THUD, THULP

The thud of rain hitting the red terracotta roof, trickling down the crevices of each red tile and the soft thulp as the rain disrupts the surface of a growing mud and moss puddle, interrupts my holiday reading. I run to my bedroom window and watch as a trickle of rain seems to form a bridge between my roof and the green mossy ground.  A cool breeze grazes the skin on my face and I really  want to drop my "To Kill A Mockingbird ", run out into the rain and dance to its music. An old wooden window in the corridor,  creaks and slams shut. Like a signal, I hear my grandmother yell from upstairs, telling me to close all the windows downstairs. I quickly walk out to the corridor, to the window and put its old metal latch in place. 

The door is just beside the window. I stand on the doorstep and watch the rain form puddles in the soil. I watch as it rolls off the leaves of my grandmothers precious rose shrubs.' She won't need to water them today',  I think to myself and smile. Another gush of wind and a spray of cool water hits my face and arms and I finally decide to go play in the rain. Ironically,  I hear my grandmother telling me not to go out in the rain because I will fall sick. The rebel in me ignores everything she said and I kicked off my old slippers and ran. 

It only took a few seconds for my clothes to get soaked. The cotton clung to my torso and every hair on my arms stood up. With every step, my feet sunk into the wet mud and the smell of wet grass hit me harder. Before I knew it, I was dancing in the rain, to a tune that I made up. 

Almost like a distant dream, I hear my grandmother yell for me. I ignore it. Her screaming gets louder and I hear the wooden door creak as she stands on its step, the water still trickling down my face in tiny rivulets. 

cnn - Tales that keep on telling

Ammiyaar's Saree 

The summer evening in Pune called for some fresh fruit juice and two oranges were called to order. The small plastic juicer was uncovered, knives unsheathed and chop - the oranges were squeezed to its utmost ability. Conversation moved to old fashioned efficiency. My grand uncle, who has a story for every occasion and every situation pulled a story out of his bag and the story of Ammiyaar's Saree got woven into the conversation

As told by CKUS:

A few decades ago when all was good with the world but money was scarce, Ammaiyar was looking for ways to recycle. She brought out all her old 9-yard sarees. They had been worn down from years of use. She cut them into 3 parts and the Pattar began to use them as his 'mundu' (dhoti). After it had fulfilled its duty as a mundu for the next few years, it was then cut up into smaller pieces to be used as nappies for the baby. The baby grew up and the need for nappies were outgrown and the bits of saree were then further cut up to be used to line the idli thattu. When the Ammiyaar decided that the saree had done its time as a lining, she cut it up for the last time and used the fabric scraps to coat the dosa tawa with oil...a homegrown gridle brush. Have you ever heard of anyone more efficient with recycling.

What do you think... was the Ammiyaar a little crazy or just crazy efficient? 

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This series is a bunch of stories from different people in my family. May these stories serve as testimony for the past and as memory for their teller.

BLURRED LINES

Some of us have had friends that our parents weren't too happy about. They were "bad influences" or "unhealthy friendships". She was that friend. But obviously I didn't read the signs or maybe I was just too adamant to not see it.

I didn't think of it too much when she walked behind me as I entered my first classroom. I believed her when she said the other girls in class disliked me and didn't​ want to be friends with me. She warned me about how mean my teachers were and how I should try my best and not grab any attention (which meant, don't ask questions or don't tell answers). She was a "friend" through all of my childhood.

But as we both got older, we grew a lot more closer. Her mantra (Anything that could lead to rejection, is not worth the effort) became my mantra. I changed my wardrobe after she reminded me about what happens to girls who wore short dresses or deep necked tops. I despised public transport because she made me very uncomfortable about crowds. If I wasnt home by dusk, she was there beside me, talking...telling me about things she had read in the paper or saw sprawled across her Facebook wall. Over time, the line between healthy and unhealthy relationships blurred and I didn't even realise it. She was becoming a bigger part of my everyday life than I had ever imagined.
The unfortunate part is that everybody else was trying really hard to tell me but I just refused to listen.

It took me 20 years to realise that it was time to let her go and understand how much I've lost because of her. It's taking me a lot of courage but I think now is as good a time as any to do so. So Fear...If you're reading this....This is me saying good bye and that you need to leave. You were a good friend sometimes but you're starting to be a bit overbearing. But this isn't good bye forever. I wouldn't be human if it was. So until next time...Good Bye!

TINGLES

She had heard a lot about the tingles a girl feels when her significant other's family comes to meet her for the first time. But it was only now that she truly understood what they meant.

