Unlived

The Small Voice Inside Her Head stirs a little from slumber.

The binding chains rustle like venomous snakes.
The bars of the cage rattle admonishingly.

'You have one great flaw. You have problem with anything that is unconventional.'
Someone's words echo in her head and she sighs, wondering how they had figured her out.

The Small Voice Inside Her Head stops her every time.
'Stop'.
'Forget It.'
'Back Off.'

She follows without question. After all it has kept her safe all the time, from anything unconventional, anything that had potential to break her, anything that can go out of control and leave her helpless.

She lives in a cage, doors have been bolted by herself, the chains have been put around her wrists by herself.

Yet she has a chamber of secrets.
Chamber of her unconventional dreams.
Dreams she knows she would never dare follow, because it is unsafe.

Sometime at night, when the world is asleep and The Small Voice Inside Her Head is fuzzy, when the line between the right and the wrong is blurred, she opens her chamber of dreams.

Like Night-Blooming-Jasmine, her unconventional fragrant dreams madden her with passion. The guilty pleasure spikes the words she writes and intoxicates her with sinful desires just until she realizes-

That's it.
She must stop before it is too late.
Because she is in unsafe, unknown territory.
Because she knows nothing about giving in.
Because she is supposed to be controlled.
Because she might get hurt otherwise.

It is then she gathers all her unconventional dreams that have tried to escape towards the reality. Like a hardened fisher-woman who grabs the crawling crabs finding a way out of her basket, she holds all her dreams carefully and throws them back in the chamber.

Every night she sets her demons free.
Till her angels wake up.

The next morning she wears the mask of normalcy, to blend in.
'You are so controlled and meticulous. Very planned.' Someone compliments.

She merely smiles.
She gets to know the illusion works.
She is still in cage.
Still safe.
Still in control.
She still has her hands on the wheel.
 

One more day goes by, safe and UN-LIVED.

Solitaire

A card after card she draws from the pack and each time she is disappointed.

A Three of Spade.
A Jack of Hearts.
A Ten of Diamond.
A Three of Spade again.

She sighs but doesn't scrap the game. Each time a disappointing card falls face up in the stack in front of her, she draws another more fervently, with a foolish hope that her Lady Luck would finally smile upon her.

The Small Voice Inside Her Head sighs.

'Call it the end. Scrap the game already!'

She purses her lips determinedly, trying to ignore.

'Here you are, trying to fight the losing battle.' The Voice whispers, 'I hate this habit of yours.'

'Why do you keep reappearing! I shoo you away all the time, yet you are shameless enough to come back.' she hisses under her breath.

'Because I am the only one who has ever made sense, aren't I? Besides,' The Small Voice Inside Her Head says matter-of-factly, 'Somebody has to save you from yourself.

Diwali

Round white lanterns hang from a tree like several moons landing on branches... No, I wonder they don't even remotely match the shine of the pearl earrings that dangle and oscillate when she nods. Crackers burst just like she snaps and fumes when angry. Strings of lights that hang along the walls of tall buildings are nothing as compared to the sheet of her long hair that shines when she throws her mane back. Colors of the huge Rangoli in a chowk aren't brighter than the colors of her scarf. When it comes to her naughty eyes that glitter so often with beautiful dreams, those tiny winking bulbs stand no chance of winning. And yes, she smiles just like fireworks that light up the ink black night sky, a sudden smile that secretly lights up my heart.

If Diwali were a person, it would have been her.

Saviours

HE

He fiddles with an unlit cigarette. The usual emptiness has crept in his lonely heart and spread in his house. He closes his eyes to welcome the well known feeling.

"Stop this self destruction.
Do something beautiful."

He tries to shun the voice instinctively, because he always breaks everything that tries to control him.

He can't. He puts the cigarette back in the pack like a formidable thought. His fingers play a new melody on his keyboard.

SHE

She fiddles with her pen while a blank page ruffles on wind. The familiar sadness floods her heart and it is about to drip from the nib of her pen.

"Stop this self destruction.
Write something beautiful."

She smiles to herself, closing her eyes, reminiscing the advice.

No, she won't let her pen drip the melancholy. She won't let her pages singe with grief. Her ink will smell of flowers she loves, her handwriting will embroider the pristine pages...

Such self destructive persons they both are, funny how the voice of one makes the other turn around from the edge - to meet the expectant eyes of life.

It's tough to say who is saving whom.

Alive

He stares in the mirror and sees some other face staring back at him, unsmiling and pale. Like moon waning night by night, he sees his slow descent to madness. Who says mundanity isn't fatal? He works day and night, dustbin under his desk always overflows with used coffee cups. Smiles and greetings so mechanical, that he wonders if he hasn't already turned into a machine.

At night he just hears whirring of AC that keeps him company like a loyal dog. Lying in bed, he thinks of to-dos and if-onlys. Cigarette between his finger burns all night long with him, dying a little moment by moment. The laptop opens, more work gets finished, appreciation mails from boss flood his inbox, week after week.

"Don't you ever sleep?"
"Hm."
"You should do something. Movies or something. Go somewhere."
"Hm. Yeah."

He turns to work. He is immersed in work with the wrath of a warrior to destroy everything that comes in his way. Silent wrath. Wrath that destroys only him, bit by bit.

He looks in mirror to see if he is still alive, through the lines of his face, premature whites in his hair, bags under his eyes. He could be dead and he wouldn't know.

