Boredom.

An absolutely bored wife stared right across the table. Her husband was still fingering the phone. An affair? She wondered. No. He is too clean for that. But all these apps, old friends, football.

"I will just use the restroom and come back." She nodded.
He came back to the phone.

"Do you have 100 rs?" She took the money and gave it.
He walked out and bought cigarettes. Came back again to the phone.

Well, she kept staring. Not knowing where this would end, or begin even. Tears hurried to flow down, but she controlled them. That heart ache and tightness was back. This was an everyday affair. No conversations. Even if there were, it had stopped exciting either of them. She had devotedly followed football for his sake. Listened to new genres of music. Read politics and developed viewpoints on subjects that would interest him. But it seemed inadequate. He went back to the phone.

Boredom crept in, and that emptiness was back again. The heartache increased. She felt it would explode and pieces of her grief would scatter around. No one would pick it up. No one would even know.

The Snuggle

At 3:30 pm, the bell rang and I jumped up thinking, he is home early. He is home early because I told him I was unwell again. He really cares.

I flung myself at him. And loved that musky smell that came from him. All I wanted now was to snuggle and go back to sleep.

These nostrils were bothering me, too much blocked like Whitefield road on a Monday. Urgh! Why do I bother now. He is here, and well the snuggle is to be looked forward to.

He did come over to the bed. Gave me his usual dose of kisses. Then said, "the match is at 4:30..."

Oh! Oh! Well. Ok.

Life is not fair always. It's ok. It would be ok.

Today You, Tomorrow, Me.

It was a blessing in disguise when a small unisex parlour opened right outside our apartment. Both for Unni and for me. He gets his regular awesome beard trim, and I go through my tweezing in there. Started by a couple who worked as hairstylists in posh parlours in the city, their dream was to employ some people, earn a good living and give their son a better life. Carefully picked girls and a boy worked there as assistants. During our visits, we saw some leave, some stay, and the owner complained to us that this profession was tough because getting someone skilled was nearly impossible.

Yesterday was an eye opener for me. The girls working there were from the North East. Young, away from home for a living, the owner and his wife gave them a room to stay - and it is more like home away from home, according to the girls. But the problem begins with the local men, around this area, who come for facials and other beauty treatments. It is a unisex parlour - but for many, the name unisex, means a lot more than that.

A girl seemed scared yesterday - she has been handed over Rs.500 as a tip for a facial. She was worried if the man would ask her to do anything more. But it was a customer after all. Her friend who was giving me a head massage told me, "these things are common Didi...they think, we are dirty girls, because we are not from here." Sometimes during head massages, men hold their hands to show where they need to massage. Sometimes, they request for chest massages during facials. Sometimes, an overwhelming tip like yesterday, leave them in the fear that they could be asked something more than the facial.

I told the girl to talk to the owner. She said, they do complain to him, and sometimes, he sits with them during head massages. But for facials which are done in a small room, there is hidden trouble. She also fears, a local could probably harass them and get the place closed down. She also fears, she would lose the monthly income sent to her family. She looked helpless, but she seemed to think this was how her life was meant to be.

What is really with the world, I think? As I was paying and getting out, I saw this man, who had gotten a complexion enhancement facial - behind his dark face, and eyes, there seemed to be an emotion that I seemed to recognise. The one that we as women see everyday on the streets - of lust, of raping women with eyes, of wondering what lies beneath our clothes.

I thought to myself, workplace, streets, buses, trains...we have no escape sister.

Today, you. Tomorrow, me.

The Chai Expert

I never ventured into that shop - it screamed exclusivity and high prices. I could never think of paying hundred rupees for a cup of tea. That would be insane. But the first time I mustered up the courage to actually spend that money - why not, I am earning, and these are experiences to be counted into life. I always tell my friends now, what if I get hit by a truck right now, and my wish was to have a chocolate mousse? I never dream of a Gucci bag or a three day stay in a 7 star resort, I dream within my means. And back then, hundred rupees for chai, was well within my means.

The waiter approached me with a black thick menu card. My eyes went directly to the prices - thirty rupees, masala chai. What? I missed drinking this? I enthusiastically leafed each page, and that is when it struck me, oh my, so many varieties of tea. Who knew? Back home, tea was of two kinds, actually three. One with thick creamy milk, with sugar. Two without milk, but with sugar. And three, which was my amma's special, black, with sugar and a small teaspoon of ghee. Yum. But here, pages after pages, for headaches, colds, fatigue, romance, who knew.

I decided. Masala chai. Thirty rupees. First step done.

As years went by, I adapted quite naturally into the role of a tea expert. Oh, need sleep, drink this one. Got a headache, migraine, you say, drink that. Chamomile, Orange Blossom, Peppermint, the list went on.

