Mughlai Affairs

Now that the concrete footpaths have taken over the city, Dushka foolishly started missing the dew dropped grass paths. It was rainy season again but there was no mud anywhere. The sky was covered in nimbostratus and the sun had not shown up since last afternoon. It was drizzling since morning. Sitting on the old woven chair- one of those worn out furnitures you couldn't get rid of because they carry a lot of memories- she looked on through the glass pane towards the potted plants and the endless city buildings until they got lost in the gray of the rain. The gloominess had seeped into her skin while she was caged inside home for another day.

Memories of the two-room house, where she grew up as a child, flashed in her mind. It had a tin roof. Rainy days used to be so noisy that the TV's sound used to get drowned. Her father didn't use to like TV noise. But he liked the noisy raindrops splattering on the tin roof because, he used to say, he was a poet at heart. Sometimes, she'd sit on her mother's lap quietly counting the frogs' croaks. Sometimes she'd make a huge fuss over the power cuts during the rains. But she never got wet. Her mother told she caught cold very easily. That's why.

A heavy sigh escaped her while she raged a futile war against her inertia to get up and feel the rain. She reasoned with herself that she'd catch a cold.

“Are you bored already?” her mother who was sitting close by asked.

“I wanted to go out, explore the city again before I have to leave. Did it have to rain?” Dushka caught a vehemence in her tone.
“It will stop soon. For now, look at the rain. Isn't it beautiful?”

Dushka thought to herself, “Another day, another time I might have enjoyed it. But today's not the one for her. Maybe for her mother though.”

“One gets used to these walls and balconies and stops wondering what more worthy can lay outside for exploring.” Mother seemed to empathise with Dushka, “I have not been anywhere outside except for the journey to workplace and back.” Dushka felt a pang inside her, the usual guilt an independent child feels for the woman who sacrificed her life to motherhood. The guilt that nags at you when you are ready to spread your wings to reach the sky leaving everything behind but the mother- whose sole life revolved around you- has not found a new purpose in life yet. Mother continued, “There was a time I was young and newly wed to your father. I used to walk through the whole of this old town merrily enjoying evenings at street shops. Lack of means didn't put a single scar on my will to be happy. I thought, my spirit was invincible.” Dushka shivered looking at her mother's current mechanical life, the life she did not want for herself, the life she wished her mother didn't have. It was flat. But what is life if sadness doesn't make you cry and joy doesn't wrinkle your eyes? Dushka wished otherwise. And 'otherwise' things hardly happen.

Evenings after rain used to be cold earlier. If mother used to be free, she used to take Dushka for a walk down to the Golei Square. Often Dushka would demand for a sweet and mother used to relent in a few minutes. But she hardly ever took for herself. There used to be money enough only for one. Those days Dushka hadn't learnt to share. Empathy doesn't come naturally to children. On the way to the square was this beautiful restaurant they never dared venture into. Dushka's family never went to any restaurants. Father said it was for people who did not have a mother in their family, hence nobody to cook for them. But this restaurant had been different. It was painted scarlet outside. In the dull evening light, the red used to attract and hold Dushka's attention from a long distance for a long time. She'd tug at her mother's scarf and whisper, “Can't we go inside and not tell them that you know how to cook?”

“Do you remember the restaurant on the way to Golei Square?” Dushka asked suddenly.

“The cosy little red one whose lights attracted you?” mother enquired understandingly.
“Yes. The same!”

“I haven't been to that side of the city since we moved here. It's been what? A decade?”

Dushka nodded, “Probably more.”

The restaurant was called 'Mughlai Affairs'. It sounded exotic to Dushka's uninitiated ears at that time. It had stained glasses through which orange light shot outside and used to fall on the alley. The stained glasses' patterns only made it look even more beautiful. While Dushka passed by the Mughlai Affairs, her pace used to slow down so as to bask in the lights a little longer. A hushed murmur also used to escape through those windows that contained words from people who did not have a mother who knew how to cook. They were different.

“Mughlai Affairs- wasn't that the name?” mother intervened her thoughts.

Dushka smiled and said, “You remember.” It was not a question, just a memorable shared pleasure.

