be it the rights of the LGBTQIA+ community, climate change, CAA, or violence against students. We are talking about it, we are enlightening those who are unaware, and we are debating with those who are ignorant. And although we aren't quite there yet, it is the beginning. We have found our voices, and there's no going back now.

There are many wrongs we have to make right, and there's a lot I still don't understand. But at the end of the day, everything comes down to empathy and compassion. As long as we have those two things, we will end up doing something right. It is not going to be an overnight process, and it will save us all a lot of time if instead of pointing fingers, we did some introspection and saw where we went terribly terribly wrong.

Turns out, when 'they’ did wrong, we never turned them into right. When 'they' passed bills, we let them become acts. That changes now. The millennial wave will make sure we fix the mistakes we've made in the past. 'They’ are whom we have to fight in this journey towards a more tolerant society. We let years of beliefs turn into laws and we stuck to those flawed ideas of right and wrong because we were scared. We were scared to stand on a pedestal and demand for change. But fortunately for us, there were a few brave women and men who carved the way to a more accepting and tolerant future. And walking in their footsteps, we have learnt now that if there's ever going to be a change, we are the ones who will have to bring it. My heart brims with pride when I see people taking to the streets as well as the internet to fight for their basic rights to co-exist in this society. Their right as a citizen of this country irrespective of caste, their right as a queer, their right as a woman. Every mass movement began with an individual step, and the noise we make today, will turn into a rumble tomorrow.

Being a privileged straight woman, I have had an easier life and I have conveniently been oblivious of what affects people who are different from me, and for a long time I continued to remain so. Then I saw the pride flag somewhere, and it was mere curiosity that made me look it up on the internet. I was amazed, overwhelmed, and a little disappointed all at the same time. Amazed at the perseverance of the LGBTQIA+ community, overwhelmed by the ferocity with which they were fighting for their rights, and disappointed because it was the 21st century and people were still 'fighting’ for something that should have simply been granted to them, no questions asked. It is sometimes unfair how our generation is constantly criticised for being on our phones and procrastinating life. I agree we sometimes go overboard, but social media can be a beautiful place. It's a place where we can educate ourselves and be more sensitive towards issues that we aren't entirely aware of. I urge you to do the same.

For too long we have let old men and women rule our country, now it's time our voices reach them. Because our country cannot walk in a regressive path anymore. We will simply not allow it. Say what you will about us, when push comes to shove, we show up. And we are here to stay now. You have had your chance, now the baton is in our hands. And we will not only finish this race, we will also pick up those who have fallen along the way, and we will cross the finish line with kindness, compassion and grace. You meet these aunties at weddings you have no idea about, but apparently they know you very well, and they coo over you ‘Arey bacche kitne bade ho gaye hai’.

Yes aunty, hum bade ho gaye, ab hum dekhenge.

Hormones and Chromosomes.

Some Sundays are for cleaning, some are for studying, some are for writing, and some are just for lying in bed and doing nothing. Apparently, this Sunday was for everything. I woke up late, brunched on bread and cheese (for lack of eggs), took out my diary in an attempt to write, noticed some clutter in my wardrobe, cleaned and organized the mess. And when all of this was done, I sat down to study. Just when I was about to open my book, I remembered that I had forgotten to write in my diary, which was, in fact, the original plan. All good ideas come to you minutes before you commence reading a textbook, this one did too. And to satiate the itch in my brain, I had to open my diary and put ink to paper.  

So the thought that had caused the itch in my brain was, do people think of women as just hormones and chromosomes? Is it just me or is that really how the society sees us? No no, I do have a justification for why I think so. Here’s their idea of an ideal woman, right from childhood, all the way to late adulthood.

• Little girls are delicate and timid.
• Teenage girls are shy, and apparently hide behind their mother’s pallus whilst simultaneously learning how to cook and clean.
• Young adult girls are riddled with the need to get married and put the behind-the-pallu cooking and cleaning lessons to good use.
• Middle aged women are all about caring for their husbands, catering to their every not-so-self-sufficient needs, and overdosing on Maa ki mamta
• And when women grow old and senile, they pass on their legacy to their bahus and ensure that they are subjected to the khaandaani sexism, and make the same mistakes their young selves did.

So the gist of their entire lives is just this, ‘You are a woman. Behave accordingly.’ (Always in bold, underlined letters). Conservatively speaking then, if you round up their entire lives into two things, it’s just emotions, and roles that they have to play in each stage of their life. ‘The world’s a stage and each must play their part’, said Shakespeare. But apparently, it was strongly applicable only to women.

Also, why these generalised ideas for women? They say we all feel deeply and are too emotional. I know a lot of women who are not, and a lot of men who are. And primarily, what is so wrong about that? Why is being emotional considered a liability? You can pretend all you want that you have a tough shell that’s hard to crack, but here’s the thing, shells are supposed to be come out of. Try it sometimes. And any time we react strongly to anything, apparently we are on our period. I agree that PMS is real, I go through it often. But have you thought of the possibility that the world just gives us enough reasons to react strongly to things? We don’t have to bleed just to notice things that are wrong and call them out. So the next time a girl seems upset/angry/overwhelmed, don’t ask her if she’s on her period, perhaps try asking her what is wrong? Because I’m certain she has several answers to that question. And if she indeed is on her period, you can offer her some chocolate. Periods are like dementors, chocolate always helps.