He opens the chest of his drawer to find an old yellowing letter from her, paper that has turned tender from crisp over the time. At such moments, he can seldom read the words clearly through the hazy film of tears. With a harsh striking pang of pain, his heart starts beating again.

It's then he knows he is still alive, if only there were easier ways to tell.

Almost

Yes, I travelled by that road today.

Tunnels have more lights now. Advertisement hoardings speed past as fast as they used to. That under construction bridge is nearly complete. Rain splashes along the wheels in the same way as it used to. Raindrops trickle down melancholically along windshield today too. Leaves have turned the same shade of green they turn every year. Yellow Bahava flowers hanging in strings are making an inconspicuous exit like they do at this time of the season.

Everything is just the same. Almost everything.

Beautiful

Light hurts. After eyes have been so accustomed to the dark, anything hopeful scares the hell out of me. False determination crumples under the weight of the reality that keeps screaming how final your departure is. As final as death. As final as sunset. I gasp for air, drowning under the ocean of your memories that choke me and keep me from dying at the same time.

Yet- naively, quite knowingly I let the parasite grow, sucking the life out of me. This parasite, stitched to the back of my skull in a painful pattern feeds on my happiness till I am left to stare into the void, unable to create a happy memory anymore.

Darkness seeps into whatever I write.
Pages I write singe at the edges.
Black ink stains the pages like thick blood- sicksweet and sinful.
This blue-green grotesque vein at the back of my hand pulses threateningly as my fingers trace words on reluctant paper.

People read and say, 'Beautiful!'

Mambazha Pulussery

I woke up with a start on Sunday morning with the entire house smelling of coconut oil. My wife walked stealthily to me and gestured towards the kitchen.

"Oho! You in the kitchen! Miracle! Miracle!" I teased my daughter.

She threw a reproachful look at her mother and turned back to stir some white paste in what seemed like coconut. Her hair was all frizzy, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up, sweat beads shining on her forehead, face screwed up in concentration at the lumpy gravy she had formed on the flames.

"What is it you are cooking?" I asked, half of the guesswork already done.

Wife snorted and hurried out of the kitchen.

"Mambazha Pulussery." she said quietly and clearly, not looking at me.

"What?" Quite a tongue twister that was.

"Raw mango curry in coconut milk. An authentic South Indian dish, okay?" she said with an admonishing look, flaring her nostrils, searching for the signs of teasing and laughing.

"Cooking for him, huh! You are going out with him today?" I asked pointedly.

"Yes." A curt reply.

She backed off a little as she dropped curry leaves and dried red chilies in the heated oil. I reduced the flame promptly as she coughed hard.

My daughter who had never stepped foot in kitchen was cooking for the man she loved. I felt a pang of jealously for this other man she now loved more than she loved me.

When she gave a final stir to that strange smelling concoction, I tasted it and grimaced in disgust.
"Is it supposed to taste like this??!" I asked her.

"Yes. This is how it tastes normally. Almost like his mom makes it." she said, a bit proud at her own perfect achievement.

"Yuck. You are really ready to eat such stuff everyday in future?" A quiet and serious question.

"Yes." Another curt reply with squinty eyes and tight jaw, "I. Like. It."

"It's coconut oil! It's got no other taste."
"It's okay. I like it."
"No, you hate it."
"I told you I like it."
"Taste it then. In front of me."

She took a spoonful and tasted it. I stared at her. She smiled and looked away.
"Fine. I dislike it. I hate coconut." she admitted and we both smiled.
"But it's his favourite." she muttered under her breath shyly, busying herself with the tiffin she had started packing.

I sighed loud enough for her to hear and left.

An hour later she came in front of us in her new dress and asked her mother how she looked.

"No! You won't wear this. Too short, Miss!" I pointed out angrily, glancing at my wife seeking support to my disapproval. To my utter disappointment, she merely shrugged and resumed her kitchen cleaning.

"I am wearing this. It must be looking too good if this annoys you so much. Thanks dad." daughter said loftily.

"Bye dad." With a swift hug she tottered away in her heels.

"Bye." I muttered rather gloomily.

"Since when did you become her confidant!? And you see, she loves him more! I had topped her list all these years." I whispered to my wife sadly.

"Times change." wife said, patting on my back.

No Strings Attached

She had stayed like that for around five minutes now, hiding her face in my chest, her fists curled around, pressing against my back. She was being unusually sentimental today for a reason I couldn't guess.

I patted the back of her head gently, breathing deeply to smell her hair.

"I will never hurt-"

She suddenly broke off from my arms and put her palm over my mouth.

I looked at her in surprise. Her face was contorted with fear.

"Can we agree on one thing please?" she murmured in a stern voice, "Let's not make any promise to one another."

"But why?" I asked holding her palm gently.

"Because everything good crushes under the burden of expectations." she said huskily, ignoring my reaction and pulling me towards herself by the collar of my shirt, "Let's focus on only lust. Let's be uncomplicated."

Strangely though, when her lips burnt against mine the next moment, she tasted of complications. I smiled realizing how, quite oblivious to her, her kisses had stopped claiming 'I want you' and started whispering 'I need you' to me.

"What!" She snapped sharply.

"I promise I will never make a promise to you." I said, contrary to my own heart that had made so many promises to her already.

She slapped me and then kissed more.

The Difficult Man

Déjà vu.

Rain has to witness us every time we happen to meet.

The sloshing downpour dancing over the hood, the wipers working ceaselessly, big water-drops racing down the glass, the purple skyline that seems dangerously beautiful, thick with grey clouds, the swift sound of wheels splashing water around. Always the same.

