Rosemary

Dave Nakayama (licensed under Creative Commons)

Macaroni never tasted this good when Agatha made it herself. The recipe was the same - no rocket science after all. But there had to be something that maami (that's what she called her nanny) did differently. Agatha thought about it as she savoured the rich smell and softness of the cheese. Perhaps it was voodoo. Maami looked quite formidable after all - her skin wrinkly and her eyes narrow, rather like a witch. Agatha giggled at the idea. Maybe maami muttered spells under her breath as the macaroni rotated in the oven. Or perhaps, there was a magic herb she added to the sauce. "There's nothing magical about it," Maami said, stirring ferociously in the chilly winter noon. "It's called rosemary and that's what adds the flavour to my macaroni." "What does it look like?" Agatha asked. "And does it have anything to do with roses or someone called Mary?" Maami laughed, the ladle pausing to shake along with her merriment. "Rosemary means 'dew of the sea' in Latin." She cocked her head to look at Agatha. "People used to believe it could ward off witches." The young girl gasped. "Did you just read my thoughts, maami?" "Why, what were you thinking?" Agatha considered. If maami already knew, this was just a trick question. She decided to go with the truth. Even if maami was a witch, she wouldn't hurt her, Agatha was certain. "I was wondering if you might be a witch." The soup had now reached a boil. "Well if I was, the rosemary wouldn't let me stay here, would it?" That did make sense. Satisfied, Agatha went back to her macaroni while Maami shook her bemused head.

Best two hours of 2013?

Anoushka Shankar: Wikimedia Commons

Often when I put pen to paper, it’s because I feel like visiting someplace new; or revisiting a particularly charming place. Today, I want to revisit the two hours I spent in Anoushka Shankar’s company, albeit two floors apart.

She sat there, graceful as a lotus, the sitar nestled in her able hands. And she might have been strumming the strings of our hearts, for all we knew. Because every sonorous twang felt like the resonance of a suppressed memory. When she played, I was no longer Ankita Shreeram, writer and resident of Bombay. I was just a throbbing being, kept alive and sculpted by the notes that danced around and into me. What is so intoxicating about losing all sense of identity? What is so right about not being who you are but just a bundle of uniquely-hued energy?

Her ‘voice of the moon’ might have made me cry but my soul was too busy celebrating. Perhaps it felt like it was finally receiving some attention – a rare treat – because all other times, I only fed my thoughts and my base senses.

To her right, there were the cross-legged, sedate shehnai (trumpet) and mridangam (South Indian percussion instrument) players. And to her left, was the Italian percussionist, the cello player with his hair tied back in a sleek bun and the slender African singer Ayana, whose luxurious voice made me weep to hear Norah Jones (sweet but not Ayana) in the original recordings. Western and Indian classical instruments came together in a joyous union that rode high upon choice Carnatic ragas.

Four days ago, it had been her father’s death anniversary. It had also been the date when the Delhi gang rape happened in 2012. “I poured all my darkness into this song – ‘In Jyoti’s name’,” Anoushka told us. It should have been ample warning of what was to come. But I was still deeply shaken and disturbed by the urgent, pained notes that ensued. It was just what it should have been but I couldn’t wait for it to stop.

But the other tracks from ‘Traces of you’ (her new album) – Metamorphosis and Lasya among them, helped me recover. But that would be unjust, because they did more than that. They inspired, soothed and uplifted. They made me feel truly blessed to be alive; to be there in that hall for those two glorious hours, and have the fortune of listening to such masterful melodies. This is living – my heart told me. And I believed it, choosing to forget for that moment the monotony that greets me every other day. But that’s not really true, is it? To breathe and to exist – in synchronicity with the Universe, is a blessing far too great to be clothed in the grey rags of monotony. Now when I revisit that beautiful place, I believe my heart’s whispers again. I believe that I am happy. And there was never any reason to be otherwise.

When the concert ended, with dazzling individual pieces by each of the supporting musicians, I was convinced that those had been the best two hours of 2013. But of course, it’s easy to be overwhelmed in the immediate aftermath of things. Now that the sheen has been dimmed by the unforgiving dust of time, I wonder if there might be other contenders for that title. It has been a pretty good year after all.

The three kinds of talk

Wikimedia Commons

The other day, while trying to explain my introversion to a friend, I realised that there are three kinds of talk:

1. Social talk
2. Routine talk
3. Real talk

Social talk is the endless jibber jabber most of us engage in everyday. It is the conversation that flows at parties and large dinners. It is a life-saver when you meet someone new and if you are no good at it, well, you'll end up hemming and hawing your way through awkward 10-second encounters, the way I usually do.

Not all social talk is shallow, though I wish that were true. It is the art of presenting one's knowledge in topics of mass interest - such as films, television, fashion, music and food - in the most entertaining way possible. I have found that sadly, literature is rarely a topic of mass interest. Nor is analysis about why we think the way we do and the mysteries of the universe. Little wonder that social talk is far from my area of expertise.

