Tag: Life

Posted in My life

First steps

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

My daughter started telling stories when she was three.

Most of it was reused, recycled and repurposed from the stories I had told her or what she saw on You Tube (Link to the proof: Plagiarism with Brains: Reuse, Recycle, Repurpose). She would add or changes animals in my animal stories and replaced mango with pumpkin in fairytales.

Yesterday, she wrote her first piece of poetry–on the fly and in 60-seconds flat. I actually had to ask her if she had taken ‘inspiration’ from someone. She claims she hadn’t.

Here is the piece. Before you ask, I have taken Your Highness’s permission.

Touch the sky,

Touch the sun,

Just go on and have fun.

You don’t know how long it will stay,

Or rather it will just go away.

I haven’t correct anything there. I had just asked her why she wanted to write game score on the diary I had given her to write poetry and stories in. So, she just took a pen and jotted these lines on the first page (rather the cardboard) of blank diary.

Now that she has a foot in the door, I can hope. I know, there is no guarantee that she would want to continue at all. But that’s life of a parent.

Posted in Life and After

Glide

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I don’t like this whole gliding thing.

It makes me nauseous–

not that I can get sick, mind.

But that’s beside the point.

I have been at it for so many days–

I would rather put my foot down

once and for all–

not that I can do that too.

It is the cost of freedom I pay.

My eyes roam to the horizon,

dizzy already–not that I can fall.

I wonder if I can start wandering now.

No one told me the rules.

My feet itch to move…

well, not literally,

but you know what I mean.

No one told me no.

Used to being told what to do,

the freedom to decide scares me.

My heart soars and dips at the thought

of leaving it all behind.

I think I’ll take baby steps…

Ugh! Not literally, I mean.

I turn to look back at me one last time.

Chest heaving on the bed

with the effort of keeping it all together.

Yes, I think I’d rather leave.

Posted in Random Thoughts

Family that sneezes together

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

If you go looking for the meaning of the word “Joint Family”, you will probably find phrases like, a group of blood-related families that live together 🏠, eat together 🥘 and pray together 🙏. But trust me, a joint family is the one that sneezes together 🤧.

India has an abundance of joint families and not nearly big enough houses.

Even if the house is big enough, no one is content to stay in their portion. They must all converge in one or the other rooms and share gossip 🗨️. The fact that they eat together is not enough. They often have stuff 🔨 strewn 🔧 around 🥻 the 👕 house–with so much of borrowing that just one cellophane tape can do several complete circles of the house, visiting every room on its way, before the actual owner goes and buys another 💵, rather than trying to track 🐾 it down.

And then, there are the kids 👧👦. They are everywhere ⛹️, playing in every room 🤸, strewing their stuff ⚽ in everyone’s 🎾 space 🥍with precise division ⚾, so no one feels left out. They run around the floor 🤾 without shoes and jump on every bed 🛏️.

At night, there is no space 🥎 big ⚽ enough 🏐 where 🏓 you 🏀 wouldn’t 🏈 step ⚾ on a toy 🏉 that doesn’t belong to your own child. So one careless nightly trip from bedroom to bathroom can make you owe all the kids in the house a new toy each.

If you are brave enough to piggyback one, there is an entire line waiting for their turn, regardless of the age and weight.

And when one nose runs…

You can’t keep them away from each other. They will find an excuse to break all the rules you set out about quarantine, go meet their sick cousin and kiss him on the cheek to comfort him. And then you will have your hands full with a whole bunch of kids, all down with fever at the same time. All the while, all the elders will be down with fever too, because who can resist kissing a child who is unwell? Especially if he has walked in every room telling everyone he is unwell and sneezing as a proof.

So, if a joint family is really joint, it is the one that sneezes together.

I would know. I live in just such a family who is sneezing together at the moment. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the gold in the world! 😊

Posted in Life and After

The Loop

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Did she use this particular song before? It sounds vaguely familiar…

It is so confusing when you have to shoot the video at the perfect angle and in perfect light and add a song to every reel you upload. And make sure you don’t repeat yourself. What if this song was already in one of her reels? She has been posting for good three years now, so it is difficult to remember.