We never play music.

It's either the comfortable silence that has come naturally from years of familiarity or the sound of our laughter.

Till the air becomes thick with the mentions of bitter memories.

The memories of misunderstandings, harsh words, severe actions, thoughtless outbursts of anger. He always passes them off like a joke, with a forced cheerful smile on his face. I look away, hiding my apologetic eyes that have never met his ever since the moment of realization.

Behind that cheery face, I try finding the lines of a well-hidden grief, a hint of an unforgiving indignant wound. I try recalling the hoarse cracks in his voice when he had beseechingly pleaded to have just an opportunity to say his point, which I had mercilessly denied- Go to hell, you pathetic man!

'You told me to go to hell. I really went to hell. After you left, it was nothing but hell.' he says matter-of-factly, 'Three years... I didn't even know what I had done to make you hate me so much. People told me to try hating you. I couldn't! How could I hate you!'

'I called you horrible names!' I mumble, trying to remind him. My fists automatically curl and my nails dig in the flesh of my palms.

'Nothing can make me hate you.' he says simply with a smile that reaches his eyes, 'Nothing.'

How does he still manage give me a serene smile that I don't even deserve? I never know.

So I hate him. I sting, I taunt, I give indifferent shrugs. Repeatedly.

 In the hope that someday, that serene smile is wiped off his face and he finally snaps at me, stings me waspishly.

He only smiles more at my sharp words.

He smiles till I begin to imagine the pain inflicting power of my uncaring words, till I get tears in my own eyes.

Then with a sudden crestfallen face, he apologizes for making me cry.

'You will never understand what you mean to me.' is all he says, patting on my arm playfully, making me give him a teary sniffly smile in the end.

And really, the point-blank, unforbearing person that I am, I never understand subtle things.

I call him 'The Difficult Man'. The truth is that he is just too simple for the difficult world this is.

Pitter-patter

And it rains finally.

The balcony doors open to welcome this most awaited guest and neighbours poke their heads out, watching the kids dancing in the rain.

"Feels a lot cooler, doesn't it now?" one of them asks loudly over the pitter-patter of the raindrops.

She smiles, catching water-drops in her palms and watching them slip away from the gaps between her fingers.

That's it? 'Cooler'? That simple? Lucky them.

She burns when it rains. Like a stone sending ripples on a peaceful surface of water, it disturbs her cover-up of the normalcy, her attempts to fit in.

Definitely not cooler.
Something like-
A train being missed...
The finality of a painful goodbye...
The tune of a remotely familiar song...
The onset of a new, unfamiliar, perhaps a scary beginning.

Because whenever it rains, it rains memories for her.

Drama Queen

Crestfallen face and downcast eyes, she doesn't even look up, just responds with an occasional uh-huh or okay...

"Anything wrong? Mood off?" I ask warily, racking my brains wondering if it's something I said or did in past one month, year or life.

"Hmm. Yeah." she says with the most dramatic tone of her voice and looks away.

"What is it, darling?"

A shake of head.

"Do you think I am 'intolerable'?" she asks with the onset of indignant tears in her eyes.

Thankfully the word is new, surely I can't have said that. The best thing is to tell her the truth, that she isn't.

"Or childish? Immature?" another darts of questions.

"You aren't 'intolerable'." I try to reason with her, "who said all that?" I ask curiously.

"Everybody does." she says helplessly.

"To hell with everyone! I can handle this child." I say, putting the strands of her head behind her ears.

"I know I am immature most of the times! I can't help it." she says while I stare at her red nose.

"Shhh... It's okay." I pull her close and ask, "Want a kiss to make you feel better?"

"Yes! Please!"

"Drama Queen." and we both smile.

Fallen from the Grace

She laughs a maniacal laugh. The next second she sobs hysterically.

'What happened! Why are you crying!?' someone asks her, bursting into a fit of laughter.

She dismisses them and snorts. A fresh trickle of tears runs through her eyes down her front and they snatch the glass of vodka from her hands.

'At least tell us what it is.' they ask, amused and she titters wordlessly.

Her prolonged nervous laugh sounds strange to her own ears. Her hair is a mess, the disciplined strands already falling out of her tight ponytail. The fork just keeps missing her fingers when she tries to grab one.

'Enough.' they warn her, 'You are drunk!'

Is she? She just has had two. She hates the taste but the sense of numbness is almost welcome. That usual prickly feeling at her heart is absent tonight. Or is it, really? She doesn't even know. Everything blurs around her, everything that matters is merely a blur tonight. She finds it funny, absolutely funny. The romantic music, the cheery talks of people around her, the candles glowing in a glass pot and the clink of the glass.

It's a mystery why tears should flood her eyes at such a funny moment.

When she gets up precariously, a couple of hands try to support her. She shoves them all away.
She can take care of herself. She can find her way to the washroom.

Standing on her own feet after a few pegs- Why would it be any difficult anyway? She has been through worse, the people around her don't even have the slightest idea. She always stands up after she falls down. She is strong and she isn't going to make herself look like a fool in front of so many people by asking for any help.

She sits back again and gulps half a glass at one go.

That prickly-heart feeling that has been haunting her for past one year is back like a cat finding its way back home. She could sense the blurred feeling now- hidden in the clunk of ice cubes in her glass or the dim lights twinkling on the ceiling. The sip burns her foodpipe and then like cockroaches creeping out of the corners after spraying Hit, the words- that she has determinedly refrained herself from saying all the while since eternity, give themselves away.

