The Art bin

damageLR

She grabbed an apple on her way out. Slamming the door behind her, she ran to the elevator trying to escape the small windy opening in the corridor that invited the cold. It was already late. The cold dreary morning outside was splattered with sporadic rain. She grabbed her jacket closer to her while waiting for the elevator.

‘Aah! Why does it have to be so windy? It is so cold!’ she spoke to herself. Her eyebrows got closer to each other and a distasteful frown appeared on her face, much like the weather outside.

With shaky legs, she moved closer to the door of the elevator. Finally, the elevator was here. As soon as it opened, she darted right in almost scaring the tall passenger inside.

The apple was crunchy. She munched and munched, and the morning rush showed in her bites. The other occupant watched her chomp away from the corner of his eyes. She suddenly felt the bright chartreuse scarf she was wearing. It sure could brighten up the insipid morning outside.

The elevator stopped.

On her way out of the emergency exit, she tossed the seeded core of the apple into a bin near an apartment door.
‘Whoever kept a bin here is a thoughtful fellow,’ she said to herself and walked out.

The day ahead was so full of debris for her that she could have filled that entire bin with it. Needless to say, she came back and slept off.

The next morning was a late morning again. She hurried to leave and grabbed an orange on her way out. She peeled it in the elevator and dropped the peel in the same bin on her way out of the emergency exit.

10 am.
He yawned and opened the door to check for milk bottles. A strong whiff of ripe oranges struck him. He looked around and saw the peel of an orange in his precious wide-mouthed vase near the door.
‘What! Again?!’ his eyes were big and the last traces of sleep had dramatically vanished. He remembered that just a day before he had taken out the core of an eaten apple from inside the vase.

He looked around hoping to see someone to rant to and exclaim his surprise at the ignorance of the moronic person who used his decor as a trash bin.

The dull blue colored vase was part of a curator’s collection that he had fancied and bought from an art exhibition. It was wide mouthed with a lesser bottom, and this shape was precisely what he had liked about it. He loved ornaments for his home, and he had hoped that this vase just outside the door would set the ambience for his guests when they entered his crafted museum of decor that he called his home.

Only that his hopes and dreams were dashed by a moronic individual who was atrociously using his decor as a trashbin!

He decided to wait for the miscreant the next morning.

Keeping in mind his own eccentric timings of going in and coming out of his house, he calculated that this art-crime was being committed in the morning hours. He would wait.

He would definitely wait.

All night he was up fearing that he would not be able to wake up early morning and grab the culprit by the collar. He worked, ate a packet of noodles, worked again, and planned to keep the door open from 5 am. Tired of working, he switched on the television.

7:30 am.
Morning rush. Morning rush, she talked to herself. Scuttling around in the house, she got ready to leave for work. She opened her refrigerator one last time to pick up a crunchy fruit but didn’t find any. She grabbed a banana and slammed the door.

10 am.
He woke up with a startle. The television was on and he had slept on the sofa. It was bright outside.

‘My vase! My vase,’ he screamed and ran to the door. He pulled it open and was horrified to see a banana peel inside it.

Somewhere a lion clenched its teeth and growled. It was inside him. Seething with anger he picked up the peel and threw it away aiming the trash bin in his kitchen. It fell on the floor. He thudded to the kitchen, lifted up the peel, and tossed it again into the bin.

That night he slept and woke up sharp at 5 am. He rushed to the door and kept it open. He sat on a chair next to the door with his laptop on.

An hour passed. No sign of the criminal.

Another hour passed.
He was slowly getting impatient. The elevator next to his apartment had started to get busy. He could hear kids, elders, babies coming out of the elevator but no body walked out of the emergency exit just adjacent to his apartment.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps arriving towards the emergency exit. He straightened himself and braced for a fight.

She walked towards the exit and by way of a three-day habit was just about to toss the core of a pear into the bin when she saw him sitting at the door. Her right hand was still in the tossing position when he screamed.

‘So, it’s you! You drop garbage into my vase every morning?,’ he thundered.

As if the morning rush is never enough for her, she was startled at the holler.

‘What are you talking of? Vase? What vase?’ she replied.

‘This, this vase,’ he said, pointing to his piece of decor.
‘This is art, and not a trash bin.’

‘I’m sorry I don’t understand. This is art? I thought it was a bin. If it is art why is it not inside your house?’ she was quizzical.

‘I can keep my decor anywhere. What made you think this was a trash can?’ he fumed at her.

‘Well, it is standing in a corner with a huge open mouth. What else is it supposed to be?’ she answered with a nonchalance that could defy the monotony of the life of the vase.

‘You’re atrocious!’ Thundering more than ever before, he pulled his piece of arty decor inside his house.

Wham. The door slammed on her face.

It opened even before it had closed completely.

‘You mean you can dump garbage into anyone who stands with an open mouth?’ he asked.

She seemed terribly upset with the question.

‘Anyone? You mean people? Yes I will, if someone stands in a corner with his mouth open, I will toss garbage into him’ she replied in anger.

