Life In First Gear

One last desperate attempt to hold on to the past, that’s what I’ve been trying to do. It’s not easy to let go, especially when you have to accept that you’ve failed at something. But I tried, I tell myself. 

This is going to be my last visit to the bakery. I’m dressed for the Melbourne summer this morning: a summer dress with a scarf, jacket and sports shoes that I’ll change into heels once I reach my tiny spot on La Trobe. As always, an umbrella has taken refuge in my backpack: ten years on and I’m still amazed how much work it takes to just get ready for the day. At 7am, the traffic isn’t bad and the trams are running empty. In half hour, the city will wake up to another Monday and the cafes will start buzzing, ringing orders of flat whites, long blacks and chai lattes. The 20-minute walk from home to bakery is the last for me—I have to finally close to register. Property sold, employees recommended, keep cups distributed to friends and family. No more sandwiches like mum used to make, with cheese slices and potatoes. No more chatting up with customers in the wee hours of the morning. No more whining about how hard things are financially. Today is the last goodbye.

If a passerby finds it strange that a brown-skinned woman, not too young to be teenager, not too old to be wrinkled by life, is trotting with tears streaming down her face, I’m not aware. I can imagine the looks, if not see them: smudged Kajal, puffy eyes and cherry nose don’t shout ‘strong, independent woman, ready to take on the world.’ Pulling my jacket closet, I do my best to focus on the stone pathways and not meet anyone’s eyes. Goodbyes are personal, after all, and a ‘Is everything okay?’ from a stranger will probably turn into a rant. 

On today’s agenda: wrap up and move on. The first might take a couple of hours; the latter a few months of self-pity. 

Oh well, that was easy. Not even two hours. After all the sweat, tears, blisters, it was not even the length of a Bollywood movie to get to the end. Just a box full of sentiments that’ll remind me of what could have been, just like a breakup.

Distractions don’t help when you need to keep your mind off your loss. The small Amazon carton with the happy merchandise is sitting next to me in the Uber and I’ve started crying again, writing this in my Notes. That’s the reason I didn’t want anyone to do this with me: Prateek would have taken the day off; Amber would have skipped lunch for this; even mom offered to hold my hand through it. But my grief is so personal, so dear to me, that I’m going to selfishly cling to it before I let people share it and mourn with me. 

Okay, the Uber driver wants to make polite conversation because I’m a water pot right now. That’s not in his job description, is it, to lend me a listening ear and be sympathetic? But he is. 

I am telling him about the bakery, how I started it with all the savings Prateek and I had. How I realised my dream of being a baker at 32 and how it took two years just to find the perfect spot. And then it took seven months to decide that it wasn’t working out, that life in Melbourne had changed too much, that it was the end. The ride isn’t long, so now he’s parked the car outside the house, meter stopped, and listening to me sympathetically.

“Zindagi ka kaam hai aage badhna hai. Gaadi bhi reverse leke aage hi jati hai. It takes courage to accept that it’s time to call it quits. It takes even more courage to look at the uncertain future and decide where you want to go when it’s a blank slate. But that’s the positive, beta, it’s a blank slate and you can write whatever you like. Abhi toh kahani shuru huyi hai, panna palto.”

His words don’t change my life. They didn’t make it hurt it any less. But I go up to the two-bedroom apartment, I think about the next steps. 

Where do I go from here? First, a grilled sandwich and a warm cup of peppermint tea. Then, who knows?

The Note

A woman in her mid-40s is walking towards Huda City Centre metro station. She has just gotten out of the auto and in her plain maroon salwar kameez, she is now sprinted, checking her watch. It’s going to take an hour to get to work, she thinks, and fears another lashing by her boss.

She gets into the women’s line for the security check and hands off her handbag on the x-ray machine. On the other side, she takes out her metro card from her wallet and stops on her tracks. Her money is missing.

She clearly remembers putting in a hundred rupee note in that black wallet that has seen better days. She moves to the side when people start pushing past her and checks it again. It isn’t there. Did she give it to her daughter for lunch? No, she always packs lunchboxes and gives her daughter an extra 20 for emergencies. Did it fall off into her handbag while paying the autowalah? She starts rummaging through her scruffy gray bag. She reassures herself that it just needs a wash whenever it feels like she needs to replace it. She can still use it for another month. At least.

Sitting on the stairs of the metro station that no one uses, she digs into it again. It’s such a small thing, this note, but she needs it. She needs it to take an auto from Rajeev Chowk to her office. She can’t walk two kilometres to work today, she’s already late. Even if she takes a ride with someone at work to the metro station later in the evening, she will still need it get back home.