With no shame of falling from her grace, she blurts out sobbing-

'I miss him.'

Right Time

"Thanks for coming! My phone battery is about to die and I couldn't think of asking anyone else for help. You are a life saver!" she said as she stepped into the car.

I was seeing her after three long years but I could bet she never looked lovelier than tonight. For a fraction of a moment when she was busy wiping her mobile phone, I stole a glance at a lucky water-drop that had rested on her eyelashes.

"God! What's with this unshaven look! Bangalore doesn't seem to have agreed with you!" she laughed, "Some girl left you!?"

"You did!" I teased.

She only rolled her eyes, "You left too. We both did. Don't put all the blame on me!"

We had come so far over all these years. From being strangers to disliking each other, to having some curious attraction, to being friends and then to being something more than friends, to taking a break from each other, finally making peace with the fact that we couldn't 'sever all ties' in her words.

We had never hit the right time together. We knew that we needed different things in life and even after everything had been said and done, we preferred not to tag our feelings with a name, to keep them from crushing under the burden of expectations.

"You've still got the pen with you!?" I asked her in a surprise, spotting the pen among the various items from her purse spread in her lap to dry.

"Yep! It stopped working ages ago though." she said, clicking it open and close fondly.

She had saved the pen for so many years... It was my favourite pen that I had given her away during our school days when she'd said she loved it. Twelve years, I counted.

"You are so crazy about me, aren't you?" I asked her, winking.

"Oh please! Let's not get into that! At least I didn't throw away my favourite black shirt because you didn't like it!" she taunted.

We both smiled at the memory. And then like a colorful and seemingly never ending piece of silk being pulled out from a magician's pocket, the other memories followed.

The Monsoon of the beautiful memories that we had shared and the Monsoon of the memories we couldn't. I had missed her so much. Being around her all the time, talking about any topic, laughing for no reason- why! Everything was so perfect! It always was! How the hell we never managed to hit the right time!! In-between the words and the silences, ambitions and confusions, to be's and not to be's, time had done what it did the best.

I had pulled the brakes a while ago, outside her home.

"Oh I should go. Getting late!" she said, consulting her watch and turning to pull the door knob.

I hated her watch for running so fast tonight.

Even the windshield wipers seemed to move frantically as if gesturing her not to leave.

"What! I came so far on your single say-so! I am getting to see you after three years! I am not even getting a hug?" I asked her, trying to sound casual about it.

She turned around to stare at me, smiled at me serenely and pulled me close in a hug. Several water droplets in her hair fell on my arm that responded instantly with goosebumps.

I could hear her calm breath against the muffled sound of drizzle outside. I did not know how long we stayed like that.

"You had to go." I whispered.

"Mmmm..." She clutched me a little tighter before letting go.

"Bye." she said finally, breaking apart and not really meeting my eyes, "It's too late."

The King of Hearts

"Oh you play Cards?" she asked, curiously eyeing a pack of playing cards in his hands.

He was surprised at the momentary flicker of interest in her eyes.

"Yes. And I play pretty well." He said, "I don't think you can, can you?" He teased her, hoping the spark of interest in her eyes stayed a little longer.

"Of course I do, " she said, arms folded across her chest, with her nose in the air, "Dad taught me. I am really good."

Had he touched the right spot finally!

She was a mystery he hadn't been able to solve. To an outsider they were a perfect couple, just married- with a right amount of awkwardness and the beauty of the novelty. Of course they weren't in love, yet. There was something about her, something that made her unapproachable. She never talked much. It could easily pass off as her shyness, but he knew there was some transparent barrier that existed between them. Even when they made love, she seemed restrained, as if guarding a secret corner of her heart. He felt almost annoyed at her, when she went to sleep with her back at him coiling her body like a shell. She was being a dutiful wife all the time, no doubt- she smiled when she was supposed to, blushed when she was supposed to. However none of the emotions reached her steely eyes.

Today was the first day her face was lit up and he only wished he could strike some conversation before she shut herself down again.

"A game of Mendikot?" He challenged, brandishing the pack of Cards before her.
She hesitated but relented in the end.

With favourable Cards in his hand, he knew it would have been an easy victory. Nevertheless she showed him she did know the game really well. With each of her moves, he realised her mask of restraint was melting while she bit her lip thinking her next move, gave him a complacent smile after winning a turn, snorted at his poor deliveries, which quite unknown to her, were deliberate.

"Yesss!" she said triumphantly when she grabbed two cards of Ten in a single turn, tossing her hair back in the most boastful way.

"Oh." he acted stupid, faking disappointment.

"You are so poor at this! This is going to be the Kot on you, you see!" she smirked smugly.

He stole glances at her from above the cards he held in her hands.

The King of Hearts fell from his hands and landed upside down.
"You had this!" she said bewildered, picking up the card, "Then why did you..."

A look of sudden realisation replaced her joy before he could stop it.

"You were letting me win." she said suddenly getting up and starting to leave, "Why!"

Her face was contorted in anger or in pain- he couldn't tell.

He only stayed silent.

"Tell me why!" she demanded, her face flushed red.

"For THIS!" he lost his composure, "To see some emotion in you! Why are you so..." he searched for a word, "CLOSED!"

She stared at him in shock, opened her mouth to say something and closed it again.

