Love has a sound

valentines-day

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. ― The History of Love

Motherhood is not always a happy ride. I say that and add, ” But I accept it with a big bear hug.”

I hug my daughter often, more often than my mother did. In my very Indian childhood of 90’s, love didn’t always come to me in words or in much hugs and kisses. Love came in a platter, in different shapes and pre-cut slices. Most frequently love came in large portion of Sunday chicken curry, a ritual I loved in the household. If I fared well in tests or in some life-altering phases, my mother would shower me with two chicken leg pieces with extra creamy curry. If I scored a hundred in maths test, she would rush to her temple to shower God with gratitude and sing a silent prayer for my future. Continue reading “Love has a sound”

November Nostalgia

at-6-oclock-in-the-morning

How fast a month can fly?

It was just first day of November and the pumpkin patches were weary, soon their orange color was vanishing into lush greens of fresh cut Christmas trees. People were waiting for Thanksgiving dinner, long commutes, lengthy political discussions with know-it-all relatives, and those black Friday deals. Shops were selling pumpkin pies, pumpkin cheesecakes, pumpkin ice-creams, pumpkin recipe books. A dozen of dead turkeys were always on display on the shelves. Continue reading “November Nostalgia”

Vermilion

Vermilion

Our neighbor, tall and smiling and generous, the
wife of one and mother of three, is sick. I did not
know it until I saw her in the garden, plucking
white jasmines for all gods she kept in her shrine,
beside that her long hair was short, and her skin
pale as yesterday’s old flowers, her forehead
without the big round vermilion dot. Nothing unusual
in her voice when she, in her regular cheerful tone,
asked me to visit for lunch. Continue reading “Vermilion”

Jungle Book of Nostalgia

Trip to nostalgia

“The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him.”- Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book

It’s Sunday. All windows are open to welcome the sun in the house. I can smell French toast in the air. My mom is talking to the help in the kitchen. Four eyes glued on the TV. Dad and I, not ready to move an inch from our drawing room. On screen, Shere Khan is threatening Mowgli. There is an argument going on in the wolf family about the acceptance of a human being. I’m thinking of moving to some jungle. At least it won’t be this sunny.  I’m allowed to have half a cup of tea with sub-merged biscuit today. My tea is already cold. But I don’t mind. I look at my dad and whisper, “Now what?”

Continue reading “Jungle Book of Nostalgia”

Still lifes

Still lifes photography

At the age of nine, I was taken to a popular local painter and asked to learn painting. My mother who loved art in every form, requested the painter to teach me twice a week, “She has the gift. So start with still lifes.” The painter taught me how to draw deep layers of rose petals, a lonely lime blossom under a rainy sky, and a lifeless hibiscus trying to find light through the open window. “But I want to paint human life. And a landscape of his week and month and year and I want to color them natural,” I pleaded once. “But they won’t look good forever. Flowers are fine,” the painter yelled. Continue reading “Still lifes”