And what is this thing about women being khuli tijoris? I agree we are tijoris, if being a tijori means we are of great value. However, I hardly think that is the context they use it in. Stop referring to us as something that comes with a lock and key, because keys can be duplicated, and locks can be broken, and there are a couple other things that can be broken if you use that anecdote again. Also, we have had a history of being locked under nonsensical customs and traditions for a really long time, and we may get triggered and lecture you on patriarchy if you make such references. Actually, you know what? People SHOULD be lectured on patriarchy as and when an opportunity arises, I wouldn’t feel too bad about that. After all, it is the need of the hour. You know what else is the need of the hour? Saving our planet from doom. It may not seem relevant in this dialogue, but it is relevant in every dialogue. SAVE THE PLANET!

So yes, my conclusion to all this is, we are not merely hormones and chromosomes, we are so much more, and so much beyond that. You would have known if you would have tried to listen and understand us before making juvenile statements like ‘wOmEN aRe So cOmpLicaTed bRoOoOoo’. We are not. We just want to be treated right. So just shut up, acknowledge, recognise, address, and try to fix the problem no little bit?

Potato world.

Dear whoever-is-reading,

I’m writing this because a brilliant mind thought of this and asked me to give words to it. So the thought is hers, but the words are mine. And somebody once said, ‘It’s the thought that matters’. (And it somehow became an idiom that we use whenever someone buys us a gift that sucks.)

So, getting back to the point, let me start by telling you a story that will make you cringe and look at me with distaste. But I will tell you anyway, because that’s the amount of shit I give about what people on the internet think about me (Kidding, please give me validation). So this is one of my oldest and lamest jokes, but I still take pride in it because even if no one else did, it made me laugh. A lot.
We were in our Botany practical hall, and our teacher whom we called ‘Indira, the tiger’ was teaching us botany (Not because it was a botany practical hall, but because she majored in Botany) She was giving us some unnecessary knowledge about sweet potatoes when I turned to my friends and said ‘Sweet potatoes can also be called Sonia potatoes’ .They looked at me poker-faced. Then I had to explain, ‘It’s because I’m sweet’.

That’s when the poker faces turned into face palms and eye-rolls. I don’t blame them, I had it coming. I mean come on, ‘Sonia potatoes’? But I just want you to look at the bigger picture here. Nobody thought I was so sweet, neither did I, but I had the audacity to put myself out there, look at my low self-esteem in the eye, and give myself enough credit to make a statement that was boastful enough to change the hierarchy of an entire vegetable. Now you must be thinking that it was my vanity speaking. I agree to disagree. There’s a thin line between vanity and self love. The line is made of unicorn poop and ice cream sprinkles, because it’s an imaginary line and you can make it with whatever you want.

Vanity stems from wanting to make other people worship you. You think you are so superlative that you want to rub your nonexistent qualities in their face. However, self love has its roots on embracing yourself, whole and sole. It stands miles away from wanting to impress others. It’s all about respecting yourself and sending love your own way.

It was Valentine’s Day recently. And something different I noticed lately about this day is that the millennial wave has brought about a bout of self love that is surprisingly associated with this day. When I was a teenager, all the single people acted forever alone on V-day (I talk as if it was decades ago, I’m 24 okay, so teenage was only five years ago). But this year I saw single people claiming to buy themselves chocolates, gift themselves flowers on Valentine ’s Day because you don’t need to depend on someone else to celebrate valentine’s day. You can always love yourself or your friends and your family. I think that’s just fabulous! Where was this when we needed it? All this self love is so endearing and encouraging, and I think we all need to continue this and make it a new tradition, along with the conventional ways of celebrating it. The millennials also brought in non sense hashtags and abbreviations, but let’s just focus on the positives here. So, I think you should all remind yourselves every day that you’re all sweet potatoes, even with all your flaws. I do realise now, in retrospect, that calling yourself a potato does not sound very cool. But hey, french fries come from potatoes, and have you ever had blue waala Lays?! It’s all potatoes, and it’s so divine!

So go out there and make it a potato world.
#Potatoesgonnapotate

Thought credits- Sweet potato
Sayali Mhatre aka Sayali team-mate

A CHRISTMAS STORY (PART 2)

Armed with a flashlight, some chips if he gets hungry, a mug of hot chocolate to keep him warm, and a pair of binoculars, Alfy waited. He sat guard near the window and stared into the night. It was too dark to really keep an eye out, and the flashlight was barely any help, but he did his best. If nothing, he was sure he would spot Rudolph, the reindeer with his bright red nose.

‘If there ever was a Rudolph!’ he fumed.

