The adipose has been coming , slowly, surely and inevitably like tomorrow , settling down comfortably at what once used to be a waist line and creeping ominously towards the belly .While on the one hand Ms.Aishwariya Rai Bachhan ( we passed school the same year) is at her lissome best, waving hands at Iafa awards I am juggling with EMIs .She has actually married the same month and year that I did too , and all said and done , my hubby is a hero in his own right .So you see, there are similarities, one cannot deny . But the conversion of self into a grey haired, bespectacled ( from birth actually and contact lens less currently ) , harassed, big sized professional is something that I do not like .So I have a list of things to do ,the technical term is a makeover , of self and life at large -expensive , time consuming , and would you believe it hard work. But as usual we are digressing, I was talking about my marriage anniversary .The first one at that , with a situation like this at home Parents are visiting. Great thing, but for two and a half month s???!!! a slight hitch there , a very cranky husband at home , between jobs , chin pulled down to knees in depression (generated by the clash of the generations and Bong Tam culture), intermittently unimaginably foul temper and a date which calls for celebration .This time I know, the Davidoff s and the watches will not do the trick .I have to be more imaginative than that.So Brandy Kuty came home .In a orange plastic shopping basket, wedged between knees over a bike ride through Bangalore . She was about 8 inches, 30 days old, mongrel-ish , and shivering , and as I handed her over to my husband I fell in love with her .She has changed our life- completely.In this couple of months she has bitten every thing bite -able, our limbs in particular, slept with us in our bed, under it, over various body parts, she has wagged her tail at seeing me return from work,so hard that I felt maybe it will come off , licked our face , has barked into my ear every single dawn at five .In genera been the most infernal nuisance.But she is amazing .She makes me happy, and want as I may to throttle somebody at work when I see her smiling face the feeling just evaporates.I thought she was going to be our pet, but there is no chance in light years of this happening .It is the other way round. At 5 o’clock in the evening , I wonder what she is upto , 6 ish I get fidgety to have her in my lap .At 8 when I reach home she jumps upto me and scratches me all over as I hug her, and then we play tug of war with an old much chewed belt/She actually knows the word sit, shreds newspapers into noodles, refuses to be toilet trained outside the house because she is of the opinion that gardens are not for morning ablutions, and eats a carrot everyday sitting on my husbands lap as her dessert for the night.She makes me run all over the house and the grounds, like a lunatic and the adipose might just go .My husband thinks that she is the lucky charm who landed him his dream job .Our caretaker Seema teaches her Bengali songs..So what has Brandy done to all of us? she has brought in the meaningless joy of living , which existence robs off you , she is teaching us unconditional love and shameless pranks of childhood , making children of sour adults .Please give a dog a home, and discover yourself anew .Life is at it again, teaching me small truths at strange times
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Drizzle
After combating the sadist in the yellow t shirt at 6 in the morning (that would be my gym instructor) I am ready to take on the world .Honestly, what will you do?- if you have communicated to the guy in language, rolling of eyes, panting and unsophisticated grunts that the leg wont go up any further, he keeps a dead pan face, stitches up his smile, tucks his lips into his face like a formal shirt into trousers- and says 40 more counts.
You cannot do any thing really – expect do the 40 counts and curse
So, given the fact that the sky was slate gray and the rain was nagging I was going to go to office- going to splash the world with colours , and smile at strangers. I embarked on the road, attired like a macaw, blue jacket, red tshirt ,yellow undershirt , determined to make a better day of the one that awaited me.
Richard was waiting for me, just beyond the flyover with his bike. All I had to do was to cross the rail track and hop on and feel the patter of the rain on my back .I love crossing the rail track, because it reminds me of childhood, the cackling of kids with backpacks who cross with me, because it is not the right thing to do to jump unmanned rail tracks, and because finally I am always running late and it is a good thing to take a shortcut.
There was slush all around, my sneakers sank in the soft mud , a frog jumped up nearly to my pocket , I ducked and then, I saw him .
He was lying on an elevation, in a bed of rocks, where perhaps the mud was a little less .He had spread out a tattered green cloth which was held in place by small pebbles .The cloth was completely wet, and he laid on top of it, his frail body twisted into a comma, a transparent plastic sheet covering him, stretched as best as it could by arms, fingerless , his head resting on a pink carry bag where perhaps all his worldly possession was stuffed.
I have seen him before, and always stopped by to drop a coin .He speaks a language I don't , but begging has a voice , penury a silent cry which spears fortress walls, helplessness a heartbreaking hollowness which one knows. He lied there, coins strewed around him.
