Regret

Dear X, I am writing from a deep, dark place of regret. This word, regret, is really a lullaby. It helps you grasp the night with hands so clean and explains the world and never explains anything. I know how you died (just a little). And now, you are myunshaped form, the unfinished being, my Golem, my husk. So, dear X, dear dearly departed, you must know that for a world so hollow, you must also be hollow. Turn over that centre to us. Everyone has a centre. A brilliant flaming centre that tethers one to hope and love and peace and some measure of tranquil sorrow. You said that you could never find yours. And so I must write to you from a deep, dark place of regret. I know how you died (just a little).

Seven more days, and I am going home.

Khaa, aro khaa! Koto khaabi khaa!

I have been reading a bit. Good, bad, downright trash. (Ruskin Bond, A Suitable Boy, Hunger Games... Fifty Shades?) Gives me something to do, really, instead of focusing all my energy on harping on and on about being looonely, and being saaaad, and being whiiiiiiiny. Seriously, enough with the whining!

Apart from reading, I have been eating out a lot. Visited Goa Bhawan (Niwas?), had good chicken peri-peri, pork vindaloo, steaming fresh buns... and a dicey dessert called dodol. Went to Banga Bhawan, and had mutton kabiraaji, luchi, mutton kosha, aloor dom, cholaar daal, roshogolla, ityadi. Yum. Panda Wok, as usual, was brilliant. Sauntered by the Czech Embassy, gawked at the huge fishes in Bangla Sahib, refused to climb up and down the stairs at Agrasen ki Baoli, rode home in an auto with a huge bean bag that threatened to suffocate the two of us. Spent one rainy evening in high spirits, with whiskey and peyaaji. Found a choper dokaan, and stuffed myself to the gills. Rambling, this is. But it did rain. And there is a cake shop. With chocolate layers that are sinful. 

I will try to write about something else next time. Not food.

Monsoons

Monsoon in Delhi: skies darker than your darkest nightmare, bursting, crackling, obscenely pregnant, swirling  and rumbling, and soon dissipating into wisps of feathery clouds. It never rains hard enough to pound the unruly earth into submission.

I hate arguments. I hate it when you apply your pretty little heads and come up with conflicting theories on everything that goes on in this world. I hate opinions. I hate the strong, and I don’t pity the weak. How does it feel to have your voice drown out all the others? In the survival of the fittest, there’s nobody left to be beautiful.

Dadu

Dadu, I miss you. The last time I saw you, you did not recognise me. Your eyes were dim, you had forgotten how to speak. Shrunken and silent, you were not the grandfather I had known for twenty-four years. I prayed to God that you find relief from this pain as soon as possible. I am happy that He listened to me. I am happy that you are now ensconced in a safe, secret and beautiful place. The world will never see someone as gentle, kind and loving as you ever again. Here I am, sitting in office, while everyone who loved you has been mourning for you since last night. A terrible pain clutches at my heart as I type out this letter for you. Am I letting you down? It is so hard being away from loved ones.

Remember me as that little girl who walked around pretty little parks with you, listening to your tales about an idyllic world of fishing boats and nets.

Rest in peace, Dadu. I love you.

Hamlet

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?


-Spike Milligan