Archive for 2021

I first noticed it when she placed the strands behind her ear and laughed, throwing her hair back, her hand covering her mouth. It was a pretty and an honest laugh, but it was her jhumkas that dangled from each earlobe that made me pay attention to her.

Memories can feel out of place, sometimes, even feel unreal, like you never experienced the moment in the first place. My time with her was like that – she feels like an unreal memory, a person who never existed in my life, but this small object makes her real.

And perhaps, it was the most attractive thing about her – her choice in jhumkas. The first time I saw her, with black emeralds, and little bells hung around them.

And then I saw her four more times.

She would continue to put on new jhumkas everyday and I would remind myself, to not hurt her, never her. And then, one morning, she put on a new pair of jhumkas – a hoop inside a bigger hoop, and they rotated in the opposite direction when she moved her head. How could I not be fascinated by something so simple, but thoughtful?

Looking at her, standing there near the barrows, picking jhumkas and examining them, an old memory came to me from my childhood days – my mother would spend hours hopping from one barrow to another, looking at the jhumkas, too, and would almost ending up buying at least two. We never had enough money at home, but she always had enough to buy herself jhumkas.

So, I did what I do best - I complimented her on her earrings. Women, in my experience, feel safer around men who notice the little things - and jhumkas are a very small thing, especially for men, because it's often covered by hair. Besides, picking the right jhumkas takes a lot of efforts, so a compliment is always welcomed.

She thanked and smiled, and thus, began our tale.

No longer I had to stand in the shadows and watch her from a distance.

Soon enough, I became a close friend. gave her reasons to laugh, to throw her head back or move it around, just sol could watch her jhumkas move.

It was a beautiful sight but I was starting to get obsessed.

And then, it happened, what I feared the most.

It happened quickly, but it left a mark.

I remember asking her to take off her jhumkas for me, so

I could keep it.

"To have something of yours to remember you by.

"She laughed, and then, refused.

"It belonged to my grandmother," she had said, smiling.

And then, the next moment, I remember her clutching her

left ear, confusion and horror all over her face, and blood

trickled down her neck. She had screamed, too.

One moment she was laughing, and when she

refused, I snatched the left jhumka right off her ear,

a small piece of flesh came along, sticking to the hook.

It was a beautiful sight, holding the jhumka in my hand. I had to have that jhumka added to my collection. So, I gave into my temptations

And now that I had her jhumka, she served me no purpose.

She became a nobody to me.

I was done shopping here. So, she had to go.

I hold the floral jhumka dearly in my hand,

thinking about her, and watch it move with

the wind, just the way it had when she wore it.

I put my 2nd jhumka into the box.

I now had a pair, yet both were distinct.

And maybe, that is the beauty of my jhumkas-

they are abstract and have a tint of blood .

Chai aur Talab

"Stop my funeral, I'm feeling alive." Take the left from here the tea shop is nearby."

This post about the taste of my country, is my cup of tea. I don't know what reminds you of India's most authentic taste but India on my pallette is the entire tea farm of Darjeeling. India on my mother's pallette, every evening, is the North East. Trust me, I can literally smell houses, in cups and more often in the black pearls collected in a strainer kept near the washbasins. Mummy calls it "Chhanni". And Mummy is not just mine, she's yours too. If I ever meet your mother, her palms would smell like a tea farm and trust me, I would drop all Nike and Blackberry on the floor, just to wear her on my cheek, my forehead and my arms. Mummy, sits in the corner of a stall, in the morning, brewing dreams for kids she wants to admission in school. When she pours all the dreams she boils in milk, on cold winter days, with rough hands and a soft heart, I can taste, worries and love in the earthen vessel. Mummy calls it "Kulhad". Baba takes ten rupees for a cup of this happiness I buy every morning, before going to college and it's all free when I visit a friend's home because there, Mummy serves it with samosas. Mummy calls this blessing, Chai. The colour of tea, in my country tells me how global beauty is. We don't have so many shades of foundation but tea comes in all colours of skin. We burn the midnight oil during exams here, burdened with projects and those chasing deadlines but we live through the night, because Mummy makes chai at two, when clocks get sleepy. Tea glasses, in my country, have heard every story from the sippers. Sometimes it's friendship, sometimes gossip and sometimes loneliness. We don't drink it. Drinking doesn't hit the way tea does. We sip like it's a song. We are all singers with mics made of glass. Mummy calls it "Chuski". Tea, travels from homes to lovers sheltering in rain. I can always make a romantic Hindi poem on it, which I otherwise suck at. He calls it "Shayari."
"Vo muskuraakar keh dein humaari talab hai unhe, hum paatiyo ko kesar kar, chuski na ban jaayein chai ki toh kehna." Tea, to every Indian, tastes like weed was saffron all the time. ©Bhavya, Chai Aur Talab.

