Love story of a monk

It was mid-January and the rugged bus with windows jammed midway did not offer much succor against the cold evening wind. I was on a trip to Dharamshala with a friend. Our noisy front seat neighbors – a middle-aged hefty Sardar and a young Pahadi boy, probably of 18 or 19, were still settling in their seats. They painted a pretty picture of Indian Laurel and Hardy.

After half an hour of chit chat Mr. Hardy secretly introduced us to ‘old’ Mr. Monk. “He is a warm company on a cold night” he winked as he poured the old man into plastic – use and throw cups. My friend declined the offer courteously and went back into his tour guide marking the places to visit and things to do. I was appreciating-while I could - the snow covered peaks of distant hills, highlighted in a pinkish hue against the backdrop of twilight sky. Soon all went dark. I was surprised that I could still see the snowy peak in the moonlight. It was gorgeous. Laurel, the pahadi boy, suddenly said to me “They say there are three things worth watching in the moonlight – snowcapped mountain, frothy waves of the ocean and…” he paused, staring at the rum in his plastic cup.

“and..?”

“And the luminous face of the weeping Russian ‘bhikkhuni’.”

I was clueless about where he was going with this. Probably he was drunk.

“The journey is long. If I may entertain you with a story of the land we are going to, where I hail from?”

The answer did not matter and he went on with the following story -

“A very long time ago, believed to be sometime in the 18^th century, a Russian merchant arrived in India on Business. He was accompanied by his mistress of golden-brown hair and blue eyes, whose beauty is believed to be so otherworldly that the merchant confined her indoors so as to not attract attention. During her days of house arrest her handmaid used to tell her stories about Buddhist monks, their austere lifestyle and their philosophies. She began to romanticize the idea of such free spirit and one day she managed to elope with her handmaid to the Himalayan foothills, believed to be current day Dharamshala, where the wandering monks use to settle for some time, preaching and practicing Dharma before moving onwards their eternal journey. The Russian mistress pleaded before the monks to take her in their shelter, tell her tales of their adventures and journeys and teach her their philosophy. But she was not accepted as she was a woman - of tremendous beauty - and the monks followed a strict restrain of let alone talking, but of not even looking at a woman directly.

The news of this lady’s beauty and incessant appeals reached a young Monk who was highly regarded for his achievements at a very young age. He preferred seclusion, spending his days in the bliss of meditation, weaving and teaching small children. That morning before he came to know about the Russian mistress, his pupils and fellow monks witnessed him struggling through his meditation. His eyes moved erratically behind the half open eyelids, his body emanated heat that could be felt from an arm distance. Later he declared that he would accept the young mistress in his ambit since she had nowhere else to go. The other monks did not approve of this but could not be much vocal about their disapproval.

The Russian mistress was elated at being with the monk. She did the daily chores, learnt how to weave, and went along with the monk for daily strolls in the meadows. She used to sit for hours watching the monk meditate and used to long for him to come out of it so that she could ask him about what he saw when he meditated, whether he could see the future and whether she was there in his future. The monk answered her questions in a cryptic manner which frustrated the young mistress. She once dared to ask the monk if he would marry her. She promised him that she would make him the happiest man on earth, she would take care of him the way no one has ever cared for anyone before, and that she would carry his legacy forward. To this he answered, “I know that will happen, but what has marriage got to do with it?”

 She used to stitch pretty gowns for herself and tie her long golden-brown hair in complex braids in an attempt to allure the monk into the material world, thinking that he is too young to have an undaunted monk spirit. But she was disappointed every time. One fateful day, as the monk meditated and chanted in a state of trance under an oak tree, the Russian mistress, hypnotized by the sound of the verses, leaned on his shoulders and started humming the tune of the chants. When the incident reached the ears of the monk community, they called for the young monk and the Russian mistress and reproached them for breaking the laws and trust of the community. They ordered the Russian Mistress to leave their settlement and never return. The young monk who maintained his calm throughout, turned to the senior master and said, “Master, my soul savior, what word have you got for me?” The master smiled pleasantly and said, “Your time has come. You must leave for the higher Himalayas, wander through the forests and face the test of your years of practice. I wish you success.”

The Russian mistress could not bear the guilt of being responsible for the misfortune of the young monk. She decided to follow him into higher Himalayas and spend her life in repentance. The community objected to this, to which the Master said, “Nature is the only governance required where those souls are headed. Our laws have no value there.”

