The Loophole

They take her out to the shore and point to the faint edge of the horizon.

That’s the thing, they announce. That’s what you were made for.

They can’t imagine her doing anything else. She couldn’t possibly want to do anything but this.

This is her thing. It’s what she’s meant to do.

This is what she was made for.

Perhaps they’re onto something, unlike her. Perhaps they just know.

And perhaps it’s only right that they’re the ones who coax her. Perhaps that is what they were made for.

It’s not like they seek something that will endure. Just once, you 'll do great, they smile to reassure. 

A quick fix is all, nothing more than that. No pressure, of course. No pressure at all.

A one-shot, a cheap thrill. A quick dash in the woods.

A sneaky run that could become her intimate adventure. A failed detour that could blend in with the roadmap.

The comfort of knowing she tried, for them. 

The insecurity of being no more than a one-time end credit.

Often she’d really want to, but a block would set it. She’d freeze and that’d be the end of her little experiment. 

Perhaps she wasn't smart enough. Or cool enough. Or hot enough. Perhaps lukewarm was all she ever really was.

She saw the wisdom of their plan. She lived the loopholes it contained. 

It’s hard to lean over the table and promise not to look over your shoulder.

To know that they are your audience and to still let go.

It’s hard to bend over backwards when you don’t know what you’re reaching for.

And it’s harder still when you don’t know what’s reaching out for you.

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

I'd write more often, I confess

There's plenty in this head, whattay mess!

But the thought of you hmming

And the thought of you haawing

Puts me off like a dude in a nightdress.

Your Statistic Is My Santa

An Ex-Army-brat About An Ex-Army-man

Papa served in the Indian Armed Forces. As a post-graduate student of AFMC, Pune and then an officer with the Army for 16 years, he is the reason I was once an Army brat.

My pre-school years were spent in and around the Army, predominantly in Ambala Cantt. I’m talking 1991 and thereon, when “pre-school” simply meant before school, not a bastardised version of Kindergarten. I was brought up amidst families of other servicemen, dignified Army mess workers and staff at cantonment hospitals, where Papa served as Gynaecologist.

In case you’re wondering what a Gynaec was doing in the Army – women serve in the Forces too. Male officers have families and wives who bear children. Doctors serve as part of the “fighting units” too, for a few compulsory years and also as backup forces. That’s what took Papa to Siachen and to the border by the Indus river. The former is how he knows everything about frostbitten, amputated limbs. The latter is how he has zoomed in photographs of Pakistan’s armymen holding rifles and looking out at the Indian camp from across the border.

As an Army brat, I’ve had my share of “top secret” bike rides from uniformed officers when Papa was busy elsewhere. I’ve had military hospitals’ nurses fawn over the awkward fountain ponytail he’d tie atop my head every morning when it was just the two of us.

I’ve been included in jokes about a rotund officer who was allegedly always forced to rest his huge belly on tabletops and I’ve had a very friendly Brigadier take me on a tour of defunct canons and rifles arranged in the cantonment garden.

I’ve been entertained by “Santa Claus” on the phone for precisely 15 minutes every night for a week I spent with Papa at the Alwar cantt; I’d share my Christmas wishlist with Santa and justify my requests with “But I’m shining Papa’s medals, buttons and buckles with Brasso, Santa!” We once discussed what was wrong with the porridge Papa cooked for me at breakfast and I never could tell how my bowl of porridge suddenly tasted better the next morning. I was 11 when I discovered my gift-bearing Santa lived down the corridor and was usually called Captain by others and “scary uncle” by me. You cannot begin to imagine how betrayed I felt.

This may evoke a smile for the child that I was and the memories I cherish. This may have you believe I’m boasting about the perks of being an army brat, particularly one pampered by a whole bunch of dapper Army personnel. This may have you believe that Army-folk and their work is overrated. “They even have the time to play with random officers’ kids at work, beat that!”

But I’ll tell you one thing – this is why my heart breaks every time I read of casualties in the Indian Army. I've had my internal debates about patriotism and nationalism and all of that, but amongst those casualties could be people I have known, people who have given me some of my best memories. Perhaps this is why I cry like a baby when Border plays on television twice a year and this is why I’d wake up with nightmares as an 8 year old who kept hearing about an ugly Kargil War in the news.

As I write today, it amazes me that I’ve never brought this up before. Perhaps that’s because I no longer see him as Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma. Somewhere, I no longer see him as Papa. Today, he’s Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma (Retd.), a practising Professor. Today, he’s Dad. And that is my loss as much as his. 

