The Old House: A poem

 

I visited the old house today,

The windows glazed over with dust.

The plaster peeling

Seepage here and there

Rubbish strewn about

The wiring loose in places,

The plumbing a bit off.

The patina of Time is not attractive.

I came here with wonder,

Eyes full of dreams.

I built a home in this house,

Filled it with laughter,

The gurgles of children,

The pattering feet.

I added storage,

A place for everything.

The House embraced it all.

Now it creaks and seeps.

Accusingly it weeps;

“You left me,” it says,

“Others occupied me,

Doing as they pleased,

Their comfort wreaked havoc

On me.

“You come and paint me from time to time

Add some plaster, scrub away the grime,

And leave again, glad

That I seem all right.

You don’t see I am sad,

 Giving up a little every year.

They say I look fine

For my vintage.

“But you! You should know

You lived in me after all!

Lizards dart out now and then

Mostly hidden.

I am tired now.

“So much wrong with me.

Maybe it would be better

To demolish me and start over

Brick by brick,

Or cell by cell?”

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

The Women of Trishul (1978)

 

The iconic Hindi blockbuster movie, Trishul, was a Yash Chopra film, in the late maestro’s flamboyant style. The characters slip into English with the ease born of privilege in those days. The sentiments and sensibilities are Indian, yet the presentation is Western. In the cutthroat world of business, tenders are jealously guarded and equally zealously overturned. Traitors are bought, yet loyalty is respected.

When the competitive work day ends, the evening sees rivals and opponents attending the same parties and conversing over drinks with a suavity that would impress even a James Bond. Even when Shashi Kapoor realizes that Amitabh Bachchan has tried to sabotage his relationship with Hema Malini, he passes over it lightly---no confrontation and no blaming Hema either. It is all very refined--- no threats of thirsting for the other’s blood!

Hema Malini’s character, Sheetal, is a working woman, who wears sarees and trousers (bell bottoms!). She plays tennis and golf. Sheetal also does yoga and watches what she eats.

Rakhee’s character, Geeta, is also a working woman, but there is a subtle difference--- she has to work for a living. She wears sarees, trendy ones. She is comfortable riding up to the top of buildings-under-construction, on a crane, in those same sarees. Geeta earns the title of ‘human computer’ when the term was not too familiar. She is an employee, but does not feel inferior to her boss in any way, be it Sanjeev Kumar (R. K. Gupta), or later, Amitabh Bachchan (Vijay). On the contrary, she yells back at Sanjeev Kumar when he unjustly accuses her of treachery. And has the grace to apologise afterwards.

Waheeda Rehman’s character, Shanti, does not cling to Sanjeev Kumar when she discovers his duplicity (however helpless he may have been). She is proud. However, she neither forgives nor forgets. She does not let her son, Vijay forget either. She nurtures him with a burning desire for revenge, demanding the price of the mother’s milk----a recurring theme in many Indian films.

Poonam Dhillon is the cute ‘Gapuchi gapuchi gam gam girl’, Babli, starry eyed and in love with her classmate who is now her father’s employee. She knows what she wants, and is determined to fight for it, especially when she gets encouragement from an unexpected quarter.

 These four main women characters drive the story in their own ways, foreshadowing the empowered women of today.

 This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025.

 

Age and Ageism

 

Not long ago, there were old people. (Yes, I said Old. Not seniors, not any other euphemism). People touched their feet: they blessed those people. The older they got, the more important they were. Venerable was the word. Wrinkles, white hair--- badges of honour. A life lived to the full. Wisdom gained from experience. Their stage in life was almost aspired to. No doubt, physical ailments may not have been too severe. Even if they were, they were looked up to as battle scars. The aged were the marathon runners in the race of life. The very age they had reached was a mark of their success. They had beaten death thus far.

Even at a baser level, the veneration and regard rose from a healthy respect for the fact that we are all going there one day. Now we seem to have forgotten all that.