In despair, she puts her head down on her knees, her eyes glistening with tears. Around her, the hustle of a 9am Monday morning is about, no one pays any notice to a woman, torn apart by hopelessness.

Ab kya karun? She is thinking when she hears someone politely saying, “Aunty?”

She looks up and her long braid falls heavy on her side. She rearranged her dupatta on her neck and tries to wipe her tears away.

The stranger, a young boy with a foppish haircut and headphones around his neck, is eyeing her. “Aapke paise gir gaye the bahar gate ke paas. Sorry, security line lambi thi toh main de nahi paya. Yeh leejiye.”

Her note. He is extending his palm which has her note. She mutely stares at him and the boy, doesn’t realising what a huge problem he just solved, gives her the note and leaves without expecting a word of gratefulness. She sees him rearranging the headphones on his head, punching in his metro card, and disappearing from her line of vision.

She whispers a thank you. To him, to God, to the universe. And she smiles her first smile in the morning.

There’s Something I Have Been Meaning To Tell You

Chapter 2

Kirti wrote for a parenting magazine. She had researched or experienced almost all sorts of subjects when it came to raising a child—from how to make your child kinder to how to stop compensating for being a busy mom. What she had not (yet) thought of was a way to get out of a situation when your friend finds out she shares DNA with your nine-year-old child.

Fight or flight, Kirti is thinking as the pregnant pause gave birth to a baby and stretched until Vir comes back from the washroom. Sana is still staring at her classmate from college who she rarely spoke to. They were just very different from each other, she always thought. If Kirti was involved in all co-curricular and revolutionary activities such as upstaging a teacher or planning a mass bunk, Sana quietly stayed with her group of friends and passively entertained the ideas. It was all in good fun—and no one could plan a better fest or farewell. 

Rendered speechless for the first time. 

Kirti picks up her bag and tells Vir, “Sorry Champ, umm… I just got a call for an urgent story. We have to go.”

Vir looks up from his plate and says with a mouthful of something that Kirti didn’t see him eat, “But mom, the magazine is wrapped up. It’s too early for the next issue.” 

“No, it’s the digital issue. Let’s go.”

Vir says bye to Sana and his aunt smiles. Flight.

--

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Fuck!”

Kirti is standing at Sana’s doorstep, working up the nerve to ring the bell. Unbeknownst to her, Sana knows she’s outside. It was hard to miss the five foot, nine inches nervous energy on the camera, rubbing her damp hands on her jeans and tugging at her black t-shirt. 

Sana waits at her dining table, giving her friend the time she needs. If she’s alone, then Vir must be with his grandfather, her mother’s side. 

Kirti brings herself to do it. Her speech is ready; she has recited it twice in the car and she knows what she needs to say exactly. But as Sana opens the door, looking calm and composed in her sundress, smiling encouragingly at her, she blurts out, “How the fuck did you find out?”

Gesturing her to follow her, Sana turns around and takes her place at the dining table. Kirti is too agitated to sit, so she is pacing across the room as she explains miserably, “I never told anyone. And yes, that includes your brother. My own father has no clue. It was just one night. One! I didn’t plan on it, I swear. But I have never regretted Vir for a second. He’s my life.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

Kirti stops and looks at her, “Well, let’s see. We weren’t dating. He slept with me and left the next morning before I woke up.”

“You could have still told him.”

“Oh yeah? When? When he left for the US without even mentioning it to me? Or when he started dating that firang? Or, when I called him two weeks before I was due and he said he would call me back and never did?”

“He was always an idiot.”

“I second that.” She mutters in angers and then rapidly explains, “Sana, I tracked you down because I wanted Vir to meet you, to know you. I never figured you’d become so close. The past few months have been the happiest days of his life.”

“Vir knows?”

“Of course. I told him when he was seven. And he promised he would always be on my side.”

An impassioned voice from the back of room speaks, “Then why did he call me and beg me to come back, Kirti?”

“Jesus H Christ!” 

Perfect Timing

At precisely 2 in the afternoon, when the sun was soaking all the hydration from Saachi’s body, she gave the pushed open a wooden door that gave the bell overhead a tug. Even before she had let go of the knob, the chef greeted from behind the display of fresh-out-of-the-oven confectionaries.