My feet turned into lead, I fished in my bag found twenty rupees, gave it to him, and trudged along .I turned once, and another kind college goer was giving him a tenner. But , strangely I was getting a sense of violation. The next to cross him was a small boy swinging a school bag, and inadvertently a large blob of mud flung from his shoes right onto the plastic sheet.
I stopped.
I walked back , reached him and spoke in Tamil , that is the only southindian language I speak fluently.
"Get up Appa " I said .
Richard was calling me .I was getting very late.
He did not budge, and I was down, mud on my jeans sitting beside him in a minute .Pulling his leprosied arm, "Get up , NOW"
There was shock, only and resignation in his bleary grey eyes .The shock perhaps of being touched by another human being in years, of being called father in a homeless world. He moved up slowly…
I opened my wallet, gave him a hundred rupee note and said –" Get up and go from here".
He closed his eyes, empty in pain I think and raised the remnant of his palm to my head in silent blessing .He began to gather his things, and I began to run.- through pebbles through the track towards the other end – faraway there was a sound of an approaching train .I did not turn back , I could not- because I never cry anywhere other than my bathroom.
My green cup has steaming coffee. It is a day of endless cups of tea, pakora, a long drive through a highway , of begging in the rain
There is a drizzle in Bangalore.
You cannot do any thing really – expect do the 40 counts and curse
So, given the fact that the sky was slate gray and the rain was nagging I was going to go to office- going to splash the world with colours , and smile at strangers. I embarked on the road, attired like a macaw, blue jacket, red tshirt ,yellow undershirt , determined to make a better day of the one that awaited me.
Richard was waiting for me, just beyond the flyover with his bike. All I had to do was to cross the rail track and hop on and feel the patter of the rain on my back .I love crossing the rail track, because it reminds me of childhood, the cackling of kids with backpacks who cross with me, because it is not the right thing to do to jump unmanned rail tracks, and because finally I am always running late and it is a good thing to take a shortcut.
There was slush all around, my sneakers sank in the soft mud , a frog jumped up nearly to my pocket , I ducked and then, I saw him .
He was lying on an elevation, in a bed of rocks, where perhaps the mud was a little less .He had spread out a tattered green cloth which was held in place by small pebbles .The cloth was completely wet, and he laid on top of it, his frail body twisted into a comma, a transparent plastic sheet covering him, stretched as best as it could by arms, fingerless , his head resting on a pink carry bag where perhaps all his worldly possession was stuffed.
I have seen him before, and always stopped by to drop a coin .He speaks a language I don't , but begging has a voice , penury a silent cry which spears fortress walls, helplessness a heartbreaking hollowness which one knows. He lied there, coins strewed around him.
My feet turned into lead, I fished in my bag found twenty rupees, gave it to him, and trudged along .I turned once, and another kind college goer was giving him a tenner. But , strangely I was getting a sense of violation. The next to cross him was a small boy swinging a school bag, and inadvertently a large blob of mud flung from his shoes right onto the plastic sheet.
I stopped.
I walked back , reached him and spoke in Tamil , that is the only southindian language I speak fluently.
"Get up Appa " I said .
Richard was calling me .I was getting very late.
He did not budge, and I was down, mud on my jeans sitting beside him in a minute .Pulling his leprosied arm, "Get up , NOW"
There was shock, only and resignation in his bleary grey eyes .The shock perhaps of being touched by another human being in years, of being called father in a homeless world. He moved up slowly…
I opened my wallet, gave him a hundred rupee note and said –" Get up and go from here".
He closed his eyes, empty in pain I think and raised the remnant of his palm to my head in silent blessing .He began to gather his things, and I began to run.- through pebbles through the track towards the other end – faraway there was a sound of an approaching train .I did not turn back , I could not- because I never cry anywhere other than my bathroom.
My green cup has steaming coffee. It is a day of endless cups of tea, pakora, a long drive through a highway , of begging in the rain
There is a drizzle in Bangalore.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Remember us
Remember us
When I am far too far, the bridges burnt
Even then do,
When -our rusted love is shrouded by a new desire,
Or, when I become your invisible shadow-Our nearness be the wall!
Or, if one day my heartbeat stops on a moon scented night
The corner of your eye burns as the pyre is set
Till then, Even then-, remember us.
On the morrow if the sun would not shine for you
Do look back,And when you do- don't be afraid lest the tears fail you
Even then, thus betrayed, Remember us.
