Unsent messages III

Someone had put up a story

About her and a boy

She’d re-shared it

It was a congratulatory post

She was tying the knot soon.

We had a strange bond

Close because of a mutual friend

Distant because of a mutual friend

One of those kinds of friendships.

I wanted to congratulate her

It was a happy occasion

It didn’t require much thought

Just one word would do too.

I typed it out

With my usual exclamations

And happy smileys

But my finger hesitated

I just couldn’t press send.

What if things were still awkward?

What if it appeared fake?

What if it was ignored?

My mind was running a marathon.

Then again, I thought

What if maybe,

Just maybe

Old chapters could’ve been closed

New ones could’ve been written

Stronger friendships could’ve been forged

And the future, rewritten

If only, I had sent

That one unsent message.

Unsent Messages II

I opened Instagram the other day

A friend from high school had posted a story

It beautifully described her mother

It wasn’t a birthday wish

But a painfully poignant ode

A tribute to a parent – gone too soon.

I remember seeing her mother in school

Fit as a fiddle,

Free as a bird

Wearing a wide smile,

Having a good time

I wondered what had suddenly gone wrong.

I thought about writing to my friend

We’d known each other for a few years

We’d been in the same class,

Attended boring tuitions,

Even acted in a play together

But had lost touch after school.

Yet, I typed out a message

Wanting to know how she was.

The words were carefully penned

The sentences expressed concern

The emotions were genuine

But, I never sent it.

My mind went in circles

What if the pain was too raw

What if the message was a trigger

What if I don’t deserve to know

What if she doesn’t remember me

After all, we weren’t even close.

And yet, my mind wanders again

What if maybe

Just maybe

The pain could’ve been healed

The grief could’ve been eased

The nostalgia could’ve been pleasant

If only, I had sent

That one unsent message.

Unsent messages

It was just the other day

When I heard about my friend’s passing,

I was shocked & deeply saddened.

He’d fought a long battle

But victory turned him away.

My heart went out to his wife

I thought about writing to her

I thought about what to write

I fumbled for the right words

I even typed it out

But never sent it.

We were strangers

Who’d never met

Who’d perhaps, never meet

It wouldn’t have made any difference.

But then,

What if maybe,

Just maybe,

Everything would’ve been different

Everything could’ve been different

If I had just sent

That one unsent message.

Would turquoise go better with pink?

Would turquoise go better with pink?

Hmm, I’d have to think

And let that thought sink

Oh, look we’re already heading nowhere

I’ll soon have nothing to share

You see, I’m actually better with prose

That’s the way it goes.

But I’ll still give it a try,

So tell me, where was I?

I sat there, looking out of the window

I sat there, looking out of the window.

My head leaning against the wall

The glass pane stretching from the corner of my eye to meet the length of the door, 4 metres away.

Without any effort,

I could see the tops of trees,

Greens of different shades –

Sap, emerald, viridian and olive

Swaying to the song of the gentle breeze.

I couldn’t hear the rustle but I could see the dance,

Feeling like the deaf lad at a performance until

The sound of a blaring car horn

Shifted my gaze to the street beneath.

You could feel the Saturday morning,

No one had to be anywhere by 9,

And no one had to pack lunches before 8.

There were just a couple of cars whizzing past

And an impatient bus driver following behind,

A man on a vintage scooter calmly riding on the wrong side,

A 20-something swiping through his phone while walking on the cemented footpath

Shop shutters were going up somewhere,

A black dog lazily roamed around a parked auto,

Two men were sitting on shabby plastic chairs and talking,

I could see one of them was growing bald from the centre

A lady was holding her bag of groceries and walking past,

A bunch of straws had already piled up near the coconut vendor,

Half the day was almost over for some,

While it had just begun for the others.

I sat there, looking out of the window.

It’s a funny world we live in

It’s a funny world we live in,

A sin doesn’t remain a sin,

If it’s all about win-win.

Granny Tales 101: Chapter 5

This one took a while to come. Apologies for the delay. But I promise to be more prompt than I have been.

Today I talk about dadi and my piano lessons. Writing about this was unplanned but it seems like the best thing to relive at the moment.

My tryst with the piano began way back in second grade. My mother had seen a small newspaper listing for classes nearby and thought it was something interesting for my sister and I to learn. Our class was in a crammed home where the piano took up all the space in the room. But as kids we didn’t seem to bother. We were captivated by the instrument and the beautiful music one could make from it. And so, my sister and I took an instant liking to it and learnt fast. What began as a short summer camp eventually blossomed into a full-fledged class that saw both of us appear for Grade examinations by the Trinity College, London for nearly 6 consecutive years.

Granny Tales 101: Chapter 4

So the reason I said I knew what was coming up in this chapter was because I knew there was going to be an article of mine coming out in the newspaper soon. It was a piece I wrote on Tamil poetry for The Times of India, Chennai. I mention this because a lot of my interest in writing developed because of dadi.

Dadi was an English teacher and she would sit for hours teaching me poems, grammar and narrating granny tales when I was in school. Before exams, she would sit with me and listen as I read out lessons loudly and interjected only if she wanted to add a point. Even at 90, she knew what gerunds and clauses were better than anyone else. I owe a lot of my knowledge in the language to her. She loved reading my English answer papers to see if the teaching sessions paid off. But my humble sweetheart that she was, she never took credit for it, simply praised me for being talented. 

Time – a timeless mystery

My best friend recently asked me to give her a quote or proverb on time. I proudly doled out a series of them, “Time heals”, “Time and tide wait for no man”, “A stitch in time saves nine”. And she retorted, “Can you give me something positive?” And that left me speechless. Every other proverb that crossed my mind from then on was largely negative. I found it strange. I googled a bit and didn’t find anything wholly satisfying. It didn’t bother me much then but it definitely lingered on in my head. When you’re having a rough patch, such things quickly seep back into focus and tend to eat into your thoughts more than you’d want them to.

Granny Tales: Chapter 3

Sundays with Dadi were a bliss. She didn’t just love food, she loved making it. Food was on her mind all the time. In fact, most of our family friends remember how she’d welcome them when they came home, “Coffee kudikaringla?” [Will you have some coffee?]. Soon after, she’d busy herself making a hot cup of filter coffee, that remains unmatched in taste till this date.

Sundays, in particular, were different because it meant eating Dadi’s special Bisibella bath with a dollop of ghee, garnished with fried groundnuts and crispy appalam to go with it. The waft of piping hot flavours in the rice would fill the house and soon see each of us tip-toe into the kitchen to see if lunch was ready. The menu for lunch was almost always the same every Sunday, with Vaanghi Bath [brinjal rice] being its only serious competitor. Once in a while, variety rice like lemon rice, puliogare [tamarind rice], coconut rice and tomato rice would make an appearance.

Dadi was always the head cook for these lunches. Her mind would start working from the previous night. Everything would be mentally organised – from ingredients to quantities. And while everyone relished her food, she’d have a standard line after preparing each meal – “Innike seriyaave varle!” [Today, the taste isn’t upto the mark]. Eventually, this line became an inside joke as all of us waited for her to say it. We’d tell her that if she doesn’t say it, then something was definitely wrong with the food. This conversation would leave us all giggling.

Fortunately, these happy memories linger on and sometimes give you the strength to cope. They’re a reminder that the end isn’t the only thing to remember. What is important, is the journey. The moments, the times spent together, the love, the laughter – they can never be erased and one can only be grateful that it all happened instead of cry that it’s over.

I think I have an inkling on what’s coming in chapter 4. Stay tuned, guys!