Saturday 12 December 2015

Scents That I Would Bottle Up

I am aware of the fact that the concept of perfumes and colognes already exists, but there are few scents so personal that I doubt I'd ever find them in pretty little glass bottles to decorate my vanity with. 


1. The scent of my classroom in the winters.
It just has this different slightly humid air mixed with the scent of books, wood and old curtains. It reminds me of the fact that the year is almost at its end and how much I've grown and learnt in the past year and how things are going to be very different next year.



2. Steel mesh.
I spent a lot of my childhood with my face pressed against mesh windows just to get the criss cross pattern on my face and It has this distinct smell that I love. 



3. Just when you put tea leaves in boiling water.



4. A freshly lit matchstick. 



5. My grandparent's house, it smells so different and homely.



6. Rubber ear phones.
I used to secretly chew my sister's earphones' chord when I was younger. 



7. Ink.
Especially ink from a ball point pen, it reminds me of that proud and content feeling you get when you've finished writing your project/story/notes/huge math assignment. 



8. A piece of wood that I broke off of one of my school chairs.



9. Coins.
My dad has a collection of all sorts of different coins, and together they all have this scent that reminds me of all the times that we sat to sort them out.



10. Freshly ironed clothes. Reminds me of my sister and my mom's obsession with ironed clothes. Also, order and perfection. 



11. Chart paper. Bundles of them. 



12. My hair after I've spent too much time with candles. It smells slightly like smoke because knowing me I most likely have singed my hair from the fire.



13. Envelopes. Letters. Stamps. I write letters for people and I always make really pretty envelopes with them, I usually write these on people's birthdays so it is basically me sitting recalling all of the great memories I have with them, so its a really important scent for me. Also, I tried collecting stamps when I was ten, I don't know where that went. 



14. Very very dry leaves.
The sound of them crunching and the smell throws me back to the times when my friends and I used to throw dried leaves at each other and sit in piles of them. 



15. Newspapers and magazines.
They smell like knowledge(?)



16. Booksales.
You know, when the 'old book musty smell' meets 'new book crispy smell'. That.



17. Cassettes. We used to have an entire carton full of cassettes I have no idea where it went. My favourite cassettes were the mixed tapes, there was a dance mix, a sad songs mix, a really jumpy happy peppy songs mix (no these weren't the actual names of the cassettes but this is what six year old surmayi called them).



18. Old photographs and camera rolls.
Majority of my childhood was spent getting stupid pictures clicked through my mum's silver Olympus camera and the rest was spent sitting on the carpet with my family making collages out of them.



19. Carpets.
There was a maroon carpet in my parents' room in front of the television and I remember whenever we would order food from outside we would sit on the carpet with newspapers spread out on which we kept our food while we watched television. (I remember watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets for the first time during such an event, it had been dubbed in Hindi). 



20. Sweaters, gloves, scarves - woolens in general, especially when my mum takes them out of the boxes, gives the 'winter is coming' feeling you know (see what I did there?)



There are many more scents that hold importance in my life but for now, these are the 20 scents that I would bottle up.

Monday 10 August 2015

The Boat

I hear the sound of the oar splashing the water as I row the boat slowly through the water. I look around and smile, looking at my family, the young man that smoked in the corner, the curly-haired girl with the book, the old man with the photograph in his pocket, the woman in the silk sari with her two children and finally, me.  We weren’t blood related and none of us had even spoken to each other, but they were my family, the few people I saw everyday as they traveled in my boat, the few people that were a storybook for an illiterate like me.

He stroked the creased photograph with his fingertips. He was going to see her again today. He missed her, every second of every day. He stared at her picture, listening to the boatman whistle and the woman in the silk sari scolding her children. Everyday he would get up, dress himself in a crisply ironed shirt, pay the boatman exactly ten coins for the trip across and visit his wife’s grave. People often wondered why he went to that place everyday, none of them knew the peace he felt. The joy he felt to be in her presence again. Over time he had began enjoying the boat rides to his wife, the gentle rocking of the boat over the water made him relax. The whistling of the boatman would change its tune everyday just the way his wife used to hum a different song everyday. The silk sari of the woman sitting across him reminded him of how his wife would fuss over her own saris, ironing them carefully and folding them perfectly. He found tiny pieces of her everywhere and it made him feel great.      

                     

She flipped the pages of her dog eared book, completely absorbed in the story it had to tell. She loved each character and every description, she loved how the words twisted and turned to fabricate a brand new world. She didn’t travel on the boat to reach a destination; she simply rode the boat to find some time to read, to peacefully disappear in a world with the soft sound of the rippling water in the background. She would push her curly hair out of her face over and over again but the stubborn strands never stayed back. Her boat ride was her escape from the city noise, her work and her messed up life. Sometimes she would close her book and look around at the beauty of nature and think of how in the hectic daily lives people forgot the true essence of beauty that surrounded them. She would close her eyes and hear the wind talk in its own language to her; tell a story much like the one she was reading.



“Bhaago mat! Gir jaoge!” ("Don't run, you'll fall") She scolded her children. She wanted to laugh at her own statement, since she was running too and knew she would soon fall. She ran day and night to make ends meet, ran a bit too much perhaps. She often thought of how she had devoted most of her life to her children. She loved them with everything she had, her children had taught her many things, things her long life hadn’t. She adjusted her silk sari, it was one of her favourite ones, she felt the soft material between her fingers as she looked around at the people in the boat who were absorbed in their own worlds. She wondered whether they were running too, perhaps from something or towards something or maybe just running, like she was.