As she put on her silver jhumka's, she hoped that they would like her and be accepting. She straightened out her pink and gold dupatta. She wondered what what would have to be done if the 'potential' in-laws didn't like her. Would they run away? Would they wait it out?

A little pink bindi marked the centre of her forehead. She pictures herself in a red saree with a little bit of kumkum on her hairline. She twisted her hair into a tight bun and made a note to herself to look up wedding hair tutorials on the internet.

A last lock of hair was put back into place and the adrenaline level was rising. They would be here any minute now.

She could feel the blood rushing through her veins as the sound of the car turning into the driveway alerted her. One last look in the mirror and she walked to the front door to greet the parents.

A couple of minutes into the conversation with the parents and the mother turned to her and smiled. "Let's talk about a date with both the parents. We have a wedding to plan", said the mother.

She breathed a huge sigh of relief as she smiled at her girlfriend turned fiancé sitting across from her. "We were thinking sometime in December, the weather would be great for an outdoor wedding"

This story was inspired by a Myntra advertisement on YouTube.

8 KINDS OF PROFILE PICTURES WE ALL HAVE ON FACEBOOK

DISCLAIMER: Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is unintentional. No feelings or hearts were intended to be harmed by this blog. The author of this blog does not support smoking but can't say the same for everybody else who relates to this post. No unwarranted judgement was made on behalf of the author in the making of this post.

The following is a list of 8 Facebook profile pictures most of us have .
1) The " I don't want to tell the world how I look" picture
This picture is usually found at the beginning of our Facebook usage. It could be anything from a pic of a cat, an anime character or if you are like me, a picture of an animated movie character that I thought looked a little like me. It is probably the picture that was our profile picture for the longest. It was also a picture uploaded as a result of a fear of the horrifying world of the internet that was instilled in us as kids.

2) The "I was a cute baby" picture
This picture was uploaded around the time we gathered the courage to dip our toes into the world of social media. It is simply the cutest picture of us as a child that our friends could potentially bring back up at a later time.

3) The "it's blurry but who cares" picture
This picture is really blurry and the truly narrow line between "highly pixelated" and "big blurry blob" is fully understood. The picture is usually beyond repair because no filter or editing can help it's existence. But we don't regret it until many clearer pictures later.

4)The " I can edit too" picture

This picture is highly edited and usually found in the phase when we realise how cool and fun editing is but are still trying to figure out how much is too much editing. The same picture would also be uploaded with different filters. It's got the "I can't even recognize myself in this picture" feature of Snapchat but way more time consuming.

5) The "I couldn't choose which picture to put so I made a collage" picture
This picture is a collage of multiple photos that were possibly taken on the same day. It is a cramped square of the same person in different scenarios or facial expressions.

6) The "honest candid" picture
This is my favorite kind and most used picture. It is usually taken after somebody says, "at candid". It is a picture that was taken with the intention of being uploaded to Facebook and every other social media.
It hides in the guise of candid and masks the million pictures that were dejected and didn'tnt make the cut.

7) The "I jumped on the social bandwagon"

This picture is usually after a significant change in the social routine of some part of the country. It could be a filter/effect/frame offered by Facebook that supports or protests against a certain phenomenon. The most common examples are the rainbow "filter" after the USA legalised gay marriage. This picture could also be a Google image that was uploaded to protest like the black circle on a white square to protest against the Delhi rape case of 2012. It is a picture inspired by the many other similar profile pictures in our walls.

8) The "I'm going to upload this picture again for the 24th time but I'm sure nobody is keeping count" picture
This is the picture we have uploaded over and over again. It is usually re-uploaded after a self imposed socially acceptable period of time. Very few pictures have the honor of being in the position of this picture. This picture will continue to live on for years...on our Facebook walls.

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS

When my mother told me 9 years ago that I would be going to a boarding school, I was excited out of my mind. One of my biggest expectations was to have a lot of midnight feasts in the dark. St Claire's, the series by Enid Blyton had greatly influenced my images of boarding schools and today, food is usually an important part of my favourite memories.
Bringing food into school was one of those rules that nearly everybody broke. My friends and I were no different. When dinner ended at 7:30, I was usually already thinking about the sweet treats waiting back in our cupboards, hidden behind me pile of uniforms.
At night, our matron would walk around to check if everybody was in their beds, switch the lights off and go down to her own room. Her door banging shut was like an alarm that set off all the "illegal" things that happened in the dark. People got up from their beds and went straight to their hangout spots. Like rats that come out in the night, everybody goes straight to the source of food - that one friend whose turn it was to share.
There were usually six kinds of people in these social gatherings. The paranoid one who hits the panic button with the slightest of sounds. The practical one that is usually the fastest when the matron really comes up for her surprise checks. The foodie who cannot wait when it comes to munching, usually the first one there, last one to leave and the noisiest when it comes to opening food packets. The accountant usually keeps a tab on our stock of food and has an approximate idea of how much we can eat a day so as to let our food last the longest. The head chef who comes up with the craziest (but most delicious) combinations out of the most random things and lastly the bad ass who is the least afraid and claims to have the courage to offer food to our  matron if she does catch us.
Midnight feasts were put on a really high pedestal. It was that one time of the day that a lot of us waited for. Friendships were made and broken over it. A sacred routine.