"You think I don't understand!?? Please tell me if I am doing something wrong! Is something bothering you!? Just speak up! This isn't what I'd signed up for. I don't want a dutiful wife, I don't want a partner just to have sex with! You've made me helpless. I keep seeking chances to strike a conversation! I come to help you with the dishes every night after dinner to spend some good time with you! And you just leave to clean the living room or you suddenly remember you have to fold the clothes!" he blurted out without a thought and looked at her.

She was shaking slightly, looking away like a timid doe.

"God. I didn't mean to..." he said coming to his senses, exasperated, pulling at his hair in frustration, "I am sorry. I just hate not knowing you, sleeping next to you every night but not being able to figure out what's going on in your head! I could do better.. I promise. You can talk."

He made her sit down with her hands in his and stared at her, squeezing her palms gently.

She looked up at him, as if fighting a hard battle with herself, contemplating if she should go back to her shell.

The next second she started sobbing, resting her head on his shoulder. Not knowing what to do, he just put an arm around her who now shook like a banana tree in the strong wind.

"I am sorry," she spoke up, with her sentences punctuated with sobs, "I just... I had forgotten to trust. I am just scared of being unhappy again! I thought I could look after myself and I did not need anyone to... make me feel better. I didn't realise how unfair I was being to you... I can't do this. I don't want to be strong anymore... I don't want to be in control of my emotions anymore! I want to be able to vulnerable again... I want to take a chance again. I want to give us a chance...."

She made a little sense but he could see the complete picture now.

She was a broken woman and he had to be a restorer.

He put both of his arms around her while his shirt collar stained of her tears. For the first time, she had her arms around him. The King of Hearts was clutched in her fist.

Production Issue

"Daddy! Daddy!!" she came running at him as his wife opened the door to let him in.

He kneeled down to hug his daughter and the headache that had persisted the whole day disappeared suddenly.

"How come my Princess is awake so late?" he asked, looking at his wife.

"She wouldn't listen! Said she wanted to show her dance to you tonight." his wife said exasperated, "When she felt sleepy, she took walks from bedroom to hall! Twenty rounds, she even counted like her teacher taught."

He ruffled his Princess's hair, kissed her cheeks and lifted her on his back.

His wife smiled contentedly and he smiled back at her.

"These Production Issues at office, it's been so much work!" he told his wife who patted his back sympathetically.

He was talking to his daughter after about a month now. Every night he returned home seeing his daughter sleeping disappointed after waiting too long for her Daddy.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.
A call from office.
He sighed deeply and handing his daughter to her mother, he picked up.

Urgent Production Issue again. He clutched his head in despair and anger as he saw the smile on wife's face faltering.

"A Production Issue. They have called me back to office. I could work from home but entire team is coming.. So..." he told the wife.

With heavy heart he looked at his daughter and the disappointment in her eyes.

"I have to go, Princess! I will tell Mom to get your video for me to see, alright?" he said with a wavering smile and lifted the car keys from the table.

He couldn't make it before his daughter's school bus in the morning. There was no video of course, his Princess had refused to dance and gone to sleep with swollen eyes, his wife told him sadly as he left for office in the afternoon.
--------------------------------------

His phone vibrated. A call from home.

His fingers moved like a machine on the keyboard, typing another urgent mail to the client. He balanced the phone between his ear and a shoulder.

"Daddy?"

His daughter whispered in a hoarse voice from the other end and coughed.

'Don't disturb your Daddy, Princess! He has a lot of work at office!' he heard his wife in the background.

"Oh my Princess! Are you not feeling well?"

"No, Daddy!" she said in the cutest of her tones, "I have poluction ishu. Can you come home?"

It took him a moment to decipher her.

Production Issue, she had said.

The noise of the keyboard stopped as his heart ached for his daughter.

"Sorry, I gotta go. I feel really sick today!" he told his boss and ignoring several heads that turned in his direction, he left almost running.

He had the most important Production Issue to take care of.

The List

Her phone rang and she hurried towards it, banging her small toe twice on the furniture on the way.

"Hey! I missed you so much!"

His voice already had the soothing effect. She forgot about her smarting small toe.

"Me too!"

"We've got only fifteen minutes. I have to get back soon. Now tell me how your day was. You'd messaged you had so many things to tell me! I want to know everything!"

She went on about every small detail of her day. They laughed together at the funny things that happened to her and cursed her colleagues whom she hated.

"and what was that 'the most funniest' thing you wanted to tell?"

"Oh! I don't remember!" she racked her brain impatiently, eyes closed hard.

"Oh man. How could you forget! Now I can't stop wondering what that could be!"

"What do I do! I had so much to tell I forgot that!"

"Oh yes," he said, "Here's an idea. From now on, you list down the things that you want to tell me, that way you will remember."

"I always make a mental note!" she huffed.

"Not a mental note, stupid! You write down the things. Maintain a list."

She laughed hard.
"Let's see. Such a geeky idea! No wonder it came from you!" she teased.

"Perks of falling for a geek. You are welcome."

She found herself following the geeky idea.

-The bright yellow flowers she found on the way to office (They hung like delicate strings on the tree.)
-A tiny error in the calculation of the accounts at office (She had spent hours in figuring out.)
-The pathetic taste of Pulaav she tried to cook (She hated going in the kitchen anyway.)
-The all new incident of dumbness of her hot colleague (That was a funny story, he would laugh his head off over that!)
-How much she loved him and missed him

The last item was always constant in her List.
-----------------------------------------

Over the time, his calls dwindled down. Every time her phone rang, she hurried to check the caller name.