“I'd try to take you to the park, where other kids played; it was the opposite way. But you insisted to walk always to the Golei Square, along the restaurant.”
“I never liked the park. The kids' mothers stood guard there. There was no freedom. Who plays on a see-saw and a swing standing on a queue?”

“Is that why you'd come back crying? I never understood why you didn't like other children.”
“It's not the children. It's the mothers. And you are different. You never came to my rescue.” Dushka continued in the same breath lest her mother felt accused, “Not that you should have. But other mothers also should not have.”

“They fear for their children.” Mother almost always never failed to look from the other's point of view.

It was not long before Dushka realised they weren't rich enough to afford visiting Mughlai Affairs. But the restaurant only grew prettier and beckoned her more and more. But with their steps always moved past the inviting lights, never stopping. Sometimes Dushka would look back and mistakenly catch the eyes of the security guard cum valet standing in front of the restaurant with elaborate costume. She'd turn back quickly feeling like a culprit. The guard wore a feathered hat which sat askew on his head. Dushka feared for the hat lest it got blown away by the wind. But unfailingly, it always was there perched on the guard's head. He never laughed at Dushka. “Do you think the guard eats at the restaurant after everyone has left?” Dushka's mother replied, “I do not know. It'd be a sorry thing if he didn't though.” Dushka would nod her head. She sometimes caught her mother looking with the same wistfulness at the restaurant as hers. But they had reached the silent agreement to never talk about going inside. It was an uncomfortable question.

“Ah, the drizzle has died down!” mother's exclaimed.

Dushka got up from the chair to the balcony and stretched out her hand to feel if the rain had stopped. Indeed it had. She put her hands in her hair and revelled in the coldness. A sudden excitement aroused her senses. “Let's go to Mughlai Affairs!”

“What?” her mother cried “Now?”

“Yes! Why not?” Dushka ran to her and started pulling her up from the chair.

“It might rain again!”
“I'll book a cab! And we have umbrella!”
“I have to cook for your grand mother, she will not eat outside.”
“Let father cook for once!”
“Rubbish! You go ahead with your friends if you want. I will not come.”

“I have been to numerous restaurants with my friends.” said Dushka. What she didn't say was, “Nobody will appreciate Mughlai Affairs like you will. With me.”

Dushka's mother relented. And the excitement seemed to slowly build up in her too. When she got up from the chair, her feet had caught on a merry tune.

The cab was about to arrive in fifteen minutes. Dushka's mother had taken time wearing the peacock blue sari with golden embroidery. Dushka had helped her with it. The post-shower wind had not stopped and it gushed through the balcony trying to make the sari folds awry. It also nestled in Dushka's short hair and danced with the door screens. Darkness of the night had overpowered the darkness of the tired clouds who had rained themselves off incessantly. Street light cast shadows on their balcony through the dwarf coconut tree leaves. Mother looked beautiful but Dushka just said, “The sari looks beautiful.” Mother hopefully understood what Dushka didn't say. That was how it always had been.

“Life's being served on a platter to your generation.” Mother said implying at the cab's arrival through a few touches on the smart phone, “And yet it has not succeeded in making people a little happier than people were in our times.”

“You talk as though you're old and about to die.”

“Ain't I? I don't forget to dye my hair black fearing all my hair would have already turned white and I have no guts to face it.”

“Hair doesn't decide youth.” Dushka said dismissively, “what would you like to eat? Isn't this your first ever visit to any restaurant at all?”

“Let us first get there. They will give us a list, won't they?” Mother asked nervously, “I am not going to do any talking there!”

“Of course they will give a menu. Why do you have to be nervous? We are customers. We will take their service in return of money. There's nothing to be nervous about.”
Mother turned away to look at the moon through the cab window which was also travelling with them. Rain had left the concrete roads shining in the night-light. The cab ran past the very familiar highways, the slightly familiar streets and the unfamiliar short-cuts. Temples, medicine shops and movie theatres fell behind us. The city, bustling and alive, evolved yet remained the same. Dushka had been born there. She was brought up there. Although her parents had migrated there, she was a native of the city in her heart. And from inside a car, the city looked quite different, as if the troubles didn't exist. The potholes in the side walk weren't visible, the crowd's ramblings were blocked and one almost believed it to be a posh city. From inside the car. But Dushka had been on the other side before. The outside of the car.

