What's the point?

She was lying there on her flat tummy with her head turned away and, maybe, even her eyes closed. Her bare bony shoulder peeked from in between the sheets while her jet black hair was strewn carelessly on her back, maybe even hiding her face. The faint morning sun was fighting with the light-green drapes to get in and expose last night’s recklessness. He woke up to this scene with a frail recollection of reality and a reluctance to accept it. A broken smile.

 She moved the minute his head made a rustle against the pillow. Light sleeper. Yes. And turned her head towards him while the hair still covered her face. Her slender fingers reached out from under the sheets to give her a clearer picture of him and parted her hair from her face. She saw the smile. Amused she asked, “What? Was I snoring?”

“Nope! Purring rather”, he replied as he approached to catch her waist and pulled her closer to himself. “Hey look!” she said softly, “Don’t get me wrong but, I need to leave now.” She slowly moved his hand away from her waist and pulled herself up and sat crouching on the bed like she was praying. The sheet was shrouding her slender figure and he could notice her breathing deeply. The smile slowly faded and reality started setting in. She carefully crawled out of the bed to get her clothes and started dressing up. Not once did she look him in the eye while he was lying there on the bed staring straight at her. Now on his back with his arms folded behind his head, he was carefully observing her while she got dressed. Not even a glance his way. There was no hurry in her demeanour and she took her time to wear her jeans and t-shirt that she usually slips into like a Russian magician quick-changes her dresses.

“So, what time’s your flight?” he asked, to force her to break that uneasy silence. “Hmmm? Oh it’s in the afternoon” she said, “But I need to get home and make sure that I have everything packed and ready.” “Do you need help?” he asked. He knew what the answer was going to be, but he was a sucker for a better reply. “Nope. I’m good!” and she finally looked at him and smiled. “You can enjoy the rest of your day. You don’t have to waste it around me. I can manage.” Somehow her words and her eyes just never spoke the same things. He had noticed this too many times before and how that smile was used to mask the dissonance. She reached for her bag, took a final look in the mirror and was probably going to say bye.

“Hey why don’t we go for a quick breakfast and then you can come back home. I’m famished. Care to give me company?” she said instead. The smile was back on his face beaming brighter than the sun. “Of course. I’m hungry too and I could kill for some pancakes” he said jumping up in his bed. “Our last breakfast together. Let's make you some breakfast.”

“Pancakes sound decent” she said with a smile that brought a sparkle to her eyes. He was out of bed even before she completed her sentence. He made the breakfast while she lent a hand with a few things that he let her help with. He hated people invading his cooking space but that was not important now. It was a perfect breakfast of pancakes, apples and some coffee with the regular banter on the side. Not once did last night appear in the conversation, though it was constantly on their minds. The regular nonsense was just to distract from last night. There was desperation to fill in the awkward silences. No one wanted to discuss last night or maybe that’s all that they wanted to talk about.

They finished their meals and washed the dishes together. Soon it was time for her to leave. "Could there be more reasons for her to stay?" both of them thought. The moment they reached the door, she turned and hugged him tight. “It was awesome” she whispered to him and he could almost hear her smile in his ear. “Yes, it was” he said. She looked at him and beamed... and slowly let go of him. She opened the door, gave him one final glance and said her final goodbye as she walked out on the pavement.  When she turned back one last time, both waved at each other. He took his time to close the door behind her while she walked away. She trotted down the quiet lane, kicked a stone lying on the ground out of her way and continued walking to her house.

Por el amor de café

Let no one tell you how to drink your coffee.

“Even a bad cup of coffee is better than no coffee at all.”

-          David Lynch

It is a shame if you never realized that you know how to make the best cup of coffee on this planet. Maybe even in this universe, but I would not like to say that, since I’m not well versed with the ways of the universe. And there is a great possibility that out there is some all encompassing power that controls how we make coffee. So, for now, let’s just stick to this planet and plane where we assume to have complete control over our affairs.

How you love your coffee is completely your business and nobody else’s. If you know how to live your life like a pro, then you can very well make yourself a good cup of coffee. You can brew it, boil it or even burn it! Maybe even sleep with a bag of coffee beans. You are your own sensei for coffee.

Don’t tell me you don’t like coffee. ‘Coz you do! You just didn’t give it enough time to fall in love. You never gave it enough permission to infuse its strength onto your taste-buds. Maybe you were too stubborn to let it overpower your senses. Just let go.

There’s the regular espresso and the latte. Take it with a pinch of chilli or infuse it with a cinnamon stick. Lap it up with some whipped cream or brew it with a little ginger. It’s happier than vanilla and potent with flexible magic. Just give it some love and pour yourself a cup. You don’t have to move mountains to deserve it.

Just do your part and let it serve you. 

The Coward's Little Jig

I cannot stand anyone less than a champion.

