2018 – the year that was

happy place
My happy place 🙂

I do not remember the last time I genuinely sat down to write my thoughts on paper and not a paper on insurance or healthcare and the rising drug prices. I don’t really know why I am so concerned about drug prices considering I’m an aspiring corporate sector b**ch, as I’ve been told on numerous occasions while in a school for social policy. Perhaps, I’m working on a more achievable solution as security for when I’ll genuinely need medication and not a glass of wine to drown the blues.

Anyway, as Ross from FRIENDS puts it, when there’s a need for a change of topic – anyway, 2018 is finally coming to an end. I try to pen down my thoughts at the end of each year. I also try to write down my expectations from myself in the new year. I’m not sure I’ve revisited these thoughts in the past year or so because things don’t usually go as planned. Which is fair because if there was no uncertainty in life, I wouldn’t get paid for decision making in the future.

At 24, I find myself incredibly skeptical of everything. I’m stone-hearted and practical. I do not judge, I make sure I don’t, but I’m always wary. I’ve aged in the past couple of years. I’ve aged a lot more than I’ve ever before. I think it happens with everyone coming from similar circumstances. Initially you observe and learn. There’s a laziness to that and hence you age proportional to your number of years. Later, you experience. And experience is a brutal teacher (C.S. Lewis). That’s when the equation, a linear equation, changes to a quadratic one. I’m trying to “log” the transition (see what I did there?) but it’s not been easy keeping up. Hence, I’ve aged.

On the bright side, my personal goals of being independent, strong, an adult (in the true sense of the word) and financially wise (if not secure, YET), is seeming more achievable day-by-day. It’s not easy, but if it were, it wouldn’t be as satisfying.

To recount….2018 started with decisions of being honest to myself, to others, personally and professionally. It also included (chronologically) anticipation, stress, coping with rejections, waiting, some more waiting, the blues, good news with not much effect (I’m indifferent to happiness now, I will explain why), experiencing more than just four seasons because of a trip to India, experiencing more than a few stress headaches, praying, caring but then not caring, loneliness, separation, new beginnings, introspection, breakdowns, acceptance, working, realizing self-worth and also realizing I’m currently 56 years old and enjoy getting cleaning supplies.

It was a long year, as you can see. A very very long year. I think it’s clear why I would like it to end and for my vision to be reset to January, looking ahead and not behind.

I have simple resolutions. I’m not sure if they’ll all work out. I know I had two personal goals for 2018 and I only did one of them – run my first 5k. Why is it a big thing? It is. It is because I achieved a goal, for once. I’m not a finisher. I’m a let-go-er, sadly. I start projects with a lot of enthusiasm, but I may or may not finish them. It’s okay. I’m aware and accepting of that fact. No one is perfect and there are thousands who fall in the same category as me. I know I have the potential to work on my flaws and I am also aware that I am strong enough to pull myself up again and get back to work. So yes, I’ll continue working on being a finisher (and with the right person and equipment, pun intended – 😉).

I haven’t achieved much in these 24 years, but I’ve achieved self-growth and self-awareness, which is a lot more than many at age 24.

I’m aware I haven’t explained my indifference to good news and not written out my resolutions yet. See? So aware! So here goes – you know that feeling when you’re hungry? Of course, you do. Well, when you’re hungry and get fed then and there, the feeling of fullness is different than say, when you get fed after a few hours. It’s good, you are happy you finally could eat something but your pangs of hunger are dead by then. That’s where I am right now. I have no pangs. I’m monotonously doing what needs to be done. I’m feeding myself. But there are no pangs to satiate. So I feel nothing when something works out. I’m so accustomed to having nothing ever work out that a little luck goes unnoticed. Hence, I’m not only hard-hearted, I’m also indifferent and skeptical and *shrugs shoulders* – meh.

No! I do not want solutions to this because this isn’t a problem. It is not. I’m happy and active. I’m not depressed and I should know that because I’ve been depressed before. Depressed in a country where it is not an issue, depressed around people who wanted me to only pull myself together. No wait, that’s unfair. You mustn’t blame someone who is unaware. Blame them when they are being decidedly ignorant. Nevertheless, I am not depressed and am happy with my indifference. It keeps my feet firmly on the ground and urges me to keep working. Yes, one side-effect is that this indifference at my own achievements negatively influences my self-worth, something I’m trying to improve. In any case, they do not exactly cancel each other. There’s still room for progress.

