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Archive for the ‘Of friends and Family’ Category

What if the walls could talk
just like you and me it would gossip
like aunties and good old grannies
it would tell stories of every home.
It would talk of mother cooking love in the kitchen

  • there wouldn’t be any secret recipes
    it would tell daddy how much she loves
    and how much more she cares for her home,
    it would tell the kids of every extra morsel she saved for them
    of every night spent awake in their ills
    and of every dream she burried for the sake of their happiness.
    Dear daddy would then stop worrying
    about what good his son watches while he texts his love all night
    and would secretly know of his daughter’s half written poetry,
    he would be well aware of their heartbreaks
    the walls would probably tell the kids
    that he was the real Santa on Christmas eves,
    And guess what, he wouldn’t forget anniversaries.
    For grandma, she’d be a little less lonely
    the voides that grandfather had left her with
    which we were too busy to fill,
    the lavender walls of her room would probably talk in.
    If walls could talk, wouldn’t it be great?
    It would choose its own color
    It would tell us when to paint
    It would bridge what people call
  • the communication gap.

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What if the walls could talk
just like you and me it would gossip
like aunties and good old grannies
it would tell stories of every home.
It would talk of mother cooking love in the kitchen

  • there wouldn’t be any secret recipes
    it would tell daddy how much she loves
    and how much more she cares for her home,
    it would tell the kids of every extra morsel she saved for them
    of every night spent awake in their ills
    and of every dream she burried for the sake of their happiness.
    Dear daddy would then stop worrying
    about what good his son watches while he texts his love all night
    and would secretly know of his daughter’s half written poetry,
    he would be well aware of their heartbreaks
    the walls would probably tell the kids
    that he was the real Santa on Christmas eves,
    And guess what, he wouldn’t forget anniversaries.
    For grandma, she’d be a little less lonely
    the voides that grandfather had left her with
    which we were too busy to fill,
    the lavender walls of her room would probably talk in.
    If walls could talk, wouldn’t it be great?
    It would choose its own color
    It would tell us when to paint
    It would bridge what people call
  • the communication gap.

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Recipe

My grandma was a great cook.
in the years of her life being old
and complaining of backaches,
she wasn’t much allowed to cook
but the day she did the whole house
would smell of elaichi, dal-chini and ajwain ,
and voila, the lunch would be her biryani and kheer.
The saffron glazed yellow grains
drenched in desi ghee under a layer of succulent meat ,
and her kheer would taste like Amrit.
Months after she was gone, we decided to cook the same,
we added the elaichi,
we added the dal-chini,
and also added the ajwain.
But it didn’t taste the way it used to,
the kheer didn’t taste like Amrit.
Maybe we missed something?
Maybe we didn’t know the recipe?

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Shh… Hush!
I walk on my tiptoes to my room,
In the wee hours of the night
As I open my door to a room
Full of black, I switch on my phone,
As I creep under the blanket,
With a piece of chocolate saved
from yesterday’s tiffin, I switch on
Netflix and prepare to chill.
As the opening credits begin,
I look up, feeling a sense of freedom yet guilty,
Like indulging in a case of guilty pleasure,
A cocktail of mixed feelings,
Like the moonlight teasing the darkness.
Minutes later, the door opened
“Mumma, another story “,
my son climbed onto my bed,
I caressed his hair gathering my book
of bedtime stories –
Yes, I was happy.

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I bleed,

Not because I had a choice

But because I was chosen.

I bleed,

Not because I’m impure

But I am bestowed with the power to procure.

I bleed,

Not as my weakness

But as a boon to light up a father’s home.

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People say: “The best way to predict a future is to create it”. I probably knew it back then when I was a three year old. And henceforth, I tried and created as many avenues for me as possible: so that my future prediction would be just as easy (I do hope that you guys don’t mistake me to be some kind of a future predicting kid prodigy for I’m still confused with what I’ve become and what I’d still want to become). But back then probably I knew that ointments, balms and creams would later form an integral part of my life.

I used to be a pampered, covered –in- rose- petals kind of a delicate child. Cough and cold were my two “go-to” diseases. I would get affected by either at least 13 times in 12 months.

“That’s a common problem”, my pediatrician would say, “It is allowing her immune system to grow better”

My immune system was fighting- that much I realized later, but whether it was improving or not is a query that still persists.

And of course, if cough and cold decided to take a month off, to still make my day worse, I would either trip and scar my knees or probably just bang my head on the edge of a table and grow a globular swelling on my forehead.  Hence grew my obsession with band aids. But that’s a different story altogether. Right now I’m more focused on another similar episode of fever with cold.

It was the month of July, a week after my second birthday. I was down with a 100F. Maybe because I knew the enchanted upshots of antipyretics or because I was too reluctant to fuss, I was an obedient patient who would gulp down her dose of Paracetamol without my mom dad having to shove the syrup in my mouth. But for some reasons, I did not take my medicine that day.

A friend of dad’s showed up in the evening. While my parents chatted with our guest, my nanny dressed me up in an orange coloured, embroidered cotton kurta and pyjamas. She then carried me to the living room and placed me on the dining table which was at the far end of the room. That was her “ninja technique” of eavesdropping any conversation: she would make me sit there like I was some rare magnum-opus and pretend to play with me while I played with myself and she had her ears (not eyes) more towards the end where the sofas were placed and the guests sat.

We carried out the same tradition that day. But what she did not notice was that instead of playing with my yellow teddy bear, I held a tub of Vicks and was now opening the lid. She was reluctant. She let me play on my own, while she drowned in the extracts of the juicy topics that the guests were discussing. Sometimes, she would place her hand on my forehead, yet she did not notice that I was smearing the Vapourub on my body, part by part starting with the neck. By the time the guests were brought over to the dining area for dinner, I had already emptied the entire bottle and my body now ponged of menthol.

The bottle being empty, I had nothing more to play with so I dozed off. The next morning, I was covered in sweat with the oily kurta sticking to my body. My whole body reeked like those medicinal cough syrups. But my fever was gone. There was no sign of cough or cold. It was as if the fever never occurred. Mom and dad were shocked. But I wasn’t. I just got a new toy to play with: Vicks Vaporub. Who cared if it magically made my fever go away overnight?                  

Till today, this serendipity of mine rouses the same amount of laughter as it did back then. On the other hand, I wonder how I didn’t end up smearing the ointment on my eyes or gulping it down like a syrup. That would have been another piece of idiocy  to laugh at.

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Today I’m gonna talk abt a guy. A really, really handsome guy. I’m already blushing. He’s the kind of guy who I’ve always wanted to date. He’s the kind of guy whom I’ve always wanted to be my life partner. He’s the kind of guy who perfectly fits my definition of Prince charming. He’s a bit older than me. But he’s puts in a lot of effort to prevent any issues of generation gap from ruining our relationship.
One of the best qualities in him is that he respects my mom and me a lot. He is always open to our ideas, no matter how out of the box they are (especially mine). Never has he ever shown any form of masculine dominance nor has he ever imposed any strict rules on me.
His life is a tale of sacrifices and hardwork, more than half of it being for his family and beloved. Not a singer but he has quite a collection of lullabies and bed time stories.
He’s not much of a cheerleader but a subtle supporter who tries his best to protect his family. If my mom is my superwoman, he is my superman (without capes of course). And by now you must’ve guessed, I’ve been talking about my dad.

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