When I am far too far, the bridges burnt
Even then do,
When -our rusted love is shrouded by a new desire,
Or, when I become your invisible shadow-Our nearness be the wall!
Or, if one day my heartbeat stops on a moon scented night
The corner of your eye burns as the pyre is set
Till then, Even then-, remember us.
On the morrow if the sun would not shine for you
Do look back,And when you do- don't be afraid lest the tears fail you
Even then, thus betrayed, Remember us.
My Journey with you
Romour has it
that the other day -
You tamed the waves ,
Rode the curling froth
To steal the fathomless blue from
where
The blurring horizon meets the sea
That you walked endlessly
On the golden beach,
Warm sand under feet like
Deluding dreams
I hear that
you and you and you
sat around orange embers and talked of life.
Of what s and what nots
of hows and When
Will you take me then
On your ocean dip
Let salt on my skin make me think of love
let me fly on the seagulls wings
I know that you can still
love a rose bud, tell a story and
Write a tale
I hear that hope still knocks at you
With wishes wrapped in lonely thoughts
And here I am, arms spread out
standing
Weighed down to be alive for self
Lend me the dreams which you dare to dream
To lace your sleep on seamless nights
that the other day -
You tamed the waves ,
Rode the curling froth
To steal the fathomless blue from
where
The blurring horizon meets the sea
That you walked endlessly
On the golden beach,
Warm sand under feet like
Deluding dreams
I hear that
you and you and you
sat around orange embers and talked of life.
Of what s and what nots
of hows and When
Will you take me then
On your ocean dip
Let salt on my skin make me think of love
let me fly on the seagulls wings
I know that you can still
love a rose bud, tell a story and
Write a tale
I hear that hope still knocks at you
With wishes wrapped in lonely thoughts
And here I am, arms spread out
standing
Weighed down to be alive for self
Lend me the dreams which you dare to dream
To lace your sleep on seamless nights
Dont Go
On the ground floor of 49/14 hindusthan Park , Calcutta, Anjali Majumdar sits on her bed .Once upon a time -long long ago she used to be a true royal Bengal tigress.Now she is a bunch of wrinkles- light as a bird, worried for all -as Grandmothers can only be.Widowed at 33 with 4 children and eight months pregnant , no money , no support - nothing infact except courage she has single handedly brought up her children .So well infact - that she can truly be proud.However , I think sometimes ,that we have not told her this enough, and that though she is eighty eight and considers herself pretty useless - we have not the courage to let her go.!
They Tell her often - The end is near
She has kept aside everything
which once to her heart were dear
Her children, hope ,dreams and love
her bookshelf , her temper and her pride
She tries -everyday to rise above
The humdrum ,the mundane, the bondage
why worry about a grandchild -late home
How can she help anyway -at this age?
Sleep eludes her- she cannot see so well
Cannot let go of thoughts and words
Which -within her grow and dwell
Her duties are over - it is time to leave
Silver threads of memories -as she sits on her bed
From the weight of eight decades she weaves
And waits .For the time to be right
Pray , she does ,God - let there be light
They assure her often that the end is near
They dare not tell her that they cannot prepare
and help her take her last flight
from their lives, their heart , their sight.
They Tell her often - The end is near
She has kept aside everything
which once to her heart were dear
Her children, hope ,dreams and love
her bookshelf , her temper and her pride
She tries -everyday to rise above
The humdrum ,the mundane, the bondage
why worry about a grandchild -late home
How can she help anyway -at this age?
Sleep eludes her- she cannot see so well
Cannot let go of thoughts and words
Which -within her grow and dwell
Her duties are over - it is time to leave
Silver threads of memories -as she sits on her bed
From the weight of eight decades she weaves
And waits .For the time to be right
Pray , she does ,God - let there be light
They assure her often that the end is near
They dare not tell her that they cannot prepare
and help her take her last flight
from their lives, their heart , their sight.
A walk with time
Time walks with hurt etched in its heart
Through these serpentine city roads,
This - my city – of breakneck speed!
And I walk with time -,
Holding hands , learning truths .
Some I see. Some I cannot
Beyond my window -The sky is vast ,
The clouds grey grim
Hold on to the rain, not letting go
Unwept tears wedged behind eyelashes
A rainbow of hurt on the horizon
Some of it I can see and some I do not…..
Across my dingy lane
The little boy walks on rickety legs
Clutched in his hand a shapeless tin can
His life line
Tangling between strangers -he whines
Like a stray pup on a winter morning
There is hurt on his face ,
Hurt stamped in the battered can
Some of which I feel the rest I do not
Under the peach light of the street lamp
She stands and sells love .
