Maa

Heaven doesn't exist. Mothers do. They are and shall always be the purest form of love. Perhaps love was discovered by a mother as her heart wears no boundary. Besides, nobody knows you better than your mother. And there's no point in asking her whether she's proud of you. She is and will always be, no matter how great a douchebag you've become. He keeps telling her "Some day you'll be proud of me!" to which she smiles—as mothers usually do. As selfless as her mind.

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The poor mother looks at her son in amazement and wonders where has her innocent lil' boy disappeared. This was the very kid who used to point at her tummy whenever someone asked him "Where are you from?". To him, his mother has grown old now whereas to her, he remains a newborn. From a very young age, he knew we belonged to our mothers more than anything else. Birth might have separated him from her but a child actually never leaves the mother's body. As tranquil as her lap. You appreciate her more when she's gone. For more details, get in touch with those who've lost her.
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No matter how short the barber crops your hair, she will always find them long. To her, you are the most eligible bachelor. For good or worse, an Indian mother loves reminding you that she's your mother and there's a bigger chance of her inquiring "What?" instead of "Who's that lucky girl?" when you mention your marital intentions. As intrusive as her concerns. Once you settle down, you'll realize that she is present in your behaviour too. Turns out the risky habit of telling everything to your wife is cultivated during those years spent close to dear mama.

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As nourishing as her hands. Single or married, the burden on a woman pretty much remains the same. Kitchen often becomes her coveted part of home. In there, she works harder than the exhaust fan. Well, she deserves air-conditioned kitchen with no noise or steam to deal with. Almonds are good for her provided you have them. She cares for you as if her life depended on it. A mother straightaway fetches her children a glass of water whereas they ask her whether she needs a glass of water. Difference. 

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Why are they the way they are and why aren't we the way we're supposed to be? As unblemished as her intentions. Worrying is their favourite pastime. She laughs at the lil' boy's jokes, not because they were always funny, but because she thinks she's responsible for his happiness. He may turn out to be a crappy stand-up someday but it's OK for the time being. In an ideal world, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day on a daily basis. Better still, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day and Labour Day on the very same day. Ahem. Those who have a problem don't celebrate their birthdays, right?

Cheated by God

If not smiles, then Almighty is in our tears. That's certainly how it looks like...from a distance! I may not be fond of religious activities today (much to my old ma's chagrin) but once upon an innocent time, I was a regular temple-visitor. Often accompanied by her, I used to be at my disciplined best once I entered the holy sanctum. No running around or screaming like an orangutan in a boat. I naturally assumed that it must be a sin to fart too. I used to chant the same pray-for-others-before-you-pray-for-yourself Tulu prayer my grandmother taught me. But neither those words nor those visits allowed me to befriend God. However, that particular miracle happened when I started showing up at the place-that-heals all alone. On my own. Since I didn't have an elder brother to 'protect' me from bullies (though I never thought I was supposed to mean the same to my younger brother) at school, I often confided in the dark Hindu idols. In the long run, my God was to become aware of all my dirty secrets which usually involved stealing money (from dad), stationery (from classmates), chalks (from teachers) and glances (from neighbours). Since I presumed He (yea, it was a colossal gender mistake but in my defense, I was barely eight) should know everything, I told him everything. There were days when I used to sit in front of him and cry inconsolably. He was my official shrink with superpowers. Though he never showed a sign of interest in me, I never gave up on Him. As the months passed by, I was growing tired of being. Finally, I delivered two options: either turn me into a grown-up or help me disappear at will. Stupid me. The Bastard conned me as I neither grew up nor became the invisible human who never was.

Oxymorons

Responsible tweets. Human interest. Small talks. Liberal politics. Fully empty. National conscience. Wintry Mumbai. Normal people. Ideal journalism. Porn review. Political will. Permanent denture. Wasted existence. Bollywood actors. Dignified silence. Perfect couple. Private wedding. Deep thinking. Civilized world. Bad music. Foreseeable future. Real life. Health-conscious graveyard-shifter. Public property. Organized religion. Better job. Human dignity. Democratic consensus. Pragmatic philosophy. Accomplished artist. Offensive jokes. Ethical internet. Evergreen mangroves. Clean chit. Gender equality. Innocent folks. Food security. Original idea. Free press. Oil reserves. Fearless souls. Human secrets. Soul mates. Human instincts. Imminent death. Slow train. Dead serious. Religious humanist. Horrible sonnet. Pure vegetarian. Intellectual masturbation. Progressive Taliban. Timeless clock. Predictable economics. Glorious war. Senseless killing. Tender coconut. Wise parliamentarian. Closet moron. Non-performing assets. Cheerful oxymoron.