It is midnight. She should probably stop this and go to sleep. But she can’t–she doesn’t have anything to post tomorrow on Insta, and if she doesn’t, her followers will be disappointed.

Or will they be? She hasn’t been getting as much response on her site as she used to–less likes, even lesser comments. Why, when she added her reels of their trip to Goa, her particular video of her close up shot in micro-mini did not get much response–just 23 likes and a couple of comments with oohs and aahs! Nothing on her beauty or amazing body…

Is she getting fat? She must be with all the calories she been intaking…

She looks accusingly at her kale–it hasn’t made much difference in the past couple of months. Her weight has stayed at 47 kg since forever. She looks accusingly at her husband who declined to bring her a weight-reduction formula, calling her crazy for wanting to reduce weight further.

What does he know about social trends? You have to be fit to draw the eyes. And he has a paunch under his night shirt, which is rising and falling as he snores softly.

Loser!

She looks back at her phone. She was tired. It is so much work when you have to hold the camera and make it look like it isn’t you who is making the video; like it is your husband or admirer who can’t stop filming you…

It would be so much easier if her husband agreed to make the videos for her.

Honestly, she doesn’t demand much–just a good location, some good clothes and twenty something pictures to make a reel or, may be, a few short videos. But he is more interested in taking in the sights and enjoying with their child rather than holding the camera for her.

Ugh! She wants to throw the phone at him right now, but, if it cracks, her three-hour work will be wasted. She has filmed herself at the local pool, hair spread out in water perfectly. It took several shots and a couple of hours to get the right shot since her hair was floating in weird directions.

She will post it before risking losing it.

So, what song was it again? Yeah, it sounds vaguely familiar…

Posted in Love

The Face in the Mirror

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I touch the bedroom mirror groggily, more out of habit than hope. Suddenly, the mirror lights up green with magic, and I can see him. Across the open door of his bathroom, I see him sitting on a couch, reading a book. Which one is it this time—The Edge of Physics? Cosmos? I sigh! But then, I return to my senses and start shouting at him to get his attention. Nothing! Quickly, I turn to my right and grab the placard with my phone number that has been sitting on my bedside table for two months now and turn back to face the mirror again.

All I see is myself reflecting back in the mirror. The connection is already broken. Again…

All I want, all I hope for, all I desire in life has shrunk down into that mirror and that man who doesn’t know I exist.

I really shouldn’t have cooked that dumb cake! Why would anyone want to see their soulmate if they would still have to wait for them anyway? It is so painful to see the man destined to marry me one day go on with his life like I don’t exist.

Cooking a dumb cake on Halloween night is an ancient practice. It was also my last attempt to find my soulmate. With all the potential suitors hiding in the plain sight, it is too difficult to find a male witch now a days. It’s not that we are hiding because people might burn us at stake. It’s just that magic and witches are obsolete. Nobody needs our magical services when weather apps predict weather, daily horoscope apps tell the future, social media finds people, banks hold all the existing treasures, old recordings help commemorate dead people and fertility clinics are go‑to places for begetting children.

Technology has thrown us out of our conventional jobs. Hence, we have reinvented ourselves. Witches now use their superior intellect to secure higher education and obscene amount of salary. But we have to hide the reason for our abnormal level of talent, lest people accuse us of cheating, like sportspersons on drugs.

But because of all the hiding, our chances of meeting another witch are rather dim. Every single male witch I know is already either engaged or married to a prettier witch, while I, being a plain and nerdy scientist, am still single at the age of thirty-five. My family had set me up on dates with several men they know through family connections, but all of them seemed more interested in women with long legs and miniskirts than a woman with brains and an opinion. After I had run through what felt like all the eligible bachelors known to them, my family members stopped badgering me about my non‑existent love life.

But it is becoming difficult to attend family dinners—my brother and cousins bring their spouses and children. You’d think it would be crowded, but my heart never felt so empty before. All I need, if nothing else, is a hope that there is someone for me in the future.

Knowing this, my bestie and flatmate, Bree, keeps throwing around names of eligible bachelors,

“Why don’t you come with me to the party? There is this guy called Hans you would love to meet. He is an engineer.”

“Did you see the hot guy on the fifth floor? He’s a chef!”

“You know, Henry, our new neighbour? He was asking about you—saw you in one of my Facetime pics… Should I tell him you live right next door?”