A rupee a minute - time sold for
Loose change and beguiling smiles.
Tucked In the folds of her body ,
tattered saree ,there is the same truth
And I walk with time -,
Holding hands learning truths
In these lanes
From the lines your face
Some I see. Some I cannot.
Some I can. Some I do not
Through these serpentine city roads,
This - my city – of breakneck speed!
And I walk with time -,
Holding hands , learning truths .
Some I see. Some I cannot
Beyond my window -The sky is vast ,
The clouds grey grim
Hold on to the rain, not letting go
Unwept tears wedged behind eyelashes
A rainbow of hurt on the horizon
Some of it I can see and some I do not…..
Across my dingy lane
The little boy walks on rickety legs
Clutched in his hand a shapeless tin can
His life line
Tangling between strangers -he whines
Like a stray pup on a winter morning
There is hurt on his face ,
Hurt stamped in the battered can
Some of which I feel the rest I do not
Under the peach light of the street lamp
She stands and sells love .
A rupee a minute - time sold for
Loose change and beguiling smiles.
Tucked In the folds of her body ,
tattered saree ,there is the same truth
And I walk with time -,
Holding hands learning truths
In these lanes
From the lines your face
Some I see. Some I cannot.
Some I can. Some I do not
SOMETIMES
Sometimes,
When I am not looking .
(which I am often not )
I bang my foot into
the bedroom door.
He scolds me then!
Sometimes ,
Without letting me know
Pain sits on my shoulders
like a wollen rug in summer
Stifling , smothering
wringing me through.
He wants to know -why?
Sometimes
When he speaks ,I hear
But not listen
Words like butterflies
fly by me .
I nod knowingly
I pretend to understand
He smiles at me .
Sometimes When-
the rain touches my soul
A purple dawn kisses my hair
My loneliness gets lost in
A birdsong
Small and big thoughts
crowd over me
I tell him
I love him so.!
When I am not looking .
(which I am often not )
I bang my foot into
the bedroom door.
He scolds me then!
Sometimes ,
Without letting me know
Pain sits on my shoulders
like a wollen rug in summer
Stifling , smothering
wringing me through.
He wants to know -why?
Sometimes
When he speaks ,I hear
But not listen
Words like butterflies
fly by me .
I nod knowingly
I pretend to understand
He smiles at me .
Sometimes When-
the rain touches my soul
A purple dawn kisses my hair
My loneliness gets lost in
A birdsong
Small and big thoughts
crowd over me
I tell him
I love him so.!
Small truths
I love three year olds .I do – but believe you me, this cannot be coincidental. Not if it happens to me every single time. It must be part of some larger pattern, which I with my limited understanding of greater truths ,have no clue of.
Apologies, you do not know what I am talking about.Simply this, that if I were to go out to dinner, on the table behind me, or adjacent to me , or just in front of me there is a 2- 3 year old. Invariably .This kid has generally had a bad day and is hell bent on giving a bad evening to his parents .So anytime between a quarter hour to half ,he/she gets cranky , wails , makes impossible demands and generally creates such a racket that I do not feel so loving anymore. And, this happens irrespective of time and place.
I was sitting in the bar at " the Promenade", mellowing down after a most suspiciously green cocktail .Alone –yes ,at that time .Surely friends would drop by, but I did not want to be all gung ho and gang ho, you know what I mean.One cocktail down I rambled into the dining hall, glass still in hand and decided to attack the buffet with an energy all those who cook once a week (for the whole week) possess.
Out of nowhere came a ball of red. He was running .Kids run , not to things or away from them. They just run for the heck of it ,for the pleasure of it . But this little guy was at sputnik speed, and me with my slowed down reflexes, a collision was bound to happen .His teeth banged my knee, the remnants of the green was on my beige shirt, and the poor fellow obviously fell down .While I and his mother ( the lady a close runner up could still not match son's speed given her considerable volume ) picked him up , he was still wriggling in a fashion unbelievably similar to trapped lobsters -and was yelling for all he was worth. Well things eventually settled down , I checked for his broken teeth ( I am sure I had incisions on my knee , but could not check) , mother apologized for her son’s behavior and hauled him back .
The captain of the dining lounge guided me to my favorite table and sure enough red ball was sitting at the one opposite to it.I sat down to my food , and started thinking where I had put away the book called 2000 clues to stain removal .I was sure I would not find it, and even if I did there would be nothing about green cocktails on beige shirts.