“Hey, right on schedule! I’ve just baked a batch of the Danish.” Tanya, the owner of the tiny, hole-in-the-wall café flooded with natural light, untied the knots of her apron and glided to the door in her pale yellow dress to hug her friend.

“Hey, yourself! I need a quick cold coffee and I’ll be out of your hair,” Saachi answered as she took a seat at a table close to the floor-to-ceiling window that had the uninspiring view of the parking lot.

“Ha! This is the slowest time of the day. No one comes in before 5. Wait, I’ll get you some coffee.” There wasn’t much ground to cover—just one room where all pastries and breads where kept, a cash counter and a kitchen at the back that no one but the staff was allowed to enter (Tanya and her two helpers). The tall, slender woman with a pixie haircut brought back with a tray with a glass of iced coffee, four warm chocolate seasalt cookies, and a croissant, and set it on the table.

Sasha smiled at the woman five years her senior. Dressed in her comfort jeans and shirt with her hair in the bun, she looked like she was going to college, but her boss didn’t mind the casualwear. He was happy on the days she reported to work. The younger woman had 15 minutes to talk to her new friend who always had flour somewhere on her face.

“I love the foundation,” Sasha told Tanya as the two got comfortable on the armchairs.

“I’m not wearing—Oh wait, I got flour on my cheeks again?” Tanya asked as she tried wiping off the marks with her left hand that had burning marks on at least five different places. Baking incident.

Sasha gave her a toothy grin and feasted on the chocolate treat. “I have precisely 10 minutes to spare.” She took a sip and then another mouthful.

“Why are you always in such a hurry? For once, you can sit back and enjoy it.”

“She’s timing me.” She told her in a conspiratorial tone.

“What? Who?” Tanya enquired curiously as she buttered her croissant.

“My mother.” Sasha answered settling back against the chair again. Two down, two to go, she thought as she counted the cookies. No wonder I have gained two kilograms in the past two weeks since I’ve met her.

“She times you?” She asked horrified.

Looking at her wide-eyed expression, Sasha had to keep the cookie down. It was comical. “Yeah, she watches the clock like a hawk after I leave for home.”

With a laugh, she continued, “I work for my Dad, just around the corner from here. He doesn’t need me; he has 10 employees that can do what I do way better, which is basically answering some emails and basic marketing for this catering business. But we are indulging each other until I find a better way to use my MBA.”

She paused to take another sip while the older woman with a degree in hospitality and five years experience at a five-star sat nodding her head.

“So anyway, it takes my dad precisely one hour and 23 minutes to make the drive from Hauz Khas to Sohna Road, where we live. Now consider these two things: He leaves at 7pm in the evening and drives at a speed of 50 even on the highway.”

“But what does that have to do with anything?”

“It takes me 45 minutes to make the journey.”

“How?”

“I only come to work for four hours everyday. I leave after lunchtime and it’s light traffic. And let’s face it, I’m a faster driver.”

“And your mom has a problem with that?” She thinks my sweet mother is a cantankerous old fossil, Sasha laughed at the thought.

“I wouldn’t call it a problem. It’s more like an obsession. The moment I leave home, my dad calls my mom because it is grilled into him every morning that he absolutely cannot forget. Then mom stares at the clock. If I’m there in 55 minutes, it starts with “You were speeding,” and ends in tears. Hers.”

The first time it happened, it caught her completely by surprise. Her mother was standing by the standing, the car had given away her arrival, and waiting on her with worried eyes. And then the grilling had started.

“Oh, no!”

“At first, I didn’t realise it was a conspiracy against me. But it was happening everyday and I caught on the pattern. So, I started making pitstops three weeks ago.”

It had been her third day at the office when she marched into her father’s cosy but functional office to tell him she was leaving. On her way to the car, she realised she had forgotten to her him about an email and rushed back in to find him ratting on her.

“When you first entered here?” Tanya prompted.

“I already had checked out some shops in the past week and I hadn’t picked anything up. I didn’t want to go in again for browsing so I climbed the stairs to your cafe.”

“That’s why you look at the wall clock so much!”

“I don’t want to break my winning streak. It’s important to my mother, and honestly, better than reasoning with her.”

Tanya chuckled, thinking about her older brother’s wise words: You can’t have a rational argument with your parents. It’s impossible!

They talked longer than Sasha had anticipated. She stood up to thank her friend, paid the bill through her phone, and tapped the jeans pocket for her car keys. Then, she was on the way home.

