C’est La Vie – or not

Do restaurants that aim to bring new cuisines into a city bear the responsibility of making sure that the diner’s experience is anything but disappointing? Afraid so; but very few live up to those expectations…

I have never been to France. It’s on my bucket list, but I am not working on my bucket list at the moment. However, I was willing to travel to Seven Hotel to their restaurant called C’est La Vie. Well honestly, I was surprised that the place is still open, considering no one had been talking about it for a while. But instead of relying on my instincts, which is what I should have done, a bunch of us drove out to Outer Ring Road to eat ‘French Food’. It was an exciting moment for all of us. And as we brushed up on the five French words we knew to identify names of food, the restaurant and café brought a smile onto our faces. It was cute.

And that was the end of our fabulous journey.

The menu at C’est La Vie was anything but French; except for the Duck Parmentier and a few dishes here and there. They had chicken nuggets on the menu and stuff that we only cook frozen when unexpected guests drop in.

But willing to forgive slighter misgivings, we ordered a bottle of wine which came with a free cheese platter - cheese being slices of processed cheese and a few slices of brie that didn’t look or taste too fresh.

And then there was the Chicken Pappiti – neither of us knew what that was. A few pieces of chicken were rolled and stuck with toothpicks and looked a little like bacon wrapped chicken and served with fries. They weren’t bacon wrapped chicken. It was more like chicken tossed in a kind of vinegar and pan-fried. The fries were good, especially with a bowl of ketchup, and I don’t even eat ketchup.

The Warm Goat Cheese on Bread looked rather rustic, in a nice kind of way. However, that goat cheese could be warmer and I can’t quite imagine the fussy French biting into large chunks of toasted bread and having crumb all over their plates and expensive clothing. Some greens were on the side to resemble a salad and hidden underneath were cubes of cucumber and tomatoes.

I also believe that the goat cheese was kind of older than I expected.

I don’t know how the main course tasted because whatever we wanted to order was either not there or ‘not good’ according to a chef we never saw appear from the kitchen door. The Duck Parmentier was on the top of our mind but not made available to us.

However, the Bisque Soup was sort of edible. Bits of prawn in a nice wholesome tomato based soup – I ate that to control my growing rage because the Chicken Brie Soup was heartbreaking. It smelt of flour of coconut milk and was so pale than I could have seen a ghost. There was zero texture and where on earth was the spinach that is supposed to go into that soup?

The table next to us was taken and the diners there too were having difficulty with the food. I realised their problem when one said, “As far as I know, pesto sauce is supposed to be red in colour.”

Sadly, much to their disadvantage, they didn’t know that they were in a restaurant that completely fit their dining profile – clueless.

Nope. Looks like I have to start working on that real bucket list soon.

Poetry is in the pain

There is a method to the madness

A rhythm that is not quite patented

A picture that talks of many histories untold

That took behind the thin, insecure door

It trickles, from the tank overhead

Through the winding pipes and rusted corners

To the stained plastic bucket

That waits patiently for the results to be declared

Her right index finger carries evidence

Of a few occasional burns

Of splattering oil or boiling water

And even the bite of a mad dog

With that same index finger

She sifts through the black grains

Hoping it has little dust

So as to find just the granules for the first cup

And as the light breaks into the room

Through an undesirable crack in the glass

It dances to a familiar yet distant tune

As she rubs a quarter plate in vengeance

Then she breaks into a routine smile

With cup and saucer in hand

And one browned bitter rusk

She walks over to the ledge

Feet dangling, slurping sounds

A crunch unpleasant, as crumbs gather

On the lap that has held no child

She breathes her first free breath

---- Ends ----

Sleep world

Sleep world, as I disappear into the shadows

Where haunted memories, like perverted termites,

Gnaw into the corners of my soul.



Conspiracies murmur through the alleys

And lies and deceptions breed without moderation

Only I walk past in silence.



With every fashionable change of heart

Rusts the truth, bit by bit, layer by dastardly layer

And it all crumbles to the ground.