The Red kid was actually now sitting on the table and breaking papads into bits, and strewing them on to the carpet , rather artistically. The father sat alone , reading through a boring looking file , the mother had disappeared. So he sat on the table and went on with his job, only now he was looking at me with a lot of curiosity- from under round unbatting eyes.I glared back , and tried to look serious , but at the corners of my mouth a smile nudged its way out .The boy leaped down, and came up to my table, papad in hand.A foot and a half away he stood and stared on.
“Hello “ I said .
No answer.He was actually a sweet heart , pink cheeks fluffed out on a very thin body , big head and porcupine hair. Saucer like round eyes , coal black.“What is your name ?” I asked.
No answer still.I beckoned him then.
He was amazingly slow , suddenly a bit scared.I held out my hand and he put up his, extremely cautious..
“What is your name ?” I asked again.
“Whats yours”? He asked. He spoke English but his words did not end -so it was “waz youz”“Dihing – I said.” “Ding” , he repeated gravely.
I smiled.“My name is Nadeem “
“Ah a Nadeem” – Nice name .“And are they your papa and mummy.?” I asked , ( stupid question ?)
He nods vigorously. Offers me the papad , now a bit soggy , but offer of friendship nevertheless.
“Ding,” he says – “wez youz pappa?”I smile , At Calcutta I tell him“
An.. your mamma ?”
“Also at Calcutta beta ,”
I say.And where is taltatta ?he lisps.“Oh its very far away …”
“Why ?...” he asks , his yes shining
What why ?I think…He looks at me strangely.
”Who stays with you then.?”I pat him on his had.
“Nobody , my dear” .I say.
“Aren’t you scared? “I shake my head ,” no- sometimes maybe,” I tell him “
”Don’t worry,” he tells me his voice now small,
“I will come and stay with you .OK ?”
"Ok" I say Mother is back and calling for Nadeem , “don’t disturb aunty now ..” ,to me she smiles apologetically.
Nadeem rushes back again.I pick up my fork and look at the grilled fish.
All of a sudden I miss my mustard fish curry and rice. A flood of memories, of parents and brother, of loud laughter of many staying togethers buzz inside me. A strange knot forms at my throat and I want to run , like Nadeem , just run and run .I know I did not have answers to his questions. I also did not have answers to my own. He actually has questions though, while the likes of us are looking for them.And this is what a 3 year old can do to you.
Apologies, you do not know what I am talking about.Simply this, that if I were to go out to dinner, on the table behind me, or adjacent to me , or just in front of me there is a 2- 3 year old. Invariably .This kid has generally had a bad day and is hell bent on giving a bad evening to his parents .So anytime between a quarter hour to half ,he/she gets cranky , wails , makes impossible demands and generally creates such a racket that I do not feel so loving anymore. And, this happens irrespective of time and place.
I was sitting in the bar at " the Promenade", mellowing down after a most suspiciously green cocktail .Alone –yes ,at that time .Surely friends would drop by, but I did not want to be all gung ho and gang ho, you know what I mean.One cocktail down I rambled into the dining hall, glass still in hand and decided to attack the buffet with an energy all those who cook once a week (for the whole week) possess.
Out of nowhere came a ball of red. He was running .Kids run , not to things or away from them. They just run for the heck of it ,for the pleasure of it . But this little guy was at sputnik speed, and me with my slowed down reflexes, a collision was bound to happen .His teeth banged my knee, the remnants of the green was on my beige shirt, and the poor fellow obviously fell down .While I and his mother ( the lady a close runner up could still not match son's speed given her considerable volume ) picked him up , he was still wriggling in a fashion unbelievably similar to trapped lobsters -and was yelling for all he was worth. Well things eventually settled down , I checked for his broken teeth ( I am sure I had incisions on my knee , but could not check) , mother apologized for her son’s behavior and hauled him back .
The captain of the dining lounge guided me to my favorite table and sure enough red ball was sitting at the one opposite to it.I sat down to my food , and started thinking where I had put away the book called 2000 clues to stain removal .I was sure I would not find it, and even if I did there would be nothing about green cocktails on beige shirts.
The Red kid was actually now sitting on the table and breaking papads into bits, and strewing them on to the carpet , rather artistically. The father sat alone , reading through a boring looking file , the mother had disappeared. So he sat on the table and went on with his job, only now he was looking at me with a lot of curiosity- from under round unbatting eyes.I glared back , and tried to look serious , but at the corners of my mouth a smile nudged its way out .The boy leaped down, and came up to my table, papad in hand.A foot and a half away he stood and stared on.