As he looked out the window on this silent night, he couldn’t help but marvel at his little town. For a moment, he forgot all his skepticism and smiled at the beauty of this season. Each house was grandly lit up for Christmas. Mr. Jonathan, his neighbour, had the best house in the entire block. His house gleamed red green and golden. A snowman was built right outside his house. The Christmas tree had musical lights on, so the entire street echoed of Christmas carols and the snowman seemed to say ‘Oh come all ye faithful’. Tiffany had helped old Mr. Jonathan set up his house for Christmas. He didn’t have any children so he was happy to have the company of a child who was just as excited as him for the celebration. And it was safe to say that they had done a splendid job! Everything about that sight emanated love and happiness.

Lost in the beauty of his town, Alfy was almost considering abandoning his mission when he heard a sudden sound that pierced through the silence. He quickly grabbed his binoculars and looked out into the sky, but he saw nothing there. Nothing suspicious.
*Creak* 
There! That sound again!

It sounded strangely familiar. That’s when it struck him, it was coming from inside the house! He got up, rushed to the door and opened it just a tad. He made sure he was quiet enough and no one heard him. The lights were all off and it was really dark, but he’d recognise his mother from even a mile away.  *Creak* went the floorboard again as she tiptoed down the stairway. She switched on the lights and walked towards the Christmas tree. Her hair was unkempt and eyes puffy, like she had just woken up from a deep slumber. She replaced a Christmas tree ornament that had fallen down on the floor and tilted her head to check if she had set it right again.
‘At this hour of the night, woman!’, Alfy rolled his eyes.

Then he noticed something he hadn’t before. His mom seemed to be hiding something under her robe. His suspicion proved right when she retrieved a gift-wrapped box from inside the robe, it had a green bow on it. She then walked towards the couch and bent down and produced another gift-wrapped box from under there. This one had a red bow on it. She placed both these boxes under the Christmas tree and rearranged them multiple times to make sure it looked its most picturesque version. She then went to the dinner table, ate half a cookie, munched some carrots and gulped down the glass of milk. She sat down, leaned back and closed her eyes. Alfy could see she wasn’t sleeping. She was resting, just for a little while.
She got up after a few minutes, yawned and looked around to ensure she hadn’t left any evidence. She then tiredly carried herself back up the stairs, and Alfy closed his bedroom door, lest mom spot him.

He retreated to his bed, got into his blanket and simply stared at the ceiling. Mom had once told him that girls can do everything boys can. He had sniggered and never really believed her. Until now, that is. Girls could even be Santas, he realised. Or was it just mothers?

So what if Santa wasn’t the big-bellied, white-haired man he had imagined him to be? He was still real. In fact, the Santa he had was even better than the one he had read about in books, and heard about in stories. For his Santa fulfilled wishes all through the year, and didn’t wait for that one time of the year. His Santa didn’t stay away at North Pole, she was in the room next to him, and always there for him when he needed her after a bad day. He never had to write a letter, because this Santa always knew what he wanted before he knew it himself.

He switched off the flashlight that was still glowing by the window, and shut the drapes. He had something very important to do tomorrow morning, something that should have been done sooner. With that thought in mind, he finally did fall asleep.

Tiffany was the first to wake up the next morning, and she made sure she woke everyone up with her joyful squeals. She then ran downstairs towards the tree while Alfy ran to the next room. He wrapped his mother in a tight hug. She was taken aback and pressed her cheek against his, just like she used to when he was a little boy.

“Thank you, mom”, Alfy smiled.
He gave her a quick peck and ran downstairs to the tree.

Did he tell his mother he had seen her the previous night? No, he didn’t.
Did he know he was getting a hoverboard for Christmas? No he didn’t.
Did he still believe in Santa? Yes, he did.

A Christmas Story (Part 1)

The fireplace glowed golden with the embers, candles lit the hallway at every step. A Christmas tree was decked up with tinsel, snowballs, and an angel right at the top. The crib was beautifully laid to depict the nativity scene, baby Jesus rested in his manger with a placid smile on his face. A star hung outside the window, the star of wonder, star of night. Cookies and milk were kept for Santa on the dinner table, and of course carrots for his reindeers. Everything was perfect, right out of the books. Everything, and everyone, except Alfred.

Alfy had a shadow of doubt lurking behind his eyes. Like the look grandma has on her face when she suspects grandpa has had a little too much cholesterol for the day. Like the look mom has on her face when she knows he has had cookies before dinner. He wondered how Santa climbs down the chimney if the fire is kept going all night; how the reindeers never make a single sound when they tiptoe in their frontyard with all the gifts, not a single scurry or sneeze in all these years.

Alfy had his nose up in the air, as if trying to sniff out what smelled so fishy. Tiffany, on the other hand, was all smiles. She checked if her stocking was hanging right (for the millionth time) and went to the couch with a toothy grin on her face, which was a recurring theme around Christmas season.

Alfy and Tiffany were only three years apart, and acted like they couldn’t care less for each other. However, when push came to shove, they doted on each other, and that was no secret. Tiffany had long black curls that dangled in front of her eyes, just like her mother. Alfy was a spitting image of his father. The same deep brown eyes, and ability to misplace everything he touched. They were just searching for the TV remote when mom called.

“Honey, dinner’s ready!”
“But mom, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have had those cookies then.”
“Tattletale!” Alfy glared at Tiffany.

