My Superstar

My mommy always said to me,

What will happen when I go? 

And I said to her, 

We'll be fine. 

We love each other.

But we love you more. 

My sister is my Superstar. 

I talk about everyone. 

And anyone. 

But i never talk about her. 

She's epic. 

As a child ....

I looked up-to her.

I loved her.

I hated her. 

I wanted to be her. 

And 

I wanted to be anything but her. 

She had it all

Looks

Humor

Love

Intelligence. 

But she didn't see that.

 

Ever....

I did. 

All I wanted to be was my sister. 

And I ended up being anything but that.   

When she laughs,

The world laughs with her 

Really laughs with her.

She goes red in the face,

Sometimes she even shed a few tears. 

She taught me love

She taught me....

Undying love

Asking nothing in return

Just 

Pure

Love

And then life happened

We grew up

We went our separate ways

Yet

Still tied so closely together......

When Mommy went,

I had such weird notions in my head 

I was the protector.

I was the strong one.

I was the saviour. 

And yet she saved me 

She protected me 

She loved me

My mommy is smiling

Her daughters are together

Every family is f**ked up

But

Her daughters

Are together

Always

And 

Forever 

Random Recall

What are ‘Bakchod’ and ‘Emotionalfulls’ doing right? Upworthy...

30 odd years in a nutshell

Pulling on my heartstrings

Happy memories. Tap into that.

Animation.
Disney. Drool.
Rom com’s
Beaches. QSQT

Where are the real entrepreneurs?

Sold out for money?

Milk bread
Khan Chacha
The Cheese man
Home sales men

Dhobis.
Shamshaan ghats

Stamp collections
Ashoka leaves
Hopscotch
Letters

No mainstream
No 22nd century sci-fi

Just Notes
Hand fans
Cuddly puppies

Health
Hospitals
Hauwaa

Hit n runs
Bloopers
Home videos

What the hell is 5D?
Laugh. Just laugh.
Home remedies
Old wives tales

Sewing on a button
Woolies

Old photographs forever
Binding books

Doll houses
Colours and paints

Hula hoops and paddling pools.
Wind chimes and giggles

Mithu the parrot
Gidget the Daschund

Safed Maas
Pork roast

Micheal Jackson
Elvis Presley

Love. Love. Love.
Fireplaces and Hot Chocolate

Long eyelashes
Short skirts

Heartbreaks
Heartaches

Roller coaster
Candy floss

Dance practice
Math’s homework

Puppets on a string
Tear away
And dream

Back to my past
My life in a heartbeat

Counting Stars

I miss my mother.

She treated me like a adult.
A thinking loving person.
Not a child.
Not faulty. While she knew my faults.

Now I'm left.
Questioned. Judged. Mocked. Laughed at.

No protection. No counseling. No love. Only silence.

I look at her photograph.
Smiling at me.
Jarring. Loving. Comforting.
Loss.

I hear her voice in my head
And I scream back silently.
Why now. Why already.

My life falls to pieces.
I hold my head above the flood.
A friend. A lover. A collegue. A enemy.

All say the same.

I'm strong. I'm worthy. I'm polished. I'm an adversary. A survivor.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Blood to water. Water to blood.

Clarity is potent. Present.

I am my father's daughter. I am my mother's son.

I am the Chauhan without a horse.

Vanilla icecream

The midnight hour.

Isn't this the time when all thoughts come crashing down ? 

I remember a day sleeping soundly on a sunday morn.

Brutally woken up to come to the rescue of a unknown situation. 

From the comfort of my bed I was torn to the scorching blast of a bright noon sun and a still dog in the shadows of the shade of my father's ashoka trees. Planted for a day there would be only me.

While I hold her now twitching in her sleep I remember that morning from not long ago. Palpable. Yet forgotten.

Gasping for life. Her fear. My fear. Hearts beating. Yet one. Shame. Tears.

Mistakes were made. Hers. Mine.

Water was drunk. By her. And me.


Bridges were bridged.

And today all I think of is 15 drops and a spoon of vanilla icecream.

For sanity. For life.

Hers or mine.

That remains to be seen.

I'm not a drunk, drunk!

U scoff at me. U smirk at me.
U patronise me with your smile.
I'm not a drunk.
I'm drunk.

U laugh at me. U chide me.
U counsel me with your eyes.
U think I don’t see your ways
Of being so sly

U love me. U hate me
U show me how to strive
To be what I can be
With the batting of a eye

I try , I promise I do try
For life is living on the edge -
Thinking of a knife!

And then it all comes crashing down
And I just think why oh why.

Spreading arms and straightening spine reminds me of a spy

So sleep my friend tonight

While I try to catch that bloody annoying fly!

222 AM

As the creatures of the night come out she stares with glazed eyes.

Ants, lizards, bats and such.

Crawling. Tickling. Dropping. Flying.

The creatures of the night. Friends yet foe.

Swatting away a fly.

Scratching.

Trying to get the insides out. Screaming at the silence that surrounds her.

Cursing her eardrums and the buzzing mosquitoes.

Covering Kismat under a shroud of a blanket.

Thinking of the Immortals of Meluha.

Still gnawing at her soul for the unknown truths that tomorrow may reveal.

Skeletons knocking around her heavy memories trying to show her the way.

What's done can't be undone
.
Scratch away my friend till tomorrow comes.

Willy Wonka!

Ur kind and compassionate
A bit of a tool
I drink to stay sober
Yet I am a fool.
I feel like a poet
Of class two !
I hear you laughing and saying
Whoopity doo
But when I am in tears
U shed a few too

A helping hand….

Since I was a child

Mum and Me - 1983

I had a dream

To write a book.

What kind of story always plagued me.

The dream never materialised.

I had an idol, a mentor, a friend,

A mother

Known far and wide for her magical hands and delicious food.