My first response to all her suggestions is, “Is he a witch?”

I don’t mind marrying a regular guy, but honestly, will a regular guy want to marry a witch? And they will find out soon enough—we may have shunned magic, but magic hasn’t shunned us. We have magic of nature, and it runs in our veins with our blood, making them green. Closer to our heart, we are too green to ignore. We hide it with turtlenecks and dresses with sleeves. The only person outside my family who knows my secret is Bree because I wear tank tops at night.

I’m not ashamed of my colouring. But if a guy sees it, he will take flight. My bestie feels people don’t care anymore but I don’t want the issue to come up later, once I am in too deep.

So, rather than taking a 10 percent chance with a non‑magical person, I resorted to a dumb cake, which was a sure shot in finding a future husband. It is a family tradition that my great‑grandmother had used to meet my great‑grandfather for the first time, just like her mother and grandmother before her.

If a non‑magical woman makes a dumb cake, she dreams about her spouse, but she can’t speak to him. To make the Halloween magic strong enough to make contact at that moment, you require a certain amount of magic yourself—something that witches possess and practice. It felt like a really dumb idea at first but, with nothing to lose, I decided to take the drastic measure.

Well, it wasn’t really drastic, just desperate…

What’s the worst that could happen? Nothing. With no practice in magic whatsoever, there were pretty high chances of me seeing nothing. So, I reminded myself not to put any hopes on a cake even though I was giving it a shot.

On All Hallows eve, when Bree went to the Halloween party in the society’s club house, I cooked the dumb cake. She wanted me to come to meet Henry, but I lied about a headache. She left looking suspicious as if I was hiding a boyfriend in my closet. I wish!

The basic instruction of making a dumb cake is that I must work in complete silence standing on something no one ever stood on before. Well, I am no baking pro, so I asked Alexa for step‑by‑step instructions. As it droned in the background, I worked in complete silence while standing on something no one had ever stood on—my brand new, super‑pricey sofa. As I wobbled in the softness, I was scared I would burn holes in the material. I ground the flour, prepared the batter, shaped the cake, pricked my initials on the top and put it inside my microwave oven. Ideally, it should have been a fireplace instead. But, like witches, fireplaces are obsolete too.

Once the cake was ready, I pulled it out of the oven, trying to balance myself on the sofa. As I continued wobbling, it occurred to me that I could have simply bought a new rug to stand on instead. Stupid me! Then, I took a single bite from the cake, tried to chew it (a painful process) and walked backwards to my room, slid the rest of the cake under my bedding and tried to sleep on the now lumpy bed.

After this whole exercise, a regular girl would dream of her future spouse. She wouldn’t be able to communicate with him though. So, she would still have to wait until this certain person would meet her. Being a witch, my situation could be better. In theory, when I would rise from my bed at midnight, touch the mirror closest to me and chant the magic words, I should seen my future spouse who, of course, would be a male witch. Because who else would want to marry a witch? Then, I would leave a message with him. In theory, at least…

In practice, most witches waking at midnight are so confused that they can barely concentrate on the mirror, let alone remember the magic words to create the highly advanced magic for leaving a message for an unknown entity whose whereabouts are also unknown. With no practice in magic, I knew I was doomed from the moment I started.

So, I woke up at midnight (Phone Alarm), and walked to my bedside mirror, touched it and incantated the magic words (Google Notes). For a minute, nothing happened. So, I tried again, and yet again, willing to reach someone, anyone…

I never realised until that moment how much I wanted this whole thing to work; to have a chance at love just once in my life.

Suddenly, the screen lit up with a green light and there he was, standing in front of the mirror, looking dishevelled, like he had just returned from a party. His eyes were wide in surprise, and I think mine must be too. I fidgeted in my old tank top and shorts, knowing they weren’t really appropriate for the first meeting. I should probably have worn something fancier. Also, I should say something so he would know why we were here but before I could recover, the connection broke and the mirror started reflecting me again.