“Madam, where do you want me to stop?” The driver's impatient tone broke through her musings. Her mother was looking at her expectantly.
“Arey, where are we? I think we're close. It should be a little far ahead. You drive on, I will tell you.” Dushka said. She bent down to look outside through the cab window. “See, this used to be our old street, no?” Dushka tugged at her mother's hands.

“Yes! Yes! Things have changed so much! There used to be a Banyan tree by the bend of the road. Do you remember? I can't see it any more!” Mother said anxiously.

“It is before Golei Square!” Dushka told the driver. “Please look for a restaurant named 'Mughlai Affairs'!”

“I am not from this part of the city, Madam!” said the driver with his usual impatient tone, “You should ask someone!”

“No, no, I can recognise!” Dushka said vehemently with absolute confidence. It was that cosy little red restaurant with red lights coming through the stained glasses with an angry security man guarding its doors. Surely she'd be able to recognise Mughlai Affairs! The cab ran past the old apartment Dushka remembered; the big water tank she remembered was still there, a couple of grocery shops had sprouted that she could not recall and beyond that she could see the snack shops huddled together where she used to demand sweets from her mother. Instead of a couple of vendors, now stood there a dozen of vendors attracting customers with their sly tricks. After that came Golei Square.

“We're already at Golei Square!” mother cried.

“We must have passed right by the restaurant without noticing,” said Dushka turning to the driver, “could you turn back, please?”

The cab turned back and this time Dushka made sure her eyes went through every building that lined up along the street. The tailor's, the goldsmith's, the grocer's, the small bed and breakfast's, the few offices', the chemist's, the few residential flats', the furniture showroom's, more grocer's and they ended up again at the bend of the road where the Banyan tree should have been there.
“No! No, I think we should ask someone around!” Dushka cried, “Please turn back!”

Dushka did not bother to look at the irritated driver.

Rain was again threatening at the sky. The clouds were rumbling with occasional lightning. This time the driver took it slow. The grocer's, the carpenter's, the residential flats and before the office buildings started the driver stopped the cab. Dushka open the door. First rain drop hit her on her forehead.

She hurried to the nearby chemist's shop and asked urgently, “There is a restaurant nearby. Mughlai Affairs! Could you possibly show me the way?”

It had started drizzling. She could hear her mother's faint voice calling her to come back inside the cab before it poured heavily. She might catch the cold.

“Mughlai Affairs? I have not seen any restaurants nearby.” The lazy chemist answered pulling his head out of the small TV screen perched on one of the shelves of his shop.
“There used to be one nearby!” Dushka repeated adamantly.

“I do not know about that.” He was confused at her desperation, “wait, I will call the old lady owner. She'd know.” Thus he vanished through one of the doors in the shop. Dushka looked back at the cab. Her mother and the driver looked on at her expectantly. Her mother beckoned her with her hand and Dushka gestured her to hold on. The rain clouds were getting heavy and any minute it would burst open with all its wrath. But Dushka could not budge. An old, yet strong lady appeared through the same door in which the chemist had vanished earlier.

“Yes?” The lady asked in a strong, confident voice.

“Mughlai Affairs! Do you know the way to...”

“Mughlai Affairs? The restaurant?” The lady asked cutting Dushka off.

“Oh yes!”

“It went broke and the restaurant was closed 8 years ago.” She replied in a cool voice.

“8 years ago?”
“Yes, 8 years ago, in 2007.”

“Oh!” is all Dushka could say.

The rain had started falling in all earnest now. Dushka wasn't hearing it though. The lady, she went inside through the door. The chemist went back to watching the TV. Dushka turned back slowly and found that the cab was barely visible through the heavy rain. Her mother must want her to stay where she was until the rain slowed down because she'd supposedly catch cold. But that day Dushka wanted to get wet. The cab driver would get pissed off with a wet passenger but it'd be worth it. Yes, Dushka would first get wet that day. Later she would catch a cold.

Have You Seen Them All?

Inspired by the ongoing #Pixar140orless in twitter, I decided to summarise some of my favourite animated movies in 140 characters or less. 