What I know or what I possibly believe,

Is what they’ve been feeding me from the start

Only you stand your ground, laughing.

a complicated equation

I have oft been called flippant; sometimes, even fake...
I wouldn't discount a silent utterance of 'shallow' either
I can be all of these and more, if that makes you happy
And prove all the rumours right just to make you smile

You can stare at the ceiling and wonder what I am thinking
But no specific thought travels within or without
Unless you want me to think, only to please your question
Then I can think random thoughts to fill those gaps

I can change my statement to prove your innocence
Cover up tracks that you so blatantly disregard
And yet from the corner of your slanted eye
You wonder if you can come about to trust me

It does not matter. At the end of the whole saga
The leaves will fall and touch the ground
Composing a crackling sound as you walk away
A sound only I will hear in my nightmares for eternity

The last wave

If you can hear me, I am on the other side of the shore
The waters are deep and wild, and death is certain
The tall waves are at war, with each other
Gilding the invisible walls with their saline froth

The bridge I built is broken, my humble apologies
It may not have been strong enough for the two of us
It crumbled into the ocean in perfect silence
But be assured, I built it with all that I had...

I have to walk away now; as the tide rises to swallow me
And you must find another land to make your home
Walk away, step back - the sand is disappearing fast
If you can still hear me, I shall now say goodbye.

He says.. she says...

If she hadn't pointed it out, I'd have missed this brilliant phenomenon. Have you noticed, if you have cared to read film stories that is, how actors and actresses have this divine habit of saying "I am taking it slow" or "I am waiting for the right script" or "I don't like to rush into films that I might regret later" and so on?

It of course didn't dare to cross my mind that most of the actors who say these exact words are in three words 'not going anywhere'. They have very little scope to make an impact in this glamour-riddled industry. I'd also like to add that they aren't exactly bad actors but shoved aside by doctored destiny or competition. Either they aren't great looking enough (after all, cinema is all about fantasy, no matter how real) or don't have the right contacts (read: they're not on the right couch!). They could be fabulous on screen - intense, passionate with impeccable dialogue delivery and a good sense of timing. But no, they won't make it.

The bad actors with zero screen presence won't make it either. Unless they have a face that can give men something to dream about at night.

But that's the women.

Male actors have it better; well, at least in most cases. Or else can someone explain to me how some of the ugliest actors, who aren't spectacularly versatile on screen either, are called super-stars?
And if they don't make it as lead actors, they become 'character artistes'. But I'd take a character artiste over a commercial hero any day.

Film journalism is bizarre. Very few people actually write about 'cinema' anymore; not the way feature stories used to be written about Raj Kapoor, Satyajit Ray etc.
Today, it's all about what's happening in the actors' bedrooms or at social dos and who's smoking up or snorting the wrong stuff. And most importantly, are they wearing the right clothes and driving the right car or scratching some competitor's eyes out or not.

There sure has been a change in the cadre recently. They don't make men or women like they used to, anymore. Blame the genes and the motivation above all else, I'd say.

Nargis will always remain Nargis. There can never be another one. Madhuri Dixit could look like Madhubala but the enchantment of the actors of yesteryears can never be replicated. It's practically impossible.

But yes, the climb is similar. I bet at some point in her life, Nargis would have said, "I am waiting for the right script" to someone. As for the rest and more, some pulled strings, some did not and got lucky and some just waited at the gates of studios to see if they would get lucky. And then there will always be some actors who could shine and yet, will never be heard of.

I love the movies - in almost any language that I can get my hands on, with subtitles in some cases, if you please. And I love the charm some of the actors create on screen. Sometimes, I want to be like them but in many cases, I want to be with them. But it's a world that's murkier than the Ganges.

It's a good thing I write about food. You know when it is spoilt.