The young monk walked for months across towns, villages and farms living as a ‘Bhikshu’. The mistress followed like a shadow feeling sorry for him for she had lived the time when selling skin was preferable to begging. One day when the monk did not feel too well and wheezed with every step he took, the mistress insisted that he should take rest while she set out asking for Bhiksha. She recited flawlessly the sutras which she had learnt by heart over a period of time, hearing it repeatedly from the young monk, unaware of what the words meant. Her mesmerizing appearance contrasted by the pious recitals dazzled the civilians and brought generous amount of donations of food and clothing.  When she presented her achievements to the monk he asked her to put forward her palms together. He kept whatever he could on her palms and gave away the rest to the needy, the animals or birds. She argued why he gave off that which could secure them in coming days. He replied unperturbed “Have so much as to destroy the existing desire and not to create new desires by means of abundance… This is what you had been reciting when you asked for Bhiksha.”

That simple statement spoken ever so calmly stirred a storm in the mistress’s heart. She felt as if in some corner of her soul, a small patch of dirt melted making way for a streak of white light that filled her body with uncontrollable bout of energy. “Teach me what it means. All of it.”

That night the young monk told the Russian mistress that the journey would be difficult and lonely from then on and that she should return if she did not want her luscious hair to metamorphose into dreadlocks, the chilly winds to carve a crevice on her soft lips, the sharp rocks and the rough forests to tear through her silk gown. So she appeared before him at the crack of dawn, with a shaven head embellished by a crimson rash, dressed in a plain robe that she had sewn herself, a cloth bundle of meagre belongings and a small bhiksha bowl. People gasped, some with pity, some with ecstasy, at that tableau that was captured in time, and in legends.  And thus she followed him once again deeper into oblivion in the hope that one day her love will be reciprocated.

Years passed, and the initial teacher-pupil relationship transformed into camaraderie. The Russian mistress, a learned woman now, never let her hair grow back. She could now discuss life and death philosophies with the young monk and sometimes make a joke which made the monk laugh like a child, the latter a greater pleasure for her than the former.

The example set by the young mistress should be a proud moment for any teacher. The young monk remembered his master’s last words and believed that he was successful at the test of his years of practice. But, at the core, he carried a seed of discontentment. He also grew weaker with incessant coughs year after year, winters bringing out the worst when his lungs would just freeze. They usually descended down to nearest village to wait for winters to pass, but that year the young monk refused to descend until he found the cause of his discontentment. The Russian mistress descended alone to gather the necessities. It was snowing when she returned in the morning of the third day accompanied by a helper from the village. She found the young monk meditating under a deodar tree, wheezing the verses abruptly between violent coughs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The mistress slowly and deliberately assumed her position on a rock opposite the tree where the monk struggled to meditate. And just as a tributary gradually joins the mainstream of a river, only seamlessly without creating a ruffle, her voice filled the gaps in the chants of the monk. The willful chants of the mistress- ever so melodious and vibrant- reverberated in the atmosphere in such a way that the monk eventually went quiet. He sunk deep into his own consciousness, where he had never been before. This isolated and dim corner was devoid of any thoughts or memories or any preconceived notions or learnt lessons or feelings or desires. Just an empty room with a shut door, a faint sound leaking through the gap at the bottom. Noticing that the door was about to collapse against the force of the sound, he opened it and there he saw ‘Her’ love pulsating as a heartbeat at the core of the voice which poured into the void space. In that avalanche he saw the journey of love - how it transformed from a stage of infancy- argumentative, adamant, to a stage where it blossomed - sacrificial, perseverant and finally to a stage when it simply exists as an omniscient entity. When it does not have to reach any place, which has no end and the beginning of which cannot be determined.

That was the happiest day in his life as promised by the Russian mistress. He had entered into the mistress’s subtle being. Just like the coalescence of two water droplets on a window after it has rained, the two souls united. He wondered if it was the same place he attempted to reach the day he heard about the Russian mistress for the first time, but lost his way. He wondered if his years of exile were after all a test of all the lessons he had learnt or a new and final lesson in itself.  

Feeling liberated from the entrapment of the weak and decaying body; his lungs not clenched anymore in the fist of worldly limitations, he drew all the strength that he could and rejoined the mistress in the mystical recitation of the sutras for he believed there to be another door that might open to the soul of the universe. ‘Her’ love had revealed the secret of their souls to him. It was time ‘His’ love carried her to that hidden door.

 Legends say that at that moment a whirlpool of snow storm enveloped the ‘lovers’ and as a loyal guard shielded them for hours until the moon rose high up in the sky. At the end of it all, they say, it was so silent that one could hear as the last flake of snow settled on the leaf of deodar tree. The monk laid there slouched against the tree trunk, purple face, lifeless. The Russian mistress’s shaven head, pale white face and blue eyes glowed with a sort of phosphorescence that rendered the moonlight useless. She wept silently for days cradling the lifeless body of the monk. Who knows whether the tears were of losing a beloved or a precipitation of a complex mix of emotions – of revelation, of acceptance, of duties to be fulfilled, of never ending journey that awaited her.

She did fulfill her promise of carrying forward the young monk’s legacy. Year on year as the legend of the young monk and the Russian mistress spread, monks and civilians alike, old and young alike, set out towards the mountain where the Russian mistress was believed to be living, in search of the door to universal soul.”

