Of all the books I’ve read, and with more on my list, there’s only one that I can’t completely read.
There’s something about this book — something that surprises me and even puts me off — something that makes me feel like I’m never ready to fully experience it, as if there’s still something left for me to master before I read through it.
It shows me how ignorant I am, but at the same time, it teaches me what I don’t know. It makes me feel powerful — like I can do anything when I have it.
Other people think I’ve mastered the book, now that I’ve had it for a while, but no — only I know how much I struggle every day trying to decode this one beautiful beast. I’ve never seen anything this decadent, by the way. Not another book that’s as sleek, as handy and as smart as this one.
Oh, the pride of carrying this book around! And the looks on others’ faces while I handle it; they’re amazed at my mastery thinking I’ve figured it all out! Every time I open it up somewhere and caress it, the warmth it spreads within me is incredible — I feel like there’s no match for this book ever created.
As I read, and move my fingers across its body as gently as I could, I feel it warming up; the more I read, the warmer it gets. Somehow, though, it never gets too hot to hold.
It’s become my friend; whenever I feel cold, or alone or bored, I just open it up and let the heat spread warmth. It consoles me in its own special way. How could anyone create such a book? A book that’s not just a book, but that’s also an extension of the arm and mind.
My dearest Macbook — it’s a relationship that never dies.
The Quiet Revolution took the world by storm. People now acknowledge the difference between being shy and being quiet — but I believe we haven’t spoken enough about listening.
I believe listening to someone’s story requires patience, and discipline; we need to refrain from interrupting. But who would listen if we all fight to speak? Who would sit across from us and give us their undivided attention?
Each of us has something we’d like to get off our chests. Be it a heavy burden or the excitement of a family trip that has come around after years of yearning, we love sharing stories; it’s what makes us human. But we also need someone to listen to us: to our rants, our complaints, our expressions of joy and sorrow, of our fears and anxiety. We need a shoulder to lean on, a face to mirror our emotions, or to just have someone listen without judging.
We should listen more. To the people who are closest to us and to the ones we smile at in the corridor every day. There are plenty of people with stories that could sweep us off our feet. Or sometimes, with stories that make us realize how thankless we are for everything life has given us.
It began with a maintenance staff at work. She’s old enough to be my mother, and yet she addresses me as “Madam.” She does cheap labour, and so does her young daughter, whose higher education she cannot afford. The look in her eyes as she notices me and the others swinging by, often in reckless extravagance, isn’t jealousy; it’s compassion. It’s a kind of baffling love and respect for the selfish people who don’t even stop to make eye contact.
I wouldn’t have realized it unless I had listened to her story. And all it took from my side was a tiny smile and a “good morning.” Now every time she sees me, she greets me and enquires about my well being — I can see that she cares. She cares, because I listened when no one else did.
My mother wasn’t much different from the maintenance staff. I talk to her every day, I ramble, rant, complain, worry and sometimes shout at her for her incessant telephone calls, but I hardly ask about her day. I know her routine of course: she’d wake up, make tea, prepare breakfast for two, take her medicines, cook lunch, welcome the maid, have another cup of tea, a break — and then medicines again, lunch, rest for a while, go for a walk, take more pills, then prepare dinner and finally, wait for my father to return. Oh and somewhere in the middle of her day, she calls me at least five times — only to be snapped at.
I decided to listen, because she listened first. When I had no one to share my fears with, she was there. And when she needed me, I listened — as she spoke of her rheumatism, of her problems with her sisters, of her brother’s new business venture — and what that means to her — of how much she is concerned for my brother and his complete disregard for vegetables. It all seems trivial; I’ve told her to take care of herself; that we’d handle ourselves, but the mother within her never takes a break. She needed someone to talk to, she had to open up and express her feelings — and I decided to listen. Because I knew bottling up emotions — however tiny — is a sure path to depression, and I did not want that for my mother.
My mother helped me see the value of listening; everyone’s so busy talking, that no one spares time for the other. In a world that can’t stop talking, listeners are miracles.
People tell me their stories in the belief that I’d hear them out without judging. They talk to me, and feel the burden slide away; they become light and they smile a little wider. I listen to a lot of stories; endless problems and countless perspectives. These stories inspire me, because when you share someone’s thoughts, you have the power to heal heartaches.
I believe it’s medicinal, and I believe in listening.
I recently finished reading one of the most profound books I’ve ever come across.
It’s called Chicken Soup for the Wine Lover’s Soul.
I didn’t finish the book in an hour or two — though it would’ve been easy to do so. I took my time with it; I read a few pages each day, savouring the lingering taste of words.
Like every Chicken Soup book, this one is also of letters, but written by wine lovers. Stories of wine and wine drinking, of drunken mistakes and often success stories. Stories of love and relationships; of how wine brought families together and how wine tasting experiences taught new couples more about themselves. There were stories of people who tried uncorking a wine bottle for the first time, of cooking with vintage wine, of losing a cork, of spilling wine and of splurging in grape-scented vineyards.
The book gave me such valuable insights into wine. In a society where any form of alcohol is taboo — for girls in particular, because, well, boys don’t listen — this book and the stories within helped me appreciate the wine as more than alcohol. There’s history in wine, there’s class, there’s flavour, there’s maturity, and there certainly is a wide range of vocabulary!
