Gadgets off the menu

It was a hectic Saturday evening and the menu cards had been much thumbed at Miss Murphy's charming riverside cafe, The Munchies. The clock had struck 10 and it was time to down the shutters. The cards had been stacked up in a neat pile at the billing counter. Chloe, Miss Murphy's hired hand, liked to leave the place in good nick every night. "A place for everything and everything in its place," she'd quip, if ever Miss Murphy suggested she take it easy.   

Lights out, the place slinked into silence, only the mellifluous river gurgled under the star-lit sky. The items on the menu cards too rested on their oars. Tomorrow would be a new day. Who would Miss Murphy pick as the Day's Special for display on the sheeny blackboard at the entrance? Would it be the 'Double-layered fried chicken cheese sandwich' going strong a third day, or would a combo meal be put out in her impressive cursive as the steal deal of the day? The sides knew they'd have no luck ever making it to the centerstage. But the burgers and burritos fancied their chance with every setting sun. And so wafted the thoughts as darkness blanketed the after-hours...

At The Munchies, Sundays usually began on a yawny note, which meant not before 11. Chloe would arrive by 10 to set up the place mostly populated by youngsters. Not like the older folks didn't make a halt, but their visits would be brisk and purposeful, unlike the young'uns who'd lounge around as if it were their second home. At seventy something, Miss Murphy loved their company. She loved the vivacity they infused with their presence, the way they schmoozed. 

But there was something she wanted off the menu. Something she hadn't put out there in the first place. Something that had invaded The Munchies and found a seat at every table, uninvited and definitely not from her culinary stable. So this Sunday Miss Murphy thought to experiment. 'Gadgets off the menu. Tuck them away & and half the price you pay!' read the words on the blackboard.  

Chloe, who was busy sponging the tables, curiously turned around to steal a glance and instantly broke into a smile. She knew that through that offer, Miss Murphy was gifting the spritely frequenters something as precious as their own time. And as if on cue, even the menu cards she held suddenly felt light!    

(The piece is a fiction, not the pic though. That I clicked at a cafe in Mussoorie, a hill station in Uttarakhand, India)

Forever I the flower girl... 🌸🌸🌸

If there is one thing I have indulged in over the years, it has to be fresh flowers. Sometimes I think maybe our souls are very old friends, flowers and I. As a child, I grew up in a bungalow with a garden speckled with flowers, some that appeared seasonally, others that bloomed round the year. The sync of souls must have begun right then. I recall turning to my books every morning only after a round of rendezvous with the flowers meandering through the manicured lawns. Dew-clad in winters and sun-kissed in summers, they'd transport me to a realm of wonder. 

A floral memory floats back to a time when one arid afternoon, my friends and I walked the edges of a pond that had hundreds of pink lotuses in bloom. And how can I not mention the gorgeous orchids that hugged a mango tree in our backyard! 

Years later, when I stepped out of girlhood and moved into a bustling city, leaving the warm confines of my little town, the flowers rehomed themselves in my thoughts, their essence forever blended with mine. I have since bought myself flowers many times and they are a favourite home decor now. Who needs a fancy wallpaper when you have flower power to make a splash! Dreary days are never the same when you have long-necked gladiolus, redolent tuberoses or an assorted bunch of carnations and lilies filling your vision.   

I have picked up abandoned stocks and scattered summer blooms from under massive trees and placed some in pages of my favourite books, from where I inhale long-lost memories. I have stopped to watch them quiver in rain and and then look 'droop-dead' gorgeous, I have seen them eddie together in playful banter under the soft evening breeze.

If ever I find my spirits wilting, I trust a flower to make it twirl,
revel in some petal prattle, forever I the flower girl! 

           

 

Eating out, alone

Until recently, I could never bring myself to eating out alone. I'd feel gawky about seating at a table with empty chairs across. It felt like the world around was watching with an extra pair of eyes. If alone and at an eatery or a cafe, you'd most likely find me at the take-away counter, even if it meant home was another thirty minutes away or the packed food would certainly go cold.  

I often searched for an answer behind this unease, my stomach all the while growling in protest. We are what we think and it dawned on me that my discomfiture was because of what I was feeding my mind. My thoughts would circle around random people pouring their gaze on me, or a family at the corner table giving me the side eye. Not like I cared, or did I? Basically, I didn't want to be the center of attention in my singularity. It also stemmed from social conditioning. A young woman eating alone in a public place wasn't a common sight and I hadn't grown up seeing much of it. We always look for templates to follow, don't we? 

But I wasn't liking this version of me. Every time I pulled back, it made me hangry! I wanted to care less and eat more and uninhibited, like literally. And so I started making the little moves. I chose quiet corners or tables facing the wall. I walked into places that weren't already teeming with people. The first time I almost shoveled in my food and washed it down with some quick swigs of a cold coffee. But it felt good, to turn the tide within. 

The real magic lies is in crossing over the line. And all it takes is that first time. The other day I not only indulged in an unhurried brunch all by myself, I also sat at the table for an extra hour arriving at the topic for the A-Z Challenge and even writing it down, all the while strong hot cuppas keeping me good company. I still caught the occasional glances and the second looks, but nothing stirred in me. Checking in with myself helped me move a mental block. 

And wait, now that I'm thinking, this was such an appetizing food for thought!

Dimply Beautiful!

In a summer dress her eyes crinkled, she was dimply beautiful,

The dent on her rumpled-looking cheek came alive with every giggle.

What a beauty she must have been underneath those wrinkled skin,

 How many hearts might have melted at the alter of her every grin.