WHITE RECTANGLES OF HAPPINESS

In an era  of social media and the Internet, I still hold the joy of receiving a letter, very close to my heart. An adrenaline rush that was cultivated when I spent day after day, for months following my matron around my dormitory  waiting for her to call out my name as she handed out a bunch of white envelopes with a few bent corners and a handwritten address. My mum was the sweetest, writing me a letter as often as she could. 
Then came the concept of emails. Spending a very precious few minutes of my "computer lab" class every week to write a considerably long message with a list of things that happened over the week and an even longer list of all things I wanted my mother to send me via courier. The number of emails rose and the number of letters fell but I still waited around for that occasional letter.
I grew accustomed to not hearing my own name called out but the small pile of letters and parcels still brought me just as much joy. I stopped following my matron around as much but I waited and watched as she distributed the letters to equally excited girls. For me, it was an art that I truly appreciated. An art that was lost to most of the world and yet important to me.
Even now, living in the same house as my mother and having no need to wait for letters, I  still run to our postbox looking for any mail.  Our little metal box in our apartments basement where the only envelopes to be found are usually bills or bank statements. But I still run and have a peek. Happiness rushes through my veins as I wriggle my stubby fingers into the narrow slit of the box, struggling to pull out that lone white envelope. Something about those white envelopes make me so happy. My mother probably thinks I'm crazy and I may actually be, but I love my little post box in the dingy, dark corner of my basement.

AN UNFOLDING

The huge bathtub, filled with water and foam, reminded her of Dumbledore’s Pensive. As she approached the tub, she remembered how Harry had felt fear and nervousness as he approached it. The only difference was that she was not nervous, just happy and calm. Maansi stepped into the warm foamy water. For a few seconds, there was only clear water around her shins and then the foamy water came floating back, in an attempt to regain their previous state of calm. Then on realizing that there was an obstruction, it climbed upwards, creating a tiny strip of bubbles on her shin, just above the water level. For the next minute, the bubbles on the water were in complete unrest as Maansi slid her body slowly and fully into the water. Another minute and her whole body was blanketed with popping bubbles. 

As she palmed a little bit of the foam and blew it off her hands, she thought of a picture that she had found earlier. It was dated 15th of September and was a picture of her as a baby. She was 12 days old, and her mum was carrying her in one hand. The baby’s body was partially immersed in water, surrounded with soap bubbles, just like she was now. Apparently she had always enjoyed water because her baby self seemed to be smiling just like she was now. Maansi realized that she had a lot of such photographs. She made a mental note to buy a photo album and save all the pictures. She shook her head as she thought of the fact that photo albums were such an old school thing in this age of digitization. Yet nothing could beat the pure joy of turning a page f the album and laughing at the memories.

A big bubble that popped in the bathtub brought Maansi back to the present. She took the eucalyptus soap and began to slowly rub her arms. The smell brought back memories. Her school in the Nilgiris had a huge campus that was abundant with eucalyptus trees. So, many years at the school had made the smell of eucalyptus almost a symbol of home to her. It brought a smile to her face as she realized that she actually missed school. So many people that made her feel like she belonged. So many memories that words could not describe and time could not erase. The trees, the air, sky and the earth, all in perfect unison. Nothing could take away the joy it brought her when she thought of school. 

The smell of the soap, the warm water and the gush of memories sent her into a spiral of happiness. The water began clearing up and she could see more of her self under it. It was time. She got out of her tub, wiped herself and then put on her clothes. She was going to stay home so she wore an old black T – Shirt and shorts. Cream was lathered, hair was combed and a mug of hot coffee was made. 

She had a lot of work to do. Well she couldn't really call it work because she loved it. She was a content writer for an online magazine. She wrote a lot about food and restaurants and every experience was better than the previous one. Just recently, she was sent on an assignment to try a Lebanese restaurant. The freshness in their food was a taste to remember. She had taken her time to taste and relish the food and now articles had to be written and deadlines had to be met. She hoped that one day, maybe in another ten years or so, she would become the Editor of the same magazine or maybe start one of her own. That was her dream. She typed into her laptop and smiled. It was the smile that dreams brought about. The smile of hope.