 “Do they still live there, the monks? Where is this place? I would like to meet them to know more about that universal soul thing. This could be a great adventure” My friend broke the silence at the end of the narration.

“I am afraid I can’t tell you that. It is a forgotten legend sir. It prevails only within some of the old tribal communities people hardly know of. I heard it from my parents, they heard from theirs. But the link breaks after some point in the hierarchy. My parents believe that it is just a made up tale to mesmerize children and to draw them into monkhood. But my great grandfather believed firmly in the legend. He used to say that the secret , the mystical land where the young monk died and where the bhikkhuni helped the seekers in their quest shall be revealed only to those who are true seekers.”

"That Bitch"

250 likes and 100 comments later Maya felt like punching Mark Zuckerberg in the face. Two faces tilting at an angle close to each other, were staring back at her, it didn’t matter that there were 2 spoons and a lemon between those frozen faces, one of her husband and another of “that bitch”.

Maya and Madhur were married for five years. They had met in college and were poles apart, but as the saying goes – opposites attract- so did they. Maya - extrovert, impulsive and romantic. Madhur, in plain words, Geek. What brought them closer in college was their friend Sanjay who had decided that Madhur was ruining his life over books and made it his mission to set him up with someone “unlike” him. The trio was inseparable, Maya the student president and the most famous girl, Madhur- the university topper and Sanjay, Tennis champion. They had a copy of a photograph clicked on their convocation ceremony which they promised to cherish forever - Sanjay giving out a toothy smile, tightly gripping Maya and Madhur around their neck with both his arms, as they stuck their tongues out.

Madhur and Maya got married 3 years later. Madhur’s work took them places, switching roles in India, Argentina and Uzbekistan. Madhur’s promotions kept on rising and so did Maya’s frustration. “At least select a country where I don’t have to carry a dictionary to ask for a ladies restroom!!” she would yell at times. Eventually Madhur decided to return to India for good. Madhur’s new work in India reunited him with Sanjay. They worked closely on marketing and client acquisition for the in house developed products of their IT firm.

The doorbell rang, playing Beethoven’s ‘Fur Elise’. Maya logged off from Facebook and answered the door. Madhur and Sanjay were in unusually high spirit. Maya managed to fake a smile and asked, “Well, at least someone is happy, care to share the joy?”

 “We clinched a deal today with a big client, finally, after months of persuasion.” Madhur squealed as he made a drink for Sanjay and himself.

 “No No No, not we, it was all her. She can make an atheist like me bow down in devotion.” Sanjay interjected.

“Who are we talking about?”

 “Our colleague, Shaheen Awasthi. She recently joined our firm. A remarkable woman. Her spirit drives everyone at work, from the janitor to the Director. She can be a guy with the guys, a lady among the ladies and a brat between the kids. She…”

“Yeah, Madhur had mentioned her couple of times.” Maya cut Sanjay in mid-sentence. “She is the one on Facebook doing the rounds, am I right?”

 Madhur shifted on the couch feeling uncomfortable about the direction the conversation was moving in.

“Guilty as charged. That picture of Madhur and Shaheen was too funny to be ignored. I had to post it.”

“Food is on the table. Goodnight.” And she left abruptly.

That night Madhur and Maya had yet another argument. Maya accused Madhur of being insensitive to her feelings by allowing the “inappropriate” picture of his gain hype on the social media.

“You knowing that I don’t like her, I don’t like that you are friends with her. She is eating up the space in my personal life. What will our relatives think? And my friends? I am a laughing stock all because of that stupid picture.”

“Exactly my point, Maya. It’s a STUPID picture taken while playing a STUPID game. Why are you making this a big deal? I didn’t post it. And I am not going to ask anyone to take it down, because that would again be a STUPID thing to do. Talking of her occupying your personal space- it’s an absurd idea considering you have never met her. So let’s end this STUPID argument and go to sleep.”

Maya called Sanjay the next day and confessed her insecurity and asked for his advice.

“I think Madhur is right.

You have never met her. I think you should meet her. She is a very good friend of Madhur’s and can be yours too. Why don’t you invite her to dinner or something?”

“Are you crazy? I can’t stand imagining her and you want me to meet her?”

“You’ll be fine. Besides Madhur and I will be there to make sure you don’t kill her.” He joked.

Maya wore the most expensive perfume from her collection. She wore a bright red evening dress and a matching red lipstick. She viewed herself in the mirror, tucked in her tummy a little and was confident that she could easily take on that bitch.

‘Fur Elise’ called again, as she took her time to answer it.

“What took you so long?” Madhur planted a kiss on her cheek and entered. Behind him she could see Sanjay and a woman, slender, big eyes covered by glasses of thick black rim, a faded lipstick, wearing a white shirt, two buttons down, half tucked in her blues jeans, the other half hanging out, holding a wine bottle. Attractive. Definitely attractive. Maya forced a smile and said, “Welcome, I have heard so much about you.”

