The Grey Lady

Her knee length maxi is frayed at the edges. One of the press buttons has come off loose and is hanging for its dear life.

 She must remember to get it fixed when she goes to the bazaar next for her weekly shopping. 

 As she gazes out of the window, the rain droplets caress her face crinkling it up further. The sky today is a thunderous grey and the black clouds look ominous in every way. If the rain continues to pour incessantly, it will prove to be a dampener to all her plans.

 Mrs. Braganza is her name. Once in a while which is not too often she feels like dressing up. She pulls out her favorite mid-length silk dress from the cupboard and places it on the bed. The dress has bright yellow tulips printed all over it, reminding her of a warm summer. She then gathers her thin silvery hair and piles it up into a tiny bulbous knot on the top of her head. In her youth she had long lustrous hair which she would roll it into a bun sideways whenever she would step out. Scratching her head, she thinks out loud.. What do they call it... A Russian knot.. No.. Was it a German knot...Hola! The word decides to ring a bell in her head. A French knot it was. Stylish and classy.. 

Mr. Braganza whom she fondly called Benji, always nodded his head in approval, whenever she would make a grand entry from her bedroom, swirling in her evening dress, her coiffured hair rolled up fashionably in a French knot. 

She rummages through her drawer and finds the only lipstick tube she has owned till date. A bright red pops out. A little daring she had thought when Benji had first gifted it to her. But he said the colour befitted her wheatish complexion well. She looked sexy he had said gazing into her fawn shaped eyes. She still remembers turning a beetroot red on hearing the compliment; the colour of her complexion matching the lipstick shade.

Her kitchen window looks out to a huge open space where the planes occasionally fly really low. She enjoys watching the planes, thinking about John, her only son settled in the States. A faint glimmer of hope weaves its way along her mind hoping to see him someday.

Once in a while she writes letters to him. She tells him about the new couple who have recently shifted in the neighborhood and for whom she had baked chocolate muffins; the cat who always waits for her when she comes home from the bazaar. Its eyes are the colour of faded autumn leaves. There are afternoons, when naughty school children would ring her doorbell and run away. But it was impossible to stay angry with them for long as she would remember her own childhood when she would indulge in such pranks.

Once in a month or maybe twice, John would ring her up as a means of casual inquiry, maybe to quell his own underlying guilt of not visiting her since the last four years. Mrs. Braganza would ask him as to why he never responds to her letters. This would be followed by a nervous laugh from John’s end saying, “Mamma, who writes letters in this day and age! It’s so old fashioned”

But Mrs. Braganza still continues to write letters to him in her steadfast handwriting. She cannot dare imagine placing a trunk call ever with the thought of the soaring bills crossing her mind. The meager pension she receives after Benji's death is just enough to manage her middle class way of living.

But John’s number is jotted on a piece of yellow paper and has been handed over to the Gomes who are her next door neighbors. Someday she would die, and then John would need to be informed.

The thought of death doesn’t really frighten her. After all it is a lonely life, and she is ready to welcome death. 

She pours herself a stiff shot of bourbon and turns on the music. In her silk dress and red lipstick she feels the power of youth again. A smile puckers up her face. The dim lights and the soothing music, calms her. She shuts her eyes; dreaming; of walking into a dense forest and being surrounded by a dozen fireflies. Her face is bathed in a warm glow. Like a halo. So peaceful…

Wealth in a book

I am reading a book. I am struck by its nuances, by its finer depth. The more I get engrossed in the reading, the more the outside world feels like a blur.

Certain books manage to touch my soul, in a way they transform me. The same happens to me after I watch a good movie. The visual artistry of the movie keeps taking me back to the scenes as they unfold in front of my eyes.

But, with reading it is different. There are no pictures. Only narratives

A good book is like bumping into a stranger and forging an instant connection. So much so that I get invited over to her place. Once there, I am taken in by the beauty of how each artefact in the house is carefully treasured and has found its rightful place in tiny little alcoves. I notice the intricate blue of the carpet laid out, over which stands a magnificent coffee table. Nothing stops me from running my hands over the deep mahogany of the polished teakwood which speaks of class and style. I start speaking to the lady of the house and before I realise, I am drawn into a full blown conversation with her. There is an immense joy felt with this newfound friendship

I am exposed to a feeling so similar while reading a good book. An undefined force pulls me into the throes of reading. Each word unfurling in front of me- so poignant, so elusive. At times, I pause at a certain word; foreign to me. I look it up and I roll my tongue over it; savouring it. The source is always the writing, which inspires me, wanting me to take chances, pushing me closer to my goal.

As I am nearing the last few pages of the book, I feel a certain kind of heaviness in my heart. I don’t wish it to end. The feeling is akin to finding reluctance in my approach while leaving my friend’s home.

My feet feel heavy- as if laden with sand bags. The thought that the lovely afternoon has come to an end leaves me feeling sad.

At a distance I can see the birds are homeward-bound. I get up to leave. The images of the house, the wonderful hostess whom I can now rightfully call my friend, travels with me as I sit in the red bus that takes me home.

The book has had a lasting impact on me. 

Love is in the air...

Loud, boisterous guffaws fill up the tiny space that continue till the wee hours of the morning. Perhaps, some of them were drunk. Perhaps they were all drunk, laughing at some silly joke. She had not understood the joke at all, but she didn't care. In her incoherent state the only thing she could focus was the nerve that was throbbing at his jawline as his head dropped behind in laughter.