It’s a bold statement to make but true and I drew these words out of my hilt while meaning every bit of it. For me, champions are the ones that rise out of dust and shine like gold. Champions wear their hearts on their sleeves to terrify cowards who fear to show their own. Champions cry their fears out and waste no time in lament henceforth. They drive their thresholds to peak each day of their breathing existence. They have nothing to hide and are shrouded in their nakedness. They have scars. They have wounds. They have fought.

Cowards, on the other hand, will hide. Hide behind excuses. Hide their tools of torture. Hide the tools that shaped them...into cowards. They have secrets. They have reasons for not being there. A reason for each day, each moment and each millisecond of their pathetic existence. They have reasons why one should have a reason for the sky being blue. They need proof and evidence because they are too scared to believe.  This is my ode to all those cowards who take pride in the stop signs that halted them in their tracks.

You can’t change them because they lack belief. Do not try to make their lives better because that will never happen. They have given up and do not possess the will to rise. Masochists in true nature who enjoy their pain and writhe in misery. They fear to allow anyone else the luxury of hurting them and self-inflict themselves to torture of a different kind. The world is onto them and will never allow them to emerge as winners. They believe winning is for losers – there’s no need to make an effort. Tears and begging don’t work on this kind because their hearts are safely locked somewhere deep inside, catching dust and turning into stone. Some might have even thrown their keys away. Black holes of every human effort that will just take and give nothing in return.  All of this and more makes them a true spectacle worth ignoring. Ignore the minute you sense a coward near you. Run for your life the minute you sense their presence and never look back. Take my two pennies worth of advice and avoid a coward the minute you sniff its stale presence. It’ll save you a lifetime worth of happiness and effort that's better put to something far more productive.

Because, seriously I cannot stand anyone less than a champion!

The Vase Full of Sand

Blogadda's Spicy Saturday Pick - Best Blogposts by Indian Bloggers

Once I owned a Vase. Owned it with my heart and soul.

Everyone had a vase of their own. One girl I knew bought it at the flea market because she could afford one. Another one bought it because she felt bad for the lonely piece which no one would buy. I also knew a guy who bought one every month. He was a connoisseur - of vases. They all had one. The one they could call their own. Even had their names engraved on them. I heard that the couple next door recently lost theirs. They were speculating the idea of buying a new one. The missus of the house hates a house without flowers. They all had a reason. They all knew what they wanted.

                                     

I was never into vases. It was not something I would buy; for myself or for anyone else. Not even for the couple next door. I was not looking for vases until I met her - The Gypsy from Andalusia. She was on her way. I never bothered to ask where to. I doubt if she knew the answer herself. She stayed over. A company like hers would never disturb me. The vase was a gift from her. It wasn’t even a vase. More like a jar.

Each morning she woke up earlier than the sun and waited for the first rays to hit the ground. With the first sparkling rays she packed a pinch of sand and sprinkled it into the jar and quietly brought it back inside. A pinch a day. Everyday. Till the jar was full and it was time for her to leave. The last day of her stay was a celebration. Just the both of us with good food, a beautiful rendition on her guitar and light chit chat. She left the next morning after thrusting the vase in my hands without saying a word. That’s the last time I saw her or heard of her.

The jar was painted pretty red and filled with sand from my backyard. I kept it like a handsome knight in front of my army of books. The very first to wake me up and the very last to put me to sleep. They said it’s just a jar full of sand. What good could it bring? Some suggested I grow a plant and some wanted to put flowers. How silly would a knight look with a plant or flowers in its head? I chose to let it be. A jar full of sand is what I wanted. A jar full of ‘Sunshine sand’. I grew a fondness for the jar while it stood on my bookshelf motionless staring back at me. The more people despised the handsome knight the more I developed a pride in ownership of this vessel. It was mine. It had potential to be so many things. But I loved it to be the Sunshine jar. Many told me, “It’s not even a Vase!” I agreed. I never wanted a vase. The Sunshine jar was doing its work. I smiled. I worked. I was happy.

Till one day. That one wretched day when I disturbed my army of books. The jar fell right off the shelf and got smashed into a million gut wrenching pieces. Pieces I wish I could put back together. But the sunshine got scattered all over the place. I scrambled on the floor to save my sunshine. I gathered all the sand I could and put it in a plastic bag. The sight was painful. Warm tears were soaking the sand now. I could feel the sunshine escaping. The shards of the broken jar had to be saved. Some cut my fingers. But who cares about finger cuts when your sunshine’s escaping. I put the remains of the jar in an old shoe box. Spent the entire night staring at the dead knight and crying. There was no one to put me to sleep. Maybe this was a nightmare or maybe I just woke up from a dream. I lost the sunshine that could never be owned.

I was never into vases. I never wanted a vase. I would never buy a vase. Not even for the couple next door. 

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