Maya was conscious of herself. She felt she was overdressed.

“I am sorry Maya, I didn’t know this was a formal party, else I would have dressed better. We headed straight to your place after work. I am a mess.” Shaheen unclutched her hair which untwined down to her waist leaving behind layered curls.

“Oh you are fine. This is not a formal party. Just a personal get together. And by the way you could look gorgeous in rags.” Madhur’s words burned Maya’s skin under her silk dress.

 “Look at you Maya” Sanjay, sensing the need, drew everyone’s attention, “you look dazzling. Have you been working out?” Maya’s mood lightened.

The evening progressed with the jibber jabber about work while Maya coordinated with the cook in serving the exotic delicacies she had prepared to show off her culinary skills. There was a spread of Humus, home-made mayonnaise and salsa served on the side of barbecued veggies, Nachos and Pitta bread.She observed Shaheen closely, the way she spoke, the way Madhur responded or did not respond. Did she see a kind of restraint between them, she wondered. And suddenly she heard her name “Maya!!”

“Huh?”

“I asked, what do you do?”

“Well, nothing as of now. I had a stint in Event management, but not anymore.”

“Not anymore. Why?”

“We moved a lot.”

“She is an excellent cook by the way” Madhur added “which takes care of her hobby, and very independent financially. She is the master of stock trading. So she doesn’t really have to go to “Work” for a living.”

Sanjay cringed with the last gulp of his third glass of whiskey and said, “but every woman, no matter how independent she might be, every once in a while needs her hands to be held firmly, reassuringly, to be told that you are not on your own.”  There was silence… The three looked at Sanjay astonished at his new found wisdom. Then the laughter burst. Tiny droplets of tear gleamed in Maya’s eyes, invisible to all.

Shaheen’s phone beeped. “Guys, I would take your leave now. It's my lawyer. My husband has agreed to the terms of divorce, finally. I need to think all this through.”

“Yeah. Its late, we must leave now. I will drop you.”  Sanjay stood up with a stagger.

“Sanjay, you are not driving. I will drop her. And I will book a cab for you.” Madhur was concerned.

“It’s really not necessary. I can go by myself. I will book a cab.” Shaheen protested.

Madhur theatrically held Shaheen’s hands and quoted “You are not on your own!!!” he winked at Sanjay. All of them had a good laugh except Maya. And Madhur left with Shaheen.

 “What the hell is going on between my husband and that bitch?' Maya's patience was at its lowest ebb and she was ready to burst.

Sanjay knew that she was serious. 'Look, Maya. There is nothing going on between the two of them. Just a little bit of healthy flirting, I'd say.'

'Flirting? Healthy flirting? Really Sanjay . . .' she rolled her eyes in disgust. 'That's what you men call it? There is nothing healthy about flirting, Sanjay, not for a married man.

Healthy flirting is a term introduced by perverted men who want to lend legitimacy to their extramarital dalliances. Flirting invariably has a sexual connotation to it.' She got up from her seat and walked around the room gesticulating and muttering something to herself. Suddenly she stopped, turned back, looked at Sanjay and asked, 'Did my husband sleep with her? You are his friend. Did he ever tell you anything about it?'

“You are overthinking. It doesn’t happen that way.”

“You think so? Did you forget what happened on our last day of college when in a weak moment we almost…”

“Maya! It was a mistake and we promised we will never talk about it. Why are you bringing it up today?”

“Because my husband is on the verge of committing the same mistake and ruining my life.”

 “Why is everything about “your husband”? What about Maya, where is she? Cooking? Or probably glaring at her monitor watching the crooked lines go up and down? Maybe you have made it easy for him to take you for granted by revolving your entire life around him.

Sanjay’s phone beeped. “My cab is here. Take care of yourself.” He wiped her tears and left.

The next afternoon Sanjay found Maya walking out of his office building in tears. He took her for coffee in a nearby café where Maya regained her composure.

“I wanted to surprise him with a lunch date.  He said he had back to back meetings, which he would have cancelled if I had informed him in advance. It was so humiliating, in front of her…”

“I am sorry Maya. It’s my fault. Forget what I said to you last night. You are best as yourself; you don’t need to try so hard. Never mind, to make it up to you, shall we go for a movie? ‘Queen’ has good reviews.”

She hesitated and spoke, “I should ask Madhur as well.”

“Suit yourself.”

She began dialing the number on her phone and then abruptly kept the phone in her jeans pocket. 

“Let’s go. But don’t you have to resume work?”

“I think I’ll call it a day.”

For the next few weeks Maya avoided thinking or talking about Shaheen. She started working out and got in touch with her girlfriends. There was no surge of love between the couple but the arguments did come to a halt.