The door slammed, and did not open a second time.

The emergency exit door opened. She breathed in fresh air, thought about the episode, chuckled and walked off.

Advertisements

The Knotty Wardrobe

wardrobecolor
I have almost stopped organizing my wardrobe. Each time I organize, I keep the wardrobe door open to celebrate the day as an admiration day.
Soon enough (exactly, 5 days), the admiration season gets over.  The clothes in there get back to hugging each other. The entire compartment becomes one mound of sleeves, and hooks, and legs, and pockets. I pull out one visible sleeve and the entire mound falls out. I pull and I pull until I can pull no more to extract that one sleeved tee from its communal hugging friends, hold the entire pile up and put it back into the shelf. The fight repeats itself every day.
Sometimes, I think of calling the fire-fighters, but I realize they would make it more messy. The wardrobe would become one heap of knotty wet pulp.

Then comes that one day when I get so tired of having to pull legs and sleeves that I give up and organize the section. I award myself with four doughnuts and an ice-cream for the effort and admire my closet with loving eyes.  Often, on such days, I also rest my head on the neatly folded clothes making them feel loved. My favorite tee looks at me with fluttering eyelids, and I pick it up. I smell it, the fresh smell of Surf Excel (the liquid one, to be precise) tantalizes me. I fold the tee back to its place. (No, Surf Excel is not paying me a penny to write this.)

Lifting my head, I go back to the chair right in front of the wardrobe. I sit there and watch it. My neat, colorful, organized wardrobe. What would I not pay to get this view everyday? Everyday, for 5 days?
It’s evening, and I’m rushing to get dinner done. I need to change into my pajamas. Clothes which don’t let in air from everywhere restrict my cooking abilities. I run to my room and pull out a pj from under four or five pieces of clothes which tumble down. I pile them up and put them back.
The saga restarts.
The day for the next four doughnuts and one ice-cream is far away.
Do you also have knotty wardrobe days?

Irony of a mom’s life

kitelr
I saw your eyes droop. You mumbled ‘Mama’ and slept.

I watched you sleep. I don’t know for how long.
The home is quiet. Absolutely quiet. Slowly, I disentangled my fingers from yours, careful not to wake you up.


You have already started sleeping in your room alone, and, to be honest, I don’t like it one bit.


Not one bit.

A lot of these nights, I just go and tuck myself in beside you. I love to hold your hands and sleep next to you. I pull your comforter on me and we sleep like the best buddies ever. I hold you, and you put your hand around my neck.


Let me tell you, as a parent, there is nothing more comforting than the hands of your sleeping little one around your neck. Nothing!

I love it when you hold me and sleep. I love it when you pat me in your sleep asking me to turn towards you.
I love it when we share the same blanket.
I love your smell.


I love it when, suddenly, some mornings, you come over and sleep on my bed curled under my quilt. When I sleepily ask you what happened, you say that you were cold. I hug you tight and we sleep facing each other, your little nostrils breathing warm air down and your tiny chin facing up. I want to hold those moments forever.
It is funny that if you are cold, you can just pull your comforter over yourself, but it is warming to know that you choose to slip in under ours. My eyes open the moment I can hear the silent patter of your feet walking up to our bed.

I can hear you.
In my sleep.


Yes, I can.

And now, now that you are growing up so fast, I feel insecure that these days will never come back. I feel that time is slipping away from my hands, and I’m trying to fist it up.
Harder and tighter. And faster before it slips away.


I notice how big you’ve grown. 5 years already, and I’m scared.
I’m scared that soon, you will not run after me because you will, consciously, be a bigger boy.
I’m scared that soon, you will not talk endlessly to me.
I’m scared that soon, you will not start everything with a screaming ‘Mamaa…’
I’m scared that soon, you will not hug me every time I stretch out my hands to you.
I’m scared that soon, you will not jump on my lap anymore.
I’m scared that soon, you will not curl your hands around my neck and sleep.

Soon.
Very soon.


Am I already feeling what they call the ‘empty nest syndrome,’ just a little early?

I have already realized that life can often be terribly ironical for a parent. Just until a year ago, I was trying to have you do a lot of your own work. That way, you could be independent, and I could also focus on the more mundane things we always strive to finish. Wearing clothes, taking a shower, eating, combing your hair, helping me with my work were few of the things on my to-do list for you. One step at a time, you helped me strike off these items on my list. Each time I struck out a bullet point, my heart both sank and danced. I felt weird.
My heart breaks when I see that you are getting so independent, but at the same time, it is very fulfilling to see your little nimble hands work out things for yourself. It is immensely satisfying to see your little fingers, soft palms, and tiny nails tugging at drawstrings, patiently buttoning a shirt, rubbing soap all over yourself.


While on one hand, I want you to grow up fast, on the other, I want to hold on to your childhood and not let it go! Grow up kid, just not so fast!
While on one hand my selfish mommy heart wants to hold you more and more, on the other hand, I understand how you are bracing yourself up for the times ahead, and how important it is to make you ready for your own life.