But if you can master this art to the extent that it comes naturally to you, (most often this process takes place as we grow up but some of us manage to get through it without much socialising and pay for the omission later) then you are guaranteed help from folks whenever you need it, and usually, success at a faster pace than the the ones who aren't adept at it.

Routine talk is what we practise with family and the people we live with. How was your day? What shall we have for dinner? When will you reach home? Is your cold better? You get the drill. Far from being boring, routine talk is a great source of comfort for most of us. When it comes to people we love, the mere exchange of words is a pleasure - even if those words are nothing monumental.

Now in the digital age, a strange phenomenon is taking place. Routine talk is being exchanged with complete strangers thanks to chat and messaging services. But as long as it serves the same purpose - that of reassuring you, making you feel that the mundane details of your life matter and you are not all alone, I think it's absolutely fine.

But real talk is where the magic of communication resides. These are the long, heart-to-heart conversations one recalls even years down the line. Real talk heals, inspires and rejuvenates. And it is with only a select few that we can indulge in them. I would put any conversation with some 'substance' in the realm of real talk. And I believe this is indispensable for one's happiness. One can survive without social and routine talk but real talk? That's non-negotiable. And cultivating relationships with people with whom we can enjoy this privilege, is an effort one has to be willing to make (note to self).

One observation that came up in my conversation with the aforementioned friend is that a lot of talk does not make one an extrovert. If most of your talk consists of social prattle, then you may be as closed up as an introvert who barely speaks. True extroverts are those who feel comfortable sharing intimate details of their life with all their friends. Then again, may be the definition of 'extrovert' is broader than that.

In conclusion, the things we say are a disorderly combination of the consequential and the inconsequential. Too much of the former and you're broody. Too much of the latter and you're shallow. Just the right balance of both - and you're the friend who's always in demand. Me? I'm happy with my pointless theorizing. :P

10 - The girl who died next door

Wikimedia Commons

Death. It comes in myriad ways but the one distinction between all these ways is the pace and it’s corollary - suffering. The nature of death is defined by whether it is gradual or sudden; whether it comes in bursts of suffering or one swift stroke. Death from burning – long and torturous; but death from a fatal bullet wound – instant and merciful. If I ever had to murder someone, I’d go the merciful way. To spare myself the torture of watching of course. Why should another person’s pain bother me if I can’t feel it? Compassion, most of the times, is feigned. Feigned until people are convinced they truly feel another’s feelings – an absolutely illogical and fanciful notion. Compassion traverses the blind area between imagination and reality.

Of course, all this conjecture about death applies only to the living. Suvarna’s death on Shayan’s canvas was another matter altogether.

I spent my days on tenterhooks ever since the day I’d seen Shayan in pieces over (dead) Suvarna’s aging. I kept waiting for the day when it would all be over and I was never certain if it was happiness I felt – or fear. Perhaps I’d always had an inkling that it wouldn’t be pretty when Suvarna’s spectre followed the footsteps of her physical self. I was driven crazier by the fact that I could confide in no one. I took to recording my exchanges with Shayan on a private blog I called ‘The girl who wouldn’t stay dead’. On days when I’d had too much wine, the title would crack me up and I’d giggle every now and then, while I typed macabre words.

Monsoon had made way for the suffocating warmth that was the city’s sorry excuse for autumn. I’d have to add that to my bucket list – experience autumn in its faded mahogany emptiness. While I was musing aimlessly thus, I heard a deafening crash from the house next door. It sounded like a cupboard, or something of that size and heaviness had toppled over. And then there was silence. Unadulterated silence. No screams of pain, no shouts for help. No excuses to offer for my immediate panic and compulsion to check on Shayan.

His apartment was filled with smoke and the acrid smell of it. The man had turned into a monstrous smoker. The haze made it difficult to see and for a few moments, I blundered forward blindly; my eyes watering. Then I saw him. Slumped on the floor, sobbing, while his beloved easel lay on the floor, the palettes of colour leaking into the tiled flooring.  I allowed myself to dwell over the strangely beautiful sight of different colours forging their individual paths and tributaries on that pale white expanse. Then I pulled myself back to the pitiful figure in front of me. What aspect of that was capable of charming a woman? Nothing at all. And yet there I was, a repulsive mass of unbidden concern. “You stink.” He looked up, tear-stained face and all. “It’s over,” he whispered, so low that I had to read his cracked lips. “Finally.” He didn’t seem to have heard me. “I have no reason to live any more. All I want is to die.” And he collapsed into wracking sobs on the last word. This was insane. With a sudden burst of righteous anger, I grabbed Shayan’s largest painting brush off the floor and tore through his last painting with its pointed end. Shayan may have screamed but I did not hear him. The torn canvas gave me the rush I imagined murderers felt when they severed veins. I drove the brush through every painting I could lay my eyes on. I hacked through her doe eyes, her luscious lips and her lustrous hair. I drove It through her very soul and I found mine rejoicing.