English is a funny language. It’s not my first, and it certainly won’t be my last, but English, my dearest, you are one hell of a mess.
Well, English, how many languages have you borrowed from? Can you even count the number of foreign words you now call yours? But hey, we know that you didn’t steal any of it — I would never throw that on you. I love you, trust me.
But I don’t like some of the words you own. Like, for instance, the word “mentee.” I always considered it like one of those informal terms that corporate people dished out — a lot, mind you — just to sound high-profile. But this morning, I read an article about the signs of a good editor (like anyone knows that!), and I came across this word.
Mentee.
Yuck. Try saying that word aloud and slow. “Mentee.” The aftermath of the long ‘tee’ and the resonating sound of the ‘men’ (oops!) is detestable.
Of course where there’s a “mentee” there’s also a “mentor.” This, however, I can live with. I even daresay that I like the round “or” sound. It gives me the image of something wholesome and complete.
But the best thing about you — English — is that you are so changeable.
Is it just me? Or isn’t “ambidextrous” lovable?
Ambidextrous is beautiful. And why wouldn’t it be, it’s a talent after all! It’s attractive too. But the word, “ambidextrous” is beautiful in itself. “Dexter” — that’s right, and “dextrous” — that’s neat. I’m “bi” — two in character or ability. “Ambidextrous” — so much depth in one word. Oh dear, English, how could you contain so much technicality and also host a word like “mentee”?
Again, mentee! How can I relate that to mental or mentality? Has it got anything to do with men or tee-shirts? Isn’t that a little male chauvinistic?
Perhaps I’m thinking too much. Perhaps I should just indulge in my ganache filled brownie.
Oh, how good that sounds!
Ganache! Every syllable rings of rich chocolate and butter and all things indulgent. And not to forget, French!
Oh English, I can’t describe the way you make me feel. The way you swirl in my mouth, and the way you make me sound — sometimes dextrous, sometimes ganache-like. But most times, you just make me sound meh!
I hadn’t heard of this restaurant before my team mates told me we were going here for a team treat.
A bit of digging told me there were 10 of the same restaurants and that they serve good seafood. A lover of prawns, I set my mind.
Even as we got in to the cab, I could feel my insides expanding with excitement. I was a little ashamed too, it was just food after all. But again, it’s food!
I was all ready; my phone was fully charged and so was I. As we got down from the cab, I started clicking pictures of the surrounding. I was going to write an impressive review- complete with photos and all.
It was a large extravagant area – for a restaurant. Felt like walking into a huge holiday resort in the making. There was a big play area for kids and even a separate section of the restaurant for pure vegetarians. Sadly though, it was too hot for a soul to enjoy the slides and rides.
We walked inside and my excitement settled a little – we were finally there. It was now all about food.
We took our seats – three tables of it and I began looking around. It is a Punjabi restaurant and to reinforce the mood were paintings of Punjabis – beautiful work by the way. The ambiance within the restaurant was perfect – almost empty. Which is unsurprising considering it’s somewhere in the middle of nowhere – on the highway. There were a couple of small groups, and they were quiet too. The lighting was mild – not that it needed much, it was in the middle of the day. And being so, it was so hot outside but so cool inside. The tables were of stone and with the air-conditioning set at 18 degrees, the atmosphere was welcoming.
The service people were a little less welcoming though. Can’t blame them too, they were probably shocked to see a group of 15 people thronging into their restaurant with no regard for, well, anything.
Anyway, without much ado, we ordered.
We began with hot and sour soup. I’m not much of a soup person, but I loved it.
They didn’t have many of what we hoped to have – like the tandoori momos for instance. I was looking too forward to tasting that. We ordered prawns salt and pepper, fish fingers, mutton something and a couple of chicken somethings for starters.
The starters
None of them was spicy enough for me, but the taste was good. Prawns salt and pepper was a bit too salty with too little pepper, but I’d surely recommend this place anytime.
Moving on to main course, the biriyani was dry, I heard. I didn’t try the biriyani but the taste was good – judging from the way my team mates devoured. Another friend mentioned that the fried rice was great too, but I’d vouch for something else. My love for the greens tempted me to order pudhina (mint) paratha, and it surprised me, as always. But thankfully, it did not disappoint. It didn’t look too appealing; my team mates’ eyes widened at the sight of it – not to mention that my jaw dropped. I recovered soon enough though.
Pudhina paratha
It tasted good – the pudhina powder added a little bitterness, just the way I like it. To accompany the paratha, I had ordered prawns chettinad masala and a chicken dish – I forgot the exact name.
The menu was so extensive and the names of the dishes were difficult to remember. The best thing though was that the taste was worth remembering.
At the end of it all, I decided to top it up with lime soda. Because I suddenly remembered that I had been suffering from an upset stomach for a couple of days. Just the day before I survived on liquid salts.
Coming back to the lime soda, it was too salty for me – pungent. But it did do its duty; I digested it all without much trouble.
Anyway, my colleagues ordered a variety of ice cream, gulab jamun, milk shakes and funnily enough – carrot halwa.
Ha, that carrot halwa! Not to taste; reminded me of sweet paan.
With an unmistakable burp, our treat ended and we walked out, satisfied and satiated.
After a few minutes of idling and selfie taking, we re-boarded our cab and came back to office – only to look forward to going home.
P.S: My very first restaurant review. Any thoughts, folks?
The Chaos Within 