On Winters

Might be a li'l late for this post, but nonetheless...

Winter is beginning to catch up. You can feel the slight sting of chill. The skies are throwing new patterns and the sunlight is getting more balmy than prickly. There’s a certain ‘thehraav’ about winter mornings that makes me fall in love with it. Everything is the same, yet not. The pace of things begins to slow down as we carry the weight of more layers.  
It’s the season of slowing down. Of taking more time in sipping the morning tea. Of putting the paper aside and watching the silence of the city from the balcony instead. Of tracking the sunlight as it moves slowly from one building to another, until it kisses you.

I like this calmness of the season. There’s no restlessness to turn up the fan speed, no rush to reach the bus stop before the downpour. Winters let you take it easy. They make you feel like the first day of vacation, after the final exams are over. So you can hit the snooze button and cuddle under the blanket for five more minutes.

Make that ten.

The irony

As I go about my day, travelling in the bus and walking long distances, I see people glued to their mobiles. I hear daughter-in-laws cribbing about their in-laws, employees cursing their bosses, people complaining about their maids, boyfriends maddened at their girlfriends – I rarely come across anything that is faintly positive. And whether I like it or not, I enter the murky territory of their personal truths. Unhappy, unappreciative and unapologetic – that’s the picture I get in my head.

My visit to the grocery store reveals another facet. As I walk past several rows to look for the humble Parle G biscuits, I see racks full of readymade food. These aren’t your good ol’ 2-minuters; they are proper meals packed with preservatives. Snip, simmer and serve – it doesn’t get more convenient than this. The packet mocks at the current state of life when it says ‘packed with love’. Is how we serve love these days – fast and fuss-free? No careful picking of the ingredients, no painful hours spent in the kitchen, no watchful eyes over the simmering gravy. No time to waste, just a tad compromise on taste – that’s how we do it?

And as I walk back home, listening to more venting of unhappy people and walking past many more packaged foods, I wonder – is this the life we wanted? We are wriggled away by time, controlled by economics and tied to our burdensome responsibilities. This is not how it was meant to be. This is not what we wanted from our job – more blood pressure and less time. This is not what we wanted from our social life – strained relationships and unhealthy opinions. This is not what we have been working towards as a species.

And if this is what we get in the name of progress, I’d rather be left behind.   

Bangalore Flower Market

Wholesale markets have always fascinated me. The huge stocking, the clutter around, the availability of the unimaginable, the rock bottom prices – it’s an ecosystem that has an uncommon beauty to it. And no matter which part of India you are in, it doesn’t change much.

As if I had not seen enough flowers, I was itching to visit the Bangalore flower market, which would be my first wholesale market visit in this city. We chose Ugadi, the Karnataka New Year, as the day. This would either mean that we were in for a treat OR that we would be swarmed by the crowd. Add to it the warnings we got from friends - don’t argue if don’t know the local language, don’t wear any jewellery, beware of pick pocketers and the likes. Nonetheless, we decided to go.

We reached around 8 am and the market was already bustling with activity. As soon as we entered, we could smell fresh veggies. There were veggies everywhere – incredibly fresh and oh-so-interestingly arranged.

Visiting local bazaars opens up a whole new world for you. Not to forget, it’s a great study in buying patterns too. Interestingly, India is known for micro-sales. So when I saw the mini packets of garam masala, I wasn’t surprised. Fit for daily use, these packets are especially for buyers who don’t like to stock too much. Just enough is just right.

A little ahead we got to the heart of the flower market. I felt like a kid in a candy store.  Multi coloured vermillion, spices and clothes– I loved every bit of it.

And then came the main attraction – the flowers. Garlands, loose flowers, gajras – they were in numbers I had never seen before. The sellers were attracting buyers with the best prices, rolling out streams and streams of fragrant garlands and briskly weaving some new without batting an eyelid.

But that wasn't all. Every corner was full of surprises.

Like the man who said the cow ‘talked’ to him.

Or the one, who oblivious to the chaos, was reading the morning news.

We saw gems of indigenous organizational skills 

And a world of exotic colour and fragrances

I was, once again, amazed to see how these bazaars effortless bind together modernity and yesteryears’ charm. There’s a constant push to keep up with the times on one hand, and a seemingly untouched and unchanged way of living on the other.

Suddenly all clutter looked beautiful

and even what I couldn’t decipher, began to enchant.

:)

Malled

It was huge. Well lit. The entrance itself was grand enough to intimidate. Flashy banners screamed names of brands she’d only read in overpriced magazines. It looked pretty. On second thoughts, pretty snobbish.

While driving down the parking space, which looked like a never-ending twirling ride, she read something that reaffirmed her sense of the place.

“Most people may not have heard of these brands. But then, this place is not for most people.”

Clever line, she said to herself. As a writer, that’s the first thing that came to her mind. But wait, there was much more to those words. There was a categorization of a brutal sense that she did not appreciate.

Euphemism – that’s the word she was looking for.

Euphemism (n) - Substitution of an inoffensive term for one considered offensively explicit.

She’d read it a hundred times in school; appreciated many examples of the same from countless poems. But unlike those several times, today it didn’t leave her with a very happy feeling.

She felt uneasy, probably unable to decipher which side of the bracket she belonged to. She entered the large atrium nonetheless. Manicured women, spendthrift men and difficult kids – it had the usual elements that make for the drama called retail therapy.

But remember, this mall was not for the usual shopaholics. People walked in and out of the obnoxiously expensive stores - checking price tags, expressing surprise in hushed voices and longingly looking at the stuff they wish she could afford. Suddenly, the uber- cool mall culture seemed like a conspiracy to stop people from being who they are. Why would you want an overcoat that’s meant for the London weather? Why would you need a soap that costs more than your pair of jeans?

Surely, she didn’t belong to this bracket, even if she could. After an hour of aimless walking that left her with tired eyes and feet, she headed back to the car. There again, in front of her, she saw that line; like a swear word written in beautiful calligraphy.

“… But then, this place is not for most people.”

November Rain

The drama in the clouds





Blurred escapes





The sweet surrender



No words can match up to the magic of monsoon.

Myopia

This city is of extremes. There’s so much to see, to hear, to feel. It keeps her senses on high alert. She doesn’t want to miss anything. Everyday, she keeps dealing with the overload.

Then, one day, the city’s sharpness gets blurred.

She forgets her glasses at home. On purpose.


(An attempt to write 50-word stories. This one is exactly 50 words.)