Anyway….RESOLUTIONS! That’s a short list –

  1. Run a 10k
  2. Get your damn driver’s license already *eye roll*
  3. Fit into leather pants 😊

I didn’t write down being organized, having self-control, being financially wise and practical because those are innate qualities meant to be honed. There’s always room for improvement.

ANYWAY….. – Ross Geller

If I had ended with the last statement, the abruptness of the end would’ve haunted me. Hence, I’ll bore you a little longer; a paragraph’s worth! I don’t know if I wanted this piece to be depressing. I had no expectations, to be honest. I just wanted to write. Outside of texts to people. I wanted to write, for myself. For this blog which is another remnant of past projects begun and shelved. I just wanted to write because writing is a drug. It doesn’t come free, mind you. You pay in time. But it is time well spent. I do not know what you, as a reader, can do with this piece. Honestly, it is a personal piece. It doesn’t teach, it only shares. But you know something? That’s how you learn. You share your experience to teach. You communicate. This is me communicating with a handful of readers I have (a big assumption but still…). Maybe you relate to something. Maybe you had a similar or worse year. Maybe you had a better year and learned to sympathize. Maybe you pick up one of my resolutions. Maybe my strength and constant struggle gives you strength in yours. Maybe my transparency becomes your mirror. Or maybe, just maybe, I put a smile on your face, driving you down on an introspective path, reminiscing the past year, as I was this morning (now afternoon), while I sat down with a hot cuppa (now cold), opening my Amazon package with my computer cleaning supplies, content with the fact that I’m an adult, a 24 year old adult, who had paid off the loan on the PC she decided to write something on.

The year…that was, it truly was. Happy brewing, happy reading! 😊



Life comes a half circle

Me, smiling away at age 2 or 3!

I look up at them, knowing they are the two people I see the maximum – everyday or on most days. I know not who they are, but if they aren’t around, I feel something inexplicable. Or rather something I can’t explain. I do not have the words or the understanding yet. After all, I am but a few months old. I just began supporting my own head. One of the many firsts in life. Still, I know not the significance of the task. It will be eclipsed by other tasks I will accomplish in life; the list of significant tasks written to humankind.

Shush brain, my chatty friend, you wandered off. I still look up at them. This man would pick me up at the nursery and I would feel something else, something I can’t explain, again. Then this woman would return home late and feed me. The feeling of a full belly is something I will continue to appreciate throughout life. This man would someday sit down with me and explain how I’ll have to work toward a full belly forever. Well I do not know this just yet. I am but a few months old.

But for everything this couple does for me, it makes me something that I will learn eventually is called “happy.” And the only way I know to express happiness is to flash them a vibrant smile, the significant half of a circle.

I look at them now. I am older. I know they are Mom and Dad. I know that if they aren’t around me, the feeling is called sadness. Sadness which is caused not only by their absence but also when they do not give me what I want. I do not know why that makes me sad. I just know that it does. After all, I am but a few years old. I flash them a despondent smile, the symbolic half of a circle.

The man I learned to call Dad would give me what I want, without question because I am that important to him. I do not know why. I do not know what it is called, affection? Maybe that. He does this to turn that half circle upside down, and it works! I learned that “happy,” comes from being what you want.

I look at him now. A lot wiser, and yet, not really so. I know what the names for all those things I have felt over the years are. I know why my parents give me everything, why their absence makes me sad. It is something called “love.” I still don’t exactly know what that is but it exists. I know the feeling of wanting something. That’s more than needing something. It’s more possessive. Though, there is a fine line between wanting and needing. I do not know this just yet. I am but a teenager. I look at him, a man who is not my Dad. I look at him, wanting him, I don’t know why, just yet. A sense of possessiveness engulfs me. The same way that I wanted an object, I want him, to be all and only mine. He has something that made me “happy.” He does something that makes me smile.

I look at them now. A smart woman that I am, presenting my knowledge and opinion via a PowerPoint presentation. And yet they question my ability. The politics of this I may not know now, but will feel later probably. I look at the work I’ve done and I know if they aren’t the takers someone else will certainly be. This is a pivotal moment, you know. I begin to feel self-aware, aware of my worth. It is, how do you say it? Yes, an uplifting moment. The need for approval diminishes as I begin to understand it all. The feeling of sadness at not being recognized is replaced with confidence of walking out when not given the importance I deserve. I do so. And I go elsewhere. And they take me on as though I belonged. And I wear my pride and my smile, the beginning of the half circle of my life, on my face. A glitter in my eyes. And if I could do this, I knew I will be able to do what comes next.