He inhaled the smoke and let it fill his lungs before letting it out through his nose. He couldn’t stop thinking about the amount of work he had piled up at home. He sighed as he tried to remember the last time he was at peace, the last time that he had actually done something fun and spontaneous. He closed his eyes and the let the breeze hit his face he smiled as it brought a childhood memory to him, a memory that had gotten lost over time. He opened his eyes and looked at the water an idea coming to him. “Yeh paani kitna gehra hai?” ("How deep is the water?") he asked the man rowing the boat. “Yaha zaada gehra nahi hai, kyu?” (Its not too deep here, why?")  The boatman replied. They were very close to the coast, so the boatman had to be right about the water being shallow, the man took his cell phone out of his pocket and kept it on the wooden seat of the boat and without thinking twice, he jumped. The boat rocked mildly back and forth but the boatman got it under control. The passengers of the boat panicked as they rushed to the edge of the boat to see the man, he gave them a thumbs up and shouted “Kinaare par milte hai!” ("I'll meet you on the coast!") The people on the boat sighed with relief and took their seats again, talking about what a crazy man he was, while the young man felt the cold water drench his clothes as he swam without a care, he remembered how he and his friends would jump into the very same waters after school every afternoon. He smiled to himself and swam ahead.

I continued to row the boat as the usually silent boat for the very first time was full of chatter about the young man, or well ‘idiot’ as they referred to him as, jumping out of the boat. I whistled as I saw the old man laugh, the woman with the two young children giggle with the curly haired girl and the two little children wave at the young man swimming ahead. 










Monday 30 March 2015

How to Make a Perfect Cup of Tea

A week back I read an article on 'How to Make a Perfect Cup of Tea.'
And I must say that I strongly disagree.

You see it isn't the making of the tea that is meant to be perfect, it is the smiles, chats or silences which  follow that are. 

A perfect cup of tea, is when you meet your mother after a long time  over a cup of ginger tea made just the way you like it or when your uncle says 'Chai toh peeke jao' when you are in a rush to leave, sometimes when you and your dad sit in the garden outside, on a cold evening with a warm cup of tea discussing the universe, and you don't have the heart to tell him that he added salt instead of the sugar, perhaps when you stop by at the local tea stall after a tough day at work to catch up with the locality gossip, or when you sip on watery tea at the railway station because the train just won't arrive, on a rainy day when 'pakodas and chai' are all you crave, even in the lap of the mountains because, come on! You have to have the tea in those special cups, also on a comfortable evening with an amazing book.

So a week back, while sipping on my perfect cup of tea, I read an article on, 'How to Make a Perfect Cup of Tea.' And I must say that I strongly disagree.

Tuesday 24 March 2015

Out of Order

The cool wind blows
Whistling through the hollow bones
The brain is numb, but it never shuts up, floor is cold but the feet don't stop walking 
Emptiness fills me uptil the throat, fear drills deep into the core
Gloom and darkness are my good old friends 
Slowly I drain, drain out of energy 
Breathing is tough, the ash filled air blocks the passage, the smoke hurts my eyes 
But I move because I think I am strong. I can tolerate it.
I know I will come out of it, I know that this will pass. But I will drag myself, drag myself ahead as long as I feel out of order.

Saturday 28 February 2015

Avaricious Abnegation



The flames danced,
slowly burning the life
the life out of him.

He had believed,
that all that life meant,
was to acquire all the glittering gold, 

His greed ate him, burnt him,
all he could do was watch,
watch as his avaricious self burnt,
in the dancing flames.

The flames danced, 
slowly burning the life,
the life out of him. 

His abnegation of everything, 
for his people, 
is what diminished his life,

He too watched,
watched as his life fell apart, 

As it burnt, the smoke hurt his eyes
selflessness in this world, 
is not an easy bid.

The Avaricious burnt and so did the one capable of Abnegation, 
the selfish burns and so does the selfless in this place. 

The flames danced,
slowly burning the life,
the life out of them.

Sunday 22 February 2015

Unbind Unravel Understand Untangle

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Unbind
the chains, spread your aching wings, fly far away, let go and breathe, its rather simple.
Why complicate?

Unravel your mind, rewind. Travel down the memory lane, move with the nostalgia. Love your past, or perhaps forget it. Why regret?

Understand yourself, feel the sunlight, learn and admire. Flow and sparkle like the water.
Why stop?

Unbolt the window, of happiness and joy, look out. Erase the hurt and sadness, instead, smile.
Why be low?

Untangle the meaning of life, your meaning of life from the tangled mess of thoughts. Live everyday and be yourself.
Why pretend?

Friday 9 January 2015

Dried Flowers

He lay the dried flowers down onto the cold cement. It had worked out well, it had gone perfectly. 'Too gorgeous' he whispered as he turned to leave. He smiled as he walked away, yes everything had worked out rather well.


He sat in his armchair, running his hands through his silver hair. He smiled thinking of the days that had brought his plan into action. 


He would leave dried flowers on her porch everyday, with a note saying that she was too gorgeous for the world. At first she was rather confused. But gradually she greeted the flowers with a sweet smile. Whenever she read the note attached, she would laugh her beautiful laugh.She  would look around trying to locate the soul who brought her the gift, but he blended in the shadows too well almost as though he was one himself.


But she was unaware of the presence of the sweet venom in the flowers she held. Diminishing her existence day by day.
After all, she was too gorgeous for the world.


He lay the dried flowers down onto the cold cement. It had worked out well, it had gone perfectly. He grazed his fingers on the name engraved in the stone.


'Too gorgeous' he whispered as he turned to leave. 'Too gorgeous for the world, just like my dried flowers'. He smiled as he walked away, yes everything had worked out rather well.