She must have known her precious gift, for she smiled often and easy,

Or did she turn frowns upside down, knowing life's regardless crazy.

Did she keep a dimple diary, swoon the world with her beetroot blush?

Here I tried to trace her thoughts, she though was in no tearing rush.

Curious, I strolled up to see what was giving her all those giggles,

And there propped in a stroller was someone doing her own little jiggles.

A spitting image of her grandma, just the dimple on the other cheek,

The blue-eyed darling smiled all gums, a bouncy bundle of happy streaks.

Between then and now and now and then, the dimples shared a little smile,

Preserve my legacy, said the older one, now that I have come this long a mile.    

   

(I love poetry and even dare do it at times. This one's one such attempt. And yes, I'm a big fan of dimples, the creator's special gift to only select some.) 

     

Clothes donned and ditched

We live in a world where there are a gazillion stimuli to feed the consumerist glutton in us. So much so that even our phones today annoyingly eavesdrop on our conversations and push tailored advertisements to propel us to make a purchase. This is an aside. But when I learnt that in marketing lingo it is called 'conversions', I actually chuckled. Whoa! How easily and often we get 'converted', I thought. 

Now before I digress, let me plate the seed from which this post is sprouting. Clothes that we routinely buy, wear and discard are actually keepers of memories and holdalls of emotions, the good, the bad and the ugly. At the time of purchase, they may sit neatly folded with their lookalikes, strategically placed under troffer and track lights to reach your eye. But despite all the sheen and shine, they are denuded of emotions. 

Their real journey begin once they get off the shelves and enter your cupboards. Picture this. You are staring wide-eyed at a closet full of clothes. There is no dearth of outfits, yet you scratch your head to pick the right one to wear. This is because your choice is being driven by a certain emotion. A happy you might pull out a vibrant colour and a fancy cut. On a dull day, you may reach for the most blended look, wishing not to stand out even in a crowd of two. When the mood's all jaunty, you might dare yourself into trying something that's otherwise not you. And on days you feel like you are already tired tomorrow, your pajamas feel the most comfortable. 

And then there are the memories that get weaved into their fabric as we experience life and its various flavours. That's how we have that 'one lucky lavender colour shirt' or 'the not-so-lucky green dress'. I have many such garments that could tell you beautiful stories only if they could speak. I also have many others that carry my battle scars. Some have fallen into disuse and yet find a coveted slot in my cupboard for the sheer memories they bring back. 

In a world where emotions and emotional people are often thought to be silly, how fascinating it is that something as inanimate and customary as clothes absorb feelings and begin to reflect the same once they find their wearer. 

Is there a piece from your wardrobe keen to tell its story? Lend it a voice, please. The mic's all yours!

Bubble-wrapped through Covid

How many of you are a fan of the bubble wrap? I for sure am one and ever since I have know them. I call them 'the audible anti-stress pills' that work like magic to calm every grated nerve. Thanks to ecommerce, these pop treats became a ubiquitous part of our lives. I literally go on a mission mode to find the last one in every sheet I lay my hands on. Yes, that's me! And if ever I find them all flattened, my mood deflates like that of a child told to hold back from her favorite candy. 

MY LOCKDOWN BUD

During the pensive pandemic days, when my modest 1BHK flat felt like it was growing in dimensions because of the overbearing solitude and unguarded thoughts it had to accommodate, a massive roll of bubble wrap, very thoughtfully gifted by a former colleague who had noticed my obsession with it back in office, brought me much meditative calm. When puffed to the brim, the neatly seated symmetrical pods are so inviting, you'd think they are infused with some ethereal spell. 

If the pandemic brought us face to face with life's fragility, the healthy supply of bubble wraps gave me a comforting sense of continuity. Every day and very ritualistically I'd cut a piece out of the tall ream and go on a popping spree. And what a balm they proved for all the disorderly thoughts that crowded me. A most unusual pandemic gift, I was delighted to be loaded with such a stressbuster during those unpredictable days.

TIME TO REDEFINE IT 

While a dry dictionary meaning indicates their core purpose is to provide cushioning to fragile packaged objects in transit, the unassuming bubble wraps, in my opinion, belong to a higher league. To me, their definition should expand to include the intangibles: 'Bliss-induced air bubbles that release glee.' And finally, thanks to that colleague who spotted my workplace quirk and drove home a lockdown remedy. 

Ambulance with a seat for a prayer

You are caught in this nauseating traffic, the reels on you Instagram feed are the only things moving. The engines go quiet and ennui takes over. Some listlessly stare out the window, most fiddle with their phones. And suddenly the wails of an ambulance grow louder behind you. 

The sights and sounds of these emergency vehicles always tie my stomach up in knots. Who is in there? How much time does s/he have? Will the person make it? Is it the last few minutes of that Golden Hour for someone who might have suffered a near-death heart attack? Is it some accident victim in urgent need of blood? Or is it just an empty vehicle racing against time to reach someone clutching to that last straw of hope?

Questions which will never know an answer pound my head. I get fidgety, shuffle my legs, turn back to look through the windshield glass. All I can see is the anguished red siren amid a sea of searing car roofs. This time I look ahead. My eyes fixed on the traffic light.  Three, two, one...and the light goes green. I release a quarter of a breath and then some more. And in seconds the ambulance rushes past me. I settle down, let out a full breath this time and say a prayer, hoping for it to hitch a ride and help whoever is in despair.

Amorphous wishes they are but every time I let one out, I trust them to travel far. I don't remember when this habit grew on me, but through it I have come to believe there is always something I can give. Next time you think you have nothing to share, give out a little prayer. Grace will find its path and land as a beautiful fleecy feather somewhere.