One fine day Sanjay called Maya to tell her that the office is issuing passes for Salsa competition at Club Exotica.

“Do you want one?”

“Are you kidding? Who do you suggest I go with? Madhur? He declared yesterday for no reason that he is going to be busy this month. And you remember how hard we tried to persuade him to take the classes with me in college?”

“Yeah, I remember how instead I ended up taking the classes with you. Well, you may want to ask your friends. It’s a good opportunity for you considering you dance so well.”

“You are my friend, are you willing to?” There was a hint of mischief in Maya’s voice.

“I don’t know, I am so out of practice, I am not that flexible anymore.”

“Whatever happened to ‘you are not on your own’ philosophy?”

Maya and Sanjay were surprised to find out that they still had their moves. The practice sessions were full of fun and laughter. Maya wore her old salsa costume which still fitted and shoes that accentuated her moves.

“Maya you were amazing today. Graceful, full of energy, it’s like you are straight out of college.”

Maya still had droplets of sweat on her brow from the practice as she sipped her cold coffee. “I don’t know what I was doing all these years Sanjay. Why can’t I have such fun with Madhur?”

“That’s for you to think. What I can tell you for sure is that I couldn’t have had this much fun with anyone else but you.” The intensity in his eyes gave Maya goose bumps on her neck and butterfly feathers in her gut. She tried to control her smile which made her lips quiver. How could she smile through the guilt of feeling happy with a man who was not her husband?

“Take it easy Maya.” He gave out a confident, seductive, omniscient smile. “Let’s go. Oh, I think I left the car keys in the training room.”

There was sound of another session going on. Sanjay knocked on the door and entered and almost immediately turned back and closed the door.

“What’s the matter?” Maya asked concerned.

“You might not want to go in there.”

Maya peeked through the door fearing what she might see. She saw Madhur and Shaheen engage in the perfect Salsa of hammerlock and embrace positions. For just a tiny moment Maya felt proud of her husband making that smooth transition and in the next moment of realization, blood rushed back to her face.

“What are you gonna do Maya.” Sanjay asked in plain, serious demeanor.

“I am tired of feeling angry and insecure, tired of playing hard to get when no one is pursuing, tired of the bursts of guilt stained happiness. I just want happiness.”

And with that she threw herself in Sanjay’s embrace.

That night when Madhur returned home after his practice session, he found that Maya’s things were gone. A note lay on the pillow which read -

“It’s nobody’s fault. You didn’t need me anymore, and I admit I don’t need you anymore either. Happy dancing to you - Maya”

The glittery black salsa costume that he bought for her, lay on their bed, still covered by a transparent plastic sheath wrapped around by a ribbon. Madhur’s phone beeped. There was a message from Shaheen – “I hope she likes the dress. You owe me big time for being your accomplice in this surprise-wife-with-salsa-moves conspiracy. She is lucky to have you.”

That night as he waited for Maya to knock on the door, Sanjay picked up the magazine “Men’s Quotient” and opened the dog-eared page which ran an article titled “Everything’s fair in love and war, especially when it’s both.”

The article was summarized in bullet points at the bottom right corner of the page; each bullet point tick marked with pencil except the last.

ü1.               Point out his weakness without criticizing him.

ü2.               Make her “think” she is taken for granted

ü3.               Sympathize with her husband/boyfriend.

ü4.               Alienate the husband/boyfriend by giving her options.

ü5.               Complement her. Let her know how much fun she is.

    6.                Wait for her call.

 “I should email a thankyou note to the editor.” He muttered. The doorbell rang.  

“No, I am not married” I replied a tad sternly, but the sternness went unnoticed by this prying fellow who sat on the opposite berth with a kid sleeping next to him. It was 10pm and all I wanted to do was read my book. But, this middle aged man kept coming up with all sort of personal questions as he rubbed his palms together sprinkling some kind of coarse powder on the floor.

“What is the purpose of your visit to Patna?”

“Do you have any relatives there?”

“Yes.” I lied. I didn’t want him to know that I would be a stranger to the place.

“Madam... what is your full name?”

“Sorry what?” I raised my head from pretending to read.

 “Full name, surname?” he motioned his head up and down as a gesture of questioning.

“Uh, it’s Shaheen Sarbhan.”

“Shaheen sarbhan... strange... Mohammeden name, Hindu surname, strange. Sarbhan...hmm...which caste is that?”

“Bhai Saab, now this cast creed, religion is old concept. No good comes out of it. It’s better to keep it out of conversation.”

“Oh, no, yes, that is fine.” A moment later... “Must be OBC. No need to hesitate. These days belonging to a lower caste is considered a privilege because of all the quotas and reservations.”

Did this guy really say that to me? After a couple of minutes he spoke again. “What do you do for earning money? You look like you earn a decent living.”

This was too much. He was close to knowing me better than my mother. I decided to give my best shot at lying.

