Category: Thoughts uncut

Home, I Go

It matters where you’re headed more than how you’re headed.

If you’re wondering who said that, it is I.

I realised the truth in those words for the first time as I leaned back on my seat, and heard a disapproving grunt from the passenger behind me.

350 kms and about seven hours on a bus. (It would be five and a half or six during the day, but no one’s decoded the Indian standard time yet). Oh, and the seven hours doesn’t include the hour-long (or longer) wait at the bus stop because we Indians don’t conform (to timetables, in particular), and our roads aren’t paved to accommodate on-timers.

In fact, going home on a Friday night isn’t something to look forward to, but more of a painful endeavour.

Still, though, every time I go home, my spine would tingle for my lazy couch and my stomach would growl for some homemade gravy. For every back-breaking minute I endure on the bus, I imagine lying at home sipping steaming tea and streaming shows I’ve never watched before.

Because when you’re at home, you’re home. You’re the celebrity and you get — in a day — all you’ve craved for the last six months.

And that thought makes all the potholes and broken armrests worthwhile. Nevertheless, the journey is all about tossing over trying to sleep on a seat that’s meant to be sat on. Or staring out at the dark sky dotted with specks of silvery stars, and pretending that other buses shrieking through the silent night doesn’t bother me at all.

I manage to do all that, every single time. And when the bus stops for a midnight break, I look at the watery mess they call coffee, and I smile. Because I know it’ll be better in the morning and I’d be home.

Cake-Like

Life is a piece of cake;
there are bad batter days
with too much sugar to take
some days the eggs spoil it
or the salt shaker falls over
the chocolate fails to melt
or the vanilla seeps in too long
you’d want a white layer of icing
and maybe a cherry or two on top
you’d waste more than a few hours
and end up with just a mush of mess.
Life’s like a piece of cake, too
when the wet and dry mix well enough
you’d have a cake you’re proud of.

Lesson to Be

When the new girl joined their class, the sixth graders had all gawked at her. She was at least five inches shorter than the shortest kid in their class.

She wore round glasses and had leather-bound books. She had to sit in the first row because she couldn’t see the teacher from anywhere else. From the first day, she knew she’d find no friends in her classmates. They teased her all the time, hid her books at a height she couldn’t reach and, snatched her specs away in jest. It was torture for her and amusing for them.

If her height was one reason, her name was another to make fun of her. She was called Hermia.

They would learn their lesson the following year in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Hermia

One of Those Days

Summer’s gone, and so’s its breezy aftermath. We’re now rushing into monsoons that could get so bad that the entire city flooded last year.

This year, it started with untimed rains and unpredicted washouts. When I put my clothes out to dry, I didn’t know it would rain. When I walked into the office, I didn’t know it would start pouring ten minutes later. When I stood on the balcony looking out at the darkening sky, I didn’t know I’d have to wade in through puddles to reach home later in the evening.

I didn’t know I had walk past polyethene bags ingrained in wet soil, worms creeping over stones, and dogs shaking their manes, drenching me in the process.

I didn’t expect to get my pants splashed with mud and my just-washed hair getting another involuntary wash.

I didn’t want to be the only person in our building to come home to soggy clothes after all day at work. Or the one that washed her shoes every day because they drowned in pools of rainwater.

I didn’t ask for the monsoon to make me miserable. I didn’t want my sunshine to cower behind clouds, unable to push them away.

But when I walked towards my office today, I saw the sun trying. Reigning clouds veiled her, yet she shone —- weak, but steady. And I smiled. It doesn’t matter how lousy the monsoon makes me feel. If the sun can get through it, so can I.

Made to Order

made to order

The ideal one is neither a riff raff
nor the tied-up, suited honest freak
not the shaven, tall, dark, or handsome
and certainly not the short-haired one.

The ideal one feels home with bell bottoms,
weeded hippies and loose collared shirts
the expert guitarists and beard nurturers
and a healthy addiction to cigars and beers

The ideal one is a peace craving soul rebel
who picks a pick, a headband over a love band
a sneaker or seeker, but with sneakers still on
or boots or roller blades, as long as it’s his own
who’s moved away from dad, and disregards every fad
who’d join hands and nods head to every new joint
who knows governments are cheats, political creeps
fights for the oppressed supports the suppressed
like a medical man and the clinically depressed,

The ideal one is one who stands his ground,
who speaks his mind, and folds his arms
and when he smiles it comes from the heart,
and reaches all the way to the eyes.