Butterflies

When you smile, the grey dots turn purple
And with every frown, the stripes of green turn yellow
From the room to street, your rushed countenance
Modifies the little specks of red into something more mellow

And as you walk, a trail of gentle and fluid flapping
Follows and with every wave of hand to say goodbye or a hello
It moves, pauses and turns with you in the revered tranquillity
As the wings murmur your words in a restrained echo

A million of them, in an oath of invisibility, shield you
The movement of your every brow is stored safely away
Like how fairy tales have their happy endings
They spin your chronicle when you stir from day to day

They disappear when only you close your eyes at night
And come to me with their handwritten but unseen scroll
Till dawn they sing, in a voice I have never heard before
And one by one, all the butterflies colour my soul.

“In my room”

From my window, the view has not changed in more than 12 years. The tree has only expanded to have a few leaves reach into my room. The summer afternoon is always balmy – the furniture is different. Except for the shelf on the wall and the metal cupboard, I can’t remember much of what used to be. But the feeling was the same.

It was in this room that I fell in love, in this room I shared laughter with those who left and with those still around. It was in this room I heard music for twelve hours straight. It was in this room I decided that my life was not going to be mediocre. It was in this room that my heart broke and it was in the very same room I reconciled with life.

It is no longer my room. It is just there, for guests like me.

But in that sunny room that has seen the most beautiful rains and exotic evenings, time has stood still. It’s not just my life or my memories. Concealed behind those walls are secrets – secrets people have thought as they sat on a wicker chair, sipping tea and munching on tidbits. Stories that have been narrated, behind closed door, music put on high volume, lest of all my parents hear.

I have often lain across the bed, with my feet barely touching the floor, reading a book that I shall never part with. I have written words that made sense and most that didn’t. it is in that room I decided who my friends were and who would walk away when the time would come.

I lived in that room with my sister. She of course didn’t like the idea very much.

We have moved on to become different people, crossed boundaries and reached places that will always remain a bit alien to us. We have embraced reality that we don’t really identify with and we have walked the line that looked untrustworthy.

Probably because deep down, I know that room is always waiting.
Here’s to my closest friends (you know who you are!), the artist whose work hangs on the wall, the incessant chatter, music, grins, tears, laughter, pain, chaat, samosas, chai, cigarettes, occasional alcohol, perfumes, and most of all, love.

Here’s to the love of my life. You shall always be.

Don't tell me

I know what it is about love that makes it so ethereal. A sense of passion that doesn’t quite judge boundaries, a casual smile or a hard kiss – like you really mean it. And really mean it.
Through days of hunger or shame, it’s the only feeling that stays rooted like a virus, feeding you through its sweet venomous fangs. It’s the only emotion that goes past time, memories, history, economics and sociology.
It’s the only concept that makes you quiver, simply at the thought of it. And while you take out the trash or put the dryer on spin, you break into a shy smile, even when no one is watching. You can think of him, standing in a queue and touch him in your head and visualise the spot near his mouth, the one you’d often miss when you’re with him.
You’d mean it – every bit of it.
And when you fight, throw things at each other and call names that you had sworn yourself off, you’d still love with an aching heart. You’d want to, in the middle of the most ridiculous argument, want to break up and never see his face ever again. And you’d probably walk away because you’re done.
And then, after much water has passed under the bridge, the feeling will rekindle itself – rise from the ashes, just like the phoenix, lick your wounds and plant new feelings in your heart. Just that, they won’t be new – you’ve known them all along, you’ve wanted it. Deeply. Incessantly.
You’ve wanted to tear through the lines of division just to see him smile; even if it were for the last time. And of course, the one kiss.

The devil walked

His rook had a chewed top and was twisted to an unknown shape
No one could tell the difference between the squares anymore
The knight was harvesting bitter fungus under the broken chair
As the queen lay, broken hearted, next to the virgin tape

As the folds of the window louvers contained the sun no more
Harsh light played games with the webs and linen in the room
Some voices ran back and forth, in whispers, now and then
At midnight, the moon caressed gently the tattered drape

The attic smoothened out the rough edges at its corner
And pristine sheets on the bed were made night and day
A faded jug of ice cold water with lime to beat the summer heat
Till the afternoon drooped and twilight placed a kiss on its nape

From the shadow appeared a depressing and forlorn figure
That shuffled its feet and dusted off the mud of the night
A mournful song resonated through the abandoned streets
As he walked by, calling out, through the folds of his cape...