Take a challenge and let me know how many movies you recognise and which ones you don't. (no cheating!)

If any new/better summary pops in your mind, do use the comment box.

[1]A widowed old man seeks to live his dream with unwanted help from a very young scout and a dog; in the process finds home.

[2]Outerspace giant robot crashes on Earth and secretly bonds to a curious eight year old boy regardless of age, planet, flesh and iron!

[3]A clumsy Giant Panda, now a dragon warrior, realises how the secret ingredient of the dragon scroll, like his father's soup, is “nothing”.

[4]A villain adopts three little girls in order to steal the moon only to end up trading the moon for the girls.

[5]An outcast rat takes the phrase from an excellent chef 'Anybody can cook!' to a whole new level!

[6]With an unconventional pet of a cute deadly dragon, a frowned upon boy learns to fly and ends up saving both the human and dragon community.

[7]A story of love between a Monster and a child that wins over fear, hatred & ends up solving energy crisis of Monster world.

[8]The clumsy evil do-er blue alien suffers through an ambition crisis, when he successfully eliminates the supposed super hero of the town.

[9]A toy's soul purpose is to be played with by a child. But what if a space toy doesn't know it's a toy? It's a cowboy's duty to convince him.

[10]A red-haired princess, who refuses to do her princess-ly duties, tries to undo her mistakes by being brave against guilt.

[11]An underrated and undaunted ant genius takes on the oppressive grasshopers with the help of pretentious warrior bugs and rescues Ant Island.

[12]A rusted robot falls in love; in the process rebuilds a planet & reminds human beings the value of emotions and activities!

[13]In a lion's inner fight to forgive himself, this story takes us to the African lands where no matter what, the 'Circle of Life' goes on.

[14]An over-protective clown fish's long desperate search for his only son, caught by humans, that redefines love and freedom.

[15]Another princess: gifted with magic, kidnapped by a witch, locked in tower, rescued by a handsome robber and happily ever after. Classic.

[16]A dog's dejected realisation regarding his lack of superpowers doesn't stop him from rescuing his mistress and forgiving her.

[17]With more attractive 'Other Parents', a girl finds herself going to a parallel world again and again until her real parents go missing.

[18]A superhuman family of 4 struggles to fit in among the 'normal' people until they learn to fight the evil in camouflage!

[19]Arrogant and handsome, the fastest car on Earth loses its way into a deserted small town only to come out with some biggest lessons of life.

[20]It's a celebration of childhood innocence, where fantasy & reality coexist for two little sisters waiting for their ailing mom to come home.

I may be persuaded to share the names of all movies(if needed at all) on discreet demand.

Stella's Orange-red Gloves

(A story without climax. My hands typed it after I fell asleep on the keyboard. Hence, excuse me!)

Stella came out of her room. It stank of her. She wanted fresh air just outside her home. It always smelled a little of the nearby playground dust in a red sunset, a little of the delicious lunch that her neighbouring fat lady makes everyday and a little of some distant flowers that bloom in the evening. She put on her dark navy grey winter wear over a pale white dress. But her socks were orange-red. So were her gloves. She wore and loved them secretly.

She wanted to go on a walk. Not alone, but it could not have been helped.
"Stella, the computer is still open!"
"That's OK. Just don't touch it. It'll take care of itself in five minutes."
She hid her socks inside boring brown shoes and gloves inside her pockets. Now she was invisible. She started walking, beyond the curved railway tracks, beyond the lonely sweet shop eagerly sought after by the flies, beyond Mr Henderson's big house on whose son she had a crush on during middle school and beyond the park where everybody else went for an evening walk.

Stella has been this way since before she was born. Many times she looks down at the pebbles and wonders whether she had stamped those particular ones before. Just in case, she stamps them again. When Henderson Jr used to live with his parents, he would take tea with his parents in their balcony facing the road. He was in college already and his name in the newspaper had confirmed the local gossip of him being a bright student. She used to be careful regarding her walk and attire back then. Her mother used to accompany her and it used to be very hard to steal glances of Henderson Jr. But now Henderson Jr worked in a farm in another state. He has a pretty wife too, if Facebook is right. And Stella has grown up and grown out. 
Her orange-red gloves were peeking from her pockets. She quickly scanned the passers by whether anybody were looking at her. Negative. She was relieved. A little disappointed too. She doubted Henderson Jr's wife went so unnoticed when she walked by roads like this. Stella reminded herself she did not want to be like Henderson's wife. She felt better and continued.