PS: There are one-word oxymoron too. Popular terms like kaamchor, life, Hindu, austerity, minority and justice don't need another word in front or back of them to enter the exclusive Oxymoron Club.

Protesting against oneself

Your station is approaching and you're peeking out of the window. You know you've got to get down. But you somehow don't. You stay seated as if you're protesting against yourself. You don't have the will to move your ass and leave the compartment for good. Maybe you're too elated to have finally 'earned' a window seat and you don't want to relinquish it. Moreover, you don't even care that if you fail to act within the allotted 18 seconds, you'll have to get down at the next station. And commute back home. However, the countdown begins. Mumbai's local trains, like time and tide, stops for none. You keep looking out of the window, staring into the nothingness that makes you travel between this point and that. You don't even know anymore what is nice and what's unnice. You don't expect anything interesting to happen to your existence. Your friends from school are yet to stare out of the window. Or maybe they are better off in some other place where humanity is not humiliated in overcrowded public transports. You are one of the zombies now and you've accepted your future. You're probably never going to walk and explore or stand and stare. You've learnt that your life is going to rattle on the railway tracks within the periphery of this godsmitten city. You'll never escape the loud throes that engulfs everybody on this island nor will you ever travel alone again. You'll always be in the company of strangers who smell worse than you. They'll be called your co-passengers and they shall fight for those imaginary fourth seats that lie in front of them. With such fellow-morons around, perspiration will become your act of silent defiance. You must surrender yourself to make it or else you'll be left behind. On the platform. Outside the train. The city is not to be blamed nor are its inhabitants. If you really wanted to break free, you would have. By now.

Gastronomical bereavement

How much we crave the food we like! Don't we? The poor old man of our story did too. Things were better for him before he fell unwell and saw himself sentenced to an unbearably insipid diet. And his caring wife wouldn't let him astray. Even a bit. He was banned from consuming anything that resembled pickles, spices, sweets, oil...The list got longer while his lifelines grew relatively shorter. As the pendulum swung by, she got so caught up in this race against time that her gentle heart couldn't realize how deprived her husband felt. Maybe she knew perfectly well what was going on but then, she wasn't his enemy. The debilitating disease was. She was aware of the fact that he grew up on the food he craved and he had no vice otherwise. He was a man of tasteful tongue, not a glutton. Torture can't come close to describing the vocabulary of his gastronomical bereavement. One day, as his frame became thinnest, he gathered his breath. Her ears greeted his lips as he whispered the anthem of death. He is said to have said, "Cook what your hands are used to. Please." She must have cried a thousand times but in the end, she decided to stick with their doctor's sagacity. A few more days passed them with him suffering his nosh instead of relishing it. Stomach is innocent enough to not know what it's being fed. To his extended ordeal, he wasn't. He summoned his wife's ears again. This time around he only mumbled, "Feed the crows once I'm gone." The voice's desperation superseded the anger within. Silence followed this imperative line before he was transferred to ICU where they drilled a hole in his throat for essential fluids. He didn't make back home. However, even today, birds with 50 shades of black—who loiter around their veranda—are grateful to his last words. 