I found my clarity. I wanted to write a cook book.

Her cook book.

I wanted to honour her legacy. I wanted to save her legacy for me.

For the day I would need to cook.

For the day her grandchildren and grandnephews and nieces would make her food for me.

It was about her and me.

More about me.

I thought it was a brainwave. A unique idea.

I turned to the only person I knew who could help make it happen.

Little did I know my aunt had been working on the same thought for years.

At first it broke my heart.

Annoyed me.

My unique idea was not so unique.

My book, not mine.

Her reasons were different from mine

Monisha & Vasu - 1988-89?

but possibly the same?

To honour her mother, her aunts and uncles, her food?

She was the baby in her generation; I am the baby in mine. 

It may not be true, but that’s what I want to believe.  

Her food – my food

My food her food,

is it not but the same?

Of the invisible family ties that persevered through decades and generations,

Was the only constant thread the taste of our food?

Ego didn’t matter. Accolades either.

It wouldn’t be my best seller. It would be even better.

It would be a personal tribute.

The dream changed. The timeline too.

It should have been completed in her lifetime.

I thought time was not the issue,

There was ample time.

The pace of gathering material and stories crawled along over years

It did not worry me.

It would be done. It would be completed.

Even my dedication.

if I had the chance to add one, was decided.

And when I was looking at other things, the hour glass emptied.

Time ran out.

I gave up on my dream.

My aunt’s desire to fulfil hers grew stronger.

However, the book will materialise.

The dream will be fulfilled.

For all the smallies who came after me

Iona, Nayantara, Abhay, Zoya, Ishaan, Isabella, Jasmer, Saba, and Vasundhara too.

For all their smallies who will come.

From being the baby, Moni is the aunt

And in time has become a grand aunt too.

From being the baby I am an aunt

and in time will become a grand aunt too.

Life doesn’t stop.  Change is the only constant.

This book will be the anchor.

The food will remain unchanged.    

Her food will continue to heal our souls.

A moment too late…

Chocolate Fudge

I’ve said this before – I don’t cook, I run far from any hard work in the kitchen, no smelling fruit to see if ripe or sweet, no sifting grain to check for keedhas, no washing vegetables to make salads and such. And yet, each and every memory of mine involves food. The smell of freshly baking bread…. Her at the table surrounded with bottles of Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, Tomato sauce, Vinegar, Soy sauce - mixing, dabbling, tasting like she was making some magical potion. Truth be told , it was magical, an explosion of flavor and colour be it for spare ribs, or the butter filling for a chicken–a-la-Kiev;  salad dressing or home-made mayonnaise; her famous fudge to be distributed to many on Diwali or packed off for her nephew Jasmer in Indore.  Some smells were not so pleasant to me but oh how the dogs would go crazy … a brain wave of hers if I stand correct, nutritious liver biscuits for her 4 legged children baking in the oven.

Barbeque Spare Ribs 

There were only 2 places where this magic took place…. The dining table – mixing pots, steel bartans, bottles and ingredients all laden on the table or sitting on her bed with each surface covered with raisins and candy peel being cut, cleaned , chopped and whisked off to make room for dry fruits and other such!

And when not laden with ingredients she would be sitting there with her old recipe book, spectacles on the tip of her nose, patiently repeating instructions or changes in quantities depending on the number of expected and unexpected guests, add-ons to fuse in for a bit of a variation, what to be kept out depending on individual quirks...if Kuckoo chacha was coming then it had to be Pudina ka chutney no daniya in anything, while if Munna chacha then it had to be Daniya ki chutney and no pudina, Cookie chachi – likes her Vegetarian fish (a self coined title to a paneer dish!), Arvind tau must have his hot phulkas , Lynda thai – gulab jamuns, samosas for Abu… some of the things I learnt along the way, the list of people’s favorites and dislikes endless.

Closer to home she and didi had a food bond that I could never break into – Brain curry, karela, aloo mangori, gunpowder on idlis, fried chilies! But never one to discriminate or favor one over the other, we had our special inner circle moments, just me and her …. A good steak, Cadbury’s milk chocolate, which Siddhartha always brought big slabs of, on every trip just for her, club sandwiches with bacon and lettuce, midnight snacks of Grapenuts and cream with just a dash of milk for texture. 

Glazed Ham

But the most special of all would be Sunday lunches. Ever since I started working or even college I had a 6 day week. The only lunch together with her would be a Sunday. As the years passed, it became a given that I would not, unless dire circumstances, accept a lunch invite on a Sunday. That was our special meal in the week. How she thought of making it a treat for a meat loving me – prawn curry, fish curry, vindaloo, matar paneer, thehri, sambar with drumsticks, saag ghosht, every Sunday one of my favorites. And once the babies came, khichdi, idlis, fried chicken , whatever was there favorites too.   

Nandsingh Bhaiya is a great cook. Far and wide, he is known for his scrumptious food, be it lunch, dinner, festive occasions or just day to day normal khaana. I've always thought that as has everyone else.

And then everything changed.

No tantalizing smells of Pork chops in the oven, no leftovers in the fridge to be whipped into something new to snack on,  no new treats to just ‘see if you like it’, no sniffs of disdain at being too fussy …..empty table tops, hollow silences, no special nights with a glass of baileys on ice and bitter chocolate conversations, funniest of all was Nandsingh bhaiya’s food lost all flavor  too..."too salty", "too burnt", "too spicy", "too tough". Favorites were favorites no more, food meant nothing but a morsel here or there to survive. 

Confused I looked far and near to figure what was the missing ingredient, what had changed, every nook and cranny, every room I searched for her, for answers, for the food I craved, for my stomach, my mind, my heart and my soul.

Answers will remain unanswered for I waited too long to ask them and now she is gone.