He was gone, taking with him my only chance at love. He probably mistook me for a trick of light, an alcohol‑induced hallucination or a ghost. But I knew I had seen a ghost—one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. After seeing him, knowing he was meant to be mine someday, I would never be able to love another. Because love it was—at first sight.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had an intelligent and likable face—someone you could strike a conversation with on the subway and exchange numbers with, just to stay in contact. He was a little chubby and he wasn’t hiding six‑pack abs under his shirt for sure, but the crow’s feet around his brown eyes showed his love for laughter. There were marks on his nose where his glasses must have rested on his face, and his cheeks and chin had a one‑day stubble. He was real. And now that I had seen him, I could not un‑see him.

Anxious, I touched the mirror, and it lit up again. But he wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t sure if my voice will go through, but I gave it a try anyway. “Hello! Anyone there? Hellooooo!” But nothing stirred on his side. I tried several times, but with each subsequent try, I felt increasingly more stupid—because every time I said those words, Alexa asked me what I needed, while rephrasing the question in a different way every time.

When I started feeling like an utter moron, I looked in the room, trying to get a clue regarding his whereabouts. He could be anywhere in the world. I realised I was looking inside his bathroom. The door to the next room was open and its lightest yellow wall was eerily like mine. From what I could see through the opening, the wall on the other side was adorned with a huge wooden shelf decorated with cute little things and sections of it were overflowing with books. Beneath it, a couple of comfortable couches sat behind a small coffee table. The room was meant for quite comfort in books and company.

I looked for something that would clue me in regarding his country. The decoration was regular stuff providing no clue. The lighting seemed low and artificial. And he had looked sleepy, so it was probably night where he was too. So, around the same longitude. Good! That left around one billion people to search from!

Running out of ideas, I wrote my phone number on a huge placard in an overly large handwriting and placed it in front of the screen, hoping he would read it when he returns to the mirror. At that moment, the light in the mirror dimmed and started reflecting me again.

After that, I tried many times, but the screen didn’t light up. I had a restless night, leading to a restless day.

The next few days, Bree kept talking about the Halloween party I had missed, bringing up different guys over and over, “You missed a blast, you know. And there was this very handsome guy who was dressed as a vampire. His canine teeth were so real! By the way, are vampires real?”

“You should have seen Henry’s face when he realised you weren’t coming. He didn’t even dance or drink. In fact, he left before the midnight blast. I really wanted to tell him that he could find you next door!”

“The party anchor was pretty brainy, and he seemed interested in beauty with brains too. Do you want me to set up a ‘chance meeting’ with him?”

But I was only half listening, my mind still on the face in the mirror.

For the coming weeks, I kept touching the mirror every now and then but only succeeded a few times. Once, he was touching the mirror too, looking lost, and twice, he was just fixing his tie. Once, he had looked into the screen with an intensity that gave me hope that he was looking at me. And during these few seconds of contact, I was surprised and unprepared, and before I could gather my wits and try sharing my contact number, the connection broke.

And then, a couple of times, I saw him sitting on his couch reading something. He read The Universe in a Nutshell with a smile that wanted me to tell him that it was my favourite book too. Looking closely, his shelf also had The Theory of Everything and loads of other books about science and stars…

They say you can judge a man by the book he reads. A man who seeks quiet comfort in stars and science on a Saturday is a match made in heaven for me. I can see us sharing books one day or sitting on those couches discussing them or even just sitting together over coffee…

The thought of the future comforts me. I just stand there looking at him, willing him to see me, waiting for him to acknowledge that I exist. But I can never make a contact.

When I finally spoke to my mother about it, needing advice for the first time ever since I moved out, I was sure she would be thrilled that I finally found the man I would love for the rest of my life. But all she said was, “Dumb cake? Well, you probably saw a neighbour.”

“What?”

“When the magic isn’t strong enough and you are desperate to see someone, you end up seeing a neighbour. I once saw Mrs. Briggs flossing her teeth; and on another occasion, Father Mathews washing his hands; and once I even saw somebody’s cat swatting at her reflection in the mirror.”

I hung up feeling crushed. Why would my mother not believe me. I had finally fallen in love, and all my mother had to say is that it is not my soulmate but a clueless neighbour! While I was never a people watcher anyway, I am actively avoiding looking around at my neighbours now, afraid I would see him and know that my mother was right.