A story in four poems

Poem 1
In this heart, you lie alone
Rotting and hurting from the deep wounds
That won’t travel any further
But adamant in its stance...

Poem 2
The journey that ended a few miles ago
Seems faded underneath a line of dust
Some words travel back and forth
As you sort them out into neat boxes

Poem 3
From a distance, the sun waves goodbye
As a gap opens up beneath the surface
A long lost memory restrains itself
From being remembered once again

Poem 4
Slumber that comes ever so sweetly
Transforms into a square bitter pill
Like routine, you suffer the harsh swallow
And disappear into the aorta that’s still beating...

4

Forgive me my mistakes
That's all I ask
As the night clears out
I'll put back on my mask

Srijit Mukherji's Autograph

For those who know Srijit, and right now plenty of people will claim to know him better than they really do, his directorial debut carries an undeniable stamp - that of Srijit Mukherji. Autograph has his expressions, his nuances, his lines and even his sense of humour. It even reflects his taste - with the poster of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind - stuck on the wall of an apartment.

Starring two people,(Indraneel Sengupta and Nandana Sen) who should not have really been in the movie, the actual man who takes Autograph to a different level is Prosenjit. The 'banglar' hero, the man who, after years of acting in loud T-shirts and scarves around his neck, has come so far that he's almost believable. You want to reach out and touch him. You want to tell him how you think he's fabulous. He wasn't always fabulous.

Autograph, which is Srijit's story, is about a young aspiring film-maker who pulls off a fabulous film only because his vision never betrays him. In the process of course he loses pretty much everything that he would have perhaps held valuable at some point - love and self respect to begin with. And that young film-maker doesn't really give a shit. The problem is, the actor couldn't pull that off. If Srijit was playing that role, he would have, in a heartbeat. Instead the director chose to play a cameo, appearing as a driver in a dream sequence.

Nandana Sen, the leading lady, needs to retire or do something about the four inches of makeup on her face. Her whole persona is contrived, which is perhaps something the director couldn't really do anything about. A graduate from Presidency College (despite being obsessed with Antigone, which is pronounced rather badly in the film) cannot be traipsing around the room in bizarre cut-off tees and saying stuff like 'yay' - even in 2010! And as for the 'aspiring film-maker', there is something inherently wrong with the way he throws his dialogue because I can't grasp the fact why you'd be shrieking a question to a person who's less than three feet away from you. Mind you, he wasn't shouting, he was shrieking and that too, badly.

The cameraman of course deserves a hug and an award. He's made the film look as stylish any Indian film can be. It has the right kind of shifts, light, fade off and barring a few strange abrupt cuts, each frame is worth staring at!

I want to come back to Prosenjit. I used to hate him. He looked like a wannabe Aamir Khan (even though Aamir has done equally bad films) and couldn't pull it off.
I stopped watching movies with him in it and then altogether all kinds of Bengali films because he seemed to be in most of them.
And as he says in the film in question, "I am the industry!" Prosenjit really became.
But now I get it. I saw Chokher Bali - not really the best film I've seen. But, despite Aishwarya stealing the show, it was Prosenjit I couldn't ignore. Then there was Khela. The film hasn't done too well I hear. But I loved him in it.
And then there is Autograph. A flawed man who is not beyond love and respect, a super star who loves munching on apples and looking at his own posters, single malt and cigarettes - Srijit clinched the deal when Prosenjit said yes to playing the lead.
And for that, all of Srijit Mukherji's friends are entirely grateful because after him, many cowards will nourish the courage to chase their dreams, no matter what!

The Golden Song

Once upon a time, in a rather disturbed universe, there was a story teller. He travelled far and wide, telling tales to anyone who would lend him a ear.
And when he was too old to travel, he settled in the far corner of the planet, alone, amidst the trees that never tired of his voice.
One day, he went for a long walk. And as he reached a river bed, he saw long stretches of dark mud that was wet from the water and gleaming in the sun.
The story teller picked up a twig and for the first time in his life, began to write. He wrote a song that ran into a hundred lines.
And as soon as he was done, the song turned into a golden bird that flew away instantly.