And then I felt, rather than heard him rise off the floor. With a flash of warning from my primitive sense of self-preservation, I spun around and caught his arm before he could bang my head with the heavy painting he held in his hands. “What have you done, you bitch?” he raged. “How could you kill her like that?” “I didn’t kill her!” I shouted back. “She was already dead! A simple fact you could never fathom!” and then I was rushing out of his apartment, away from him; away from his sapping insanity.

I moved out of my apartment that very night. Since several months, it had brought me no peace. And now I was in desperate need of some.

You might ask why I’d been so obsessed with Shayan that entire while. Why had I allowed his madness to impact my perfectly normal life? Why hadn’t I just let him die in that apartment, which I had anyway eventually done? I don’t have an answer to that question. Any more than I have an answer to why Suvarna insisted on extending her sorry life on paper. All I can say is – there are some impulses none of us are powerful enough to ignore; whatever may be the consequences. Or perhaps – because of the possible consequences. For every dark turn that my relationship with Shayan took, there has been an alternative turn glimmering in the corridors of hope. My subliminal hope.

(Concluded)

Memoirs of innocent artifice

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

From a dusty drawer, the ghost of a scared child peeps

From another, a stoic teenager

The child has scrawled a Wordsworth quote

Sitting pretty on feigned adulthood's moat

Heartfelt essays now bear the dust of lies

Of a pretence in half-hearted disguise

Memoirs of innocent artifice

In a blue jewelled box, a seashell lurks

A piece of joy, locked away for posterity

Un-caged, the memory flies

Loosening its grip on a heart that sighs

For all its inhabitants, condemned to be temporary

Time has left arrogant stains on the creatures of my past

Kept alive like bloodless vampires

Staring at me dolefully

Why have I not spared a single thought for them in all these years?

Never held them to my bosom

Or fed them with my lusty tears?

Erasers, mechanical pencils, dog-eared notebooks and glittering cards

A child's possessions

But childhood is no more than a fleeting memory

Devoid of sensation, of smell, of touch or sound

Childhood would be a fancy bed-time story

If not for these accusing diaries - hard-bound

I save some from the ogling bin

But none of them matters to me

Not really

Nothing feels real except the chiming of the clock

And sometimes, not even that

Some relics I wrestle with, like this delegate card

My hand hovers, and is pulled back by my pleading, bleeding heart

Like a husband held back by an emotional wife

The husband succumbs, the card returns

To the Pandora's box that is my nostalgia.

Listen to something someone recommended.

Listen to something someone recommended. Imagine the way the beats and synapses flowed over their senses and teased their limbs into unconscious movement. Dance imperceptibly, and wonder if they did the same. Smile at the sudden, soft notes, and wonder if they were enraptured by the very same ones.

Listen to the singer's voice, the secret lyrics and wonder if they were meant just for you - a coded message from the one who recommended the song. Drink deep from the fountain of words and marvel at how they've been redefined by the music they are set to. Catch yourself blushing at certain phrases and look around quickly to ensure no one's watching. Find the song suddenly playing in your head when you're at the entrance of your train, wondering what to have for dinner. Allow the music to intrude, when you're at a pressing meeting at work or when you're strolling past the chana-wala at the turn of the street. Welcome the song with open arms when you're lying in bed, weary from the day's travails and disappointments. Along with the song, will come thoughts of the one who recommended it. Listen to the imagined ghosts of their sighs, even as the singer croons.

Feel your heart skip a beat in those initial few strains of music, before the vocals burst upon you like an expected, yet sudden shower. Watch your skin break out in goosebumps when the singer travels territories you never even knew existed. Walk in those unexplored realms with the one who recommended the song. Notice the words and the music mutating every time you listen to it, like a living, breathing creature. Like a shared force between you and that person. A sinuous thread of magic, wavering in the wind, changing colours and sparkling every time either of you smiles.

Everyone I know.

Ancestral voices by Firsov Kubla (from Wikimedia Commons)

everyone i know,

wants to tell me who i am.

everyone i know,

points at pinpricks of darkness and light

within me.

as if i didn't know they were there.

everyone i know,

tries to make sense of me

find the key to messy mystery

draw a map of my psychic history

trace the origins of my insanity.

everyone i know,

pokes and prods with sadistic glee

my squirms are their sorry victory.

everyone i know,

insists on reminding me

on rare times when the sunshine pokes through

that i am porous

and i will never retain the warmth long enough

to recover completely

to regain wholly

what i was once born with.

everyone i know,

revels in chiding me

that i know nothing of real pain

that my woes are but contrived

children of a needlessly cynical mother.

everyone i know,

is a voice of annoying wisdom

a speaker of irrefutable reason

a paragon of what i should be.

everyone i really know

is just another part of me.