Every time she realised it wasn't him, her heart sank terribly.

The items on her List kept piling up.

She would do that religiously, no matter what. Things would soon turn normal, she tells herself.

One day he left. And with him left her faith and hope.

Still.

Her brain instinctively makes the mental note of the things she wishes to tell him and her hands unmistakably move to the Notes in her mobile whenever anything interesting happens, to add to her List.

The List stops growing. Maybe nothing interesting happens to her anymore. Maybe she doesn't find anything interesting.

She wishes he comes back. She has a lot of things to tell him already.

Choice

She felt mortified, totally mortified. She could feel the eyes of the crowd on her back. Some sympathetic, some pitiful, some disgusted, some mocking. A few of them did an audible 'tch tch' full of pity and others murmured in excitement of getting a new topic for gossip.

She shook her husband who rumbled dully. His words came indistinct and the stench of alcohol almost made her throw up. Some of the mud on his clothes strained her Saree.

Through the corner of an eye, she saw her superior from the office eyeing her in a mild surprise. She straightened her purse and gave him an embarrassed smile.

"Husband?" he asked curiously.
"Hm."

If only one could die of embarrassment...

With all the might she had, she pulled her husband to his feet. He stumbled and started pushing her away. For a moment she felt a surge of anger so terrible that she wanted to throw him back on the ground. She called for an auto, forced her protesting husband in and left, watching the crowd spread off.

She was done crying long ago. This wasn't new to her anymore. Every other day her alcoholic husband would disappear and she would search for him once she was back from office.

She worked endlessly. Office work and a small catering business she ran from her house to add to her modest income to make the ends meet. With every hundred rupees note she earned and hid under the bed, inside the folds of the old clothes and back of the stove to keep it safe from her husband, she worried a little less about that month's school-fees of her daughter she had sent to another town.

No time to cry or regret. No time to tend her sore back. No time to stop and rest. No time to feel complacent when she realised her small business grew bigger day by day. No time to notice neighbours' looks of pity turning into those of envy.

While the actresses in her nation made creative videos to define feminism by the freedom to wear the clothes a woman wants and to have sex by woman's own choice, she always told her daughter that the simple women like herself have a little choices and many compromises.

She felt very proud when her daughter said, "Who says you are simple, Mother! You are my role model!"

- Based on a true story of a simply extraordinary woman I happened to hear from recently.

Routine

'I had ordered one black coffee with no sugar!' she says to the canteen-guy a little irritably.

How on earth people make such mistake with such a simple order!

She hates to break her routine that her coffee- the way she likes it, kicks off every morning.

She throws the coffee away and turns to the vending machine in office to help herself to green tea, taking two minutes to search for her usual brand of tea.

She is so particular about everything, never moving an inch from her planned routine.

It's never 09:00 am until cubicles in her office hear the sharp sound of her high heels. Always the same hairstyle, hair twisted in a tight bun as if she never lets her hair down. Literally and figuratively.

No breakfast at office, it isn't a part of her routine.

Her daily meetings and status calls, always at the same predefined time, the same 'good morning's and 'thank you very much's in the same tone as everyday. Without a change.

Lunch at exactly 02:00 pm. Tossed Salad only. As planned. Again routine.

Every evening she is home at 08:00 pm.
Every night- 09:00 pm, dinner. Simple light dinner because you know- She is health conscious.

And as per her routine she gets into the bed at 10:30 pm. Never late.

Then lying in bed, she remembers him.

Memories march towards her with sharp footsteps.

Tik-Tok. Tik-Tok. Tik-Tok.

Like sound of her stilettoes around the cubicles at 09:00 am.

She tries to figure out what she could have done differently to make him stay.

Every night.

Every night, her routine is ruined like this when she goes to sleep at the wee hours of the morning.

And what an irony it is, even her memories have routine.

Every night, 10:30 pm. Tik-Tok. Tik-Tok.

Diamond Rings and Other Things

She came home a little late that evening. Rubbing her sweaty forehead, cursing the heat, she sank into a chair, fanning herself with her hand.

For about five minutes, she ranted about her day like she did every evening- how annoying her boss was and how she didn't get time for lunch.

Oh boy! She talks so much. Continuously. And so dramatically.

He loves it nevertheless. The way she rolls her eyes while talking, flares her nostrils, shrugs, throws her mane back with an almost unnoticeable shake of her neck.

"Hey..." He started, clearing his throat.

He didn't know how to make it sound romantic like the hero in her favourite movie nor did he know beautiful words she would love to hear.

Many times he had wondered if she would get bored of him or she was already! Was he too plain and predictable for her? Did she secretly crave for romantic surprises like every woman? He always stared at her while they watched her favourite romantic movies on TV. She would have an innocent dreamy smile on her face, her eyes gleaming at the happy couple on screen. He wished he could make her smile like that. He wished he could afford diamond rings, candlelit dinners every other night and holidays on the blue green beaches. Just to see her smile through the tears of happiness.

She looked at him curiously, her eyes bulged in quite a childlike way.

He opened his closed palms and held them before her.

A bunch of tiny Madhumalati flowers. Pink and white frail petals with delicate long stems. Just like those in her phone wallpaper he knew she loved. He had collected them on the way home that evening, from a small vine growing on a building gate.

"Oh! From where did you..." she exclaimed and stood up to face him. He shuffled his feet nervously.