In the conservative little town, she always allowed herself one small non-conservative luxury. She kept her hair open and let it swirl against the wind as she walked by. It was more of a fact that she had unruly hair which won't be tamed. But she took pleasure in saying it was by choice. Last time she went to market, she had seen an orange-red hair ribbon. It looked gorgeous. But she didn't dare to purchase it, because it couldn't be hidden if she wore it. A little itch in her mind had told her that she could hide it if she wore helmet always and went on a bike. But she stamped it. Just like she stamped the pebbles. Only that her itches give away more easily than the pebbles. She looked around; in the grey winter evening, she almost could get mixed. She wondered, if the fog could get the exact same colour as her sweater, whether it could render her partially invisible. Would she be able to see her body? How would she recognise herself? And she told herself, she needn't have worried because she could always see her bright orange-red gloves to make out her own body. By the time she realised her musing was totally unworthy, unnecessary and unreasonable, she had already completed thinking all these things. Her lips cracked to a grin and snapped shut as soon as she realised she might look like a fool out of nowhere. 

Suddenly the street lights came to life and the yellow bulbs chased the grey of the evening away. Stella looked up at them basking in the warm light. Although the new town has, now, the LED street lights and it looked posh according to the world, Stella loved the old Sodium Vapour lamps. They were still standing in the old town, in protest of monochromtising the colour of the whole town in all shades of grey.

It was time to return. Stella kept her orange-red gloves successfully hidden for one more day. Nobody knew she wasn't fully grey. Nobody sought to find out.

----------------------
Stella name has been extracted from the Facebook sticker of  "Stella Supernova: Dodge comets with this space genius on her interstellar adventures." She's very melodramatic, hyperactive and of course, a genius!

Welcome to Research!

A time invariant dedication to anyone into research.

My quantum mechanics teacher during our Master’s degree, one day, looked at our blessedly ignorant faces and took it as his duty to declare, ‘There walks not a single researcher on earth, who has shed no tears during his days of PhD!’ Keeping aside the debate regarding the validity of such a statement, that day I could see the scars of his past in his eyes. But back then I felt no compulsion to probe deeper.

Now here I stand-

1. after willingly humiliating myself in seven different interviews in five different cities;
2. storming and thundering inside home with passionate speech about why I want to do research;
3. convincing all my grandparents, uncles, aunties, cousins and some skeptic neighbours that doing research out of home town is absolutely the best idea;
4. trying not to envy friends who already have jobs;
5. and, as one of my previous posts suggests, escaping the deadly clutches of marriage-

as a fresh full-time PhD scholar. Already with a supervisor.

As soon as we joined we had to jump into this weird supervisor hunting game which reminded me of musical chair (with so many people in war over a few targets), only more ferocious and serious. We kept spying over each other lest someone else may steal our choice supervisors. Then soon began our course works. Amid all the hustle, the excitement of being in a new institute, new city and having new friends had worn off.

The senior scholars had started their preaching sessions. The long lonely ones who’s been here for endless summers, in search of fresh "empathisers", started ambushing us during lunch, dinner, tea-time, bed-time and any other time we stumbled upon them. At our shocked responses, they promptly assured us it’d not take long before we underwent similar transformations. Criticising guides would not only become normal but also quite good for health.

As work with my guide(supervisor) is accelerating, fear of not being able to keep pace made me cancel my long planned short trip home. Unsuccessful attempts at ongoing project and the approaching evil mid-semester exams are making me jump out of my skin everyday. Presentations, quizzes, solving extraterrestrial problems and head banging have become very normal. Waiting hours on supervisors, envying friends with day offs, actually being unable to find time for movies doesn't sound very strange any more. When I was given my own room in the hostel, ideas of all the things I would do- if I had a room alone for myself- didn't manifest due to sudden departure of my mental sanity.