"रोको मेरा जनाजा,मुझमें जान आ रही है ।
आगे से लेफ्ट लेना चाय की दूकान आ रही है ।।"

मेरे देश के स्वाद के बारे में यह पोस्ट, मेरी चाय की प्याली है। मैं नहीं जानता कि आपको भारत के सबसे प्रामाणिक स्वाद की क्या याद दिलाता है, लेकिन मेरे पैलेट पर भारत दार्जिलिंग का पूरा चाय खेत है। मेरी मां की पाल पर भारत, हर शाम, नॉर्थ ईस्ट है। मुझ पर विश्वास करो, मैं सचमुच घरों को, प्यालों में और अधिक बार धुलाई के लिए रखे गए झरने में रखे हुए काले मोतियों में मिला सकता हूं। मम्मी इसे "छन्नी" कहती हैं। और मम्मी सिर्फ मेरी नहीं है, वह तुम्हारी भी है। अगर मैं कभी तुम्हारी माँ से मिलता, तो उसकी हथेलियाँ चाय के खेत की तरह खुशबु मारतीं और मुझ पर भरोसा करतीं, मैं फर्श पर अपने गाल, माथे और अपनी बाहों पर उसे पहनने के लिए नाइके और ब्लैकबेरी छोड़ देता। मम्मी, एक स्टाल के कोने में बैठती हैं, सुबह बच्चों के लिए सपने देख कर स्कूल में दाखिला लेना चाहती है। जब वह सर्दी के दिनों में, उबड़-खाबड़ हाथों और कोमल हृदय के साथ, दूध में उबले हुए सभी सपने डालती है, तो मैं मिट्टी के बर्तन में स्वाद, चिंता और प्यार कर सकता हूं। मम्मी इसे "कुल्हड़" कहती हैं। बाबा इस खुशी के लिए एक कप के लिए दस रुपये लेता है, जो मैं हर सुबह खरीदता हूं, कॉलेज जाने से पहले और यह सब मुफ्त है जब मैं किसी दोस्त के घर जाता हूं क्योंकि वहां, मम्मी समोसे के साथ परोसती है। मम्मी इस आशीर्वाद को, चाय कहती हैं। मेरे देश में चाय का रंग बताता है कि वैश्विक सुंदरता कैसी है। हमारे पास नींव के इतने सारे शेड नहीं हैं, लेकिन चाय त्वचा के सभी रंगों में आती है। हम यहां परीक्षाओं के दौरान आधी रात को तेल जलाते हैं, परियोजनाओं और उन समयसीमाओं पर बोझ डालते हैं लेकिन हम रात में रहते हैं, क्योंकि मम्मी दो बार चाय बनाती हैं, जब घड़ियां नींद में हो जाती हैं। चाय के गिलास, मेरे देश में, मैंने हर कहानी सुनी है। कभी यह दोस्ती, कभी गपशप और कभी अकेलापन। हम इसे नहीं पीते हैं। चाय पीने का तरीका हिट नहीं करता है। हम जैसे यह एक गीत है। हम सभी गायक हैं जो कांच से बने मिक्स हैं। मम्मी इसे "चुस्की" कहती हैं। चाय, घरों से बारिश में आश्रय करने वाले प्रेमियों के लिए। मैं हमेशा उस पर एक रोमांटिक हिंदी कविता बना सकता हूं, जिसे मैं अन्यथा चूसता हूं। वह इसे "शायरी" कहते हैं।
"वो मुसकुराकर के दे हमरी तालबा है अनहे, हम पातियो में केसर कर, चुस्की ना बन जाईं चै की क्या तोहना।" हर भारतीय को चाय, खरपतवार जैसा स्वाद हर समय केसरिया होता था। © भव्या, चाय और तलब।