I look at his number now. On my phone. I am aware it was lust, not love. Love would last, I know it does, when I call my parents everyday. I know there is love in the world. He wasn’t it though. I know about the fine line between want and need. I had crossed over. My want had become my need and when he couldn’t be there, my need just choked me. I know a lot now. After all, I am twenty. I delete the number, feeling the symbolic half circle on my face and the water that delineates it. The sadness of loss, of comfort, of trust, of affection. I know what every feeling is called now. I am not a child anymore.

And because I am not a child, I know how to change the half circle. I am self-aware. I know my strengths, my weaknesses. I am human, I know human. I know how to deal with everything. It takes time, courage and will, and I know each of these words with their practical meaning. My dictionary is appreciably big and I can frame sentences now. I am no longer confused. So, I prioritize. I decide. I don’t let life take me places, I make sure there’s been my hand in it. And I feel the dependency ebb, joining hands with a prefix I didn’t know had the power that it does. The “in” in independence is the “in” in the constant feeling I work toward – happ“in”ess.

It makes me happy to wake up every morning, to ready myself for the day. It makes me happy to do a set of tasks, to keep myself healthy, to keep problems at bay. It makes me happy that I can deal with the ups and downs that come along the way. It makes me happy that I am needed and I do not need, that I can give myself what I want, and do not have to ask for it. It makes me happy that I am the master of my life. It makes me happy that I can pamper myself after a long hard day. It makes me happy that I can intimidate those who come my way.

All through my infinitesimal time on earth, I have been learning and I continue to. It all started with feelings toward others and has finally propagated toward me, myself, I. Call it narcissism? But it’s not! I have to take care of myself so that I can transfer that happiness to others. It has taken me years to understand. As I reach the half circle of life, I learn the secret to the half circle on my face, something only in my hands. My decision, my actions, by the people I choose to keep in my life.

And I am sure, as my life reaches a full circle, which I shall define by saying, the situation in which someone else might look up at me, maybe, someday, not knowing who this woman is and why does she want a half giggly circle on his or her face, I will help them on the path of independence-defined happiness. That will be my full Circle, but for now, I shall happily flash a half! 😊


P.S. I know this is the most disorganized blog there is! Nevertheless, I hope the above makes sense. Happy brewing, happy reading! (insert your half circle) 😉

Three sins.

Disclaimer: The use of “she” is not symbolic, just poetic. I am one of those who believe that women are capable and powerful enough to destroy anything and anyone who deserves being destroyed. It is not to deprecate nor to degrade womankind because in doing so, I would be implicating myself as well, being a strong and independent woman. Hence, it is just poetic and in fact, empowering, that it is a “she”.

How could I ever say no?
I had spent an hour without her.
My desire worsening,
I looked up again,
Trying to find an escape,
But I couldn’t.
All I could see
Was her.
In front of my eyes.
All I could feel,
Was her.
On my lips.
All I could think,
Was of her.
The scent I took in,
The flavors that I always tasted.
I needed to get out.
And then I did.
I got up, I ran.
I ran faster, then just fast.
Then I couldn’t.
I couldn’t breathe.
Her thought was suffocating me.
Her constant presence was killing me.
And yet I craved for her.
I knew I had to let her go.
But she was what I needed most.
She was my need, my want, my reprieve.
But I couldn’t run anymore.
I began coughing.
But I reached where I was headed.
I removed the pack out of my pocket.
I lit her, she was on fire.
I put her between my lips and let her fill me.
I had reached where I was headed.
Or so I thought.
I was close to reaching where I was ultimately headed anyway,
Because she was Disastrous for me.


How could I ever say no?
It wasn’t my fault, you see.
She came to me.
Exquisite, to say the least.
She remained long after she left the room.
Almost indefinitely.
She remained in my mind, my thoughts.
I woke up to her.
I slept to her.
I wept to her.
I touched, to her.
And yet I slept next to a beauty.
Every night I slept, her hand over me.
She was everything I needed and yet,
My want overshadowed my need.
My love didn’t bleed,
For nine months or more.
And yet my lust..
I bled for my lust, albeit, differently.
My love cooked for me,
Yet my lust burnt me.
Alive, I craved.
Dead, I craved.
My lust took over one day.
How could I resist?
She came to me,
Her undeniable beauty.
Her lashes brushed her cheek,
Her bosom came up and fell deep,
Her legs wrapped around me,
And I let lust take over me.
I returned home then.
My love, waiting for me.
What had I done? I couldn’t believe.
Beauty so real, I’d reached an end, in my family.
I knew she was the forbidden fruit,
Because, ultimately, she proved Disastrous to me.