Although we soon hope to master the art of researching-

1. which includes endless days in front of our computer (or tinker with instruments) without actually being productive;
2. art of playing hide and seek with our guide;
3. convincing the institute for a hike in stipend;
4. assuring ourselves that we are not the only ones who suck at doing research;
5. and fooling our supervisors into believing we’re the best they could have had-

for now I am learning not to let the most important days of my youth pass by before I had time to catch my breath.

Laptop Gone. Not Again!

Yesterday I was spending quality time alone with myself in the shower when mother shouted for me, ‘Chunnie! Something is wrong with your laptop!’ Stopped midstream on an Air Supply song with that ominous news, I sprang out of bathroom to my laptop. ‘Not again!’ was what I was muttering to myself. Several panicked phone calls and amateur attempts later, when my laptop refused to cooperate, I decided to take it to the service centre.

My father is a minimalist. My mother and I join forces to nag him for months before he gives a green signal to purchase any gadget at all. And this requires strategic baiting, hard bargain and persistent luring. So when one of the worshipped gadgets gives out, we never hear the end of it from him. Aside from the perpetual I-told-you-so look, a string of philosophical ideas on the detrimental effect of gadgets are thrown at our general direction. I have grown up with his severe criticism towards materialism. Irony is I love gadgets (more so because I take pride in my laziness). Irony of irony, whenever I persuade my father to purchase any gadget at all after months of research, they somehow all break down the next day after the warranty expires! If my father only dislikes gadgets, he absolutely loathes repairing them. On any average day around the year we shelter more non-functioning gadgets than working ones.

‘Don’t tell father about the laptop. Let me first take it to the service centre.’ I told mother. Father was out on some errand, bless his soul.
‘How will you go? It’s 40 degree outside, wait till evening!’ Mother said. But we both knew I had to go. After a thorough session with sunscreen, I grabbed the bike key and turned on the bike. The charge meter wobbled in the red zone.
‘There ain’t enough charge! What the hell?’ I felt like kicking the helmet to pieces.
‘Charge it for half an hour, its ok.’ Mom switched ON the plug points. I put the charger in place with utter annoyance. Behold my agony, the charger gave a spark and died. I was bathing in my sweat and feeling like it was the most miserable afternoon of my life.

While our desktop had broken down months ago, now packed in its box neglected because father refused to purchase another new hard drive for it, this problem with laptop might cost me a lot. Last morning my internet pack ended too soon for my liking. Then there’s my phone with a malfunctioning camera, mother’s phone with all of its parts malfunctioning. There’s my digital camera with a faulty memory card, three CFL light bulbs who all decided to stop working together, my headset with one side mute, a water purifier in need of immediate attention and many more. I know my father going literally through sleepless nights because of all of them. And I can’t say I don’t feel his pain.

While gadgets ease my work to a remarkable extent, none of us are ready to give the money or time required for their maintenance. They are the unwanted pain in the arse. Sometimes I promise myself I’ll do some hardware repairing course so I never have to turn to the exuberantly charging mechanists all the time; shouldn’t be difficult for a physics student although I dislike the study of electronics from the bottom of my heart.

Wrestling with the charger and the bike for some more sweating minutes, I managed to get the perfect fit where the battery started charging. Half an hour later I rode to the service centre pessimistic about the repair. Never once it has happened in my life, when I have taken something for repair and I got it back quickly. If I did, I had to loosen my pocket by a huge sum. As my father never forgets to point out, ‘ଘୋଡ଼ା ଛ’ ଟଂକା କୁ ଦାନା ନ’ ଟଂକା’. So it was a pleasant surprise when my laptop was back to normal in two minutes once I reached the service centre. I still braced myself and asked how much I had to pay. The guy made a dramatic sweeping gesture in the air and said what I never thought I’d hear, ‘It’s nothing. You don’t have to pay.’ And he went back to his work with his head inside a giant old CPU.

Bemused at my luck, feeling optimistic about the cosmic forces I rode back home. Of course I didn't forget to spend the money, I had taken for repairing, on food. It would have been a sin otherwise. While I stuffed myself, I decided again, ‘Buying gadgets ain’t so bad after all!’Later that night when father asked how my day was, I saw no harm in keeping mum about everything.