The bird flew far and wide, dropping a feather every now and then. She would fly by day and rest at night - whenever she found a branch that could shelter her tired wings. And she would sing the story teller's song.

And as people slept in their beds, they would dream of a bird with a song in her heart and the song would bring unknown tears to their eyes.
The song spoke of a time that was innocent, when people understood the values that were innate. A time when no one would hurt another person or kill out of hate.

Years passed by and the song travelled across the globe - never changing.

And after ten years, the feather the bird had dropped turned into wondrous trees that bore deep green leaves and flowers that were so fragrant that people were intoxicated by its smell and colour.

Soon, the bird's journey was over and it returned home.
The far corner of the universe where the storyteller resided had not changed. Only he had turned old, barely able to walk.
The bird settled on the storyteller's porch as the frail man poured his evening tea, she turned to him and said, "I have done your bidding. Your song is in every heart now. You are now free."

The storyteller closed his eyes and smiled. "For every story that I have said and the only song I've ever written, I owe you everything."

The golden bird spread its vast wings and took the old man under them. "Then we are both free."

And as two spirits escaped in a sigh from a world that continues to remain tortured, a slight blink of hope reappeared in a few bodies across the universe. And with every drop of blood that was shed, a soul re-entered the universe with the promise of love and peace.

such it is...

They say I live in the past. Wrapped around its little finger, I swing my life around memories that are either dark, clouded or crystal.
What do I do with a present that has no familiar aroma. No old dusty corners I can stare at and smile at for no reason.
What do I do with a future that seems to belong to someone else?
And what on earth could I possibly do with a heart that seems rather useless?

And what on earth do I do with a reflection that I no longer recognise?

F***, what’s this?

My friend, Nandini Mehra, updated her Facebook status message recently. And here’s what she had to say:

Four million people homeless. Thirty-three trapped miners sing the national anthem and smile for the camera. Two new planets are discovered. They're very far away and very hot. A man skins an animal alive for its fur. Ishaan chases rainbow bubbles across the grass towards the baby pool. Claps his hands when he finds bubbles don’t burst, they float on water… at least for a while. The world makes no sense to me today.

The world makes no sense to me either.

It was a rude awakening, things were changing too fast around us and some of us, the not-so-savvy ones, were being left behind. Advertisements made fun of those who didn’t really have the latest version of mobile phones or weren’t ‘with it’ when it came to job interviews, didn’t know the latest pick up lines and were basically still figuring out our surrounding.
The 70s children – we the unfortunate souls – got left behind by a railroad of ambitious brains that woke up one morning as said, “Nothing works without more money or more technology.”

What happened to us? We chased our dreams and found glass mirrors with pretty pictures on them all around us. These were not the same dreams we had initially set out to chase.

What happened? What really happened?
There is nothing to curse about modernity. It’s good for every step we take towards the future. But when did lose ourselves? What did we trade in return of shiny new technology that seemed to make everyone’s lives simpler?

My friends, who were with me, through the years, judging me and then changing their mind, but never leaving my side, we are stuck. Rather desperately in a situation that no one trained us to get out of.
Dear Nandini, sorry for stealing your ‘status message’. Your one statement triggered a torrent of thoughts in my head.

After thought

Seriously. It happens. Some of them can break your heart so subtly that it takes years for the cracks to show up and more time for it to actually disintegrate and cause you enough pain. And by then, you can only laugh.
And sometimes, you just want to kill yourself; not because your heart is broken but because you've been served - well and proper.
But most of the times, you just laugh.
You could also turn blind.