How could I ever say no?
If she asked, I gave her.
I would give her everything.
I would give her my surface, my core and everything in between.
She used to ask me though.
Ask and I would provide.
But now she doesn’t.
She takes what she needs and a lot more.
She uses me everyday and I let her.
Do I say no?
I show her my pain.
I show her my anguish.
I show her my rage.
She understands but doesn’t act.
She sees but she never reacts.
She uses me, every inch of me.
She has begun giving back.
But her needs have become wants,
Her gifts have become ever small.
It won’t help, I know.
I won’t last, you know.
She knows and yet she uses me.
All of me.
From the top to the bottom.
From one end to the other.
I am a full circle.
She has gone around using me.
From my deepest to the farthest from me.
She has explored and continues.
She looks, learns and does more.
She is brilliant but careless.
It won’t help now.
I won’t last for our future.
I’m exhausted.
Yet I continue to give.
While she experiments to replace me.
But I’m irreplaceable.
It was great while it lasted
But if one ever asks,
Earth, how did you meet your end?
It was because the human was Disastrous for me.

P.S. Three acts – smoking, we kill ourselves – adultery, we kill two – global warming, we doom us all. Hope that came through to those who read! Happy brewing, happy reading! 🙂

The Caretaker

“It’s time to wake up!” she said to her. “Come on! There’s warm milk ready for you. It’s a big day today!” she continued and prodded her awake.

She continued looking at the face she knew so well. But her optimism for the day ebbed as a frown replaced her smile. She suddenly couldn’t bear to look at the all too familiar face. She turned around and left her, half awake, half asleep and headed to the kitchen to prepare their breakfast – porridge, as usual.

“Are you awake? We have to get you ready, bathed, dressed and ready to go!”

She went back into her room to check that she had packed everything. She had laid out the clothes she was going to dress her in. It was a big day indeed. She was worried about leaving her alone. Mother’s anxiety kicked in, and she began worrying a lot more.

Despite the melancholy creeping into her day, she pretended to be all happy and smiled while she went through the motions of a usual day. She fed her, bathed her and dressed her. Maybe she can do this, she thought. Maybe separation wasn’t the answer. But she had to let go. She had to live her life.

“So, you are all set for your first day! You’ll have a good time there, I promise. They will take very good care of you,” she kept saying, probably to console herself, more than anything else.

She looked at her; two sets of brown eyes met. Tears dripped from both.

“Don’t cry! I’m sorry, it’s all my fault I know. I am a terrible person. I’m sorry,” she said and she went to hug her. She felt her hand touch her head and felt as though she was making her look at something. She couldn’t speak much anymore.

She directed her gaze to the couch, around herself. The area around her seat was darker than the rest of the couch – it was wet. She had Soiled herself.

“Oh Mom..it’s okay,” she said, looking at her mother.

She had been taking care of her mother for years now. She soiling herself was nothing new, nothing she hadn’t always cleaned up. Her mother was an old woman. But a woman who had taken very good care of her. She could never come to let her go. But lately, it was getting very difficult to juggle her own life and that of the caretaker she was while at home. She felt terrible about entering her into a home, a facility that could and would do a better job of taking care of her.

She cleaned her mother up and helped her into new clothes. She drove her to the old-age home and checked her in. She sat with her until they were ready with the room. She put all her mother’s belongings in her room; put photos on the sill and her clothes in the closet.

She couldn’t bear to stay there any longer. She crouched in front of her mother and said, “I’ll visit often, I promise.”

She left her then. On her way out, she saw many others there, laughing, playing board games, sharing stories, reading books with their glasses perched low on their noses. She hoped her mother would have a similar time, a good time. She hoped they would take good care of her.

She drove back home. She had been worried about the stress of separation triggering an episode but she had made it through the morning. She dialed her doctor.

“Hi, it’s Zoya here.”

“Hi Zoya, how are you today?”

“I’m alright. I can come in anytime you want.”

“Oh, that’s great. Has your mother settled in?”

“The place looked great. I just dropped her there. Thank you for your suggestion, Doctor.”

“They will take good care of her, don’t worry. I’ll have your chemo scheduled at the earliest.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there.”