One Must Because One Musn't

There's a lot a girl can do for a Special Occasion. Be girly and wear expensive perfume, carry a new clutch, pile on the makeup, do up her conditioned hair. If she's thoughtful she might carry a gift. If she's nerdy she might read up a little. If she's skeptic she might net-stalk attendees all the way back to their highschool farewells and if she's psycho she might do all of this and more. But what she apparently must not do, is wear her Special Occasion Shirt every single time. Boo.

Mine is oversized, deep blue and round necked with sleeves that begin 4 inches along my upper arm, as if they were an afterthought. It would probably look more at home on my father.. maybe it was his to begin with. But the front says something about Canadian skateboarding, that would probably not make him feel at home.

It looks purple when held against blue jeans, which means I resemble a giant brinjal on kiddie crutches at least once a week. It makes me want to hug myself, which is awkward but brilliant. 


"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt."

Meanings & Implications

My first distinct memory of a Special Occasion in that shirt is from late 2009. I had just turned 18. Ooh adult. I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped 18th birthday. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it."

Come on, it's MY day, right? Right. Net result, the friends were far more dressed up than me at the birthday treat. They actually showed up all colour coordinated as per plan - their secret plan. Shirt 1, Societal Norms 0.


Then there was the first of many kindamaybe dates. Better explained as "Yeah so maybe some people would call this a date, but what does a date mean? What does it imply? Are we dating dating?" You've had those too, right? Oh shut up, you have.

Anyhow, then too I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped first date. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it." The date was awesome. Shirt 2, Societal Norms 0.


There have been family outings, class presentations and fancy dinners since then. Hospital visits, blood tests and lazy 48-hour days spent rolling around at home. Awesome dates with now-resolved* status. Brinjal shirt hung around. It's loose but hell yeah, we're tight.
 
So much wisdom to be found in school essay intro patterns - 
"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt".


*It means we spend happy time together doing whatever we feel like at that time. It implies this happy time is fun time and "we should totally do this again". And yes, we were dating dating. The horror. Of course, it is imperative that all of this is non-platonic, at least in our minds, if not always in action. We shall discuss what "non-platonic" means and implies later, next class. Oh and see me after class.

Say Na Something

You'll find that when everyone is caught up in modaks and mubaraks, certain things are best left unsaid. For instance, comments on the chaos and contradictions in their expression of faith. Or pointing out to a group of kattar Ganpati Yuvak Mandal volunteers that a Muslim festival is far more pleasant and orderly than theirs. Or announcing that the only thing all these festivals mean to you is food.

Not devotion, not fancy purchases and get-togethers and definitely not inner peace and calm. Just huge servings of food that takes as long to prepare as it does to digest. Sometimes with a side dish of childhood nostalgia, as a concession.

Now don't feel sorry because I sound like a hog. Don't go on a guilt trip because you've already decided I'm a hog. Aside from my indifference to hedges, I am quite the hog. So don't think twice, it's alright.

Concentric Circles

I want to write.

And just keep writing.

People say everyone who writes wants to write a book eventually.

That it is the common ultimate goal.

But it isn’t mine.

And I’m hardly uncommon.

I don’t want to be told that I should write a book.

And I don’t want you to suggest I write for a living.

I don’t want to write by their stops and starts.

But I do want to write.

And just keep writing.

I've been writing of late

So much, so varied

Late into the night.  

But it feels wrong. 

And while it gets done just fine

It's not what I want.

I want to write 

And just keep writing.

I don't know what about

And I don't care to know

I don't get why you do

Oh but you do, so much.

I just want to write 

To know what I'm thinking

And find some release

And just keep writing.

Maybe I think too much.

Maybe I think too distractedly.

Maybe I just imagine that I think more than you do.

Or differently from you.

Or about different things.

But I’m thinking all the time.

About all sorts of things.

And I need to talk about it all.

As I do.

But before I talk to you of it

I want to sort it out.

Alone, by myself

In my mind.

Not because you don't help

But because it calms me down

Knowing your mind feels better than not.

It's rarely ever profound

And hardly ever permanent

But it's thought

And it's mine

For I just kept writing.

For that I must write

And write by myself

Without calls and queries

About parameters for analysis

And schedules for the week.

How would it be, to switch off entirely?

To disappear

In the open

To be unavailable.

It’s been far too long

And I still have years to go

And much as I want you around

So much that it can ache

I want to do this on my own. 

Ek By Ek

As limericks go this is simplistic,
One a day, the target to stick.

Yeah sure, it comes easy

Like yo mama when she queasy,

Except, I now sound like a rapper's bitch.

Why I Doodle

I don't write for you to know. I write to find out for myself.

What I'm saying is...

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.