"I never really got you a nice gift or a surprise since we got married... In fact I couldn't give you anything better than what you already had. This house for example. I promise I would afford the diamond rings for your fingers one day," he whispered, "but till then... All I can say is I really love you."

She giggled with the tears shining in her eyes, just like- he particularly remembered- when she had watched one of the female characters proposing the guy in her favourite show FRIENDS the other day.

He had turned her speechless tonight. She just kept looking away, smiling. For the first time he realised her weird habit of averting eyes and rubbing the tip of the nose when she was emotional. All that incessant blabber was just a cover for her emotional self that she kept hidden.

She picked up the flowers from his hands, put them aside and buried her head in his chest.

He giggled, smelled her hair to his heart's content and kissed the top of her head. The fragrance of Madhumalati- not sweeter than her hair's though, tickled his heart. Tonight he was going to let her know what she meant to him. Unlike her, in fewer words.

Aftertaste

He put the keys in lock and clicked the door open. Warm and stale air in his apartment greeted him like a loyal dog waiting for him. He loosened his tie and threw himself onto the bed. He stretched an arm to reach a mess of unwashed clothes, extricated the remote of air conditioner and switched it on almost robotically.

His head hurt terribly. Pinching his nose bridge in frustration, he tried to shun the thoughts that had flooded his brain since afternoon when he had bumped into her unexpectedly.

She had aged a little than when she had left him. Something died inside him seeing her smile for a reason that had nothing to do with him. And then she had raised her glance up only to catch his sight. Her smile had faltered.

His heart had beaten frantically. The Butterfly Feeling in his stomach had never died though it had been years since she had last kissed him. Arch of her eyebrows, huge forehead that he had always kissed, small nose that he used to tease her for and curls in her hair... None of those had changed and none of those belonged to him anymore.

Her fists had curled in balls and next second she had left looking straight ahead, putting her sunglasses on as if nothing had happened.

He had stood rooted there, with stinging eyes and a heavy heart.

That alluring smile with which she used to wink at him years ago, rubbing of her soft cheeks against his stubble, her slender fingers entwined in his pudgy ones while they walked and the indifferent glance she had thrown at him today... Everything ran like a slide show before his closed eyes.

He let a drop of tear slide quietly onto the bed and got up.

A finely blended, old bottle of whisky. He had saved it for special occasion.

Nothing was as special as this one.

He poured a peg for himself and gulped it down at one go. Whether his foodpipe burned because of a lump that had formed at his throat or because of whisky, he couldn't tell.

Like finely blended whisky, she had left an aftertaste.

Bittersweet.

Someplace Safe

"How do you feel?" she whispered in my ear. I could hear her smile through her voice. Her eyes twinkled in the moonlight that had found its way through a broken window-pane.

A cool breeze sneaked through the window. She tightened the blanket around us. I could do without the blanket though, with her warm skin touching mine, her warm breath against my chest, rhythmic like a melodious song.

"Hm?" she prodded me, lifting her head up from my chest and staring into my eyes.

Simple question. Complex answer.

"Nothing. I feel nothing." I told her.

Her smile faltered. I hated myself for being so poor with words. If only I could have words to describe everything I felt, like she always did.

"My head feels empty,  no worry! Absolutely no worry here!" I pointed at my head and told her almost like a patient talking to a doctor.
"It's a rare feeling. It's like-" I struggled for words again, "Like you'd feel in a temple. I feel-" I said and fell silent.

"Safe." she completed, touching her forehead to mine, "Like your soul has been touched. As calm as you have never felt in your life."

The sheet of her hair fell around my face like a dark tent. I loved whenever that happened.

"The wound." she murmured, tracing her finger on my chest.

"The scar." I corrected, "A wound is supposed to hurt; a scar doesn't."

The wound hadn't hurt, ever since she touched it with her warmth. Everything had fallen in the right place. Everything made the perfect sense. As if she had been sent from the skies just for me, because I needed to be saved.

"Does it still hurt?" she frowned, her eyebrows forming a net of worries on her forehead.

"Not anymore." I pulled her hair gently to bring her face to mine and kissed her.

"I feel home." I said matter-of-factly after a couple of minutes' silence.

I must have sounded totally out of context.

"Home! Look at this place! It's not worth being called a home!" she said, glancing at the broken window-pane and running her fingers through my hair affectionately, "Thank God you are shifting to a new place soon! Hopefully that's more comfortable for you."

"I wasn't talking about that."
"Then what?"

"This-" I said, letting her hair fall around my face, "Is my home. You are my home!"

High Walls and No Window

"Can I take up a job, please?" she asked him one more time.

He gave her an exasperated look.
"Why do you need a job!" he asked shaking his head, "Tell me if the money I provide you is not enough! I can give you more. You may even go and shop for whatever you wish to!"

She sighed.
"It's not about money! I feel useless at home. I don't want to be a housewife!" she muttered in a low but defiant voice.

He put his palms on her shoulders softly. "We are a rich and well known family. You doing a job is something Mother and Father wouldn't like. Besides, with this family business, you don't need to! You take care of our house, you know, that's a huge responsibility." With each of his words, the grip on her shoulders became more authoritative.

She stood there wordlessly.

"And yes, by the way," he continued, "Could you please return that dress you bought the other day? I would like you to wear a Saree on Friday's function at my office. Wear that red one I gifted you last week. You look lovely in that!"

She had opened her mouth to say something in protest before he silenced her with a kiss on her forehead.