Every night the Joseph family had dinner together. Sometimes they argued whether or not it was absolutely necessary to eat all the green peas, and sometimes they secretly wished they could move over to the couch and watch TV instead. Nevertheless, they always had dinner together, no matter what.
‘Amen’, they chorused after they had said their grace dutifully.

Tiffany nibbled on several things and never finished any of the items on her dinner plate. Alfy had that look growing children have on their faces like it’s so inconvenient that they are being forced to nourish themselves with food. After multiple redundant instructions, they managed to finish most of their dinner and rushed back to watch TV. Tiffany wasn’t keen on staying up late tonight though. Because the sooner she went to sleep, sooner would Santa arrive with her gifts.
At nine PM, the lights were switched off and they were both sent to bed. Tiffany kissed her parents good night and pranced to her room. This girl was the happiest around Christmas.

Alfy let out a big yawn and promptly announced that he was suddenly very tired and would probably immediately fall asleep. He carried himself to his room and shut the door. Little did they know, sleep was the last thing on his mind tonight!
Alfred Joseph was determined to find out the truth about Santa this Christmas.

Who was this big-bellied man? How did he travel all the way from North Pole? How could his reindeers fly?
He sat with his flashlight near the window, and waited. He waited for Santa Claus to come to town.

Places I'd never been.

There was an omnipresent chill all around. I shoved my hands inside my pockets, looked down, and kept walking. Tucked my hair behind my ears as the wind kept brushing it. I went to the playground first. I sat on the swings and stared into space. No laughs, no giggles, just pure acknowledgement of this place and my presence there. I stood up, kicked some sand, and got walking again. A dog howled in the distance. Television sounds drifted through the streets.

The cafe was open. Not crowded, yet had a steady flow of customers. I took my usual place- the booth beside the window. Chicken salad. The waitress came back with my order. I noticed they had changed the plates. There used to be sunflowers on the China, now there were lillies. Well...
I paid for my food and got a coffee to-go.

Next was church. I went to the bench on the fourth row and kneeled. I had nothing to pray for, so I just be. No matter what I've said, this place did offer peace. The burning candles under the crucifix made the metal shine. I made the sign of the cross and got up. My footsteps echoed across the hall as I closed the door with a thud.
The streets were getting calmer now. I pulled up my hoodie. Also, colder. There was one last place I needed to go before heading back home. The bus stop.

He had always insisted on taking the bus. It had something to do with the government using our taxes for public transport/climate change. I'm not sure which one it was, or maybe both? I never really paid much attention. He would go on with his banter, and I would grumble about why we can't take the car like normal people do. I wish I had listened more. Bus 321 arrived. The door opened. Closed. I stood up, walked, kept walking, and didn't look back.
I rustled the keys out of my pocket and opened the door. The warmth of the house embraced me like it knew I needed a hug. Somehow, this house felt more acceptable now.
It had been exactly a month since Pa died.

A month of denial where I shut myself inside the house, refusing to accept his absence. Not today, though. Today I had been to all those places where we used to go together. Kathy had offered to come with me, she had told me I didn't need to do this alone. But I did. I needed to accept that I was alone. And that it is okay to be alone. Sure it felt a little cold, and a little hollow. But the streets had not changed, the places were still the same. Only my world had changed. And I needed to learn how to live in it.

When Pa taught me how to ride a bicycle, he had let go without telling me, and it was only when I turned to look back that I realised I was doing it all by myself. This was something like that (Well played, Pa).
Today I had looked back on all those things that had memories attached to them, and though I hadn't really aced it, I now had hope that I could possibly do it this time too. All by myself. Sure I would fall a couple times, but I would get back up. And then I'd treat myself to an ice-cream, bruised knees et al. Because diabetes doesn't hurt as much as a bruised knee! Did I just make a dad joke? Well, it's like he never left!
Goodbye, Pa. Until next time.

The lone man at Taj.

It was my first time there. I had always wanted to witness the Taj Mahal and its glory, but I had never found the opportunity. One night out with friends, and an impulsive decision later, we were there. When I first saw the Taj, it wasn’t what I had imagined it to be, it was so much more than that. Magnificent seemed to be a very small word for it. The sky enveloped its minarets and became a mighty white veil. It was like the rivulets in a pond, you couldn’t fathom where one began and the other ended. The Yamuna flowed gracefully behind it, and mirrored its tranquillity. The green garden complimented the white structure and made an ‘almost-tricolour’. The entire place radiated peace and beauty. People from all over the world had come to experience this monument, and in front of the mighty structure, the multitude looked like little lego-people from a distance.      

There are some auxiliary buildings around the Taj Mahal. They act as a museum, and an office. Back in the day, some of the buildings acted as a place for the workers to stay. Largely ignored, they remained vacant, away from the public eye. These buildings were beautiful by themselves, but the Taj overpowered them for obvious reasons. However, there was one man who apparently didn’t think so. Dressed in a white kaftan, black-rimmed glasses, and a beard that reached his chest, he was perched on the front steps of this building. He had his palms open on his lap, and he rested his head on one of the pillars. There was something about him that itched my curiosity. Often when you read a good book, you are tempted to read the last line of the chapter to know how it ends. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes keep moving nonchalantly towards that last line, until you finally give in. That’s the thing about curiosity. You can’t ebb it, you can’t nip it in the bud. It has to be quenched. It is the only way. And so, to quench this bout of curiosity, I abandoned my group of friends and went in pursuit of this man and his story.