“I am an Aayaa.” Did I really say that? Fun had just started. He had the same look on his face as the 6^th century Greeks when Pythagoras suggested that Earth was spherical.

“Aayaa?”

“Yes. You know those who take care of other people’s babies.”

“No No. I know. You look like a well-educated decent woman.”

“Well, who said Aayaas are indecent and uneducated?”

“But why Aayaa?”

“I just love kids. I work in 5 houses with 12 children all together. Oh such a pleasure it is. I could just eat them up. Sometimes I just wish all of them were mine and I could just take them all away with me. Hmmm.”  I sighed, and a moment later I said, “Hey!! Is that your kid?”

The man looked spooked, he drew his kid closer to him and never left him alone, not even to go to the toilet. He did not speak another word with me for the entire journey.

Poetry on a six yards long paper

I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that next to Diamonds, Silks are a girl’s best friend. Hailing from the holy land of Kashi or Varanasi or Banaras as popularly known, I have my fair share of Banarasi silk sarees as Collectibles, which I find an excuse to show off in front of guests every now and then.  I become the Gollum of the ‘precious’ six yards of fabrics.

I wonder many times why I crave my sister’s homemade cake better than a fancy BlackForest. I still have my old woolen poncho in Blue-pink stripes, that my Mother knit for my 18^th birthday and wear it year after year. The ones I bought have already seen their days. And when it comes to Banarasi sarees, handloom is not just an option; it’s the only option that I go for.

There is something in the touch of the maker, the labor done in the making, and the experience that guides and alters the creation, which brings about the inexplicable aura of preciousness around that Cake, that poncho and that Banarasi that covers everything else by a haze.

Handloom weaving is an ancient tradition that is still practiced on a large scale. It was one of the uniting factors among the Muslim weavers, the Gujarati weavers and merchants, the Bangla weavers. Together they took this art to faraway places.

Lately, though, due to the tough competition from cheaper Chinese textile, emergence of Power looms as a quicker mode of production, Banarasi weavers are living on the edge of existence. The exploitative middle men do not give the weavers their fair share for the effort they put in(Did you know, that it takes 2-6 months for making one traditional banarasi handloom saree, which is class apart from any of the machine made ones ?) . Cheaper Chinese goods have choked the demand of authentic handloom product. The old weavers do not know anything else so they continue to weave but they definitely do not want their children to continue their legacy.

Will this art die a slow death or can we do something about it? My appeal to all saree lovers is that, the next time when you buy silk, buy an authentic handloom product, be it Banarasi or Kanjivaram and do your bit to keep this tradition alive.

“Vodka on the Rocks – Literally”

“I will stick to Beer. No JD for a couple of months… Man!! They are burning a bigger hole in my pocket?” – I threw my head backwards in exasperation sinking deep in my chair. I was reluctant to join my colleagues for our weekly after work drinks, in an attempt to limit my expenditure. But a beer wouldn’t hurt and I needed to unwind. And so we settled at our favorite joint close to work.

We were munching on the complimentary peanuts and moong daal, almost polishing it off, when our waiter arrived with our drinks in a tray. A golden drink, another Blue,  a colorless one and two bottles of beer.

“Boss, you are late... we are almost done with the snack and now you bring the drinks?” One of us said whiningly in disappointment. “Anyways, get some more complimentary snacks please.” The oldish waiter walked away at a slow pace, grumbling under his breath after putting the tray on the table a tad strongly than required.

“Did you see that?” I frowned – “Attitude does not pay in the hospitality industry, yet they do expect a generous tip, don’t they?” My colleagues eloquently joined me in relating their own stories of how once they were mistreated by a waiter.

“What!!?? That is nothing. You know, once this chap... deliberately stepped on my foot while serving us food, just because I sent him back a couple of times to reheat the food. I did not tip him at all” – he gleamed with pride at the justice he had delivered. “Saved hundred bucks there”- he winked.

 And from there the discussion moved on to money matters which was exactly the thing that was irking me these days.

“Fuckin market these days. I am already 50K down.  And to recover that, another 30K is in a limbo”

“Why do you bother to play this game when you don’t have the risk appetite?”  My colleague asked, bored.

“Fuck you man!!” I addressed him lovingly – “You drive a Honda Civic – with a chauffeur – while I drive a hatchback I wouldn’t even bother to mention the make. If I don’t take the risk I might not be able to take my family to the Europe trip I promised them a year ago for crying out loud… Forget the Beer, I need vodka.”

“Easy dude. Just because I drive a Civic doesn’t mean my life is all roses. You remember I told you about the plot I invested in? Well… turns out its disputed. I might rather have to sell the Civic and buy that hatchback of yours.”

And thus we related our stories of chronic financial crunch, hours of slog, stinker emails, embarrassing salary hikes, work-life imbalances, demanding family(demanding time), and my favorite – fading ambitions. Glasses clinked every now and then as a gesture of empathy.