She hung up then and sat there. She allowed her concentration to waver for the first time in the day; allowed her brain to grow fuzzy. She looked at the nearly dried up spot of her mother’s urine, on the couch. She wondered about her own impending incontinence. At thirty, she wondered whose attention would she direct to the fact that she had soiled herself.


P.S. A short story after a long time. Happy brewing, happy reading! 🙂

To the women in my life

Source: images.penguinrandomhouse.comcover9781101911761


To the women in my life,

There are those who are remembered for their memorable work; work which has gone down in history. Frankly, history was never my forte. I am writing today to commemorate, to praise the memorable work of those whom I will always remember. I do not need world history for that. They are those who are a part of MY history. And that’s all that matters most. Knowledge is subjective; one can choose the information they want to assimilate. It is, hence, vulnerable to filtration. Perhaps that is why education at its earliest stages is consistent – to ensure you do not overlook the basics in your search for the specific.

I always complained to my Father about what the school thought was the necessary basic education. I had different views. As much as I wanted to study that water has the molecular formula – H2O, I wanted to be taught how to write a check (cheque). As much as centrifugal force intrigued me, I wanted to learn how to drive. As much as I wanted to learn how to invite a friend over for a birthday party, in both, English and Hindi, believe me, I would have appreciated being taught how to write a follow-up email after giving a job interview. I am unsure if I wasn’t paying attention at school but I know that all of the above, I learnt outside of it. My idea of schooling was different. It still is.

So, what did I learn and from whom?

The person I am today is either because of society or because of my stance against it. There are always two sides and you take the best from both. There are many things I find unfair and hence my disapproval toward it. That brings me to all the teachers in my life. We learn through our senses and I learn through observation. I have been observing my Mother, my teachers, my friends. I have seen what they do under an array of circumstances, emulate and improvise upon that. And I am glad that I had/have them in my life to teach me.

One of my teachers is my dear dear friend Ms. Apoorva Mandhani. And the other, who is a part of the same breath, the same heartbeat, Ms. Darshana Mishra. Their opinions matter to me, in a way that I can’t describe. I was once told that friends and family differ in importance. I understand. But importance is not the common measure here. My parents are first in rank under a different category altogether. I know that ultimately it is a joint discussion between the three of us – my nuclear family – that leads to most decisions. Also, many a times, I have done what I’ve felt is right because my family has given me the freedom and my friends have shown me how. I am not talking about importance or who comes first. I am saying they are important. Period.

Why the sudden confession of deepest admiration? It is because of a short story Apoorva insisted I read. By Chimamanda Agozi Adichie, “We Should All be Feminists”, is a story that not only explains the term “feminism” but also tells you how to incorporate that. And I would like to thank Apoorva for the same. Also, would like to mention how much I admire her for introducing me to such things.

You know what’s funny? She herself was introduced to that text by a man. So, awareness exists! Oddly consoling. The fact that that’s a consoling idea is ultimately sad. Equality should be a norm, like calling morning, morning. It should come naturally.

If I ever am asked about the situations I felt I was treated unfairly, was spoken to derogatorily or treated condescendingly, not because I deserved it as a human, but more so because I am a woman, the ear the interviewer would have to lend me should have to be a Nobel Laureate – a recipient of the Nobel Patience Prize.

Yes, I have been told it is my fault that I was looked at. I invited it all upon myself. Apparently, telepathy exists but has been wired to interpret a mental “no” as a “yes”. I cringe at the thought of who has told me that it was my fault. I am disappointed that I have never been able to correct their perception. I failed them because even though I have learnt a lot from them, in other respects, I could not impart a concept I believe in, to them. They are my friends, but I did not do my job as a friend. I apologize.

Yes, I have been told that I am 22 years old and that I should start looking to settle down in a couple of years. Yes! I have been told that if I want to continue studying, I should look for a man who will allow me to do so. I cringe at the thought of not only having to possibly share the bed with a human, whose “permission” will decide my future, but also at the thought of who has told me that that is what marriage is. I failed them because even though I have learnt a lot from them, I could not impart a concept I believe in. It is always my choice, my wish. If I have to take my future husband’s permission for anything, and I say permission, not opinion, then it will be ME who will either allow him or ground him to or from going to a party. I will decide if he can continue working or not. I will decide if his mother can stay with us or not. I will decide if he is allowed to be satisfied or not. Unfair? Who am I to control him? Well, who is he to control me? I am thankful to my parents for showing me that marriage is a two-way street and it is a mutual compromise. I am not saying I am all about the “I”; I understand it is a “we” but I prefer “you and I”.