Once, Bree cornered me, “Henry was asking about you again. At least let me give him your number…”

She has been talking about this guy non-stop for the past few days. I nearly blurt out to go date him herself. But deep down inside, I know I am being unkind and unreasonable because I am itching to go back to the mirror. “I’m not interested.”

“Look, he doesn’t care if you are a witch.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I told him because I know it is the only thing holding you back. He said he didn’t care as long as you would have him.” Well, at least she is looking properly ashamed.

“He will care once he sees me in a V-neck dress. It is not easy to accept the alienness of our colouring.”

“Is that the only reason here? You have been acting a little odd lately—too lost and too quiet. Is there something you are not telling me?”

Not sure how much I can tell her, I decide on a half‑truth, “I’m seeing someone, but it is too early to talk about it.” It is technically true, but my conscience pricks me. It is as much a lie as anything else. But it makes her happy.

“Is he someone from work? When can I meet him? At least show me a picture.”

“As I said, it is too early to talk about it. But once I am ready, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”

In the coming month, I wouldn’t go out except for work. And when I do go out, I am not paying attention. I just itch to go back to my mirror. Mom and Dad even tried a locator spell, but the locater kept coming back to our building confirming my mother’s theory. Or maybe, their magic is not strong enough too. At least that is what I am rooting for…

Noticing my absent‑mindedness, my manager has reminded me a couple of times that I have to up my game at work. But I am too obsessed to concede defeat. My life had come to a standstill the day I fell in love with that man who still doesn’t know I exist.

It is weekend and I am home yet again, touching the mirror at regular intervals. Bree is out, trying to give me space, thinking I have a boyfriend I am chatting with. Suddenly, she sends me a text, “I just had a really weird chat. Help me make sense.” There is a screenshot of the conversation.

Henry: Hey! We need to speak.

Bestie: For the nth time, she is seeing someone!

Henry: I know. Can you just tell her that, sometimes, I see her in the mirror too?

Mom was right! I had seen my next‑door neighbour! It was all just an accident! He is not my true love or spouse, just a clueless neighbour.

We were not fated to be together…

All my hopes and dreams had been for nothing…

My mind is reeling. I had been holding on that last straw so tightly that now I am drowning with it. Someone is squeezing my chest! It is difficult to breathe…

I need air…

I walk dazedly out of the door and down the building corridor. Tears are blinding me. I can’t see the next door open and slam into someone’s chest.

“Hey, are you alright?” A familiar face gazes at me with concern; his expressions quickly turning into recognition and then delight. “It’s you! Bree just told me where to find you!”

I am both too glad and too sad to find him. While my skin still tingles where I slammed into him, I know it is just stupid, misdirected magic. “Henry…Uh…You are Henry, right? I need to apologize. I had cooked a Halloween cake, you know, to see my future spouse in the mirror…and something went wrong. We are not fated together,” I finish lamely.

There is a stunned silence at his end while he processes what he heard. When I am sure he would turn around and walk away from my life, he just smiles, “And how would you know that until you give us a chance?”

His eyes are understanding, but they also hold something close to adoration. I’m speechless. “At least, let me take you out on a couple of dates before you reject me?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle the way I love.

He still wants to go out with me, and I have to turn him down, “I’m a witch.”

“I know. Saw your green skin in the mirror the first time. It looks cool on you. Can you turn me into a frog?”

“What? No!” I choke out, horrified that he would think so.

“Good. In that case, are you free for dinner tonight?” He gives me a sunny smile and hope returns to the world.

Author’s note: This story comes from my new short stories collection, The Bracelet and other short stories (available for free on the Free Books page: https://fishinthetrees.home.blog/free-books/)

Picture credits: Photo by Julia on Unsplash

Posted in Life and After, Nature

Breaking the Ice

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

For months, she hadn’t been stirred.

Suddenly, the ice broke with the unexpected weight and she screamed for help. Melting with the sun as spring approached was something a part of frozen river would accepted as fate. She would have lived a complete life by then. But breaking down early because someone mercilessly stepped on her weakness…that hurt.

So, she screamed for help. But all of them were on their own now as more cracks kept appearing–the stag that had stepped on her continued jumping neatly on the now-broken ice and crossed the river.

The river was now a jumble of fast moving pieces of ice running forward to meet the sea.