Maybe we are scared. Not so much of the disability and the deteriorating faculties, but of the wrinkles. The toxic positivity around aging surely cannot be healthy. How many times have we heard the refrain, “Age is just a number!” That sounds patronizing.

Sure, one must do everything one can, to keep fit. However, let us not equate fitness with youth and beauty. Ageing gracefully does not mean looking young for one’s age. It means accepting with grace, the fact that change is taking place, and how to make the best of one’s resources—physical and mental.

Let us not relegate Age to just a number. Age is a whole life: the hurdles, the triumphs, the ups and downs. Age is experience and memories of a forgotten world.

This post is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025.

Writing on Prompts

 

I have always written sporadically. In fits and starts is how the train of thought translates into the written word.

The writing bug is a mosquito--- one bite, one itch, one scratch, and one piece of writing done. For me it is not a leech, steadily drawing the ink from my veins, as it gets fatter and fatter, making my manuscript bigger and bigger.

So, these days, I turn to prompts, to force me to write. Waiting around for inspiration, just leads to perspiration. I have always enjoyed putting pen to paper, writing longhand, writing impatient notes to myself in the margin (for example, “find a better word!”). Putting arrows to interchange paragraphs, giving them temporary numbers to sort out a sequence, things like that. I then type it up later, when I am in the non-creative zone.

However, on taking up a prompt challenge recently, I found that I would just note down some ideas to get me started, and then start typing directly. There was not enough time to write twice, you see. The added benefit was that typing on a laptop kept me aware of not only the word count, but also let me keep an eye on the clock. Writing challenges typically have deadlines.

In writing flash fiction, almost always I have to sacrifice the beginning to accommodate the ending. I have to give up on the build-up, to keep the clarity. I enjoy the concise and the precise, but it is still a pang to delete the so-called frills. A short-story writer finds it difficult to write flash fiction; however, 100-word challenges are again head scratchers, yet doable!

Now I know why novelists find it difficult to write short stories!

This post is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

Cooking: A Life Skill

 

Being a Defence kid, I attended eight schools in my school-going years. After that it was graduation, post- graduation and post-post- graduation. Barring a short dalliance with home-science as an extra- curricular subject in one of the schools, my familiarity with the kitchen was near zero. Indulgent parents who were keener on academics, kept me out of the kitchen too.

Fast forward to marriage and circumstances where I was thrown in at the deep end of the culinary pool. In those days I did not even know how to make tea (filter coffee was fine!). Nervously and painstakingly, I learned. While I questioned the automatic assumption that a girl would be a born cook, I simply could not give up. Any task I took up, had to be seen to its conclusion, and diligently, at that. Cooking is something that one has to do well, at least for the sake of the children. Simply catering to the nutritional and palate needs of elders also fine tunes one’s skill.

I learnt recipes from elders, neighbours, and magazines. I noted all tips and fixes in a diary which is now filled with authentic and exclusive recipes. As with all skills, cooking gets better with practice. It also has a meditative side to it. If one is not harried, intent on a deadline, that is, a mealtime, then one can experiment and perfect one’s own special touches.

Over the years, this is what I have done. The meditation during cooking gave rise to several ideas for stories that I subsequently wrote and that were published. While there were several tearful episodes around cooking in those early years, I did come out of it all with a valuable skill learnt. While there are many acquaintances who still don’t know the writing side of me, they all certainly know about my cooking. It is now a large part of who I am. My approach to cooking may be directed by the way I do things in other spheres. However, cooking, in turn, has taught me to multitask, to focus, to be resourceful, and to think on my feet.

The best takeaway is the realization that food is the language of welcome, and belonging.

This post is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025.

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The Last Four Books I Read

A few years ago, I found myself facing a reading block, as it were. I would only go to my comfort reads, namely Wodehouse and Christie. No matter how many times I read them, I would always guffaw at one and be fascinated by the other. Then I discovered book clubs. They enticed me and then nudged me to get out of my comfort zone. Over the years I have become a part of three vibrant reading communities. The choice of books varies and swings wildly from bestsellers, to Booker Prize winners, to run-of-the mill stories, to autobiographies, to sagas, and everything in between.

