A Storm is Coming

They talk in short text messages peppered through the day. She tells him about her harried evening, a book she's been reading, and an incident at the store, while he tells her about his ongoing project, his travel plans and the quaint restaurant around the corner that serves the most divine kebabs. Simple, nondescript conversations that randomly meander through the mundane everyday.

But conversations have their own momentum. They gather you as acquaintances through polite pleasantries, then bind you in friendship through shared stories and genuine feeling. Sometimes, just sometimes, talk becomes heroin, pressing you on under its addiction towards an undefined intimacy, an amorphous longing...

She senses it when she checks her phone for a message from him when she wakes up. He doesn't even realise that the last thing he does every night before falling asleep with a smile on his face, is send her a kiss goodnight. Talk, that isn't innocent of yearning anymore.

But she's married, as is he. And somewhere across the kaleidoscope of words and subtle yet urgent attraction, a storm is brewing, gathering dark rain clouds that will carry them away, leaving destruction in its wake. Or wash them clean of their undeniable passion.

But they can't know this. Not now, on this rare, extraordinary morning with clear blue skies that promise only happiness.

"Awake?" he texts.

"No, dreaming," she replies.

Bittersweet

You see the signs. They're everywhere, appearing again and again, urging you towards your destiny. They're there...giving you the answers you need, but they're not the answers you want. So you choose to disregard them and follow the dictates of your heart, knowing all the while that you've walked a similar path before...and that it hasn't ended in roses and rainbows. Quite the contrary. You've been left with ashes and smoke, and the acrid taste of salt in your mouth.

But you surge forward anyway, venturing one reckless step after the other, until you're running from all that is familiar and safe and limiting, and hurling yourself into the black abyss of the unknown.

Maybe this is why we chase shadows, slipping in and out of fractured dreams. Because the future isn't set in stone. And no matter how broken the road or how defeated the spirit, we know we can change the pattern of our stars, aligning them the way we want.

And in doing so, giving shape to our own fate.

The Ties that Bind

My little boy rings the doorbell when he returns from school, and then rushes to hide. It's an elaborate game we've played for as long as I can remember. I open the door, call out his name and pretend to look for him in all of two possible places near the staircase, only to act surprised when he jumps out from his secret spot with a loud 'Boo!'

Somehow, the game never grows old. He walks in triumphantly, having scared his mum, and then settles down on my lap for his customary cuddle while proceeding to tell me all about his day at school. I love listening to his stories, love being welcomed into a part of his life that I really have no control over.

And even as I'm listening to his enthusiastic tales, a dark corner of my mind is already wistful thinking about the time he'll outgrow this need for childish games, for a hug, and for the banter that we indulge in. A time when I will no longer be his best friend, but an annoying parent who is too old to understand. I wonder about the friends he will have, the ones who will become his world, and hope they will be as devoted and encouraging as the friends I had...the ones who I still do. 

He pauses in his narration, frowns and asks why I'm not paying attention to him. Of course, I'm listening, I insist, so that he's assured and carries on with details of games class and his awesomeness at playing ball. But how can I assure him that he is the centre of my universe, now and always? That I possibly couldn't love anyone more than I love him, and that while he has become my greatest weakness, he is also my strongest reason for living.

I think he senses some of this, though, with trusting childish insight, but he'll forget when he's older, a teenager maybe. And later, when my arms can no longer circle protectively around his frame - because that wouldn't be cool - I'll shield him with prayer instead, and hope, that one day he'll remember these ordinary, golden times, and understand.

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The Night Watch - A song that I've loved since I was a kid. 

बारिश

रात की गहरी खामोशियों में

याद आते हैं कुछ बीते लम्हे,

मोहब्बत में डूबे कुछ नाज़ुक पल

आहिस्ता जागती ख़ुशी का एक एहसास...

मन देखे फिर

उस अधूरे मौसम का ख़्वाब

और जी लेती है ज़िन्दगी

उन यादों की बारिश में...

आज तुम ना हो तो क्या

अब तन्हाई भी तो नहीं रही...

The Little Big Things in Life

I unlock the front door and enter my home. I'm immediately assailed by the loud, yet immensely pleasing strains of Pink Floyd's High Hopes. It's one of my favourite songs, and since I'm the only one in the house who likes listening to music at such over-the-top decibels, I'm kind of surprised.

It can't be the kid playing it. I know he's out. The husband? I could safely assume he'd prefer Bach, soft and mellow. Or, considering he's home alone, some smooth jazz numbers that I'm not exactly crazy about.

I walk in, kick off my shoes and carelessly toss aside the bag I've carried home from my parents' place, where I've been visiting with my grandmother. I've spent most of my time there these past few weeks, keeping her company when Mum and Dad have been at work.

I look around for my guy. I find him in the balcony, meticulously clipping his nails, when he senses my presence and turns. I raise my eyebrows. He laughs, because he understands why.

"It feels like you're home, when Pink Floyd's blaring," he discloses. '"I've missed you."

______________________________________________________________________

And of course, a song. This one's for him.

Cake Encounter

My Gran and I used to walk every evening. It was something I had looked forward to, every day. Armed with a shopping bag, awaiting the stories that she'd tell me about her life in foreign lands, I'd set out with her down the tree-lined avenue, and trace the same route we'd taken every day since this routine began. We'd stop at the vegetable vendor first, take our pick and then head for the shop selling old books and magazines. The last stop would be the bakery, where she would buy me the sponge cake I fancied, before buying something savoury for my grandfather and for herself, to have alongside evening tea.

There was nothing special about that sponge cake - in appearance at least. It looked plain and unassuming, very much like a loaf of bread, albeit of softer colour and finer crumb. The shopkeeper would slide it out from the glass display, place it on the counter, and slice it deftly, the way he sliced the bread. But it tasted phenomenal. Mildly sweet, with the subtle flavour of vanilla, and soft as a cloud. Quite simply, it was the taste of joy.

The sponge cake became a prominent feature of my stay with my grandparents, until the bakery shut down and was replaced by an uninteresting pharmacy. I had to leave the city soon after too, but those evenings with my grandmother remained unforgettable.

It's been over a decade now, and I haven't found a cake shop that makes sponge cake quite like that one - until yesterday! It was a small bakery, and it bore the identical, typically South-Indian name too! Coincidence? I don't know. But I do know that it had the same, familiar hunk of sponge cake that has been on my mind for years, neatly stacked and showcased between fruit cake and gaudy cream cakes.

So I brought home some, carefully wrapped in plastic, its sweet, subtle aroma awakening a montage of old remembrances. Like the distinct smells of the old bakery, the delicate vanilla flavour of the sponge cake, and the long, happy walks with my Gran, much before the days she was ill and confined to a hospital bed.

It takes me back to a different time, a different life, to the special person who made it so wonderful. And it makes me grateful for the gifts my grandmother left me...memories of long conversations, of genuine caring, of steaming cups of tea on balmy evenings, and neatly cut slices of delicious sponge cake.