But the very first sip of exotic tea every time, takes me back to that day, I decided to try to step out and have that cup of masala chai.

Thank you Cha Bar. For memories and courage.

What Growing Up Also Meant

My windows at home had blue stained glass. Amma said the architect who built it 30 years ago had suggested it because it was in fashion then. I loved them too. Beyond fashion, it also seeped the light from the road, bluish white, like a blue night's sky filled with moonlight - yes, I loved them too, in my room.

Home was small, small boxy rooms. But I had loved growing up there. I had loved my room, facing the small lane in front of the house, with greenest of green trees near my window, and from where I could hear rain falling gently singing melodies on the steps leading to the upper floor.

Home smelt of prawn fry, now when I smell back. It also smelt of amma's sarees, neatly folded in a huge trunk, with sachets of sandalwood powder bought from Kerala's art emporiums. It also smelt of rain. That earthy smell when the first drops hit the ground. I had loved it back then, and yearn for it now.

Home was Achan's folded arm chair, still intact. Amma's wooden wardrobe with secret cabinets. It was sweetness of red juicy guavas from the only tree in the backyard. It was Ammini aunty's chicken curry, and Lissy chechi's beef stew for Christmas.

Those were lovely days.

When playing with Mary chechi meant learning how to make ulli papaddom. Walking to the dance class lazily, to be pampered by Shyamala aunty and Surendran uncle, and their parents. Being naughty and forgetting dance steps, and singing all the wrong notes in Salim sir's music class. Walking back in anticipation, craving for Amma's chicken curry on Sundays, with potatoes soaked in the chickeny gravy, to be had with soft Modern bread, and washed down with hot milky tea.

All my teeth was plucked by Thekele Aunty. She had a weird Kozhikode accent. Later, she also fought with Amma and Achan about something trivial, and then we had to build a huge wall separating their house from ours. It was also Thaatha and her beautiful daughters, who put mailanchi for me in beautiful designs.

Home was all that.

Home. 

Another Time, Another Life.

Meera wanted to go back. But she kept telling herself, this one trip to meet him. Wouldn't it be wrong not to? After all, she had spent considerable money and time to reach this far. She confided in her best friend, her sister almost, about her apprehensions about the trip. Anu knew how much Meera wanted to go for the trip. To meet him, one more time. God knew how things would turn out to be, the next time they met.

Anu called their childhood friend. Come soon, she said. We need to make this trip. Go with Meera...couldn't we go?, she enquired. Krish knew these girls since school. They had grown up together. He knew Meera like the back of his hand. He said he would plan everything, but needed money. Meera was rich, her husband was, in fact. He wondered, what would she be telling him? About spending this money. They were told not to post any pictures on Facebook. So it meant she was doing this in stealth. But it was the need to meet him, one last time as lovers? Lovers? How lame. Meera had been married for three years to another man, a man who was chosen by her parents. She seemed happy with him, settling for the life of luxury, designer clothes, foreign vacations. But why did she come back to India, then? Surely, it couldn't have been so happy. Else why would she return to meet her long lost lover? There was that word again. Lover. They were children, holding hands in school, pretending to be in a relationship. But that was school. Hadn't Anu pretended the same? Anu, with the relationship issues with everyone, the sour childhood, with her tantrums he had come to love. But he was confused too about what she wanted from him.

Anyways, there was time to think about all this. For now, the trip. Yes. To Pondicherry. In car. Two women, girls really, and him. To meet the lover, yet again.

Meera transferred money to his account. Anu is broke always. So Meera said she would pay for the car and the hotel, and the expenses. Fully paid trip. Wow.

But in the car, Meera went back, to another time, another life. She dreamt about a life that she lived now. With Mohan, it was so easy. She loved the fact that he gave her money, in her account, every month. Took her for dinners, bought her jewellery, flowers, trips around the world. She adored him. But love? No.

Love, was in another time, another life, almost. She had met Vivek in school. He was popular. Girls worshipped him. She wasn't bad either, was she? With her good looks, wealthy background, popularity was hers too. But they had just been in sync - from the first day they met. Behind the stage, he had been pushed forward by a bunch of his friends. He proposed a friendship. Meera knew it was coming and she knew her answer as well. She would love to be friends. Then it began. Rumors spread, but they didn't seem to care. She loved Vivek and he loved her. Parents got a whiff, and she was whisked off after classes, back home. No more cool drinks and puffs after school. But they met during breaks, he bunked classes for her. It went on.

Then they lost touch. He had become too local for her taste, too much of a country lad. Parents sent her off to study more. She fell in and out of love. But nothing was the same as with him.

A marriage and three years later. She realised. She had to go back to her another time. another life.