Her alcohol soaked brain was slowly forming a curious jumble of words in front of her eyes as she darted a glance at him through the rim of her wine glass.

She knew right then, she had to catch those words on paper before they disappeared into thin mist.

There is an awkwardness in her movement as she reaches out to her tote bag. Digging out her pen and a notepad she settles into a comfortable position amidst hand painted cushions. 

The clinking of glasses in the background, the soft lighting, and the sound of hushed whispers floating around sets the mood for her to pen notes about her love…

“I could be in the form of a number or a part of a clue wrapped up in neat packaging; left behind at your doorstep, waiting for you to unravel it in the morning that you rise;

This everyday intermingling of our paths, would have prompted me to tread on the imprint made by your dusty brown loafers on the damp earth below. Ever so gingerly lifting one foot of mine, I would place it gently on the arch, thereby creating a further hollow.

Today, for the briefest of moments I would have held my breath by simply shutting my eyes, taking cover in the warmth of your shadow while you walked past by completely unaware of my presence.

The night is still young, hung in a veil of gossamer blue…

we might both be afar, separated by distances but maybe watching the same skies, the glittering galaxy of stars, the only witnesses to our idyllic gazing.

I might invade your dreams tonight, stealthily approaching without a sound; maybe you would wake up with a flutter in your heart, slightly shaken with the stirring of thoughts…

Finally, as my eyes continue to search you amidst the throng of people, I am confronted with a pause; like a harsh light blinding me on a speeding freeway,

For all the words concocted in here, you might still be unaware of the minutiae of connections that holds me to you,

But that’s the beauty of us together; the depth of my emotions lying unknown; without a name, wrapped in the finest of silks, buried in the deepest corners of my tumultuous heart, like solid gold, like a fire blazing an entire forest.

These emotions will continue to simmer, as they will never get uttered or be bought to my lips…

For it is only I who am aware of the way you make me feel and only I who will never know how to tell it to you”

The effects of alcohol are slowly starting to recede after she gulps down two glasses of ice cold water.

Thanking her hostess graciously she makes her way to the exit. While leaving, she catches his eye; a million butterflies somersault in her stomach. She looks down at her hands, and at the note she has been holding all along. The note slips; maybe it is a deliberate attempt. 

In one swift motion she steps outside the house, the door slamming behind her. The cold wave hits her; the darkness embracing her like a soothing blanket.

My village on a paper

In school we always had compulsory art classes. Never a fan of art, my drawings would appear distorted. Pinocchio’s long nose would take an even longer bend under the scrutiny of my wilful fingers making the picture look quite comical. Many a times, the drawings would take shape of unimaginable, alien looking creatures, causing the Art teacher to roll up her eyes in disdain. On those occasions, I would find myself ousted out of class, for not completing the art assignments as per expectations. Personally, for me, the whole ordeal would then get exciting as the next stretched hour would be spent in chewing the dead ends of my brilliantly sharpened pencils while watching the outside view with uninterrupted joy.

In the school lawns, the gardener would be busy tending to the flowerbeds by watering them with a hosepipe. Seeing this, a­­n unusually chattery bunch of sparrows would grab the opportunity to get drenched under unexpected showers sprayed out from the hosepipe. For the sparrows, it was a perfect escape from the wrath of the hot summers.

Cut 2- Another hot, summery day. The fans of the classroom providing little relief as sweat trickles down from my forearms. But I would sit unshaken as the heat does little to dampen my spirits. My eyes stay focused on the blank sheet of paper and my fingers seem to move with a mind of their own with surprising ease and amazing clarity.

The subject:

I am involved in drawing a village scenery.

Surprisingly, this subject of drawing would not perturb me or make my hands go clammy. I would go ahead with my master strokes having a very definite view etched in my head which would get depicted on paper as well. 

Alternating between blue and grey skies, the backdrop would reflect fluffy clouds dressed in their silver finery. The tip of my pencil would curl to draw a thicket of shrubs mushrooming on dark brown hills. A flight of black ravens would paint the perfect picture against the blue sky. And finally a flame of orange yellow sun dressed in all its splendour would emerge like a shy bride bouncing between the hill tops.

The second part of the drawing would represent the scenery of a rustic setup. A tottering house with a red tiled roof would get drawn that had more than one entrance. Wooden bolted windows would open up to a garden patch that had neat flower beds lined up all the way till the gate. A lady nestling an earthen pot in the crook of her arm standing close to a well would be traced with bold imagery. Adorning the well, two or three coconut trees would get drawn on a makeshift path that was saddled with stones and grass.

Once the picture was completed, it would put me at ease and a blink and miss nod from the teacher would lighten my heart, knowing her rightful approval was in place.

Today I can still draw this picture with alarming precision as a good number of my summer vacations were spent in my village in Mangalore.

The memories stay all rolled up in the farthest corners of my mind. However, one peek into the yesteryears, would bring back all those happy moments spent in my village.

There would be the coconut trees standing tall; in the centre of the courtyard would be a well that I would peep into, to see my own reflection alongside the other water creatures. The gigantic sweep of monsoons would bring in a host of earth insects to surface above the ground. Of which one of the most common guests visiting us would be the centipedes cosily nestled beneath red earthen pots. One poke with my wooden stick would make them curl up into a circular shape.

 If an octopus’s limbs were left loose on a blank piece of paper he would have gone ahead making awry sketches on paper. My art perhaps reflects in the same manner. 

Except for this one drawing titled “My Village”

It always brings back fond memories from South, the picture always takes me back to 

My Village!