COLD

The floor under me is really cold. My eyes open a crack and are blinded by bright light in front of me. I shut them, wait a few seconds and open them again. It takes time getting used to. I look around and it seems to be a corridor. How did I get on the floor and more importantly, where am I? I realize with the utmost horror that I can’t remember anything.  Everything is really fuzzy. I am a little scared. I try to move my legs but they seem frigid and numb. A frosty numbness. I bend my legs and try to get up. A throbbing pain shoots up my right leg. I scream. My leg hits the floor with a soft thud, and the numbness goes away. A few minutes. Then I try it again. The same pain shoots up my right leg again. Another scream and there is another soft thud. Come on Rachel. You can do this. Come on. You cant stay on the floor forever. I realize then with ta smile that I remember certain things. My name is Rachel Garcia and I am from New York. I work as a teacher in an elementary school. I am married to Jonathan Garcia and have two beautiful children – Brian and Brittany. But I still don’t remember where I am and how I got there. I have to get up. One last time, I bend my knees and try to put as little pressure on my right leg as I could. The almost too familiar pain regains strength but I push through. It is very difficult and almost brings me to tears but I finally manage to get up with the help of the wall. The wall feels cold. It is a very wintry cold and reminds me of snow and Christmas. It makes me smile a bit but I am immediately reminded off what situation I am in. I start to scream for help. No response. I hear movement behind me. I turn around and I see a door just a few steps ahead of me. It’s just a few feet Rachel. You can do it. Take it one step at a time. I take one step and I hear a little squelch. I look on the floor and there is blood. Red instead of the white floor that should have been there. The realization that it is my blood comes crawling in. I lean on the wall as I run my hands up my back and I feel a wetness down my back. My wet shirt feels cold on and a chilly wave of fear runs down my spine. I know I need help and the only way I can get it is by getting through that door. One painful step at a time and I get there. I lean on the door2 and let out a sigh of relief. The door handle seems cold too and I realize that everything around me is cold. 

There are people everywhere. People in white coats seem to be running. A kid on my right is sneezing. His mother wiping his nose with a tissue. Its a hospital. What luck? I’m in a hospital. Now all I need is to find somebody to help me. A nurse is coming towards me. "Hey lady, I‘m hurt. There is blood on my back. I think I was unconscious because I have no memory of what happenned before. I just found myself on the floor there. Hey,can you...". She walks straight past me. Maybe she didn't hear me. Its okay. There are a lot of nurses in a hospital. Lets find another one. Another nurse comes from the left. "Hey nurse. Can you help me. I’m injur..." . And just like the first nurse, she has walked past me too. The nurses here are really mean. Once I get out of here, I’m going to sue them for not doing their job. They are all acting like I don't exist. I'm going to find a doctor. 

I look around, anger seeping through my calmness. Every touch of the wall seems icy. Every eye that’s on me, cold and forbidding. Then, ahead of me, I see a familiar shirt moving. I realize that it is my husband and he has brought both of our children. I start screaming out for them. I realize that I don't know why they are here but i continue to scream. They don’t hear me. I take a few steps, ignoring the pain that feels like it could cripple me. I keep walking, one step at a time. Seeing my husband and children seems to have had a positive effect on me and I find it a little easier to ignore the pain. I try and pick up my pace, all the while screaming and trying to not lose sight of my husband. 

They turn into a room on the left. I pick up my pace a little more. When I reach the door of the room I breathe a sigh of relief. I look into the room. Somebody is lying on a hospital bed but I can’t see who it is.  There are doctors and nurses around the bed and my husband and children are around it too. I notice that my husband is crying. Oh no. is somebody is sick? Has his father’s cancer returned? I realize that while Jonathan and Brittany are crying, Brian seems to be looking around. His eyes go over the whole room and finally fall on me. He smiles and says, “mommy!” I call out for him and he starts tugging at his father’s hand. 

Jonathan says, “Brian, yes it is mommy. But everything is going to be alright.” 

Brian continues to tug and I find myself wondering why Jon is not letting him go when I am right here.

Brian is still saying, “Mommy, mommy. She is here.”

Jon says “Yes son, she is here....” and Brian pulls away.

I want to take another step but all that walking has exhausted all my energy and I just leaned on the frame of the door. Then I start calling Jon as well but he doesn't respond. 

