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. 

G(r)owing frugal with my words

 

CALM IS A SUPERPOWER

Candor can be my thing when the vibes match. But of late, I’m also savoring the goodness of letting muted words take a stroll in my mind. Often a mouthful and always in a rush, they are free to roll and ride, get all ‘cheeky’, ‘hit the roof’ and even go looking for some ‘wisdom’, as long as they tango behind the confines of a subtle smile.

The thoughts that come dunked in these words stare me in the eye, say they feel deprived. But I reason hard. A 10-word vocab is enough to glide through most cursory and customary exchanges in a day, I say. Okay 50, at best 100, I relent. The thoughts circle wild, flex their muscles, gush to spill out and I know why.

So, I laboriously explain one more time. Silence cannot be misquoted, nor misconstrued when it’s sealed with a benign smile. And the benefits are obvious and plenty. Buttoned up lips prevent unintended verbal spillages, pull the plug off arguments and, as a co-benefit, spare my lungs the much-befouled air in this day and time! And when I turn the volume down on my words, I see the feelings stoking them settle down and dissipate, a magic balm for any tormented mind.

Ever wondered how a monosyllabic baby giggles and gurgles its way into our hearts? That’s the language of love, though bereft of words.  The thing with words is they are potent and carry not just their own weight but also the unjust burden of interpretations. Often lost in translation, they get ensnared in wrangles that feed nothing but insatiable egos. So, if not for any good, why unleash them and empty them of their true meaning? 

These days I prefer sitting with silence instead, our arms wrapped around each other, even as some bruised thoughts feverishly froth beneath, bubble up to the surface and quietly recede when starved of words. And what’s your vent, you may ask. Well, words are also my tranquil succour. So, I’d rather  plate them sensibly and serve them right.

Dark side of a chocolate, and some bitter truth

Bus stops can be marvelously contemplative spots, or at least that’s how I find them. While the world races past you, you wait there stoically, eyes peering for those familiar clutch of numbers that you want to see and just hop on.

Today was no different. Just that the wait was a tad too long. And even as I let my thoughts saunter, something faintly grazed my feet. It was a Dairy Milk wrapper and you knew it was licked to the last bit. A moment ago, I had unmindfully seen this indulgent mother feed her child the chocolate, a usual mommy trick to keep their little ones pleased, especially during the after-school hours.

But the woman didn’t even blink before trashing the glitzy cover right there, as if the whole world was this one big dustbin except, of course, her house, I’m thinking. (No, actually I’m quite sure). While I was in all mind to give her a piece of my mind, I realized she would not care two hoots about it.

While the soiled wrapper lay there in the company of smoked cigarette butts and zillions of junked bus tickets, I had to move on. And while the ride was on, I turned to FB, bored and killing time on my timeline, till something casually caught my eye, again.

This time it was an ad featuring Big B and Kangna Ranaut. What more, the ad was curiously titled ‘Don’t let her go’ ( (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=do3Wc9da_yg&feature=share).
 I played it, and what played out for the next 2 minutes 45 seconds only confirmed the one belief I reluctantly held for so long -- only the good god almighty can save this country from turning into the world’s largest dumpyard. It’s only he, in this case she (Goddess Lakshmi), whose vanishing act can instil fear in the minds of people who mindlessly go around littering in public places.

It always amazes me how tiny little posters of gods, goddesses and religious symbols plastered on compound walls and public places manage to keep our peeing population at bay.  And then what about those messages, again on walls, warning people from dumping garbage at a particular site or else risk paying hefty fines?  No wonder, the makers of this ad and the brains behind the Swachh Bharat campaign thought it apt to tap a collective conscience in this manner. Fear can work wonders, especially where the language of reason has miserably failed.

In retrospect, I feel I should have probably stopped that mother from junking the chocolate wrapper there, and I shall live with that tinge of guilt for long. But then when my everyday effort of segregating waste at home ends in one clumsy mix in the garbage van the very next morning, I wonder, what is the purpose of it all? We talk of Solid Waste Management. How about some Solid Thought Management first?

Guess, it's time to wrap my thoughts, though am no way junking them!