Over the past few months, I have read these:

1.    1.  What the Body Remembers by Shauna Singh Baldwin: A tale of two wives set against the backdrop of the partition of India. Though the Partition comes into it near the very end, the book is a detailed account of the life, systems and beliefs of almost a century ago. I read it with great concentration, as I was to speak on it at a special book meet centered on our Independence Day. I found that I had been so wrapped up in the story that I hardly looked at my notes. I enjoyed narrating the salient points in the story and the questions from the other readers, thereafter.

2.      2. Normal People by Sally Rooney: This book’s claim to fame is that it was never the book choice we were supposed to read! One of my book clubs also discussed TV shows and series, and movies too. They had been discussing the series by the same name, based on this book, and I went ahead, downloaded it on my e-reader and was all set to wax eloquent about it (I didn’t like it much) when I discovered that the book of the month was something else entirely. I came in for a lot of good-natured leg-pulling and we refer to my faux pas at each subsequent meet!

3.      3. What You are Looking for is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama: This is a set of short stories, in each of which the main character is looking for some answers about their life, career choices, and struggles. By chance or design, they find their answers in the library, with a little help from a wise librarian. While the premise was nice and the stories were feel-good, they became a little monotonous and repetitive. Maybe something was lost in translation (The original is in Japanese).

4.      4. Just For the Summer by Abby Jimenez: This was a much- needed palate cleanser after many heavy and depressing books read by us in another book club. A delicious rom-com, it still had depth. The premise of the book got to some readers and they were close to tears while talking about it. It shows that no book can be dismissed as light reading--- it touches different readers in different ways.

I have now started reading The Chola Tigers by Amish, having picked up a signed copy recently. It promises to be a fast paced, thrilling narrative which I am sure I will enjoy.

Writing about reading is by far the easiest thing to do!

This blogpost is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

The Humble Idli

 

How invested we are in food!

It always has to be good!

With all the variety,

There’s sure to be satiety,

For it, we’re always in the mood!

Today with so many cuisines literally at our fingertips, we are spoilt for choice. Hard on the heels of this plethora of platters, comes ennui. I remember the days when pizza was the last word in fine dining and “Chinese” just meant some noodles with cabbage and carrots thrown in. And now we are bored. If we want to meet friends outside, we debate which restaurant to go to, because agreeing on cuisine seems impossible. We load our palates with stimuli, then look for palate cleansers.

The other day I saw the table top wet grinder in my kitchen and decided to bring it out of hibernation. We had been ordering in idli/dosa batter for convenience. Now I wanted to use the machine at home. It just took a couple of minutes to put the dal and rice rava to soak. In a few hours, the tabletop grinder was whirring merrily, mimicking the mortar and pestle, churning out a smooth and fluffy batter.

The batter spent the night fermenting and rising, ready by morning. It went into the moulds, was steamed for about ten minutes, and there we were, ready for breakfast. As I was demoulding them, the most heavenly aroma rose up. It brought to mind simpler times, the comfort of familiarity, and the innocent confidence of childhood. Its very blandness, cloaked in steam, filled the kitchen with an aura of security. In that moment, I would not have traded the humble idli for the most starred and ribboned dish in the world.

Truly, sometimes the best city to live in, is Simplicity.

This post is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

A small act of kindness

 

It was one of their regular get-togethers: the girl gang met up for a celebratory lunch for one of the birthdays. The camaraderie was tangible, the atmosphere imbued with hilarity. The lunch spread was singularly toothsome, and would contribute to their middle-age spread as well!

As usual the photo session was the highlight of the meet, after the conversations, of course. These latter ones ranged from food, to shows, to kids, to the help, to in-laws, philosophy and many more topics.  For the photos, everyone spruced up again; some merely refreshing their lipstick while others went the whole hog and re-applied their make- up, and readjusted their outfits. The photos were being taken in selfie mode and also in the regular mode, with either the help or one of the friends pitching in and clicking. There were cries of, “Hurry up already! We can’t hold our breath any longer!” and “Hey, smiling for so long is making my jaw ache!”. The women were choosing which camera to use for best results: filters were being tried out and also applied. Definitely there was an improvement over the natural looks, in the filtered version.