"Now could you keep my breakfast and coffee ready while I take a bath?"
She saw him leaving hurriedly, his sugar-coated, disguised command ringing in her ears.

She looked around at her magnificent house. Rich silk purple drapes, antique mirrors adorning peach walls, sleek white floor reflecting the tiny golden lights on the false ceiling.

No window though. She could do with some fresh air.
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"Tell me something that I don't know already!" She told her friend.

"Fine! Let me see." her friend replied drawing indecipherable charts on her notebook, "umm.. It seems that you will get a really rich husband. He will be from a prestigious family and you will have all kinds of riches. Hmm... And oh! You will have a palace-like home." her friend said observing the strange charts she had drawn, tracing her fingers over the numbers she had written in a square.

"Tell me something more!" she demanded, rolling her eyes. She couldn't deny that her friend's words had pleased her; she smiled to herself wishing she were true.

"Well," her friend said with an air of a learned scholar, "If I am not wrong, and I hope I am, you have Bandhan Yog in your horoscope." she finished quite dramatically.

She gave her a puzzled look demanding an explanation.

"It indicates that you might have to spend a long time in a prison. Captivity, basically."

She snickered skeptically and her friend gave her a little reproachful look.

-----------------------------------------

Now she knows that the Prison is not the only prison.

Some prisons may even have purple silk curtains, peach walls and sleek white floor.

Icecream

"How is it?" he asked her impatiently, looking at her expectantly.

"Mmm." she said thoughtfully, as if savouring the flavour of the icecream, "It's good, it's good."

"Don't lie," he said with mock anger giving her a suspicious look. "It's my favourite flavour! How come you don't like it! You didn't like it at all, did you?" he said, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Actually I really didn't like it. This milk and mint combination is very weird!" she said smiling, biting her tongue, "I like the color though. It's unique."

Fresh mint green with tiny chocolate grains embedded in the cream. Interesting indeed.

She planted a swift cold kiss on his cheek and his face lit up.

-----------------------------------------

"Which one do you want??" someone in the group asked.

"Milk Mint Chocolate." she said quietly pronouncing each word clearly as though the words were flavoured, the coldness in the icecream shop slightly seeping into her heart.

"What the hell is that!" she heard someone say, "You and your weird choices!"

She quietly scooped up a small portion from her cup and tasted it. The coolness of the mint tingled her tongue and the warmth of the tears, her eyes.

Slate

"Mommy... My slate wouldn't clean." her daughter stretched out her tiny hands holding the slate.

Graffiti of the white oil pastel strokes filled the black shiney surface of the slate. She stared at her daughter who cowered in fear like a timid lamb.

She rubbed the slate hard with her palm wordlessly, sprinkled some water on the surface and wiped it rigorously.

A couple of hot tears fell on the surface, almost unknowningly while she tried to scratch the wax off the slate with all the might she had as if she didn't realise the futility of her efforts.

"Go and study in your room." she whispered in a low voice to her daughter who scurried out hastily.

She continued wiping the slate with tears stinging her eyes.

She sobbed noiselessly, covering her mouth, just as she did when her husband had bouts of angry outbursts every other day because the curry she made had a little more salt than he preffered or because he didn't have a good day at his office or simply because her voice was a little more audible than the level he expected from her.

Full sleeves, high necks, layers of make-up and scarves to hide her scars from the world... A forceful smile to put up a show of normalcy... But she knew her daughter was now old enough. The way some unknown fear peeped through her daughter's eyes these days... The way her tiny body flinched in her sleep.

She kept looking at the face of a monster her daughter had tried to draw on the slate. The slate wouldn't clean.

A New Year Eve

So many New Year eves... So memorable. The one where she spent the night crying in a pillow, the other she spent someplace safe. The one when she watched the pointless shows on tv with her family, the other when she slept tired. The one where she waited in a queue outside restaurants cursing the overpriced menus and the one where she felt so full merely by staring into a pair of eyes that she barely touched her food. The one when she wrinkled her nose to the smell of burnt crackers and the one when she sniffed a familiar scent from a sweater that kept her warm all night.

This year was different for her, same for everyone else though. Couples walked around hand in hand, groups of friends chattered merrily. The air was pleasantly chilly. The roads bathed in the golden light that adorned the trunks of the trees in their either sides. The strings of lights hung along the tall walls of the magnificent buildings. The entrances of the restaurants enticed with the warm smiles of the staff and Christmas trees shining with multicolored stars.

Dreamlike. Almost dreamlike. If the cold breeze hadn't given her goosebumps, she could have believed it to be a dream.

She walked the road alone like a vagabond, clutching the straps of her backpack, gaping in amazement as if she had never been in a city before, staring wide-eyed like a five year old. She softly touched the blue periwinkle shrubs that embroidered the circle where four roads crossed, stopped by a fountain that glittered in a bright violet light and rested on an unoccupied bench. Tiny stray droplets from the fountain rested on her arms and twinkled as if to compete with the stars in the dark sky above. With her elbows resting on the bag in her lap and cold palms rubbing both of her cheeks, she gazed at the water that danced merrily.

Nothing's going to change overnight, she thought cynically, what's the fuss about the New Year!

Maybe people just keep finding chances to forget and start anew. Time is medicine only for those with fickle memory. She shook her head smiling skeptically.

One more memorable New Year Eve to remember at the others that will follow...
One more drop in the ocean of memories that surged at special moments like this...

-Inspired by a tweet I happened to read- 'Time is medicine only for those with fickle memory'.