I hear Jon say, “Brian, where are you going?  Don’t you want to see your mother for one last time? Brian, don’t run away from me…” as Brian runs to me and his hand goes straight through my stomach.

Over the crying and screaming, I hear Jon say, “Brian, she is dead.”

A LITTLE THING

Sweat ran down his cheek. The shooting pain in his leg, a constant reminder of the situation he was in. The footsteps echoed in the dark alley as he ran further into the dark abyss. As the echoes grew louder, he ran faster and the cycle of pain, loss of breath and tears continued. The pain reminded him of his tennis playing days. He used to play a good deal of tennis as a child and continued to play all through high school. Throughout the first few months of the coaching and matches, his thighs and calves would burn with the work-out. He now remembered how his mum would always say, "Honey..think happy thoughts...it 

" Happy thoughts", Roger thought, "Think happy thoughts".

He began to think of all the good memories he had. The first memory that brought a smile to his face was the memory of the first time he met Claire. It was in the library. The air was filled with the most wondrous smell of old leather-back books and old ink. He was looking for the Oxford edition of a collection of Edgar Allen Poe's poems. As his fingers fan across the spines of various books, they met long thin fingers, eagerly in search of a particular leather-spine collection of literature as well. He remembered how the fingers didn't pull away like he expected. His eyes ran up the sleek arm, up her sleeves, her long neck and landed on her face. It was the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Her hair curved her cheek bones in the most perfect way. The light from a nearby window made the skin on her cheeks glisten like a clear pebble in the sun. He knew immediately that the woman in front of him would change his life forever. There were no bells or starlit sky, no electricity in his veins and no rain trickling down his face but there was intuition and that, he felt, was so much stronger.

From then on...what started of as a conversation over coffee about William Wordsworth and John Keats....unraveled into a wedding and two kids. He could still feel the adrenaline rush of wedding bells, the warm air with a hint of saltiness from the sea side wedding location in Hawaii. the sun was setting and their was a cool breeze that made the ribbons in the venue flutter. He could see Claire walking down the aisle wearing a beautiful satin off-shoulder white gown and carrying a bouquet of roses. she looked like an angel from above. It was one of the most happiest moments of his life.

The only memory that was equally sweet and happy was the day his twins Lara and Keisha were born. They had wanted to keep the gender a surprise and on the day of her delivery...he was worried and nervous. He knew of deliveries gone wrong and he prayed that his wife wouldn't be a victim too. it was a long delivery but all the anxiety disappeared when the nurse came out with two babies wrapped in a pink towel and said, " Mr. Carter, congratulations. The are both girls."

He had hopes. Lots of hopes. He hoped he would have the opportunity to play bad cop to his daughters boyfriends. He hoped to see both his daughter graduate. He hoped to walk them down the aisle at their weddings. He hoped to hold his grand children in his arms. By then, he hoped, maybe Claire and him could move from the city that they lived in to the suburbs. They could have a small cottage with a garden. He had pictured Claire's bent, old frail body overlooking a rose or vegetable patch while he whistled to the tunes of the Beatles. Hopes. That's all they were. Mere hopes that had now disappeared with all his other plans for the future.

Roger's smile turned into a frown as he kissed his future goodbye. The more he thought about the one little mistake he had done, he realized how much he was going to loose. For starters, he had a family, a house, parents who loved him to the moon and back and friends who he could trust. He even had a great job. Sure, it costed him late nights but it paid really well. But then it was those same long nights that was the start of the events that led to his destruction. Maybe, things would have been different if he could come home early every evening, in time to see his children and wife off to bed. Was it all his fault or could you blame her too. Maybe it was partially his fault. He couldn’t help the long nights. His boss, Mr. Thatcher always had something for him to do. The boss was another jerk. How could he look Roger in the eye every single day after all that he had done? How cruel could he be. He deserved what he got. Mr. Thatcher's mistake was assuming that Claire would never tell him. Thatcher depended solely on the fact that she would rather dance to his tunes than ruin their marriage. But he was wrong. She had preferred to tell him when things got bad rather than hide it all. In that split second of anger, he tripped over a rock and fell head long onto the gravel.

The footsteps grew louder and louder. Somebody pressed his back down and he felt the muzzle of a gun on the back of his neck. "Please God, protect my children and leave them in safe hands. And please forgive me for everything I have done." Roger thought.

A deep gruff voice said, " Roger Carter, you are under arrest for the murder of Peter Thatcher. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and may be used against you..."

"Oh Thatcher...you deserved every bit of what you got. If you hadn't slept with my wife and then been a dirty pervert and taken pictures to blackmail her with, you would have still been alive. May your filthy soul rot in hell."