Diluted

Dear Old Friend,

How are you?
Where the fuck are you?
And how the fuck did we get here?

From knowing which page you scribbled on
When the lectures stopped being fun
To not knowing if you're okay?
To not calling you when things stopped being fun one day?
From knowing not to let you spend
Too much time with that one friend
To not knowing your heart broke last year
And you still aren't a stranger to those tears?
From jumping in joy when you got into your dream course
To a "Wow" on Facebook among a 100 others?

Did we get diluted along the way?
Like feisty aerosols, did we evaporate?
I hope that explains it
Where our late-night-staircase,
Standing-under-a-bus-stop-in-the-rain,
Don't-really-mind-if-I-get-late-going-home-again bond
Disappeared to...
Because then, the next time it pours
And water seeps in;
Spraying off buildings & dripping on the floors
It can drip on to textbooks,
Seep into bags,
And amid the crowds of bone-drenched, monsoon-harassed,
You & I
Will be on the same page again.

Just Like My Mother

I dreamed that I was my mother, last night. Draping a sari in front of the long mirror, encased by clouds of talcum powder, and grown-up perfume that only she was allowed to use.
The sari was beautiful, if a little too stiff for my frame. But as I stood, sweaty from all the pleating, pouting at myself in dissatisfaction, you reached over my shoulder for the talcum powder. And whispered "Let's not go" into the crook of my neck, making me giggle and forget about my reflection.

I dreamed I was my mother, last night. Walking into a protocol-drenched gathering, smiling politely at seniority, and grinning with camaraderie at everyone else. The difference between her and me was the outfit next to me. I don't know what colours non-official parties see more of, I only know my whites, blacks, and olive greens. I don't know which colours you wear, but I'm guessing irony plays out here... There's only one out of the three that I grimaced at; the blues were never blue enough, the lines never strong enough... You had to be... After all, you wore wings.

Standing next to you, sipping demurely at a single drink for the evening, discussing how consumer markets and audiences were changing, talking about tech & convergence, I dreamed I became my mother. Only difference is, she didn't have a vastly connected, dynamic, scary world to discuss and take down. But she took on and took down her own world in context, and still does.

I dreamed I was my mother, last night. Proudly wearing my achievements on my sleeve, and you on my arm. Fixing your cummerbund in place, fussing with a sari that just wouldn't sit tight, and coming home to someone in the mirror who I could be proud of, with someone on my arm who I am proud of. Holding my own in every conversation, walking home at the end of the night as someone my mother would be proud of.

Because the sari stayed in place, and the head remains high.

WIP - One Haleem, & the Perfume of a Thousand Kebabs

The crowds didn't do much to stem the free-flow of sweat down her back. She silently cursed, wondering if it were anti-sanskar to do so while shopping for Iftaar food.

"But then again, you're going to eat this as chakna. I think that's haraam enough for one night." She sniggered at her own internal monologue, and took a deep breath as the smell of the tandoor danced towards her.

He liked red meat, she made a mental note to pick up seekh kebabs last, to make sure they didn't dry out. She stopped at the haleem stall and asked for a plate. Home was haleem, he had said.

"It's shitty to feel transplanted and out of your comfort zone," she defended; her internal monologue taking offence at her brain pointing out the obvious. There was no ulterior motive at all, to this last minute search for food, it was just the right time, and a universal favourite!

She shrugged it off, threw in an extra plate of seekh kebab, and crossed over to the other side of the road, ready to head home.

"Oh crap, I need a mixer." she looked around for a general store, frantically digging through dimly lit memories of late nights in bars, for the accompaniment to honestly the worst whiskey in the history of time. But it was sitting in a bottle at home, smuggled away from the offsite, and he liked it, so why not? "See? More proof. I didn't get a thing specially for him. I was using that stuff to cook, anyway.", she sniffed to herself, rubbishing the argument.

"I don't think that damn whiskey dreamed in all its brewed & barreled time on earth, that its life would come to this."

She walked home, in a huff at herself, hugging the food, and more soda than she'd ever had in her fridge.

Standing outside her door, he thought how odd this could end up being. "But why odd, there's nothing odd about hanging out with each other. You've done it multiple times. It wasn't weird then." 

But the context...

"Ignore it."

He took a deep breath, and rang the bell. And laughed to himself as he heard the music from behind the doors. She opened the door as he was mid-laugh.

"Hi! Er, are you laughing at my doorbell?"

"I didn't expect that to ring..."

She giggled, opened the door wider, leaned past him, and rang the bell a couple more times. "There's a song for that..."

His laugh caught in his throat as she pulled back.

There was something about the scent of kebabs that arrested your senses. Something irresistible about cooking meat sparking its scent across the night air.

She was fresh out of the shower, he guessed, the whiff of Johnson's Baby was unmistakable. But her hair retained the allure of the tandoor.

"You got Iftaar food?"

She turned around and made a face, "Okay, that's an uncanny guess... Tukka maara?"

He grinned at her, "Haan, I thought you'd return the favour of all those times back when you'd come to my city."

"Uff itna predictable, I never thought I was. We can get pizza if you want. That also pairs well with the subtle smokiness of your DSP."

"Kebab se shuru karte hain, then we'll see. Let's see what your Bombay can do with tandoor."

The comfortable togetherness of the corner bar sets in without your noticing. Somewhere between the first sip of your first drink, and hitting the bottom of the third one, the inhibitions all nod off, and fall asleep. And you're sitting in the most companionable bubble.

He reached around her, trying to pick up her empty glass, "One more?"

She swept her hair off her neck, and nodded. He stopped, mid reach, looking at her fingers playing with her hair. "You made the kebab over a tandoor yourself, kya?"

"What?"

"Your hair smells like we're standing at the kebab stall right now."

She pulled back, "Oh crap, sorry, I'll keep it tied, I didn't get around to washing it before you came over."

He shook his head, "I like standing at the tandoor with you. Let it be."

She ducked her head, but he knew she was laughing.

"Yes, one more, please."