Most of them were simply resigned. She struggled against the flow, trying to return to her calm and composed existence, but there was nothing to hold on to.

Her fight was desperate and fruitless. Her screams were drowned in the gurgle of the river just like the few woohoos from others…

Woohoos?!

She turned around and saw another part of the river, clearly enjoying the ride. He had always been far away, closer to the bank. But now he was pushing her, shining with a twinkle. His playful smile dared her to try beating him at the game.

She pushed back and he laughed, pushing her again, tickling where they touched. Soon, they were both laughing as they pushed and touched and tickled and woohoo-ed down the river.

Not sure how far they reached before they melted but they certainly never stopped to notice.

Posted in My life

A Place Worth Living

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

“Kindness is a star on a moonless night. It walks with you through the darkness.”

There are people, and there are moments, but it is the gestures of people in those moments that stay with us forever.

Long back when internet was not available, I went to live in Pune shortly. One day, I went to a recruitment agency. In my hurry to leave, I left my wallet behind that had all my cash and new address. Considering that I had not managed to memorise my address yet, I should have been worried. Initially, I wasn’t bothered by the miss because the person who brought me to the agency had also promised to take me back home.

I waited for the person to come pick me up until it was dark outside. He didn’t.

Then the office closed and I was ushered outside. I panicked because I am not used to being out after dark. In small town India, girls get indoors while it is still light outside.

When I called the guy, he just said he was busy so I should take a bus, and hung up without waiting for a reply. My mobile phone was now out of call balance too. I could not message him to ask for my address. I didn’t know anyone else in the city and had no way to contact anyone.

I also didn’t have the money to take a bus and didn’t know where to go anyway since I didn’t remember the address–just the general location, which was the size of a couple of towns. I was scared and alone on the streets. Being raised in a traditional Indian family, I was used to having a chaperone everywhere after dark. I felt deserted! I wanted to confront the guy and demand an explanation. But for that, I would first have to either survive the night on the streets or reach home somehow.

At first I thought of waiting on the street; surely if I didn’t reach home by late night, someone would notice and come looking. But it was a commercial area and, once all businesses close up for the night, there would be no lights outside and I was afraid of darkness.

Also, I was no Mary Jane and my “Spiderman” had just left me to hang and dry. So I decided to take the bus.

I was shaking head-to-toe out of anxiety as I stood next to a couple of girls who seemed to be waiting for a bus as well. There was no bus stand there. They sensed my discomfort and asked where I was going. And when I told them the general location, they pointed me towards the other side of the road. Apparently, I was standing in a place that would take me in the opposite direction.

I moved to the correct side and boarded the first bus that came. When the ticket conductor asked me where I was going, I started telling him about my situation. I am not sure how many words I uttered before I started sobbing and, then, crying in the earnest. I had never cried in front of an audience before.

I told him the general direction I needed to go but when I recalled the name of the colony, he told me there was no such colony on the route. He had never heard of it. But he allowed me to ride and tell him when I see a familiar landmark.

I told him I had no money on me and he assured me it was okay.

A woman offered me water to help me calm down.

The bus was packed with people standing but, still, someone offered me a seat.

Some time later, familiar wall hoardings started to emerge. I am someone who rode a scooter back home, so I recognise routes by large hoardings, trees with particular shapes and buildings that stand out. I recognised the route now and told the conductor that this is the correct route to my home.

And then, I pointed at a road which was around three kilometres from my house, requesting to deboard since the bus seemed to be going in a different direction now. But he assured me that he now understood where I was trying to go and the bus would turn around at the next corner; that they would drop me at a more convenient and well-lit stop closer to home, so I wouldn’t have walk three kilometres on the completely dark road alone.

When I finally got down, I was just a kilometre from my home and in a brightly lit market that I recognised.

I don’t remember the faces of all those people who helped me that day because I was distressed, scared and crying most of the time and my vision was blurry. I don’t remember whether I thanked any of them.

Looking back, if I have to choose the darkest night of my life, I would choose this day when I was deserted by someone I had trusted implicitly and stopped trusting others to keep me safe. But it was also the brightest moment because I decided to try getting back up and there were so many kind people who helped me pull myself upright.

With 17 years gone, I think the gratitude is long overdue.

