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Showing posts from 2015

The winter of your life

Winter is watching your parents grow old

Dry leaves fall in clusters and make a haunting whispery sound every time the cold wind blows. In time, memory fails, limbs linger longer than they should on the ground before they feel blood coursing through them again. Like the clusters of leaves that fall and fade away, memories fade too, never to return. Cracks appear on the veneer of the mind, the cobwebs of the past weaving into their grasp the uncertainties of the future. Time is raspy, its passing met with fear disguised as cynicism. You can buy anything you want, anything except time. The clock is a conscience keeper, one that you cannot fool or bribe. 

Winter is comfort

Warmth is measured through touch, not a like button. Friendships get muddled in a haze of likes, comments and tweets. But real friends are those who show up. For a wedding, funeral or just to say hello. As the years pass, memories will come to your rescue. Ecstasy, tragedy, regrets, all get woven into a big ball of  neuro…

Home

A home is just bricks and mortar, nothing more, nothing less.
Bit by bit it gains a soul, indecipherable to the 5 senses.
When I was a kid, the homes we stayed in weren't too big. But they always seemed enough. Summers meant a 3 hour train ride to Mysore with a helping of maddur vada on the way. From then on, maddur vadas transport me to a time when life was shorn of its complexities. And no other place makes them like how they do in maddur - oily, soggy and with a rider for a cholesterol check. The home in Mysore has since been sold but the memories are still vivid. The maroon tiles, granddad in the portico, a dog that went by the name Julie and the scent of Mysore rasam that emerged from the kitchen.
They're all gone now, the home, the dog, my grandparents. The only link between me and those halcyon years is the maddur vada. And every time I greedily sink my teeth into one, for those few moments, it is home.
In the course of a life, we switch homes. Moving homes is hard but …

#If life were like an instagram feed

I read a quote sometime back that went something like this - "Jealously is how much fun you think they had." At some point in the evolution of social media, quality of life began to be measured by a person's social media feed. And you think that person must be having the time of their life. No dull moment. No faux pas. Every moment so tailor-made to create a thing of beauty. You will be misled into thinking that people were waking up daily to a view so beautiful that it seemed right out of a tourism guide and that every meal was a Michelin rated gourmet style offering.

If life were like an instagram feed, the day would begin on a cottage in the hills, a selfie with the morning mist in the background. Breakfast wouldn't be poha, idli, sambhar or anything that bears resemblance to the ordinary or everyday. It will be crepes with chocolate sauce, some orange juice, french toast with a side of bacon and waffles with maple syrup. You could use the filter 'Rise' for…

Why there are no Iyer Bakeries

Note: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. If you are still hell bent on taking offence, no one can help you. Happy reading.

Cast of characters

1. Seshadri Iyengar - an ageing Iyengar with a penchant for cooking.
2. Vasu - Seshadri Iyengar's good for nothing son.
3. Mohini - Seshadri Iyengar's wife 
3. Mani Iyer - Seshadri Iyengar's once-upon-time bosom buddy. 
4. Kalyani - Mani Iyer's pretty daughter. 
5. Leelavathi - Mani Iyer's wife
6. Muttal - the local astrologer 

Old age and infirmity hadn't yet robbed Seshadri Iyengar of his independence, but his idiotic son Vasu Iyengar had robbed him of his peace of mind. Always claiming to be between jobs, Vasu was besotted by his neighbour's daughter, Kalyani. She was pretty, diminutive, and sang the raga Sindhu Bhairavi without missing a note. Named after her father's favourite raga, Kalyani, her idea of rebellion was to choose a different favourite raga and …