When the photos were shared within the group, Deepa found that not only had her picture been taken at an unflattering angle, but also, she had had a wardrobe malfunction of sorts. She knew these photos would soon be out on social media. Her heart sank. How could she ask everyone in the group to delete the pictures? Or to not share them on social media at least? How could she be sure that everyone would comply with her request, even if she asked? She was resigned to the pictures coming out, since some of the women in the group were not really close friends.

And then, the unexpected happened. Not a single “bad” picture of hers made it to any social media account. There were pictures of the food, some pictures without her in them, yet another with only close-ups of their faces. The friends seemed to have collectively and instinctively decided to refrain from posting those pictures, even if they themselves were looking good in them.

 Deepa was deeply grateful for this small act of kindness, which came from the large hearts of her friends. Friends who were otherwise always keen on social media. This was what sisterhood was.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025.

Blogchatter Half Marathon

Failure: A Hidden Opportunity

 

I am reflecting on a time from my student days, oh, so long ago! As high school was nearing its end, I realized that the only subjects I really liked, were English, Maths, and Biology. However, this combination for undergraduate studies was not available anywhere. I decided then to take up the Maths-Physics-Chemistry stream for the B.Sc. program, and give Biology a miss, though I was really interested in Life Sciences and I loved drawing for the lab journal. There was a sneaky reason too, for saying goodbye to Biology at that point. My parents would have liked me to sit for the medical entrance exams, and I didn’t. So, it figured that if I did not have Biology in my course, I would automatically be out of the running!

Through those three years of Undergrad, I enjoyed the studies; I guess by today’s definition we were nerdy! I was fascinated by Maths. We would hunt around outside our prescribed books, for new differential equations to solve: that’s how geeky we were! Then came the preparation for the entrance exams for postgraduation. That I would take up Maths, was a no-brainer. But fate had other plans.

I sat for the entrance exam for MSc Maths, at two I.I.T’s. I didn’t make it to either. Physics was my second choice. Half heartedly I sat for the entrance for that too, and surprise! I got through. For a short while, the disappointment of not getting Maths was there. Then slowly, Physics began opening up its treasure trove of pure knowledge. Kudos of course to all the professors who showed us callow students, the mysteries of the Universe and how to unravel them. The bonus was that there was plenty of Maths to sink my teeth into. The beauty lay in learning how pure numbers translated into physical phenomena.

Physics was not just a career path; it made me evolve as a person too. For that I am grateful for not getting the subject of my choice, all those years ago!

This blogpost is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon

Blogchatter Half Marathon

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Goodbye to Writer’s block

Dear Block, 

Hope you have been comfortable. Could not have been easy, sharing space with all that clutter. The ever-lengthening to-do lists, the music, the imaginary conversations that were waiting to become real, and the plot lines. Not those, because you edged them out, didn’t you? Like a cuckoo chick that edges out the others that rightfully belong in the nest. A plot would just step in and then it would be gone, before I could even be aware of it properly. It would bother me no end, yet I could not do anything about it. The bother turned to frustration, and then resignation. After all, what was the use? A sneaking feeling of relief made itself known too. In a way, not writing was an easy way to reduce stress, because it was one thing off my plate. It has been nice having you around, but now it is time for you to go. 

 I realise I put off writing in the way that one saves dessert to be had after a boring meal. To be savoured and enjoyed. Well, writing is dessert for me. I felt I could only write after all the mundane tasks were done. But that left me tired and doused the creative spark completely. Then one fine day I tried my hand at a prompt. That was all there was to it. Ideas flowed after the kickstart. Haphazard, disjointed, maybe, but there. 