He seemed a tad surprised when I walked towards the building and sat on one of the front steps. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and turned the open palms into fists. I was aware that I had disrupted his privacy, and slightly regretted my decision. Perhaps, he could see that, so to break the tension,

“Your first time here?” he asked.

“Yes” I smiled.

“How did you like the Taj?”

“It is beautiful!”

He beamed so proudly, that for a moment I was sure he was a descendant of Shah Jahan himself!

Then there was absolute silence until I finally blurted, “Can I ask you something?”

He was surprised by the abruptness of it all, and faintly nodded.

“How come you are sitting here when the Taj is right there in front of you? Why aren’t you there with all the other people? What is so special about this odd building?”

He laughed an old-man laugh, the one that comes deep from the chest, and is the ‘ha-ha’ version of Santa’s ‘ho-ho’

“Those are three questions, you asked for one!” he teased playfully. “Where are you from, child?”

“Mumbai.”

“And yet, you are sitting here on the steps of an old building even though you had come all the way to visit the Taj Mahal. People are whimsical, aren’t they?”

He was right, I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.

“I work as a gardener here”, he continued, “As did my father, before me. In fact, my ancestors were all employed here as well. They had seen Taj before it became the Taj Mahal! It is our own little family legacy, so to say.”

I was amazed at his rich family history, and was glad I was having this conversation. Fortunately, he wasn’t done.

“You see how beautiful the Taj looks from here? Away from the clicking of cameras, and jabbering of tourists? It is an old habit. I come here every evening at the time of namaz and gaze at the Taj.”

 “I get it”, I intervened, “Some things become so routine that you don’t find the need to marvel at it.”

“No, no! You misunderstood me”, he spoke defensively. “You see the moon every night, but you never tire of it. You have eaten food cooked by your mother’s hands a million times, but at the end of a long day, you still pine for it. Your mornings don’t seem right until the prayer song your grandmother sings fills each nook and cranny of the house. On cold winter nights, you warm your hands by the fire and listen to the same song you had been listening to since you were a child. There are some things that gradually shed their novelty, and turn into something better, something that gives you comfort. And in his most vulnerable state, all a man needs is some comfort. This is that place for me. I find my peace here, I find my namaz here. ”

I sat there in silence and waited for his words to settle. I had come here to read a story, but the story had laid out so much more with it. I had read the last line, felt the curiosity vanish and something else take its place. Peace.

I looked at the oblivious crowd of people drowning in their wonder, and decided to go be a part of it. I hadn’t revelled enough, I had to see it up close and take it all in. So that next time when I visit, I can sit here and ponder like this wise man does. I took his leave and walked back to my friends. Halfway through, I realised I hadn’t even asked him his name, so I turned to look at him. He had his palms open towards the sky, and eyes shut behind the black-rimmed glasses.

So I let him be. Perhaps, another time.

Note- You see that little white speck at the bottom? That's him. I clicked this picture when I visited the Taj Mahal, and I knew I had to write about him . The picture demanded a story (Fictional).

Vodka and Lemons.

I sat on one of those long-legged stools you usually see in every club, red shiny and pretentious. I hated them for two reasons; it was difficult for short people to climb on it, and once you were seated you could do nothing to shift the chair because your legs couldn’t reach the floor. So you either asked someone to do it for you, or awkwardly shifted your butt hoping that it would shift the stool too, but alas, Physics always failed you.

The club was like any other club. Loud, crowded and dimly-lit. The television kept switching between a football and cricket match. The traffic was a drag outside, but the music drowned all the honking from the streets.  Tipsy people were drinking away mid-week blues in their respective booths.
‘So baby pull me closer in the backseat of your rover’ the speakers boomed and everyone lost their shit and  started singing along.
It was clearly a tone-deaf bunch of people. It was endearing though, they didn’t seem to mind that they were all off-beat, they were just living in the moment.

I was alone tonight. Dressed up in my little black dress, I had even watched Youtube tutorials and put on some make up. It was quite futile, in retrospect. Nobody seemed to notice.  It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, or I was heartbroken or my boss was giving me a tough time. It was a voluntary decision to come out alone. Even though I never admitted it, it was subconsciously because of a Bollywood movie I had recently watched. The movie showed the protagonist get out of her safe bubble and go on her own honeymoon alone, after her fiancé broke off the marriage. She went to a foreign land all alone, devastated, yet came out of it having found herself along the journey. She met a bunch of strangers who became her friends, and helped her broaden her view of the world and her own life. So I waited for something like that to happen to me too. I waited in anticipation of a leggy lass who would instantly become my girlfriend, and would save me from myself, or a trio of guys who would become my best buddies and take me for rock concerts. I sat with my cocktail and waited for someone to come along and whisk me away from my monotonous life. But nobody came.

