Her kind

And that is the kind of person she was. The kind who would never get her hair straightened even if all the other co anchors at her station were doing it. The kind who used her teeth to peel off the ends of sugar cane stalks, chew on them and spit them out. Like her mother had taught her as a kid. The kind to never wear nail polish but when she did, the colour stayed for a month . The kind who cooked a meal fiercely even if she cooked only for her friends who longed for homemade mutton. Or the kind to never pick up red lace lingerie instead sticking to blacks and whites because they were more practical to match with anything she wore. The kind to climb rocks, trees and seven foot gates. The higher the physical obstacle, the more she wanted to get to its other side. The kind you couldn't write off to be too modern for your son because her roots were her tradition, her mother's village her favourite retreat, her parents home her safehouse against moronic men who broke her heart and of course....of course...the sarees. Her obssessive love to be perpetually in sarees . When she draped the five yard fabric around her, you could not stop your eyes from staring at her looking so alive. You didn't want to use the word sexy. It fell short. You could not, even if you wished to, stop fantasising the wildest thought your brain could conjure, instead stopping at the most timid of them all. The thought of what it would be to have her in your arms and the saree at her feet.

A little.....and a lot more

Walk a little won't you
Talk a little won't you
Make love to me more
Till we together reach the shore

Critique me a little won't you
But hear my silent cry even if I am close to you
Hold my hand even when I am strong
Pull me out of the tide where I don't belong

Hold on longer to me a little more won't you
But fight with me a little won't you
Don't bottle up yourself at the end
Remember you never did, even as a friend

....For when you look away, I long for you the most
When you shrink back, know that I'll hold you close
It's not perfection I seek
Don't you know...I am already yours to keep?


II
If you falter, I may chide you
But know this... my heart will surely guide you
Don't worry if I take a little longer resurrecting myself from my past
Where my soul was at half mast

It's you I seek out and crave for
Since you let me walk in through your door

So cover your mouth with mine
Let our fingers do the talking
Let me show you the way just once my friend
You may have to bow a little...but I promise, you will never have to bend.

Save the last dance

As I was packing up today to leave my home in Bhubaneswar and return to Mumbai, my mother recalled an anecdote about my grandparents. A few days ago my grandaunt was proudly telling my ma how my dadu a Lieutenant Colonel in the then British army happily encouraged my grandmother to dance with other officers if they asked her hand at the evening dances. "I didn't have such good luck like your mother in law. My husband simply wouldn't let go off me at those dances ", quipped my grandaunt.
   Something about the way my mother laughed while narrating this and imagining my dadu's sportive nature took away the misery that was clouding my brain . Leaving home and the Mitras is never an easy task but stocking up such wonderful stories helps me survive the madness that is Mumbai.
 For now I pop a paan from the pack my dad gave me as a going away gift to cheer myself up and brave the traffic back home.