Sepia fades to grey

The pitcher of sangria sits in front of her, sweating plump beads, the crisp fruits gently bobbing in the red sea, as she soaks in the charmingly docile sunshine. Taking in the faint notes of the band that manage to escape the inky confines of the pub, vaguely circling the rim of her glass with a forefinger. She is at her usual table; the one she’d fallen in love with instantly, all those months ago. It sits near the pub's window and is shaded by a giant peach lace-and-cloth parasol. The umbrella is unlike the others she sees in the numerous outdoor cafes and pubs in the happy village of Felicity. It reminds her of the delicate, hand-knit parasols genteel Victorian women would hide under, as they took long walks, holding love letters discreetly to their bosoms. The umbrella, the table… among the arsenal of smaller elements that come together to create the plush, downy, dreamy love story that is Felicity.

She comes from a different planet. No, she hadn’t ‘come’ here in the true sense of the word- she had jumped in quite by accident. Lobbed in by the turbulent winds of change and strong arms of destiny. She was looking for answers, and on a train to nowhere, had gotten restless, and jumped off at the next stop, for a cold coffee. It felt like walking right into the embrace of God, she had marvelled. The gentle breeze stroked her cheeks, even as the distinct aroma of the village hugged her tight, willing her to stay.

This was her destination then, she had decided, as she watched the train roll away. Her bag, stuffed with old clothes, was still on the train, but she had everything she really needed on her person.

She had found the ramshackle pub, nestled in the slightest alley, even before she had a home. The peach parasol had caught her eye. But, it was the apparition across the street in the old, sepia-hued house that had sealed the deal. Looking at him was like looking at a constellation of stars in all their shine. Like diving into the gooey, coconut-y centre of a dessert dim sum. Felt like blue flames licking her skin, tickling her, warming her. Felt familiar. She had stood, that day, for a good half hour. Transfixed, as the tall stranger moved in mysterious ways, with amazing grace. She imagined his voice would sound like myrrh-soaked wheat husk.

Even after she had found a cosy little home that afforded her a view of the Big Dipper every night, she made the trek to the pub every evening. It was her religion now. 

Today, like all days, she sits by her sweating sangria, watching the object of her affection. His crown of charcoal black complemented beautifully by sharp, biting features and those eyes. The eyes… they seem almost unmoving, inanimate, and yet abounding with the most exotic liquid expressions. They give his face a rare beauty. Another sip of sangria slides easily down, sending a cloud of smiles and courage upwards to her head. It has been three months, she counts with her fingers absently.

Fate decides to throw his glance her way, just as she catches a familiar tune wafting out, interspersed with the smell of waffles and melting butter. It is like a live wire has touched her shoulder, and she tries to joggle it off. He continues looking, through the glass pane, right at her. Unashamedly, fearlessly at her. The minutes stretch into ticks-tocks of unbearable anticipation. At long last, he walks out, not taking his eyes off her, picking up a bunch of roses from the weather-worn cart parked on the cobblestone path. It came between them for three months; it is a heavenly bridge now. There is something about him, she muses, watching him walk towards her, in slow-motion. He looks like someone who has walked out of an old sepia-toned photograph right into garish reality. He glides easily into the seat opposite hers, not saying a word. His lips remain unmoving, his eyes dance slowly. The roses pass hands. For an hour they only look at each other, memorise each other’s profiles.

His arms, so strong. His chest, so sturdy. His forehead, so majestic. His neck, so graceful, so strong. And, the scar that cut across it cruelly. A scar that stretches from his jaw line to his collar bone. That scar… that scar! Like a bolt of lightning, it extends and pierces her core.  How had she forgotten it? Had she? There could be only one such beautiful blemish in the world. And, she had once traced it with her forefinger every day, wondering if, like it, their life together too would end abruptly. Waves of recognition wash over her. A seed of anger, dormant all these years, germinates now, nourished by the pangs of past pain.  The questions come oozing out of her mouth, thick with emotion and disbelief. She didn’t know she held these questions captive, all these years. Even after her self-prescribed lobotomy. He takes her hand in his, and patiently answers her… one question at a time. Growing one shade paler with every answer. Strangely, every time he loses a shade of sepia, she feels a fresh coat of peace and contentment drape her heart. What? When? How? She is unstoppable. His face takes on a distinct pearly grey glow, in stark contrast to his mane of burnt ebony.