What she had failed to mention to Tanya was her near-death accident a year ago that had put her on bedrest for two months. The next eight were painful, too, with physiotherapy as she started claiming her body back. If not for her mom’s strength and support, she would have lost all hopes of recovery and gone into despair. It has been just a month of working for her dad for shorter periods, but driving and sitting was as much as she could bear right now.

As she rounded up her home 10 minutes later than usual, her mother was standing by the door, waiting for her to come up.

“You got late today, Sasha?”

“Yeah, mom. There was some traffic on the road.”

And with that, the worry lines disappeared from the retired nurse’s forehead and everything was peaceful in her world once again.

 

New Year, Same Old Me

Another year has come to pass. Now we’ll be getting calendars from Daboo Ratnani and IndiaPicture and picking out favourite months based on the best photographs. New diaries. New resolutions. And that same old vow: This year will be different. This year, I will be different.

And, I will be! Two months ago, I decided to be healthier. Physically and mentally. Less than a month ago, I retired my wings and stepped into another role. But a lot will be the same, like this tradition of making the first blog post of the year at midnight and chastising myself for not being more disciplined with this. I was supposed to write 24 short stories in 2017 and even when I had the inclination, I let myself go loose. And the gazillion online courses are in a limbo somewhere, too. Ted Talks, documentaries, podcasts are nearly forgotten.

The last few hours left are as much for recollection and retrospection, as for vow-making. A year in review, that’s what people call it. I did well, come to think of it. I travelled, met with professional growth, made an effort to stay in touch with friends (and not become a recluse), and I mostly did whatever the hell I wanted. Two international holidays and many work travels later, I am wiser and happier. And stronger, for I did say goodbye to a job that wasn’t giving me any pleasure.

Oh, 2018! I’m not doing this with a coke, chocolate cake, and pizza as always. That’s a darn good sign for what is to follow! I promise to finish my reading challenge this year and write at least 12 short stories (God willing). I promise to be more levelheaded with money matters. And like every year, I promise to be less judgemental and more patient with people.

I don’t always know where I’m going when I start a year, but I like where I am right now: Procrastinating like a pro and watching Footloose. What a life!

Pen Friends

Sunday afternoons are the worst. Kids stay home and watched the telly. He joins them on the couch and they alternate between napping and wrestling for the remote. A heavy brunch around noon and I am mostly left alone.

I have this corner of the house to myself, the store room where everything that I never had the heart to give away has found a home. A hoarder, I collect things like memories and bundled them up with a bow of joy. Their first rompers, our wedding invite, that too-small-for-a-mother of-two little black dress, my first typewriter, and even some music CDs, among other things. Letters, diaries, magazines, albums, cameras…  

It was a year ago that I became a pilgrim to this room. My life in a box, I would call it. Irritated by the ruckus in the living room, a restless and agitated me found solace in an old, battered novel I had dug up here. The next week, it was my parent’s charmingly preserved photographs. Then, some sketch books I had kept all these years.

Today, I’m tackling a box that says PRIVATE. I don’t remember why that warning was written in such bold letters, on a brown carton, with a solid black marker. Not that anyone would ever trespass here—the room was invisible to everyone in the house, barred of all technology.  

Half filled with diaries, notepads, notebooks, and papers. Writings. One is mine, I know. And the other is of someone I love very much.

We had no phones in those days. Computers were a luxury we didn’t have. No emails, no texts, no video calls. We did everything on paper. Innocent ramblings of a teenage girl, telling her reader how the day went at school.

“You are not here, so I’m writing everything down before I forget. Maths was boring. Someone played a prank on the Physics teacher and the principle punished us all. I didn’t have anyone to have lunch with in the recess, so I just sat in class…”

Religiously for ten days, there were ten entries. Even if it was just one sentence: “I am too tired to write today, will do it tomorrow.”

I jump with glee when a few pages later, the correspondence start in earnest, with replies. Either side is discussing what someone else reading this would consider tedious humdrum. Yawn-worthy. Just plain boring.

But I am reading it as it is scripture, passages and passages of a life I hadn’t lived in decades. Flashbacks to the time when penning down thoughts really meant penning down. We had shared our deepest thoughts, our worries, our delights, with each other, without judgment.

“I can’t believe you left your bag in her house! What if she read all this? We have written so much about her…”

“I bunked school to go to a movie with some friends…”

“I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. I love writing but that can’t be a career, can it?”

“Hey, what are you doing sitting on the floor?” He finds me in the room, eyes alight with pleasure, I am sure. It has grown quiet in the house, which means the kids have gone to the park. He brings me a cup of coffee and kneels down to look into the box.