I want to thank everyone who ever helped someone like me. You make the world a place worth living.

Posted in Random Thoughts

Exaggeration and me

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

For many years now, my husband has pointed out my love for drama or theatrics. Not that I act on stage…I just catastrophize every thing, right from my maid being late upto my daughter not putting on weight to her school teachers not knowing fractions properly, everything is a catastrophe requiring proper lamenting.

Exaggeration has always been my friend. My husband feels it is the woman in me.

I disagree!

It is the writer in me!

My love for exaggeration comes from my hyperactive mind looking for stories in everyday life. My lizards have a life and mosquitoes too. Unlike his boring world where these ‘things’ just exist, in my world, they have a life–they go on adventures, fall in love, fight epic wars…and face catastrophe. Because what is a story without a challenge?

People tell me that I always had a way of saying things and telling tales about the regular and the absurd…it is my skewed perspective! And I love it!

Do you have any similar traits?

Posted in Love

Matters of Heart: Act 8

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

P was the most popular girl in the class. Boys were often falling over themselves to impress her while she basked in the light of their attention. Face shining, open laughter, plucked eyebrows at 15, I was awestruck by how she carried herself confidently among our classmates. When she sat on the desk to talk to me between classes, she looked like the queen of hearts, while I was a Knave, complete with a light dusting of a mustache.

Not that minded it. (I mean, I didn’t mind her being the queen. I did mind the mustache and removed it later that year.)

Inspite of being popular, she was pretty nice and happy to help. Her grades weren’t impressive, but she managed to scrape through High School somehow. In fact, she got her Bachelor of Arts degree too later.

She was one of my closest friends at that time and my mother often worried that her influence might derail me.

I wouldn’t say so. I had quite a few other things derailing me those days. Maths had never been my best friend. But ever since Algebra was introduced, I was struggling. Once I joined this school mid-semester, Trigonometry joined the ranks, and I gave up completely. History I could trudge through but, with an ever-absent teacher, Civics, Geography and Economics were quickly turning into mystery. Biology I understood but Physics and Chemistry were beyond comprehension. So, I solely concentrated on languages that did not give me hives. It meant that while I would pass English, Hindi and Sanskrit with merit and an A in Drawing, I would probably fail in all the other subjects, ending any future ambitions that I might have.

But, as I said, it wasn’t P’s fault. She had similar worries herself about studies, but she wasn’t a worrywart like me.

In fact, nothing seemed to worry her at all…except once, when she told me that one of our male classmates now had a caller ID on their home phone. I wondered why it should worry her. Later, she told me that his mother has explicitly told her not to try calling him again. I wondered why his mother would say that.

But as I said, generally, nothing really seemed to worry her.

Honestly, I liked her for what she was. While she wasn’t particularly attentive in studies, she was a well of information on some topics that seemed to miss my attention.

P had introduced me to blank calls. A couple of years into our friendship, she made a blank call to my brother (on whom she had a mighty crush) right in front of me. I was completely in awe now. Honestly, I would never blank-call my brother–he had learnt Marshall Arts and could break a brick with a single flick of hand. I had held that brick he broke, so I knew not to annoy him while living in the same house. So, I warned P, considering she visited my house pretty often. But she assured me that she has been making those blank calls for an year now, and my brother had always been polite.

As I said, nothing seemed to faze her.

From her, I found out about an infamous park where willing boys and girls went to make-out, as she rebuked one of our other friends for going there with her boyfriend and kissing him on first date. “What else would you expect if you go meeting someone in such a place? First, you should have gone for a lunch at—” Apparently, the park was also notorious for Police raids because of obscenity in public areas. Though I never visited it due to want of company, it was a good-to-know information as places to avoid in future.

A well of information, as I said earlier.

P also had a better aerial connectivity than me and seemed to know when boys were interested in her. She once told me how some boys seemed to follow her everywhere she went. I wondered if she was delusional until I saw it with my own eyes.

This particular incident stands out to me. One day, the two of us had gone to watch a movie. The plan was that two more female classmates would join us there directly and we would all leave together for home in evening. But they ditched us, and we arrived alone. It wasn’t much of a worry because it was a day show. Also, in small-town India, the cinema hall (and everything else) was within city limits on rather crowded streets.