“Hello “ I said .
No answer.He was actually a sweet heart , pink cheeks fluffed out on a very thin body , big head and porcupine hair. Saucer like round eyes , coal black.“What is your name ?” I asked.
No answer still.I beckoned him then.
He was amazingly slow , suddenly a bit scared.I held out my hand and he put up his, extremely cautious..
“What is your name ?” I asked again.
“Whats yours”? He asked. He spoke English but his words did not end -so it was “waz youz”“Dihing – I said.” “Ding” , he repeated gravely.
I smiled.“My name is Nadeem “
“Ah a Nadeem” – Nice name .“And are they your papa and mummy.?” I asked , ( stupid question ?)
He nods vigorously. Offers me the papad , now a bit soggy , but offer of friendship nevertheless.
“Ding,” he says – “wez youz pappa?”I smile , At Calcutta I tell him“
An.. your mamma ?”
“Also at Calcutta beta ,”
I say.And where is taltatta ?he lisps.“Oh its very far away …”
“Why ?...” he asks , his yes shining
What why ?I think…He looks at me strangely.
”Who stays with you then.?”I pat him on his had.
“Nobody , my dear” .I say.
“Aren’t you scared? “I shake my head ,” no- sometimes maybe,” I tell him “
”Don’t worry,” he tells me his voice now small,
“I will come and stay with you .OK ?”
"Ok" I say Mother is back and calling for Nadeem , “don’t disturb aunty now ..” ,to me she smiles apologetically.
Nadeem rushes back again.I pick up my fork and look at the grilled fish.
All of a sudden I miss my mustard fish curry and rice. A flood of memories, of parents and brother, of loud laughter of many staying togethers buzz inside me. A strange knot forms at my throat and I want to run , like Nadeem , just run and run .I know I did not have answers to his questions. I also did not have answers to my own. He actually has questions though, while the likes of us are looking for them.And this is what a 3 year old can do to you.
The Sounds Of Silence
The sleek blue car stops a little ahead of the traffic signal .She crosses the road –gets into it, cell phone glued to her ears still. Swiftly, the dark windows are up again and the car is purrs on .He says ,” Sorry I am late “She nods , briefly smiles .She will not look at himSilence. And silence has so many sounds .It is deafeningly loud – like the sound of heartbeats on ears pressed against the ribcage. That loud. And dangerously close. Sometimes, she wants to reach out and touch the silence between them. Sometimes she wants to break this silence down through endless chatter They are going to his house. She has waited for this day now, for really long. Must be millions of moments. They must talk, must sit across each other, must look into each other’s eyes and tell their truths. That is the plan. The plan does not include tearing down each other’s clothes, but who knows, what may be?.It is a lonely house -clean, biggish, Spartan. He stays here, pretty much in the middle of nowhere, alone. Not even a domestic help. He can manage it all. She sees him everyday in office -managing larger things , beautifully.They stand besides each other in the open terrace,hearing the night- crickets drone. Closer than ever before, but still an inch apart,- far enough to be not together. They listen to the rustling of branches, nudging each other into a whisper. They look up in search of their own stars in the charcoal smothered sky .He talks, she talks. He talks, she listens. Words jumbled together and strung into thoughts, into theories, into dreams. It is cold outside. The summer winter of South India, descends on them slowly, surely. Her hands are cold, she snuggles them into the crook of his elbow- without thinking too much about it .He pulls himself together, electrocuted by the touch .A nervous tension makes him rigid and trickles down to her through him. She sits down on a step, her head against his upper arm. They bask in each other’s smell. That is where they shall limit themselvesWhat is this ?This conversation is not what she wants. They are talking about life, about the future, about careers. They agree mostly,- they understand perfectly,- they always do. They are mature grown individuals. They have goals to follow, they have paths defined, things for which they have worked hard. These are very important elements of their lives. They also have parallel lives, they are daughter, son, brother, girlfriend, what not. They are bound by their perception of rights and wrongs, by a matrix called conscience She just wants to break the silence. She wants to talk about them, Of togetherness.There is no themAfter two and half hours, they have talked enough. They know each other better. Still inside her is a roaring wave, which does not reach him.The evening must come to an end .He drops her home. They thank each other, happy for themselves, having been able to steal a look into each others soul.She walks out of the car into the noise of a televsion set, to life as she knows and accepts Silence sits around her like a shroud
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