The ritual

He's been at it for a while now. 20 years to be precise - ever since he was 15. He would walk up to her door and wait there a minute or two and walk back. It was a ritual. A ritual that was his alone. He was rather proud of it.
Even as time melted and things transformed into unrecognisable shapes, he would walk to her door.
She knew. But did nothing.
After all, he was of a different caste. But that little diamond stud on his ear always pulled her heart strings. But she was not allowed; it was against the rule.
And as she walked out that door one final time, looking back only to see her father pat his wife's shoulder ever so lightly as tears welled up in her eyes, she remembered that solitary bystander, at the tea shop, staring. Call it theatrical, but it was even raining that day. The border of her heavy red Benarasi was drenched as the umbrella kept her perfect hair in place.
The long car swallowed her and flew off.
But he was just so used to it. The ritual never stopped. Every day, at 6am, he would walk to her door and stop to pay his respects.

On this 30th birthday, his mother gave him an ultimatum. Bring a wife home. He took a taxi to the brothel nearby and spotted the prettiest girl and asked her if she would marry him. He was rich enough. She said yes not quite understanding why the dialogue had even taken place.
A few months later, after carefully constructing a past the prostitute never really had, the two were married. She was to never go back to that neighbourhood, that was the only condition. She readily agreed; a promise she has never broken.

Where will you go for your honeymoon? everyone asked. He picked a rather exotic place; I would have taken 'her' here, only if she were mine. They went for three weeks; quite unheard of in those days. After all, a holiday at the beach resort was terribly expensive. But he didn't mind.
His wife had a very good time. She was, as he found later, rather well behaved. She knew how to cook, clean, look pretty and even hold a conversation. She almost went to college, she had confessed to him later. They tried to become friends.

Two years after they were married, he was asked to take up a job in another city. That was impossible. It would change everything - the ritual was not to be taken lightly. He tried explaining to his employers and asked if an alternative could be worked out. No. He had to go. And go he did.

The new city was not new to him. As he found later that 'she' too lived there. Not too far away from where the company had given him a flat. There is God, he told himself.
His wife made the flat as pretty as it could be. And never spent an extra penny than required. She would cook for him, pack his lunch, wash his clothes and wait for him.
Am I in love? she asked herself. But how is that possible? Wasn't it love that pushed her to make some very damaging decisions? Wasn't it love that tore her apart from her family and even her two-year-old daughter. Wasn't it love that taught her how to measure everything against money.
Yes, he is rich and that is good enough for me. As long as the money keeps coming in, I will play the perfect wife. But then again, her eyes would constantly move to the fancy clock on the wall each time he was late.

We need to have a child, he told his wife. Otherwise, people will question us.
We will, only if you want, she politely replied. She couldn't bear the thought of having another baby. What if she lost this one too?
Well, I don't care, but I think we should get one. Maybe adopt a child. That would be the sensible thing to do, he told her. But if you are not ready, I will not ask you till you are, he assured her.

He had found her house. It was a small apartment, ten kilometres from their place. What do they call that place? A chawl, yes. Why does she live here?

He waited one day - just for a glimpse. And also to make sure that he was in the right place. And a glimpse he got. A cotton sari draped her slim body, her long hair, which was now much shorter, formed a tiny bun at her nape. Her skin was as fair as he'd remembered, but did not glow like the moon anymore. Her red parting was fading away and the tiny bindi on her forehead was almost like a life support system.
Why is she here?

And after 20 years of silence, he walked up to her and stood in front of her.
She was not ready to meet him; she was never ready. Looking up to see a familiar face that had aged very little with time, she asked him if he was well.
A rather odd question he thought.
Yes he was well. Now married to a rather lovely girl who cooks for him.
That is a good thing, she assures him. She too is doing fine -her husband lost his job a year ago but they are not pushed to the borders of poverty yet. She works in the morning as a teacher. They are saving up to buy a flat, that's why the cheap accommodation.
Yes, he understands.
Asking him to come by some day for a meal, she takes his leave. Her husband will be waiting for his evening tea.
He lets her pass, watching her walk by him and stopping for a second only to fix her hair.

He walks out of the compound, to the end of the lane and sat in his car. It was all too confusing. But he drove off anyway, the wife would be waiting.
It was just after 8pm, when he reached home. She was ready with tea and snacks. Sitting down with the cup, he looked up at his wife of the last five years. She is truly beautiful. Reaching out, he touched her hand as she passed by. Stopping suddenly, she looked at her husband. He looked tired but happy.
Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? he asked. I haven't really taken you anywhere since we got here.