Yes, I have been told that my bill will be paid for me. The actual phrase is, “the one who invites should offer to pay.” It so happens, that is almost always the case. So, I don’t pay. I will always offer to split, but the choice is actually up to the other person. You take the offer or you leave it. You offer to buy me a drink, I’ll say yes if I please, no if I don’t. If I say yes, don’t bring feminism into the picture. It was a question, respect my positive answer. I was never going to judge you for not spending on me. Come up to me and talk. The conversation is what I will remember, not the bill you paid; not the money you flaunted.

Yes, I have been told that it is easy for me. After all, I can get married and that should take care of me – financially or in any other way. Isn’t that sad? Apparently, I sat with the boys in the classroom to different end results! One shall receive a bonus at work, but my future financial security is the  gold that the bonus will buy. I went through the grind of education to see a man with the same degree, off to work, and to see my degree on the matrimonial resume, being evaluated if I am worthy enough to be ground, albeit differently.

I must admit – I do not know what feminism exactly is. I must admit, I utilize my femininity as a mean to my ends. If I call myself a hard-core feminist, you will tag me as a hypocrite. But what you fail to realize is that I do so because it is hard to be a woman in a man’s world. It is hard to stand up for yourself, with the fear of being abused. The day that changes, I promise, I will too.

And that is why this post for the women in my life. I know I have company when I rant about the troubles I face due to gender inequality. My company is the group of women in my life. And I am glad and grateful that they are there. They support me and introduce me to ideologies worth holding on to. They show me how to do it and that’s how I’ve learnt.

The conclusion is, there isn’t a conclusion. There is only a solution. A lifelong debate, the competition of men v/s women, requires a solution, not a conclusion.

“I went to play hide-and-seek.”

“I read this book today.”

“I nearly slept in the history class.”

“I took the GRE, I’m going to America.”

“I met this person and I think I like them.”

“I got the job!”

“I think my boss hates me.”

“I lost the promotion to the other contender.”

“I am getting married.”

“I must take care of my parents.”

“We’re pregnant!”

“I’m considering taking up teaching.”

“The baby is crying, diaper change?”

“It is time to give our daughter away in marriage.”

“I spoke to the Doctor, they said I have Cancer.”

“I’ve had a full life.”

Did you guess which gender spoke the above lines? Are the primary experiences different? The path of life, different?

“She should not wear such clothes.”

“He touched her? She should not have been alone in the room with him.”

“Why was she out this late? No doubt she was gang raped. She invited trouble for herself.”

“You need not go abroad to study. We’ll find you a suitable boy to take you there.”

“Settle down, your biological clock is ticking.”

“Do not enter the temple, you are impure.”

“You are not a virgin? Oh, I ‘made love’ to 10 different women, but you are not a virgin?”

“I lost the promotion to this guy at work.”

“I feel like my presence in the creative team is just symbolic.”

“I think you should resign and take care of the house.”

“Why do you want to eat out? Didn’t you cook?”

“I don’t think you should take this job, I work here and can’t move.”

This is how a woman’s experiences, on the same path of life, are different.

This is still about the women in my life. I see them deal with this and succeed. I have nothing but pride in my heart and mind, for them. I am in awe. I admire them. They have broken the norm and have taught me how. My Mother was the breadwinner of her own family. She earned more than my Father once upon a time. My Father taught me that there are real men in this world, because he was okay with that. There wasn’t an issue at all.

I am the son and the daughter in my small nuclear family. But why be two different things? I am the offspring, the ward, the child. No need for a gender classification. I will take care of my parents, settle down in life and live. Boy or a girl, this is what a human actually does. I’m human. I’m proudly a human woman. That does not change anything. The sooner both sexes understand this, the sooner everyone becomes a feminist, sooner we all become anti-sexist, the better for humanity, as a whole.

Dhwani Hariharan

P.S. Happy Mother’s Day to all the beautiful, strong WOMEN out there. Happy brewing, happy reading! 🙂



















Coffee or Tea?

Source: httpswww.chowhound.comblog-media201608header2-bellahousewares.png

Disclaimer: Completely fictional.

“Did you pack your-”

“Yes, I did.”

“But you didn’t even let me complete my sentence!”

I sighed. “Fine, I’m sorry. What did you want me to pack?” I asked.

“Never mind. You know all anyway.”


She left the room then. I rolled my eyes and sighed again.

