Sometimes it is the pungent smell of mustard oil wafting from the kitchen, the loud debates with Pa over politics and tennis, Ma’s countless advice on life and hilarious imitation of her students.
At other times it is the yellow taxis and trams, rolls and phuchkas, handis of roshogullas, addas on politics and the fast paced life over countless cups of chai and radhaballavi, something that my sweet intolerant taste buds never took much fascination towards.
The arrival of durga puja, the ceremonious cleaning of the house, hurried shopping trips, the sound of dhaak wifting through, Ma’s big beautiful kohl rimmed eyes, and the white saris with the red borders.
The red granite floors, cement staircases, handpulled rishkas, Grandma’s stories about giants, fairies and princesses, Grandpa’s loud shushing while we giggled when Mahabharata aired on television, the cold wind from the Ganga tickling our dangling feet on the terrace, the heavenly smell of mangoes and litchis straight from the farms and the unmistakable stench of cow dung.
It is also the mouth-watering smell of biryani, the irani chai and south Indian style strong coffee, the lush green and wide roads, the temples with gopurams, women with gajra adorning their braided hair and the unmistakable Hyderabadi Hindi.
But now, all that home reminds me is of the conversations that we had, of how I took back something from them, be it advice or chide. The blue bean bag, over sweet coffee, carefree loud laughter, incessant debates, the little library, Buddha wall paintings, the black lantern, the dim light lamp, the shock emitting washing machine that trapped me in the bathroom for an hour, the movies that we watched on the projector, the blanket that doubled up as curtains when I felt vampirish, the red kurta in which I would prance around all the time, the comforting dal chawal, the bear hugs, the ice creams that would be kept ready when I was in a bad mood and wanted to vent and that feeling of happiness of being with you, of owning a little part of you in return for a part of mine, the one that gave me butterflies, made me blush and the skip in my walk.
Home is not a place but a feeling, except for the fact that I have lost mine. Now all that it is, is a part of my memory.
Yesterday, after many nights, I cried. Not because I was sad but because I felt lost, like the child who couldn’t find her way back home.
Ever since writing short stories for the first time , I decided to have another go at it, turns out that big paras are easy, anyday. Big sentences or paras help jotting down your thoughts in a flow, they like to take their time with explaining things, letting you get in the flow with the mood of the story but making short stories is a pain. It is impatient, doesn’t give you room for words, and nags you to use the right words to bring about your story, what YOU wanted the reader to experience.
This is another novice attempt at writing short stories and I would love some feedback and constructive criticism on the same. 🙂
You – Me
Man – Woman
Rich – Poor
Dark – Fair
Fat – Thin
Ugly – Beautiful
Hindu – Muslim – Christian
Upper Caste – Lower Caste
Literate – Illiterate
Someday sometime, how about removing those barricades and try being just,
Human = Human
There is this little stationery shop on my way to work and occasionally I drop in to pick up few post its or fancy paper and ribbons and neon colored highlighters. Well safe to say that I have great love towards stationery, the multi colored post its and highlighters and handmade papers being my absolute favorites! But a few days back I wandered into the poster colors section without any intention of purchase and fell in love with colors, all over again! 😀 The magnetic pull of all those wax crayons, color pencils, brushes and poster color bottles definitely stole my heart and made my wallet lighter 😛
Armed with 2 brushes, yellow handmade paper, little bottles of colors and a few hours to revisit childhood, I ended up making this. Hopefully have a few more trips to the stationery shop post this poster. 🙂
When was the last time that you told someone about what was bothering you?
Or the last time that you shared your worries with a complete stranger?
I often find that all of us are scared to show that we are burdened, that we have troubles, be it financial or career or family or with regards to just how to go about in life. Instead we slap on a brave face, show that we are in control and go on with life.
Too much significance has been attached to being happy and thanks to the happy faces floating and gloating everywhere else, one feels completely cornered. That feeling of not being able to figure out life and just looking at others glide their way through, is something that I’m familiar with too.
What if I want to be sad, or want to crib and cry about feelings, about things that have been bothering me?
To all those of you reading this, it is okay to be sad, to have not figured it out in life. Try setting yourself free from the facade, and tear away that mask.
Vent if you want to, cry a river, build a bridge and cross it.
Someday, ask the guy sitting next to you in the bus about life, about his troubles, or to the woman silently sobbing in the auto next to you. Ask them if they are okay.
And if you can’t help them out, then just listen, listen to their stories, their thoughts, know a little bit about their lives; for a day, be their shoulder to cry on and keep a part of them with you, forever.
They say, happiness when shared doubles and sadness becomes half.
So share your worries, maybe someone somewhere will find strength in them.