My impatient self

I've seriously begun to question my patience. And while a whole lot of people jumped at this opportunity to advise me as to how I should meditate, join a gym, do some yoga, take long walks etc, to calm my erratic mind down, I refuse to any of it.
What I really need is to go home, which I am in a while but it just seems so far away. I've been constantly missing things of the past - memories that can always be reenacted. I miss eating out with my friends, having long conversations, lapping up drops of rain and extremely nonsensical stuff that I am very good at.
Has it ever happened that you find life moving too fast but nothing really seems to happen?
I think i am at that bizarre stage where I am finding it hard to keep pace but am always wondering what is really going on. I have very little to account for... Damn it.
In 2 1/2 years, I will be 35 years old. And very little to show for.
Some of the kids from the past are coming back into my life. And they are doing so well for themselves. Sometimes I wish I never left that - should have perhaps continued working for some more children who could do with some help.
I miss those couple of years with Zana and Ross and the whole film-making process. I can never really relate the whole experience in words. It was rather fantastic.
I've been impatient since then.
Jobs have come and gone, and I am actually, finally, doing something I really enjoy. But even so, at the end of every day I wonder what have I really done for that day?
I miss true Bengali food - the stuff that's made at home. The ones we don't have to worry about because they might be doused in oil. I miss my grandmother's luchis, something I haven't ever been able to get out of my mind. I miss the aromas of mutton curry fluttering into the dining room from the kitchen and we'd know that something good was coming up.
I miss my cousins, my sister - things that people think of much later in life.
Is that God's way of telling me that I'm running out of time?

I can't put up with crass conversation anymore. Earlier I'd at least pretend to be polite. Now, I can't handle it. And I get that in some form or the other all the bloody time.

I miss meeting interesting people. I do meet them at times. But I can't really dare to pick up the phone and ask them if they'd like to meet up for coffee. Do I really have questionable social skills?

I am constantly walking back home and making up my mind that I don't want to go out that night. And eventually, when it's time to hit the sack, I'd think, "damn I wish I went and got Sushi today."
Life is bizarre and so freaking unpredictable that it's predictable.

Harima is on my list. I want to go there as soon as I can. I am missing it.

I need to figure out a way to channelise my energies. It's not happening. And yoga won't do it - so don't go there.

It's a small craving

Albeit the bleary eyes (when single squares look double)that come from reading too much content, I was tucking into a story on Menorca - a beach destination in Spain. The weather outside (in Bangalore, not Menorca because I am not there) is worth the long walks that I've been avoiding for a while. And despite all the lovely things that happened today, I was forced to think of things that ideally, I don't find very appealing.
Do you crave for fame?
I asked myself that. And while it's easy to wave my hand in the air, I do feel a bit of thrill when someone says they've read something I've written and more so if they've liked it.

Now I ask you: Do you crave for fame?
Every day I look at at least 20 photographs, all being scanned to put on the dreaded Page 6. Pretty faces, boring faces, repetitive faces and I wonder - Do they all want to be on that page?

What do you crave for? A midnight snack where you don't have to watch out for the calories? Or maybe a late night movie alone, coffee and cigarette in hand? Do you crave for silence when all you get is a conversation or do you crave for the neon lights as you walk down a dark alley.

I think my mother would crave for some closure. I can picture her staring out the balcony door, looking at her plants, wondering what her two daughters are up to.
I think the immense volume of pain in her heart has transformed into something so intangible that even I cannot reach out to.

I think my sister would crave for freedom. Ironically, she has it all. She is free from so many bonds that she doesn't really see it. She lives her fancy, Utopian life and perhaps never thinks of us - not unless she is forced to.

I think my father - whom I haven't seen in nearly 8 years - would crave for some closure too. A closure of a different kind. I can imagine him, stuck in some godforsaken city, doing something that he thought he was never meant to do, and praying for the eventual.

I think I crave for just one thing. Every day. And that craving won't end soon.

And yes, I crave for Menorca - among other places.