While I was waiting, my daydreaming eyes found the ceiling lights. They were really tiny and dim, and nobody really noticed them. But they made the place look so pretty.
“Yesss, shiny”, I said aloud.
“Sorry ma’am?” the bartender intervened.
“Screwdriver. I need another Screwdriver.” I quickly tried to cover up.

Whilst sipping on my cocktail, I watched a group of friends who were dancing the night away like nobody is watching. Nobody was, except me. I wish I had the confidence to pull off those flawed dance moves with such tenacity.
I watched the middle aged couple enjoying their drink in a corner of the bar. They had probably taken a night off from taking care of their children for going on a date. There was zest and longing in their tired eyes. You could see that time had changed a lot, but the butterflies were still there.
I saw a gang of giggling girls who were too young to be drinking at the club. Nevertheless, too excited to be doing so. They had their phones ready to capture every moment and record it for future giggles. The novelty etched on their faces reminded me of my teenage years.

With the fourth cocktail down, I started getting impatient. Here I was, hoping to meet a fascinating stranger, when no one had even bothered to make eye contact with me. However, there was one guy who had observed me more than I had observed anyone else here. He didn’t suggest a refill even though his job demanded it. He just casually struck up a conversation.
“Where are you from?”
“Just around the block.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yup” (It wasn’t entirely a lie.)
“The stars outside look better than these lights, you know.”
I looked at him quizzically, suspiciously, then warily.
“I look pathetic, don’t I? Sitting alone, staring at the shiny ceiling lights?”
“No you don’t. You look much better than the people here holding pretence.”
I nodded in faint approval. He then left to tend to another customer, or maybe to give some more life advice.

I didn’t think anyone was pretending here. They were all here just to have a good time. Like I was running away from myself hoping that someone would take me under their wings and teach me to fly, they were running too. They were running away from reality, just for a little while. Because they deserved it, they deserved to run away from their jobs, or homes, or whatever it was that was bothering them, and be happy, even if it was momentary.
Because life wasn’t all peaches, sometimes it was lemons. And sometimes you need Vodka to go with those lemons.

I stepped down from the stool and almost tumbled. It had to happen, but this time I could blame the alcohol.
The bartender was right about one thing though. It was indeed much prettier outside, and the stars beat those domestic lights, hands-down.

In that moment, I felt like I belong there. In the big world outside, underneath the stars, alone. I wasn’t waiting anymore for someone to come save me like in that movie. I was merely happy that I belonged somewhere.

Sure I was stuck, but I wasn’t lost yet. I belonged.

Just another day.

I saw the local train coming, and ran for it. I tried to make my way amid the crowd without pushing or nudging anyone (and failed), and almost reached the ladies compartment, but the train took off before that. My mother always told me never to get into a running train, and that is one command I diligently followed. I looked around to find a place to sit while I waited for the next train. I wasn't in a rush anyway, I was trying to not miss the previous one merely out of habit. Because when you see a local train coming, you run for it. It was an inevitable challenge you gave yourself as a Mumbaikar.

As I waited for the lifeline to return, my eyes fell on a father-daughter duo sitting on the platform floor. They both wore ragged clothes, and from the looks of it, the father seemed to be a manual labourer. His little girl was no more than four years old. She had in her hand a vada pav wrapped inside a newspaper. She removed the newspaper, threw it on the tracks and started eating her snack. The bread looked stale, and there were flies sitting on it every time she paused to take a sip of water out of the overused, plastic coke bottle that her father held.

I instantly felt a nagging guilt about my privileges, and decided to do more than just watch her. I went to the nearby railway kiosk and bought a pack of bourbon biscuits. I walked up to the man, gave him the biscuits and told him to feed them to his daughter.
He looked at me indifferently,  took the packet of biscuits and gave it to his daughter.
"Thane k liye train kaha se milegi? (Where will I find a train to Thane?)" he asked.
I was mildly puzzled. That was not what I was expecting him to say.
I showed him the correct platform and went back to my seat to wait for the train to come. Something seemed off. I hadn't expected gratitude, or a 'Thank you' from him, but I had also not expected indifference. (It's weird how we want to be immediately rewarded and exalted for an act of goodness.)

I watched from a distance to make sure nothing was fishy. Fortunately, it was just me being cynical again, nothing was odd. His daughter gobbled down those biscuits with an urgency, and her button eyes looked less hungry then. That's when a sweet realisation dawned upon me. I understood why the man did not react like I was a god-sent angel, why he merely got his query solved. It was because he was accustomed to random acts of kindness. Perhaps, I wasn't the only one who had fed his daughter something. There were countless other people in this busy city who had stopped and lent them a hand. Kindness had become routine for him. It had become his version of normalcy. It was a wonderful feeling, to know that I lived among so many Samaritans. Initially, I was happy about the little girl's content eyes. But now, I was happier about the fact that there were several other people who were trying to fill happiness in those eyes.

What a beautiful place that crowded, paan-stained railway platform seemed in that moment!

Wipe the slate clean- the final part.

