Experiences

“You are going on leave?” the lady seemed to want to continue chatting. “Yes,” he replied mechanically, then for some reason said truthfully: “Actually, my dad is quite unwell. Going to visit.” “Oh my God. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?” she asked, her brows furrowing in concern. “Paralytic attack. Still in the ICU,” he replied and felt a tightness around his chest. “ Adada! ” she commiserated. “I’m sure he will get well soon.” Hari felt like crying. “Thanks—but I understand he is very critical,” he said. What was he doing, pouring his heart out to a complete stranger? Jet lag must have kicked in already. “Hmm, let’s pray he gets out of it soon,” she said. Silence fell at the table. Hari leaned back into the pillar behind him and closed his eyes. What was the appropriate emotion to feel for a father who was so detached, preoccupied, uncommunicative and unapproachable all his life? A parent who was so caught up in his own failure that he couldn’t see the

“What an odd place!” Vijay commented. “This is enroute to the fort up there,” Sandeep pointed to the top of the high hill. “But what was the need to build a fort in the middle of a tiger filled forest?” Suchita wondered. “Or they used the tigers as their natural defense,” Vijay speculated. “Against who?” Suchita looked at him. “Who will come attacking a fort inside a jungle?” Vijay’s eyes shone. “Ah, it’s not who they are keeping out—it’s what they keeping in!” he said. Suchita looked at him through narrowed eyes. “What are they keeping in?” she asked, knowing that her husband was on one of his flights of fancy. “Haven’t you watched Black Panther?” he asked. “Seriously! Bandhavgargh is Wakanda now?” Suchita huffed. “Yes, these hills are protecting an ancient knowledge, too dangerous to fall into evil hands!” Vijay said dramatically. Suchita laughed. “You’re crazy!” “Oh you laugh—poor ignorant woman! Little do you realize that the sure hand of fate has brou

Rohit was a fastidious young man. No, his need for order was not a result of any childhood trauma. He was just the latest in a long line of very neat, orderly people. His great grandfather was a very successful accountant during the British Raj, perfectly balancing balance sheets. He went against the Vastu diktats and built an ancestral home where every room was perfectly square and of perfectly same dimensions. His grandfather was a lawyer who grew to the ranks of the district high court judge. He was very unpopular for his fastidious judgments, but he maintained perfect justice and balance in his court. People used to correct their watches by the time he left for work in the morning, took his lunch break or went for his after-dinner constitutional walk. He was unfortunately attacked by some disgruntled party while on the above mentioned constitutional one night. He never came back home. His father recently retired as a chief engineer from an automobile giant. His depa

I wandered as lonely as a cloud… The other day. Yesterday. Many moons ago. Everyday. Weightless, fluffy—yet, anchored down by gravity. In my meditation, I use a brilliant visualization technique for grounding—I imagine myself tethered to the earth with light cords. I always end up visualizing myself as floating in space on my chair, bobbing like another Little Prince, linked to a small earth. I wonder whether I see the earth below my feet as small. Barely enough to stand on. Do all of us come with some earth apportioned to us? A little piece of land to put roots into? Or are our connections as imperceptible as light cords? I wander a lot. Aimless and restless, over hills, valleys, forests and city-scapes. Or purposeful and sure footed—getting somewhere, doing something—carrying life, rainbows and messages for banished Yakshas. I meet other clouds and I slide by them, rubbing shoulders sometimes, rumbling and thundering, or quietly, forming hares and dog

I’ve read this about hyper dimensions a long time ago (I’m paraphrasing freely, of course): If you are a species that cannot perceive the dimension of height, then if I slip a hula hoop on your head and place it around your feet, you will be my prisoner forever, because you wouldn’t know how to step over it. I never learned to ride a bicycle or a scooter or drive a car because way back when I was a teenager, girls were not allowed to learn such things.  By the time I was no longer in small town India, the diffidence was overwhelming. “Terrible sense of direction,” I said. “Such a bad sense of space that I’m lethal with the airport cart,” I joked. But really, it was just a hula hoop that imprisoned me. I am driven everywhere, mostly by men—drivers, friends, and relatives. Even our all-girl trips by road usually has a male driver. Off late, a small percentage of rides are with my girlfriends, but these are strictly within city limits. So when A suggested a 2000 kilometer ro

…talks a lot. And it is a good thing. A few months ago, my nephew, the budding film maker, made me walk through the streets of old Madurai city, as part of recci for his script. We randomly rambled around one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, feeling a little awed by its imposing history and complex cultural subtext. Then suddenly, we arrived at the site of some personal history. It was the street where his parents were married 31 years ago. Never before have I felt the weight of three decades as heavily as I did that day, because I wasn’t able to locate the wedding hall. There were a couple of them, neither carrying the name that is on my sister’s wedding card. We asked the guards and they scratched their heads. I called my mom, who also was not able to recall which end of the street the hall was. 31 years were long enough to change things around even in a forgotten little street in a city where changes happen very slowly.   31 years a