It is nearing midnight and the skies blanket them, curiously watching. All but satisfied, ‘Why?’ she finally whispers. A mixture of relief and sadness clutches at her temples. He smiles, with the shadow of a cringe, and breathes truth and good sense into her ears, blowing them across her conscious, subconscious and super conscious. The clock strikes 12 and his transformation is complete. He stands up, like an actor from a 1920 silent movie, glistening grey and black, pulls out his wallet and retrieves a photograph from their past. One last kiss. As he readies to walk into the black and white photograph, he mouths, ‘Throw it away.’ One last sip of Sangria. One last look at that face. She tosses the photograph into an ancient carved fountain on her way home. Home. Home?

The air is cool. It smells of moving on. Her last night at Felicity.

Tomorrow, she will get on the next train, to her next nowhere, for her next answer.

Clean slate- Part 2

Cajoled by the cool evening air, scented with wild red roses, she walked towards the woods at the back of her Spartan cottage, following the call of native birds and gurgling streams. Like Blindman’s Bluff, she thought, with another small giggle. Giggles, chuckles, smiles… not so long ago, she had absolutely no recollection of how they sounded when they zip-clawed their way up her throat and nasal passage. But, right at that moment, everything seemed so funny. She lifted her hands to the skies, looked up and laughed like she never had. As her unbridled glee echoed through the mist and olive green, earth and flowers in mid-preen, a leaf rustled. Two stems clapped against each other. A ladybird waltzed with a flea, atop a wild boar’s back. Streams rushed down slopes, hastily petting the pebbles and moss along their way. The wet earth released its mineral-laced aroma. All the while, her neighbours, the mountains, patiently packed the gigantic, growing ball of energy with the twine of their own goodwill. They tossed it at her, finally. And, as her laughter finally showed signs of extinguishing, she was jolted by the electricity of the special parcel that surged through her fingertips, through her inner labyrinth.

She had run away from home. She had run away from life. But, she would be fine, she mused, heading to her fragrant, hay-and-honey-suckle stuffed bed of, what she hoped would one day be, eternal sleep. 

Clean slate

She sat by the doorstep, having just finished plaiting her long hair, gazing at the little rivulets that caressed her feet, as they skid past merrily, eager to commune with their older, more stream-lined siblings. But, really only looking resolutely at the tiny vestige blocking a certain turnpike of her memory. It had lost most of its sheen, and now floated about in its grey cell, prison cell, like an old showpiece that had seen more chipper, flapper days. She reached out for the intruder with feigned frustration, and maybe a tinge of a grin. She should have known it was a conduit.

But, she did. And now, she felt herself getting sucked into a vortex of emotional paraphernalia. Faces, houses, laughter, dancing, love, lust, yearning, learning… they whirled about all around her. With every swirl, they seemed to get brighter, juddering off layers of ancient dust, in the manner of a retriever vigorously shaking the water off his mane. Each of them threw little, hand-crafted arrows at the tender tendons that held her resolve firmly in place, even as it stewed patiently, waiting for its steel jacket.

Going back to where she started- square one- wasn’t an option. Her passion fruit tree needed her, as did her herb garden and her precious Muddy, who she’d found in dire waters, as a pup. And, then, there were all those journals, each of which eagerly suckled at the bosom of her soul, nourished by a diet of Indigo ink and the reds, greens, blues and greys of her existence. She could not, would not desert them.

So, she put her feet down firmly and walked through the centrifuging curtains, bruising her nose just a little as she stepped out.

She chuckled silently. Tickled a little by the rivulets that had stopped to watch her and were now nudging the tips of her toes, but for most part, pleased as punch at the thriving health of her resolve. This was her home now and she wouldn’t leave it. Not for years. And when she did depart, she wouldn’t trace her steps back to where she came from.

But, now, all she wanted to do was be in constant awe of the mountains that were her neighbours and whisper stray anecdotes from her life to them, as they pretended to sleep. And, hope they wouldn’t judge her the next morning. To ripen the fruit of her beautiful tree with her personal fertiliser of maternal passion. To ensure precious Muddy didn’t go to pieces in the mixed acids of abandonment. To milk her soul dry and splash the magical discharge across her journals. So that one day, some day, she would be able to sit in solitude in a quiet verandah, somewhere obscure, and understand it better. Understand it in a way she never had when it still clung to her, aided by the adhesive of youth.  