After gorging on our customary Sunday breakfast- scrambled eggs and sausages, he went to take a nap, and I decided to do my post-church, Sunday cleaning. There was something mundane but oddly comforting about having the same breakfast every Sunday. Somehow, we never tired of it; instead we had accepted it as a weekly ritual. I opened the drawer of my storage cabinet, and emptied it to arrange everything in an orderly manner. Half of them were items I had resolved I’ll put to good use after watching DIY videos, and the other half had some sentimental value attached to it, so I refused to throw them away. My eyes fell on a white-coloured envelope which had turned off-white over time. The golden letters on the envelope said, ‘Kathelyn Weds Dhruv’. I brushed my finger against the letters as if I was trying to caress the memory of that day.

Ours had been a very quirky wedding. Dhruv and I had insisted on it being a small affair, so only family and close friends were invited. In the wedding reception, I wore my white wedding gown, and he was dressed in a gold and red sherwani. We looked like we belonged to two different weddings, but had decided to marry each other at the last moment. Our entire wedding had been pertaining to catholic customs and rituals, and when he told me he wanted to dress up in a sherwani, I couldn’t say no. After all, it would be wrong to completely rob him of his Punjabi roots. So I had politely complied. It was only later during our first dance that he told me, that he had done it only because he thought it would become a funny wedding-memory. By then I was too happily-married, so I simply laughed it off and continued dancing. We had a picture framed in our bedroom of him wearing my wedding veil, and me wearing his pagdi. He was right, it did become a funny wedding-memory! I heard the door creak behind me which meant he had woken up.

“No sleep?”

“Nah...what you doing?”

“Just wondering how things got so messy.”

“Hey, that’s our wedding card!” he gleamed.

He opened it like a child who is too excited to open his birthday gift. When he read the card, his eyes seemed like they were going on a nostalgic trip. He had a placid smile on his face, which quickly disappeared when he realised he had forgotten to tell me something.

“Hey, we’ll have to cancel the dinner plan tonight. I have got to make a presentation for tomorrow.”

“But they have that live jazz performance tonight! We had planned ages ago, Pork ribs and Jazz, remember?”

“I know, I’m sorry. But this is really important.”

I knew no amount of pleading was going to convince him. Besides, I didn’t even want to plead. So I just left the topic. He didn’t notice the given-up look in my eyes when I left the room.  I thrust the wedding card inside the envelope and shoved it inside the drawer again. I took the house keys and decided to go for a walk. Whenever things got too cloudy, I either went for a walk, or took a shower. It always helped me place things in perspective.

With every step, I analysed my marriage. How it had turned from a fun adventure, to a routine responsibility, how it had withered away like a rose that had not been watered enough. I had promised we would never become like one of those old and boring couples. While I was busy keeping that promise, I had failed to realise that you could be unhappy even if you were not old and boring. We were only in our early-thirties, and we even spent a fair share of weekends doing things we liked doing. Only two weeks ago, we had gone to a concert, and seen our favourite band live. However, the joy of doing those things together had left us. I had always been a person who declared that no matter how hard it is, you should always choose the path that leads you to happiness. And today, I wasn’t sure if happiness was on the same path that he was. My thought process was broken by the shrill ringing of my phone. It was him. I lied that I had gone out to buy milk. I didn’t want to go back home and argue about all of this. I didn’t want to hear his justifications anymore. I had already made my decision.

I bought an unnecessary carton of milk and went back home. He was sitting in the bedroom with the laptop, and did what he did best. He failed to acknowledge that something needed fixing here, and I didn’t want to pinpoint it to him this time. I would talk to him when he was done with the presentation, and I would tell him about my decision. When he walked inside the room, I was habitually changing channels on the TV.

 “I’m sorry, I know you’re pissed. But the deadline is tomorrow” he apologised.

“Why do you always have reasons?”

“It is really not my fault. I declined the promotion yesterday, so I had to apply for another post. And they only gave me a day to work on my presentation. I really have to get this post.” He rambled.

He always rambled when he wanted to make a point.

“Why did you decline the promotion? And why didn’t you discuss it with me?” I asked.

“They wanted me to move to another city, and I knew you can’t leave your job here. So this was the only way for us to stay together. I didn’t want to stay away from you.”

He saw the taken-aback look in my eyes and misinterpreted it.

“I know I should have talked to you about it before making the decision. But I thought you would want the same. I know the promotion means a lot of money, but I wouldn’t be happy staying away from you. So I made my decision without another thought. If you want, I can talk to them tomorrow” he rambled again.

I walked towards him and gave him a bear hug. That almost always shut him up. He put his arms around me in resigned relief, and I was glad to know that all was not lost yet. However, a few moments like these were not enough to make me stray away from my decision. I convinced myself that I wouldn’t change my mind. Happiness still always came first.

I made two cups of tea and told him we needed to talk. I thought a hot beverage would pacify him as I talked to him about it. I told him how we were running away from facing the truth of our relationship, how things were not the same anymore. How each day ended with me wishing for something more, something that we had, but had lost in the past couple years. He understood what I was talking about, he had felt the same. I told him of my decision, and I hoped he would agree with me.

“Dhruv, we have to talk to a marriage counsellor.” I said.