A strange lack of emotion, a blankness engulfed me. My actions felt mechanical.

“Tea?” she called from the kitchen.

“Coffee?” I answered a question with a question.

“We are out of coffee.”


I looked at the door of my bedroom. I hadn’t lived in the house for years. The room hadn’t changed much. It was still a sort of a shrine to me. The perfect daughter of the house – who never really was on her best behavior with her Mother.

I knew she would cry at the truth of her own statement. I knew I had to be her strength in these times. And yet, there I was, exhausted at the thought of having to keep it together, leaving, to get away. It had been a very trying month at home. I had not thought I would be coming back home to this but one can only accept the fate presented.

My Mother and I never had the “confidant” relationship. That was always my Father and me. I loved my Mom, certainly. Her pain was my pain; if she had something to say, I’d always listen. I was always proud of her, like she was of me. But I was more like my Dad. Even though practicality and strength were my forte, two main attributes I could ascribe to my Father and Mother, respectively, the practicality came across strongly and stole the limelight.

I walked into the kitchen to see her strain the tea. I could see the fresh batch of tears glistening on her cheek. I shut my eyes momentarily, overcame the strong urge to cry myself and said, “I’ll speak to Uncle and make all the arrangements to get you to America for a while. I think that will make for a good change.”




“Mom, please.”

“No. You have just begun working and me coming there will add to your expenses and come in your way. It won’t help both of us.”

“I can’t leave you here, alone.”

“I’ll stay at your Grandmother’s and I’ll be fine. I need company. I need the kids. You’ll continue being a ghost and me, more of a burden than I already am.”

“Mom, will you stop it? I never said anything like that! I don’t know why you keep calling yourself a burden!”

“This is the only world I know and you know how I fear change. America will be way too daunting for me. You know that! Why do you want to subject me to it without..without..”

And she began crying again.

“You know it is difficult for me, too,” I whispered. “I need you to get over everything, the same way I know you need me.”

“And to stay apart is the right way to do that, my dear.”

I was always like my Father. I had never seen strength overpower practicality. But I knew those words required a lot more strength than sense.

We looked at each other. Two sets of chocolate brown eyes staring into the depths of each other. And I felt a lot like my Mother suddenly.

“He loved the perfect combination of bitter and sweet – his coffee, you know? Piping hot,” she said and smiled.

“I like it just bitter.”

“Yeah, well, you were never sweet,” she said and chuckled.

“Mom!” I said and rolled my eyes.

She took her cup of tea and left the kitchen to sit in the living room. The television formed a slight murmur, dimming the ticking clock. Time had passed, as it always does.

My eyes scanned the platform. I picked up another cup and poured tea into it. I took my cup and went to join her.

There were always two coffee drinkers at home. There always remained two coffee drinkers, even after I left home. Perhaps no coffee was the moment of truth, of acceptance. Perhaps, that is the beginning of change, of moving on. Her way of bidding a Bittersweet goodbye. My way of helping her through it.

                                                                                                     Dhwani Hariharan

P.S. Yes, two days in a row! Wow, I do miss writing! Happy brewing, happy reading! 🙂

The Black Screen

Source: httpsresources.matcha-jp.comarchive_filesjp201502p1312204.jpg 

Disclaimer: Completely fictional. Not intended to hurt anyone. Inspired from “Still Alice” by Lisa Genova.

The silence that greeted her at 6AM every morning was the one she had always loved. The morning birds chirping, the ocean that hit the shore and cascaded away, all became prominent in the calm silence. True, this was always evident during the late night walks along the beach, but her attention then used to be directed toward the hand that held hers, with all else becoming the romantic music, embellishing the regular to fantasy.

Today, she sat there, in front of the glass wall, beyond which lay the silent ocean. She had her laptop perched atop the desk, with a blank document open, waiting for her to type out the beauty she saw. She looked at the screen, then looked up. Someone walking down the stairs caused her to look around. She saw this beautiful man walk up to her and say, “Good morning, darling.” He gave a small peck and checked the screen. His small smile turned forlorn and he sighed, deeply.

“Why do you like the beach?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“What if you get sand in your device?”

“Hahaha!” she couldn’t help but laugh at his innocent, child-like remark.

“I’m serious, Zoya.”

“Alright, I shall take you seriously. I don’t know why but water has always been an inspiring source, I suppose.”

“Why not use a book? And a pen?”

“Have you seen my handwriting? Even I wouldn’t be able to understand what I write!”