That consoles me.
That puts me at ease.
That makes me love you more.
And more.


#sravsquotes

title1

If you talk to me, you will know that I can be satirical. However, remain informed that satire is one of the most superior forms of humor that can be handled only by geniuses. I’m one of them.

Ok, having beaten all the drums possible about myself (wait, all of them? no, there’s more), I would like to introduce you to Sravsquotes. It is my Facebook page which is a reflection of my satirical and humorous side, and what’s more, it can be biting too! On this page, I put up humorous puns, caustic remarks, and nuggets of satire. Here are some of them:

  1. Don’t you think resolutions mostly gather dust, (rather e-dust) instead of momentum? This one is dedicated to all our resolutions which die a dishonorable death every February.

resolutions

2.  Cleaning the house! Aah, this one. Don’t we really clean this way-take things from one corner and keep them in another while feeling gratified that the first corner looks so clean?

cleaning

3. This one is so true! Each time I send out an email informing my neighbors that I’m decluttering, essentially, I’m inviting them to come and take my clutter. Only in very polite words.

declutter

Do like and follow my page on Facebook, and share my quotes if they tug at you!  #sravsquotes.

Icecream with a 4 year old

ryanicecreamlr2-1Eating icecream with a four-year old is a hilarious event in itself. However, all my sympathies and empathies lie with the icecream being discussed. The creamy journey of its life turns out to be pretty bad if it falls in the hands of a 3 or a 4 year old. This is what happens.

We buy an icecream. The stick comes out of the icecream wrapper which gets crumpled within a flash of a second, and I hear ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and slurps of visual satisfaction as the entire icecream makes its grandiose show. Ryan looks at it from all angles trying to decide which is the best bet for the first lick.

Me: ‘Eat it fast. It will melt.’

My words fall just next to where the icecream wrapper was thrown a few seconds back.

After a complete visual survey, Ryan licks it. His eyebrows shoot high. His eyes become wider while his lips spread to his ears on both sides. I hear a never-ending ‘ummmmmmmmmmm’ which makes me take a sly look at the icecream. I find it still holding itself strong.

Somewhere close by, I hear the loud squeak of a squirrel. Ryan’s icecream reverie is almost broken and he looks up at a suspected tree with queer eyes. I notice the white droplet of icecream on his nose. One look at the icecream and I see it drip. One drop falls on the ground. A white circle; radius, circumference, and area undetermined.

That’s the beginning.

It’s starting. It’s starting to melt. It’s starting to melt.

The first tissue comes out of the wad that I bring along for our icecream sojourns. The top of the icecream is the low hanging fruit for him, and he works at it faster. I remind him that the bottom of the stick also needs some attention.

Me: ‘Eat the lower side too. It will melt.’

He looks at the lower side of the icecream. His warm mushy looks melt the lower end which rivers down his right hand, right down to the elbow. Had it been a few decades earlier with the same scene between me and my mom, by now I would have got a resounding whack on my back reminding me to eat it faster.

I am a more patient mother.

More tissues come out from the thinning wad, this time faster, one pulling the other, and the other pulling out more of the others frantically.

Racing against a trickling icecream is a tricky job for a mom. Jumping to my feet, I run to the store next to me and get a paper plate to hold the gathering white puddle. The icecream is in sad danger.

ryanicecreamlr-1

Soon I realize that the paper plate is not enough to hold the white liquid. It needs depth. I run back to the store and get a paper glass this time. What a strange turn of incidents for the icecream. The unsuspecting big bodied thing gets reduced to a mere colorless puddle that is collected in a paper glass.

Finally, it’s time. The momentous moment when the icecream soup is to be sipped. And it gets sipped.

The icecream. gets. sipped.

Here ends the sad life of an otherwise cool icecream.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a pic of the icecream being sipped because I was too busy wiping my hands off the sticky liquid.

On not writing a post

So this post is about not writing a post the last week.

Lots of things are happening, and all at the same time. Diwali is approaching(it had to anyways), and Im doing nothing about it but it has to be on the list; the kid has fallen sick real bad, is sleepless and doesnt really do much other than crying and hanging on my lap; I seem to be eating a lot because Im not sleeping (really, do people eat a lot when they dont sleep?), and Im going through the I’m-a-mommy phase with disheveled hair and pyjamas that are reeking of baby cream, olive oil, red and pink and colorless medicines, and soup.  And yes, Im snapping at the smallest of issues which are probably not even issues.

So, with Diwali around, and the kid perched up on me, my day-long pyjamas refusing to let go of me, and my messy house that resembles a war torn fortress, Im almost a ball of nerve endings without the ends. If you know what that may mean. Definitely, blog posts will be post-dated.

On a side note, here’s a totally unrelated photo that had me laughing. It was taken at my kid’s birthday party by a kind friend who wanted to take photos, but forgot to focus on the faces. It was a totally ‘candid’ pic if thats what you may call it because he didnt want to click feet. ‘It just happened.’

If any of you can recognize your feet here, let me know.

shoes pic