Waiting Room

I am sitting in the waiting room. Funny thing- Mama on his ICU bed is no different. Attimber on the ICU floor, Akka in the ICU chair, Deepa pouring the ICU tea- no one is any different. We are all in our private little waiting rooms. Thinking…. I see you. I see you death, I see you life- I see my hand rest on your weathered, kind face. I see your eyes rest on my troubled, weary face. ICU. Guilt and regret are fogging the windows. Love and longing making the room stuffy. Just open that window a crack, slide open that glass door- watch the clean, crisp air fly in and sweep you out. Sweep him out. Release, release, release—blessed relief. From needles that pin you to that narrow bed of pain, from our groping, needy desires dragging you down time and again. Go now, go Mama. Shake loose from this torpid afternoon nap. Its time for a brisk walk home, to steaming cup of heavenly coffee.

For Whom The Drum Rolls

It’s Friday. It’s Astami. I finish my morning coffee watching the dhak players on YouTube. Their drum rolls make me home sick. The clock beeps the six a.m. and the day begins. A quick warm shower, my favorite lavender lotion. Its dress down Friday at office. I move to pick up my usual jeans and cowl neck, but my gaze is arrested by a gorgeous pink cotton churidaar. Almost unthinkingly, I start pulling it on instead. Suddenly I am on a roll. I open my hair and brush it out straight from the usual ponytail. I reach for my kohl and outline my eyes. I find my pretty Rajasthani stone earrings and on they go. And finally, slowly, I reach for my bindi and stick it gently in place. I wonder what the boys are going to think.
I run down to the kitchen. My husband and sons look at me in mild confusion. “Are you going to the temple?” asks my seven-year old. I shake my head. My kids continue to stare at me. “Then why are you dressed like that?” persists my son. Good question. I run through my list and settle for the simplest reason. The truest. “Because I like it” I say. My son looks me over curiously once more and then digs into his waffle. My younger one quips “Amma I think you look beautiful.” My husband nods in agreement and sends me a wink. I feel good. I forget to check the mirror to see if my curves (Ok, all right, my fat tires) are an obvious eye sore.
I park in front of my office. The polished elevator doors reflect the bronze bells strung at the end of my duppatta. I ride up in silence. I am now at the office front door. Suddenly my heart is beating faster. Ten years of working, I have never done this. I am the only Indian at work. We are a small market research firm of thirty odd people- not exactly your usual desi adda. But no time to waste. I have a client call in five minutes.
Drum rolls in my head. I open the door and plunge in.
The pretty young girl at the reception looks up chewing gum. She waves and sinks back to her computer screen. I respond weakly and go into my cube. I drop my laptop bag, pull out my notes and rush into the conference room. The three Sales executives sitting there swivel towards me. One looks at me with polite curiosity. One smiles in frank appreciation. The other has already turned back to the WebEx screen. And that’s that. The day starts rolling by. I receive a compliment or two from a couple of co-workers. One colleague ventures to ask me about the churidaar during lunch and seems genuinely interested in learning how it’s worn. I happily share pictures from Face Book and get a hug for being home sick. But other than that, life is too busy for my pink churidaar.
Day ends. My CEO strolls by. We chat easily about this and that, winding the week down. Suddenly it spurts from my mouth “Is it ok I wore my Indian dress today? You don’t mind?” I am super embarrassed. Can’t believe I asked that. My boss leans back on the window sill. The evening rays turn his ash blond hair into a brilliant halo . “I am glad you did” is his simple reply. I grin back. I can hardly wait for next Friday.
Some drums herald auspicious beginnings; others are just noise in your head.

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Possessed by loneliness. A peculiar sadness. Pungent melancholy. Dread this night. This fiery red wine. Sears right through me...I am pushing it down. Pushing you down. Pushing me down. Doesn't work. It never works. No rest. No salvation till I given in...swirling down. Tumbling down. ....tonight

Letters to myself

A bit of a dry spell
The writing on the wall fading.....