 Our waiter returned with more peanuts.

“Chaccha I ordered another vodka. Don’t see it”. The waiter stood there for a couple of seconds with a blank face and then spoke unapologetically, rather sarcastically – “You ordered the FREE snacks sir. I bring that.”

“UH-NO, I ordered the drink as well. Ahh! Nevermind, could you please get it now, and …” The waiter turned around to leave before I finished speaking. “…and hurry up at that?”  I heard a sharp ‘pcchh’ sound from the direction our waiter walked.

“What is the matter with him? Did you not tip him well the last time you were here?”  My other colleague decided to blame me for our ill treatment.

“Actually, I haven’t seen him here before. Must be new. He does look out of place. Way older than the rest of the waiters.

We were brought back to the topic by another colleague of mine, “Hey by the way next week on Diwali you have a chance to book your profits. Heard of Muhurat trading sessions? ” .

 “Aah yes, but I think I have had it enough.” The vodka burned in my throat as I took a big gulp and sat straight.  “Enough of this extra marital affair with stock market. I am going back to my ‘wife’ - my business venture, who I had been ignoring.”  I think it was the vodka that brought out the weird analogy.

“Oh you are still on it?”

“When was I ever off it? Dude I have spent sleepless nights thinking about the impact my product will have in the industry.” My adrenalin made me restless on my chair. “ Ideas keep popping up in my head like popcorns and I get so excited and anxious ... that I have so much to do and I am running out of time. Who needs a workout ? Just have a far-fetched dream, and you will have your daily dose of cardio lying on your bed at 2 am.”   I was a little high by this time.  “ I regret over the lost opportunities, lucrative opportunities abroad that I turned down for the sake of starting ‘something of my own’. God knows I could have been driving that civic today, if only I had given up on my convictions – if you sense the irony of that.”

My friend gave out his lopsided smile of agreement. “Take a break. Your adrenalin has used up all the alcohol in your blood. You need another. Now where is this guy?” My colleague cranes his neck to locate our waiter and saw him approaching at a painstakingly slow rate.

“Who hired this oldie for a bar?” I would have liked an answer to that rhetorical question.

Our waiter finally approached our table, straight faced, and put the tray at one corner of the table. He started to leave when I almost yelled -

“Excuse me!! Do you mind making the drink for me , or at-least place it where I can reach it?” Sarcasm in my tone.

 “pcchh” again . He made an imprudent motion and in a split second the glass was on the floor, shattered . The loose thread of the table cloth was still stuck between the gaps in his watch. I was fuming now and was about to utter something hurtful when I saw our waiter picking up the pieces with tears in his eyes.  My anger was now turning into curiosity and confusion. I was on a back foot now for the fear of being held responsible for his misfortune. I asked him, “What’s the matter chacchha?” in a concerned, friendly tone hearing which he began crying uncontrollably. We made him sit with us till he gained composure. 

“Here, have some water. Why are you crying in this manner, it’s just a glass, no big deal.”

“It is a big deal Sahib. And it is my fault. I had been in a foul mental state and this happened.” He spoke wiping his tears, on his sleeve. “The manager is now definitely never going to give me the advance payment that I had been asking. I will have to return home without the fire crackers I promised my grand-children for Diwali.  I spend sleepless nights worrying about my son’s recovery. He broke his legs after he suffered a fall on the construction site he works in. Now sahib, for a daily wage earner like him isn’t it the end of all hopes.  But I had to step up. These are not the times when an old man can spend an entire day lying on a charpoy reading newspaper, playing cards and sleeping.  I had to work. I haven’t told my son that I work here, serving food and drinks. He will be hurt. But there is no choice. I could afford to ask my grandchildren to pick just one treat for Diwali - Clothes, sweets or crackers. Without a second of thought they jumped for crackers. Oh the joy. I could see the sparkles of crackers in their eyes. I tried to convince them to choose clothes or sweets which they could enjoy for longer than crackers. But children think and feel in mysterious ways.”

“Working at this bar gave me some hope to fulfill their wish, but I keep breaking things and being yelled at. But you are nice people, you did not yell at me.”  I was embarrassed at this undeserving praise.

“Well, this is life. We got to do what we got to do. I am sorry sahib for this mess.” He rose up with his tray, wiping his face. “I will bring another one, quickly.” He smiled sheepishly and left.

There was several moment of poignant silence between us. I couldn’t help but imagine an uneven weighing scale with a European holiday on one side and a bunch of fire crackers on the other.

Undulating Dreams

She ran hard. Heart pounding against her chest, legs numb, but she didn’t stop. She crushed the frothy waves on her way and crushed the little snails. She was running away from the deafening din of thoughts. She was running away from the image of blissfully happy face of her husband, transforming into a dense smokey claw.