Eye long(itude) for you

Tiny flecks of memory forever ingrained

Dance in the lucid liquid

With swirls of emotion

Like slushy cola sorbet

Melting slowly, like the heart of the beholder

The beholder, who takes on a fresh salmon blush

Growing pliant at the sight of you

She is the loyal pupil to your compelling depth

The iris to your cold obsidian

A slave to your brilliance, when Raman and Rayleigh render you breathtaking in sunlight

The cartographer, she is

Dedicated to tracing the skeins of rust that shoot into the ebony

To drawing maps interspersed with the little shivering, anticipatory peaks of her ECG

Maps that tell the story of a girl who yearned, in crest and trough

In latitude and longitude

And longing

Mornings in Mangalam

It is 4.20 am on a Saturday morning. In exactly two minutes, the younger aunt will start looking at the alarm clock every few seconds, so she can spring out of bed at 4.30 am, sharp. The older aunt makes annoyed ‘tut, tut’ noises, because she’s a late riser- choosing to wake up only at 4.45 am, and she wants her sister to keep it down. Me? I haven’t slept all night, owing to the dreadful anticipation of being rudely woken up at 4.30 am. And, the lumpy pillow that I somehow always end up with. My aunts never ask me to wake up. In as many words, that is.

But, try sleeping in a house in which two elderly women insist on thundering in and out of rooms- starting 4.30 am (every day, government holidays included), slamming and yanking creaking doors, turning off and on bright tube lights. But, decidedly, the worst part is dealing with the inevitable, unholy cacophony of shlokas and devotional songs that come at me, fangs drawn, from a multitude of devices. First, there’s that small, very vile plug-in-and-play contraption. Once switched on, an almost-demonic voice begins disgorging its love for Vishnu in the most terrifying fashion. The instruments accompanying the singing, I am convinced, are plucked from the Indian equivalent of the Addams Family mansion. The seconds are provided by a lady in a garish silk sari, who sits inside the idiot box and sings to the high heavens, contorting her face with yoga flexibility, for added effect. (Till it- thank you God- broke down, the cassette player would take part in the jugal bandhi too.) Third sound- Aunt No 1 singing along to Device No 1. Fourth sound- Aunt No 2 humming along to random song running in her head. The younger aunt used to be a skilled veena player, back in the day. She, however, cannot hold a tune. The older aunt was never a skilled veena player. And, she can hold a tune with even lesser finesse than the former. The overall effect is enough for me to begin the day with murderous thoughts. I love my aunts. But, it is my dearest wish that someone (perhaps my little niece) accidentally break all those darned devises.

My aunts aren’t an anomaly. Mangalam Apartments is infested with people who are in eternal competition with the Sun. ‘We will perform nine million namaskarams in tribute to you, but, ha, catch us rising later than you!’ they seem to imply, with relish.  As if to add to my overall delight at the proceedings, the acoustics of the building are such that one can hear what’s happening in B-Block’s Flat 10, in A-Block’s Flat 6. What does this spell? Cacophony x 100 = Slow Death. 

Age has made me wise, however. When I was younger, I would make dirty faces at my aunts and mumble threats in my sleep-laced voice (which was really a bleat, and therefore impossible to be taken seriously). The older aunt would make faces back at me, sometimes. These days, I usually just resignedly untangle myself from the sheets and get the morning ablutions out of the way, before I dive right into a book, telling myself that I will catch up on some shut eye in the afternoon. But, you know, good luck Anusha. Afternoon is when all the devilish children crawl out of their caves, solely to ring their cycle bells (stolen, I bet, from that Satan church in California), and yell collectively like a crowded slave market.

The irony of life. On a Saturday, a holiday, I should technically be able to wake up whenever I want. Even if it is at 2 pm on a Sunday. But, every Friday evening I make my way to my aunts’ place, of my own volition, knowing fully well that Saturday morning will be a total downer.

Anyway, it is 11 am, now. I am seated at the dining table, growing impatient at my aunts who have exhausted all their energy, storming about in the wee hours, and so, are moving at snail’s pace, settling themselves at the table. The day’s meal comprises all my favorite things in the world. Shallow fried potato. Tomato rasam. Radish sambar. Tomato pachadi. Rice fritters. Hot rice with ghee. Mango pickle.

4.20 am? Hmmm?