 That is the beauty of the external prompt. It piques the interest, and sets one thinking. Before one knows it, the line of thinking goes into territory one wasn’t even aware of. Maybe it was a fear of this very territory that stopped the writer in their tracks. A reluctance to explore. But a prompt leads, gently teasing, quietly guiding, and the block, which was a mountain, becomes a mere mound. A light jump, and it is crossed. This is goodbye, dear Block. I have sheltered behind you long enough. Maybe you will come back, but now I know how to put you in your place! No hard feelings, though!

 Not yours, truly,

 Me 

 This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025 https://www.theblogchatter.com

Winter

Winter has a way of sneaking up on you. One day you have the AC on, and the next, you are debating whether to keep even the fan on. Even with global warming, that nip in the air does come around, deliciously, with that air of ‘is it-isn’t it?’ There is the mandatory conversation about how winter used to start around Dussehra, and go all the way beyond Holi (“One year we had to take out the woollens again after putting them away after Holi!”) Now that the duration of winter is drastically reduced it has become even more precious: to be savoured to the fullest. Yes, the clothes are bulkier and bed-making is a chore at this time of the year, but that is balanced by all the joys winter brings. There is basking in the winter sun to be done, chikki to be gorged upon, not forgetting the rewdi and the gajak. The first almost- translucent carrots to be looked forward to, they of gajar- ka- halwa fame. Yet all those calories can be burned by any kind of workout because one does not feel drained like one does in summer. The feeling of snuggling into blankets and quilts, cocooned in soft warmth, cannot be replicated by comforters in the AC in the summer. Winter blooms brighten anyone’s day, nodding in the slight breeze. Winter is also the time when the maximum weddings take place in North India. That’s when the ladies swish about in shimmering silks and the gentlemen look dapper in their suits. The chill of winter, enjoyed for such a short while, shores us up for the long, merciless summer. This post is a part of the BlogChatter Blog Hop https://www.theblogchatter.com/blogchatter-blog-hop-a-new-way-to-write-collectively

On Coffee

Coffee, as has been rightly said, is an emotion. One reaches for it for comfort, or to feel energized and stimulated. With the plethora of choices available these days, one would think the humble filter coffee would be relegated to the background. But no, it holds its own amongst connoisseurs of the aromatic bean. It is not instant; it is not quick either. It takes a while for the decoction to percolate and slowly drip into the compartment below. It illustrates how good things come to those who wait. With me, coffee is a gesture of welcome, and also a measure of closeness. There are people who pick up the phone and say, Set up your filter, I am coming over for coffee! I look forward to these impromptu sessions, because that is when I treat myself to coffee too. Alas, I have not yet acquired the taste for it without sugar, so I don’t have it every day. Therefore, I savour it even more, when I do have it. I was introduced to coffee at a very early age. I could not have milk by itself or with any of the health drink mixes, so my mother would put a few drops of the decoction in milk and I would happily have “coffee”! As I grew older the coffee part increased and the milk part decreased. I read somewhere that coffee should be Black as the Devil, Sweet as an Angel, and Hot as Hell! While we have had filter coffee of all kinds, our present brand was discovered on a trip to Yercaud, the hill station in South India. From the plantations which were a sight to behold, came this particular brand. Another memorable trip was one to Coorg, again abundant with coffee plantations. I indulged in different blends and varieties of this ambrosia at that time. Of late, I have found myself noticing the smell of coffee in hospitals, malls, airports, and offices. I unabashedly judge these places by that smell! This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop

Friends Forever

It is time to say goodbye to some good friends.They initially enveloped me in their warmth, but of late they had begun to irritate me a little. I am getting all hot and bothered with them around. I feel they are intruding into my space. To be honest, I found them to be a little high maintenance. In time, I'd be willing to welcome them again, but now is not that time. I think we could do with a break, a nice long one. And now I want to take up with some old friends, who had gone away. They were in a dark space and I thought it best to let them be. I did miss them terribly, and now they are coming back to me, in ones and twos. Their lightness of being echoes my lightheartedness. Their breezy demeanor cheers me and I see in them a colourful wish to stick to me as the days go by. So goodbye, woollens, and hello cottons!!!