He understands, smiles, and leaves the room. He comes back with a paper and pen. I haven’t written a letter in ages, I tell him. To this he replies, good thing you found the stationery, then.

Thirty years later (not exactly to the day but close enough)—I stir the wheel again.  

Dear Samah,

You won’t believe what I just found in my store room. Our childhood diaries! Remember how we used to exchange them in class? One was almost caught in my bag in school! I was reading them just now and I wanted to write to you. Not text or email, but exercise penmanship.

How are you?

And so, it begins again. 

There’s Something I Have Been Meaning To Tell You

My resolution this year was to write 24 short stories. I'm falling behind, terribly. So now I have a new goal: finish this series by the end of this year. Five chapters, that's all I'm thinking. 

Chapter 1

It is a rather ordinary scene of a mother driving her son to a restaurant for a treat. They are celebrating the last day of school. It’s an ordinary white Maruti Wagon R, dented and battered, on the streets of a busy neighbourhood in Gurgaon. A moment of innocent bliss that’s broken by a cry of, “What the fuck is he doing?”

“Mom! You swore!” A voice comes from behind a Kindle. The boy with the glasses looks up from the backseat to his mother with impatience and reluctance. It’s just another day. 

“Sorry. I’ll pay the fine, but just look at what that crazy bas—head is doing.”

“Mom.”

“Fine, Rs 200. Okay, let’s find parking space.”

Kirti Shah is not a bad driver, she tells everyone who listens, but there are so many idiots on the road. 

“They refuse to see that I have a child in my car, arrogant pricks,” she mumbles but is heard but the child again.

“You are teaching me bad words, mother,” her nine-year-old son complains. Vir has always been wise for his age, she thinks. Even in his short pants and Batman t-shirt, he sounds like a 20-year-old. He tucks the Kindle in his Batman backpack, pulls up the glasses on his nose, and gets out of the car when Kirti opens his door.

“Because you should know the bad words. I am confident you will not use them, smartypants,” she takes his hand in hers and walks towards the café on the other side of the parking lot.

It’s a hot day, with many more to come. Summer break is a wonderful time of the year. She will plan a week-long holiday with Vir, who will drown himself in extra classes on everything from robotics to piano, and hate every spare moment of his time. “No sports,” he had declared earlier when discussing his summer plans. Kirti was a national level football player, but her son had little to do with the sport, or any other. He liked reading books, playing piano, doing his homework, and watching cartoons. An introvert, she had mused while reading to the shy boy who had difficulty making friends in school.

The café is buzzing with activity, even at 4 in the evening. The bright blue walls painted with cartoon characters had made it an instant hit with Vir when it opened two years ago. It helped that the owner was his favourite person.

With her big round eyes, pixie-like hair, feminine voice, and short frame, Sana is a sweetheart. She is also Kirti’s college friend. Vir and Sana were best friends and sometimes, the understanding between the two makes Kirti envious. As a single mother, it is difficult to see her son rely on someone else, but then she knows that he is more like Sana, intense, quiet, and rational than her, impulsive, spontaneous, and passionate. 

She waves to them from behind the counter and they take their favourite table in the corner to admire the set up. The wall behind them is white, with photographs of patrons and guests, but the two walls on the opposite sides are bright and vivid. Batman and Robin, Superman, the X-Men, and some other comic characters are bundled together, with their weapons, stance ready to fight the bad guys. Sana has painted it herself, by taking help from Vir’s various comic books. She has always had a knack for the arts, like her brother.

She joins them with an assortment of new pastries that she has been experimenting with and Vir gives a nod of approval to orange honey and mint macaroons. 

“Tell me again, why did you ever go to a media school?” Kirti asks her as she pours green tea for both of them.

“Because I didn’t know what to do with my life. Good thing that I did though, now I can do my own branding, advertising, and PR.”

“Good thing you went to cooking school later,” Kirti adds and watches Vir devour peanut butter cookies, back to his Kindle.

Sana is wearing white pants and pink top. Her silver loops are new, and so are her white pumps, Kirti notices. The girl sure loves to accessorise. Feminine, that’s the word that you think of when you look at Sana, but she is more than that. She has a great left hook and sharp business acumen. She doesn’t miss things, attention-to-detail is her strong suit.

She asks a server to take Vir to the washroom, and when he’s out of the hearing range, asks Kirti without any theatrics or premonition, “So when were you going to tell me he is my nephew?”

Kirti did not see that coming.