After office

A mild smell of paint floats in the newly done house. The marble flooring is smooth, tempting a bare feet walk. A pile of bedding is neatly dumped in a corner. The house gives a welcoming eye, yearning for occupancy.

A cable less television faces the caned couch. A few books, mostly chick lits and a bunch of old Hindi audio CDs lie stacked under the centre table. The routine is punctuated by these necessities, or so it seems.

The hall opens-up to a kitchen and two bed rooms. The bedroom is warm. Curtains of different colours hang from the steel rod fixed to the wall. A single box-bed is placed in the room like a radius of a circle. A postal red sheet is spread on the mattress. A small gas stove makes the kitchen platform look slightly longer. A tub of utensils is conspicuously missing. A plethora of instant cooking items decorate the plastic stands.

We sit in a circle. Yellow light emits from the lamp placed in the centre. Casual conversations. Empty beer bottles. Taboo cards. Scribbled score sheet: nine and eighteen. Garden chips. Potato salad. A tumbler of whiskey. An ashtray housing seven butts. 11:40 PM.

In defiance

Whoever said that the world is a small place has seemingly not been to Andheri.

Getting off the train isn't as much a problem as climbing the steps to the bridge. Competition is clearly not restricted to workplace. The benefit of being in a first class coach, fortunately, does not stop at suffocating amidst the huge mass of sophisticated working processionals, or at the norm of no forth seat. You feel privileged when your compartment halts at the mouth of these steps. I must thank the government for this one more added facet of the first class ticket; and foreseeing the problem of population rise much in advance. Anyway, this benefit gifted to us help me quickly sift through the crowd, letting them know that I fall in the 'me too getting late' category. Adjectives like quick and slow are perceptional, and I use the word quick only at comparison.

There's one thing to keep in mind while you are in this haste: two feet from the left railing of bridge, belong to the ladies. One foot there and you are instantaneously bestowed the title of a bastard. These ladies are not only the possessors of this two feet passage, but are also the first choice of rickshaw man. Tall girls. Fat women. Aunties wearing chudidars. Brown hair. Black eyes. As far as you belong to 'I am a she' class of people, which by the way is more than half, you are in*.

Thanks to the Ambanis and their metro that I found the route to reach my office via Amboli. Gliding through these long narrow lanes connecting each other at random, shaded by trees at one side and a chain of raw houses planted at the other is the most awaited time of the day. And just about when you begin enjoy its pleasant setting in this otherwise noisy suburb, it kisses a goodbye.

Now, your rickshaw is protected from all sides, by trucks, cars, buses, taxis, cycles, and the other rickshaws.

You reach, not caring about the loss of pay.

Yet another day of your god blessed dream job comes to an end. There' no cribbing, no whining, no bickering. Recession has got work in stock, and the sale isn't seasonal.

I long for the afternoon of a summer vacation, when I can set my self in front of the television and incessantly ramble through the channels. I long for that boredom.

* Dear ladies, please reagard this as a passable work of fiction.

A picture speaks a thousand words

Shantanu is looking at her picture. She charms in the life-size frame. The frame is nailed on the entrance wall.

It isn’t a close-up. She is visible entirely. Clad in a red and white garchola, Chitra is seated on an old wooden chair. Her sari is embroidered with golden zari, small white beads are woven finely, adorning the border of the chundari.

A dark red bindi resides on the forehead. Her eyebrows, neither thin nor dense are left untouched, uncared. Not a thread has plucked a single hair. Her long braid rests on her shoulder.

The picture, it speaks of a newly wed. It speaks of the change of house. It speaks of entering a new world. Of adjustments, of comforts, of trust, of relationship bound by the word marriage. It speaks of a new beginning, like a stream of water merging with a river, flowing with full vigor; finally submitting itself to the sea. It talks about blending with a new family. A family of kaka and kakis, of mama and mamis, of masa and masis; the picture, it speaks of the new neighbourhood.

The long braid rests on her shoulder. Her one hand twiddles the chains of fresh moghra pinned to her hair. The other clenches the arm of the chair. The bunch of gold and white bangles filter the view of mehndi crafted on her hands. The elephant, the lotus, the peacock, the flamboyantly lettered initial of her husband dwell on the dorsum of her hand. Her eyes lay low; the thick line of kajal rubbed against the eyelid allows itself to be captured in the painting.

The picture, it speaks about her love towards her husband. It speaks of her house, and the wealth it possesses. It speaks of the abundance of jewelry and clothes – not of dowry or rivaz but of love and relationship.

The picture speaks
A thousand sweet nothings

Her sparkling eyes,
Half seen half not*

Her young skin
Against heavy gold

The mangalsutra
The faded haldi

The mithai plattered
The children gathered

The shannai
The pandit
The Pheras
The bidai

Shantanu beholds her picture. She charms in the life-size frame. The frame is nailed on the entrance wall. Little white lilies put together form a half round.

Of whispering leaves
And the lingering drops

Of hovering flies
And the month old pickle

The open umbrellas
Sheltered pedestrians

The scented wind
O’ Wet Soil

The fresh white flowers,
They speak of the midst monsoon