“Oh, come on!”

“Everyone is allowed hypocrisies, so stop judging!”

“What do you want to write about today?”

“How about I write a chapter on you?”

“And have me published, with all my flaws? No thanks.”

“I love your flaws. I love you for your imperfections. They make me feel secure. I could use them as leverage later when I  grow old to be fat and ugly,  you know.”

“I will stand by you, come what may, Zoya. I promise.”

The promise echoed in his own head, years later today, as he looked at her, her “device” propped in front of her, the beach she so adored with the waves crashing at the shore, just beyond the glass wall.

She looked at the man. She felt oddly secure and yet didn’t really feel much. She didn’t have anything to say to him and even if she did, she didn’t know how. Just like she didn’t know what to fill the blank document with.

“I think I have writer’s block. It hasn’t lifted in days now!” she complained.

They were at the new beach house they had bought for her to get away from the hustle-bustle of the city during the summers, to write. Her next deadline was approaching and she hadn’t written much. The publishers weren’t threatening to drop her yet but she was still becoming anxious.

Her favorite spot was the desk which was strategically placed in front of a huge glass wall. The ocean was right in front of her and the sound of the waves gave her the perfect background score to type out her thoughts. On some days, her husband would play the grand piano, adjacent to her. This never disturbed her. The music and lyrics always went hand-in-hand. This was one of the ways she sprouted symphonies – many of which were published.

“How do you want me to console you this time?” he asked.

“Well, remind me that I do know how to write, considering I feel as though this is my first attempt, my first book, all over again.”

She sat down and curled up against him. She felt a little sick.

“Hey, you are my favorite author in this whole world. You pulled Graham Greene out of the top spot and sat there with the very first sentence you spoke to me.”

“I want to write a book which will pass through generations, have people breathe in the paper to travel several worlds with a sniff and feel the touch of those they could never feel,” they chimed together.

“It was the most crazy and weird start to a small talk I had ever heard. You just had me then and with the book you are about to write, I know you will have me all over again.”

She looked up at him and smiled. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he. The laptop made a sound which caused them to look toward it.

“I’ll get the charger,” he said and left her side.

He shouldn’t have. It caused her to flinch and her smile faded into dread. She stood up and moved away from him when he returned to the room. He realized that something had gone wrong. He began to approach her but stopped in his tracks soon. He noticed the dread turn into fright.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me. You were working on your laptop. It is about to die. I just brought you the charger. Or do you not want to work anymore?”

“I..I..uh..can..not,” she mumbled.

“Well, that’s okay. You can go upstairs and rest then.”

“No. Write…I can’t,” she said.

He looked away then. He couldn’t look at her anymore. “I’ll send Vanessa. She’ll help you go upstairs and rest.” He walked away. He was finding it difficult to contain his tears.

“I won’t be the person you’ve always known. The person you’ve spent twenty-five years with. I won’t be the same. I won’t be able to speak, write, anything. I’m sorry..” she said to him one night.

She had been surprisingly strong since the diagnosis. She was more worried about his life, after her.

“Will you stop it? You are just fine! You are how you’ve always been. Please, stop it,” he begged her.

“All the things that made you fall in love with me will fade away. One morning, I’ll wake up and look at you, unable to recognize this face.”

Her strength and indifference to the painful words she was speaking scared him a little. He realized that she had accepted her fate and he hadn’t.

“Who knew it wasn’t writer’s block that kept the words away from me.”

She looked at the back of this beautiful man. She wanted to respond but she couldn’t. She didn’t know how.

“I’ll send Vanessa. She’ll help you go upstairs and rest,” she heard him say. He then walked away. She felt helpless. She had so much to say but she just didn’t know how. Her frustration streamed down her cheeks and she broke down completely. She couldn’t recognize this man. She didn’t know if she could trust him. Was he trying to help her? Who was he? A chapter in her life she couldn’t write? She just didn’t know anything.

“A book to remember?” he asked. “That’s a nice definition of a book one would remember, always.”

She was surprised that her random rant would be met by eager ears. She smiled at the beautiful stranger.

“Yes, even those who have a tendency to forget! Haha,” she said and they laughed.

The laptop beeped. The blank document visible for a moment. No words would ever be written by the same hands on that blank screen. It was almost as if it knew. It allowed the room to see it momentarily and then it went black.

Dhwani Hariharan

P.S. I know it has been very long since I wrote something. So here goes…Happy brewing, happy reading! 🙂