Tiny Terror

Spring is ephemeral everywhere, but nowhere more so than in our Delhi-NCR. All the more to be savoured and enjoyed, therefore. While everyone rhapsodizes about spring blooms and fresh verdant growth, I am paralysed by the first sighting of the humble house lizard. No number of peacock feathers and eggshells can faze this terrifying descendant of the T. Rex. (Pardon my inaccuracy about its lineage). It probably considers the house its own, and embarks on a tour to check if all is as it left it. It sometimes loses its grip—literally—and falls with a stultifying plop in the most inconvenient of places. Once, it landed on my head and those milliseconds must have done more damage to my heart than any amount of chhole bhature, and frozen desserts rich in trans-fats. The morning ritual of pulling aside the curtains and opening the balcony door is now rife with wariness. I unabashedly embrace my inner coward and leave this otherwise-pleasant task to hubby or the help. As for picture frames and paintings, I don’t dare touch them for fear of a sudden darting out of a squiggly, wriggly creature who just might leave its tail behind! No doubt it keeps in check the other creepy crawlies. However, is it too much to ask it to restrict itself to unseen spots? Can we just coexist peacefully please?

Review: Can We Be Strangers Again

HOW MANY TREES DIED FOR THIS BOOK TO SEE LIGHT OF DAY? This month’s book choice was Can We Be Strangers Again by Shrijeet Shandilya. Purportedly a college romance, the book is touted as a national bestseller. From the venerable house of Penguin, at that. For many of us, the title brought to mind the wistful, tender melody, “Chalo ik baar phir se, Ajnabi ban jaayein hum dono”. It indicated a delicate love story, with the promise of new beginnings, or a whimsical wish to relive the joy and excitement of nascent love. Alas, ‘disappointed’ doesn’t begin to cover it. It left us, the readers, frustrated and nonplussed. It was evocative all right, just not the way I expected. It evoked indignation and regret. The story never takes off. The protagonist (aah, the glory days when they were called ‘hero’!) evokes no sympathy whatsoever. He is a whiner; a clueless one at that. The only stars in the book are the ones which bleep out the cuss words (used rather liberally!) The book is set partly in the lockdowns of 2020 and 2021. Nowhere does the author delve into the gravity of that situation. Even as just a backdrop to the story, the pandemic and lockdowns are hardly relevant. The narrative is repetitive in the language used, as well as in the incidents described. There are whole sections of dialogues in Hindi. This can still be condoned as reported speech of the characters; however, in some places the narrator speaks to the reader in Hindi. This feels incongruous. The narrative simply does not move forward. It seems to be just the ramblings of a confused youth in a haze of alcohol and smoke. None of the characters show any growth. After a point the reader may even wish for the characters to turn negative, just to break the tedium. Even that does not happen. Granted, not all stories need to be uplifting; some can elicit even strong negative reactions. However, this one was merely a pallid attempt at a perspective on love and friendship. Evidently the main character is familiar with neither. No book discussion in recent memory on this forum has been so vociferous in condemnation of a book. It was not available in the e-format: imagine the amount of paper wasted. In our discussion, a point was raised about the story not being aimed at our age group. Even so, I am sure we would have loved a well written college romance. Time and again, I have noticed that whatever the age of the reader, s/he identifies with the protagonist or at least another important character in a story, if it is well written. Clearly that was not the case here. Peppered with misplaced metaphors, grammatical errors and typos, the book had me reaching for a red pen, awakening my inner schoolmarm! The dedication at the beginning of the book begs the question: this has to be semi-autobiographical at the very least. No doubt, a writer will write what s/he wishes to, but what were the editors doing? What made an esteemed publishing house bring this book out? And what kind of reading public has made this a national bestseller? That, my friends, is a question for the ages. If I have repeated myself in this review, it may be chalked up to the influence of the book itself. In one word: excruciating!