“That is the decision you were talking about?” he asked a little puzzled (and mildly relieved.)

“Yes. We need help. I know we love each other, but somehow that’s not enough. There’s something we are doing wrong, and I’m tired of finding it out for myself. I can’t go on like this; I thought it is just a phase but I was wrong. We need to seek help, I want us to be us again!”

I guess he was not the only one who rambled.

He put his hands on my shoulders in an effort to calm me down.

“Kathy, calm down. I know how you feel, and if you think talking to a marriage counsellor would help us, we will do that. Whatever it takes, okay? We are in this together.”

I smiled. ‘Whatever it takes’.

Sometimes it took more than love. It took the effort to literally walk an extra mile and figure out what we needed, it took the willingness to let go of a promotion you always wanted, it took the sense of acceptance that you need help, and that it is okay to ask for it. Those dregs on the slate weren’t proof of how messy things had become. It just showed how years of togetherness had had its effects, but you chose to stick with each other and fight them. I was trying to wipe the slate clean all this time, when all I had to do was write a new story on it. Things weren’t always perfect, but you could learn to love those imperfections, and even tackle some of them. Like that Sunday breakfast, Dhruv and I may have become monotonous, but I would still always go to him for comfort.

And so we made that appointment to talk to a counsellor. Happiness was still on the same path that he was. We were just having difficulty finding it. However, one thing was certain, we would only find it together. A quick peck on the cheek later, he went to complete his presentation and I put on the gramophone to continue with my cleaning.

  ♫♪ ‘Love is all you need...’ the Beatles .proclaimed ♫♪

NOTE- My cynical mind told me they should break off their marriage, but my rational mind said love conquers all! I guess The Beatles were right all along. I loved writing this story series, I hope you liked reading it too, do let me know if you did! Thank you for sticking by Dhruv and Kathy, and their story :) Until next time! :D

Wipe the slate clean- Part 2.

Mornings were the best in our apartment. The sun rays found their way directly to the bookshelf which was right across the window, and illuminated them in golden light. Sure, the result of this was the spine of each book turned a little dull over time, but the words inside stayed the same. After all, everything turned bland in due course, but what was inside was what really mattered. 

I sleep-walked into the kitchen and made myself a hot pot of coffee. I took the first sip and felt each cell of my body slowly waking up. Then my eyes fell on the balcony door which was neither open, nor shut, it just swayed in the middle. I was suddenly reminded of that time in college seven years ago, when he and I were arguing over whether the classroom window remains open or not. I liked everything dark and gloomy. He, on the other hand, argued that a classroom wasn't supposed to be dark and gloomy, which was right, but I just liked being stubborn. We finally decided to leave it half-open. That way we both won. Memories have a way of sneaking up on you and catching you off-guard. Just when things are going downhill, they give you reasons for why you should try to mend them. I smiled at this memory, and decided to buy a bucket of KFC on my way back from work tonight. Food always made us happy. Especially when it was chicken, and deep fried.

Absent-minded, I stepped inside the balcony. Traffic was a drag as seen from the sixth floor. There were several yellow buses lined up, with school children inside them who looked like little lego people. I decided it would be wise to leave a little early today, so I rinsed my cup and started getting ready for work. I rummaged through my wardrobe to find a kurti which was both clean and ironed. A herculean task, clearly. You would think that marriage and adulthood would make you act like a grown up, but it was all a big farce. Your wardrobes remained messy, and you still needed your mom to sort it.

When I reached work, my cluttered cubicle assured me that it was going to be a busy day. Files were piled up on my desk so haphazardly, that picking up even one of them imposed a risk of the entire bunch toppling over. It was like a mockery of jenga, only zero fun, and nobody won. Noon passed to welcome late afternoon- the time period when everyone is sleepy and nobody understands why they have to work. I was hazily typing away on my computer when my mobile notification tone woke me up. It was a text from him.

'Hi! We signed a big business deal today. The entire team is going out for dinner. I'll be late, don't wait up :) '

Well, there goes the KFC bucket down the drain. It was a sad day for both Colonel Sanders and I.

'Congratulations! Ok, have a nice time :)'

*Sent*

After a gruelling day at work, I reached home and put on the gramophone to play some Elvis. 'Are you lonesome tonight?' played, and I was prompt to change the song. I imagined the gods of fate sitting up there and laughing at me. It was almost eleven when the doorbell rang. His ruffled shirt brought back the smell of whichever noisy pub they had been to.

"So, how was dinner?” I quipped.

"It was okay. You ate?"

"Yes. I was about to order another ridiculous item from those tele-ads. Thank god you reached before that!"

He laughed, placed a brown bag on the kitchen platform and went to get changed.

"Hey, I parcelled some dessert back, maybe we can share it", he screamed from the bedroom.

This gesture wasn't made with a romantic intention; it was maybe because he was too full at that moment for dessert. But for some reason, it felt like I was getting him back in flashes. It was like a consolation prize you get after you lose a race, it doesn't mean much, but it's something! And just like that, a mundane day was suddenly sweetened by some lemon cheesecake. Colonel Sanders was still sad, but this missus wasn't!