Two weeks ago her dreams shattered on her bathroom floor when those red lines emerged on the plastic stick. She had planned long years of travelling, writing and exploring, with her husband which had brought them to the remote coasts of Kerala. They would stay there for few months, she working on her book and he collecting pictures for his grand gallery opening.

She remembered the day when they first met. It was a November sun set when he stealthily took pictures of her while she wrote in her notebook sitting on the white sand as the waves kissed her heels and shied away. The thin strap of her white tunic would reveal a strip of pale skin on the crimson shoulder as she stirred to wrap her hair around on one side. He would later admit that he had fallen in love with her that very day, weeks before he called to tell her that her pictures had won him award and that he wanted to apologize over a cup of coffee for the undue liberty he took.

The rocky shore was tearing through her shoes now, hurting her feet – yet she ran to grasp that ever elusive future she had imagined. How could he put his life, his passion, his camera aside, she thought, for the nameless, shapeless unsolicited life that she was carrying? They had argued for three nights when she finally broke down. He cupped her face, looked at her with his moist eye lashes and begged “Sweetheart - the only thing I want to do is to give this child everything that my father denied me. Please let me have this closure.” She relented, just to see the childish smile on his face.Then why did she wake up in the middle of the night every day since, dreading her decision and devising a way out? Why did she take up running on the beach every day since, as soon as he left for the shoot?

She returned to their cottage exhausted enough to think anymore. She took off her shoes and hung them on the fence. As she crashed on her bed, melting into a trance, a fragile little ‘dream’ like thought sneaked into her consciousness.  She heard a giggle, and saw two silhouettes. It was more lucid now. She saw herself as a child, pure and vulnerable, and then she saw herself, older, wiser, holding the child’s hand. She was teaching her to write.  She planted a kiss on her nose. They giggled again. ‘What is happening?’  A shadow witnessing the dream, questioned. ‘This is not what you desire – Or is it?’ Her countenance grew serious. She tried pulling away from the child who clung to her waist. It was late; she had to go but the child held her tight around her waist, so tight it hurt.

She came out of her trance in pain. The white linen of her bed was now red. She cried. It was indeed too late to ponder over the lucid dream. He had returned to their cottage and rushed to her side.

“Baby- we need to get you to the hospital. It’s a long way. ”. He was heartbroken but his wife was his first child and his first concern. He carried her outside in his arms and gently laid her inside the car.

“Let me get your shoes.” He ran back to the threshold of their cottage and picked the shoes that hung on the fence. It was drenched, battered and sand smeared. He stood there frozen momentarily as it dawned upon him - a cruel possibility. His steps grew heavier as he returned to the car to his suffering wife. His piercing glare ordered her to look him in the eyes and refute the allegations that his wounded heart was throwing. She didn’t. He gave the shoes in her hand, not by her foot, but in her hand and drove off in silence, not comforting her, just a hollow silence - leaving behind only the dreams undulating over white sand.

Its "That" time of the month

Its that time of the month.

Hold on to the reigns of your thoughts for a moment guys. I am talking about the time when you pick a piece of paper and start practicing the alphabets for adults –

A             for          Aata

B             for          Besan

C             for          Chai

D             for          Daal

and so on. You visit the distant corners of your modular kitchen, open each shelf and each pet jars to check if you need a refill and add the item nevertheless to your list, just  to get the value for money that you spend on fuel when you drive your car to D’Mart or BigBazar or Namdhari’s or Nilgiri’s.

And as you drive your way to these stores, or should I say Malls, dreading about the size of the mob you might encounter  there, your FM radio informs you that you are an idiot to be grocery shopping in the real world when there is a plethora of web apps and mobile apps that can take you to the virtual shopping world. You might as well be the Alice of your wonderland where you don’t have just one, but several bottles that say “DRINK ME” and several packets that say “EAT ME”. Disclaimer : None of those will make you grow too big and shrink too small.

You recall that your next door geeky couple never go grocering and have things delivered to their house or sometimes to your house when they are not around. So you decide to give it a try next month when you are PGS-ing(pre grocering syndrome – Trademark registered).  You are excited to see such products available that you had never heard of . You search some of these items on google to know the ingredients and the nutrition facts. Oh, and there is a comparator listing down the criteria on which a product differs across different chains. And then you realize that you have spent the entire Saturday evening in your bed , with your laptop on your lap, viewing the exotic therapeutic oil you never needed before, exotic sounding seeds and nuts that supposedly help in losing weight or gaining weight, that Ready to Eat Sooji halwa mix(seriously ? how lazy can you be)

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against online grocery stores. But you better pay a visit to your next door geeky couple to master the art of ordering online.

As for me, I get nostalgic thinking of the times when we used to make 2 copies of a list, one for the local kirana wala and another for us kids to cross check, striking off the items matched, shying away to call out in presence of father when it came to sanitary napkins . Those days.