We left the hall around six in the evening. It was still light outside. We took a rickshaw home. Soon, she told me, “Don’t look back but a bike is following us.”

Being the worrywart, I wanted to look back but I couldn’t now since I have been expressly forbidden. It could be someone I know but I was scared that it wasn’t. Suddenly, I saw a PCO (A public phone booth that survived solely by feeding on the fears of anxious females and new lovers; declared extinct due to the invasive species of mobile phones).

“Let’s call my brother.”

Checking her hair in her hand-held mirror, “Naah! Don’t worry. They are harmless.”

“How do you know?”

“The guy who is driving has been following me around quite frequently. Always on his bike. Never does anything!”

I didn’t understand. If a stranger had been following me on bike quite frequently, I would have called the Police. P was merely amused.

“But what if he means to hurt you?”

“You don’t know their kind. He is just trying to get my attention.”

Now I was curious, “But if he is behind you, how will he get your attention unless he calls your name, which he isn’t doing? Does he even know your name anyway? Shouldn’t he probably try coming in front and talking?”

P rolled her eyes. As if answering my question, the bike revved and shot from our left and overtook us like a bullet in the narrow street. And then, suddenly, it became very slow, almost idling. The riders let our rickshaw overtake them at a snail’s pace.

“See, attention-seeking behaviour…”

I was unused to such stupidity, never having encountered such a species before (or maybe I just missed it due to aerial issues). I wondered if they knew normal speech like us lesser humans. “Are you sure they won’t crash in our rickshaw at some point? This is quite a narrow road. If their bike so much as touches our rickshaw on that speed, it will overturn.”

“You are hilarious, you know!”

The bike revved again and overtook us. Some people on the road in the direct hitting range jumped to the sides to take cover. It happened two more times and I wondered why no one was calling the Police.

We almost reached the corner where we would take the turn. It looked pretty wide from where we were, but I had been on the road on bicycle before and knew what lay ahead. The engine revved again. “They aren’t planning to overtake us here?”

“Of course, that’s their grand finale before they make their exit.”

“Are they foreigners? Don’t they know what’s around the corner?”

“Are you worried about them now?”

I took a second to decide, “Yes. But I will not carry them to hospital. I have homework.”

We had almost reached the corner now.

The engine revved again, and it was too late to stop them anyway. The bike overtook us at the highest speed it could muster. It took a wider cut to avoid our rickshaw, which was now turning the corner too.

I could see the bike drivers’ eyes go wide as it entered the huge nullah (a large open drain) with a resounding splash!

For a second, I was worried they had died. But then, two black, lumpy, smelly ghosts were rising out of the nullah, staggering with the weight of muck and impact on their bones, helping each other stand.

I could hear peals of laughter and realised they were coming from the both of us. Both P and I laughed all the way home.

Henceforth, this particular pair never followed P again and this event marked the end of this tale of unrequited love, cut short severely due to the local Municiple Committee’s failure of cover the nullah. Since the drain remained open for several coming years, I wonder how many other boys without the skill of human speech lost potential opportunities at love.

I also wonder whether these boys forever resorted to the language of engine revving or if they ever learnt human speech, like, “Hi, my name is XYZ. Would you like to come on a date with me?”

But what would I, who never had a boyfriend, know about the matters of heart?

🤣🤣🤣

Posted in Painting, Random Thoughts

The Pro

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

A month back, I and my 8-year-old daughter had a drawing competition. The challenge was paint a dog without looking at it. I asked her to allow me to look at a picture since I am not good at animal drawing.

At first, she was unwilling to bend rules since the whole point was painting by memory.

But after some negotiation (“I will not play with you anymore!”), I was allowed a brief look (“Okay, fine! But only 10 seconds!”).

I quickly pulled out a doggy pic from Google and concentrated at it for 10 second. My daughter counted seconds in the background, declining the offer to look at it herself (“I don’t cheat like you!”). Then the picture was closed.

It took me 10 minutes to draw the picture directly with sketch colours (since I was too busy to use pencil first. Here it is.

If you think it was cheap of me to force an 8-year-old girl to allow me to cheat during a competition, you should look at what she drew using just her memory.

There was no competition–She is a pro, I am still learning!