About time... about him

He has come a long way from worrying whether his mom will approve of her to worrying whether she'll approve of his mom. For better or for worst, times are indeed changing. He thought he had all the right moves. This was before she asked him to move on. When she left him, he felt the whole world will come crashing down. Unfortunately, it didn't. As one can imagine, he abhors her for making him feel like a fool; especially when she's fully aware that he is one. However, as far as she knows, he doesn't know much. Perhaps she is lost in a dream whereas he lost her to a nightmare. The idiot is breaking up with him although he is breaking down with her. If only he was to her what she was to him. In related news, he almost drowned in the very river she cried. Too many complains; too few answers. Nevertheless, she doesn't unlove him. He's still in love while she's returning to friendship. Yeah, the sham old story! She never accused him of not paying attention but he certainly needed to brush up his pretending skills. He'll say what he has to say but she'll hear what she has to hear. She loves believing the words he never said. Plus, she knows more than enough about his history to distort it according to her convenience. Nowadays he's busy thinking of her thinking of him. After all, she reminds him of someone he's trying to forget. He is right though, particularly when she is destined to be wrong. He was like a Band-Aid. He stuck to her and healed her. And then she threw him away. Even though he tries, he can only give her what he wants. Furthermore, she never got into his mind the way she's trying to get under his skin. She even wrote with an accent and always forgave him in English. When she claimed they shared similar views, she was referring to their poor eyesight. When she said little things in life make her happy, she wasn't referring to his genitalia. There were moments when he used to miss her absence. The part of him that trusts her happens to be the very part he doesn't trust any longer. But he should be glad that she doesn't hate him as much as she'll hate herself later. For what a relationship is worth, she has no idea how much she's going to miss him in the future. To add to his woes, neither does he. He'll turn out like electricity. We miss it when it's gone. Days from the past reckon. There were nights when she fell asleep hoping he never woke up. But both of them eventually did. Even if she got up 25 minutes late, she cursed herself like a witch. He'd sleep through the day—miss the sunset and the moonrise—and yet managed to grin. In the end, she smiled back—the exact point he's going to regret later. How can she forget those moments that brought them closer? She didn't have a life, nor did he. So they thought, why not not have a life together? She was at the epicenter of a disastrous existence and he couldn't help giggling at her. She didn't even know what she has to worry about. That's how messed up she was. He simply knew he could fix her. He noticed warm symptoms of spirit in her defeated heart. He ended up loving her from the bowels of his soul. The idiot even sprained his ankle once chasing her in his reverie. The incredible baloney of courtship. Television played a role too. He held the remote but she, control. They went shopping too although he was allergic to retail therapy. He apparently suffered from a disease called She. And vice versa. In an alternate universe, they are still together. Someday he's going to be there... and never come back.

About time... about her

Every morning she wakes up and wonders whether she'll be able to survive the day. However, as soon as she lifts herself from the bed, life resets to normal. She's been grim for a while now. 3 days out of 7, she wants to cry. 7 days out of a month, she cried. A month out of 12, she couldn't figure out why. Sometimes she stares at the mirror and witnesses herself fading away. Fortunately, she hasn't aged a bitch. She's still adorable. Regardless, she feels like stabbing herself but the coward in her worries that it would make the poor knife look criminal. She cries a lot and her face feels like jute soaked in tears. She's so beautiful that even Narcissus would have fallen for her. She's so gorgeous that she'll take your bad breath away. Even if there's a God out there, She can't possibly better her smile. She is that legend beauty is made up of. She is a little more than beautiful and a lot less than humble. She appears lovely in your dreams. Maybe because that's when your eyes are tight shut. She's so cute that PETA would outrage if something horrible happened to her. Sadly, they call her sunshine while she's dying inside of darkness. You know what she hates the most? We not knowing the answer to this question. She is just another romantic who refuses to believe in love. She's not stupid; she's crazy. And there is a difference. Once upon a time, she thought the clouds were made up of detergent. Her closet is full of skeletons and she desperately wants to replace them with designer clothes. She's being sarcastic when she accepts being sarcastic. She's a poet as long as poetry shuns her. You'll pretend to fall for her verses when she is the real culprit. She'll tell you secrets you mustn't be aware of in the first place and she mustn't share in the last. Even though she has acknowledged the existence of her big mouth, she hasn't learned how to keep it closed. Don't scream out your secrets. Gently whisper them into her ears. She'll take care of the rest. She keeps saying "Whatever!". Whatever that's supposed to mean. She puts the never in whenever. She says nothing but she says it pretty well. She doesn't remember the last time she went speechless—neither does her mouth. At times, she is so reticent that she should patent silence before someone else does. She's a nudist when it comes to changing her mind. She's effortlessly good at bad habits. She likes honest people.... lying to her. She reserves her cold sighs for winter. She's neither Rihanna nor does she like the way you lie. Nonetheless, she's a well non singer. When she sings, you'd rather prefer to curl up in Death's lap. She always hoped to do something in the field of music but to her, humanity comes first. Thank her for small mercies. She is an unrealized nightmare eagerly waiting to open her eyes. She puts the quit in unrequited. Every time she laughs, a joke dies a million deaths. Given her number of breakups, she is a leaving legend. But she's one of those decisions that shall make you. She reminds you of a lover you never had. She's that damsel who was meant for distress. All things said and done and left, she has finally reached that point where her life turns pointless. And her anecdotes, more so. Freedom has become her middle name. The day she finds someone as fucked up as she is, she'll settle down and live happily ever after. She doesn't know where she's going but she'll reach her self soon.