the spices of our pieces (#yourstoryindia)

home

come, let me take you home.

hush now, be careful not to wake the parents.

my grandma, in any case, wont let me leave the house until i've positively filled my stomach and my bag and my mouth with twice as much fodder as the four stomachs of a cow would require through the course of a day. haven't you heard? the only way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

whenever i venture into noiseless and solace-inducing terrain, i can't find the balance between the one half of me that is confused by the lack of sweat, chaos, hustle-bustle and the other half whose subconsciously conditioned mind nurtures a mildly spiritual feeling of soothed nerves.

there's always so many circles. more circles.

your future, lack thereof, your family, lack thereof, their future, or lack thereof. oh dear god, isn't he beautiful? or oh dear god, i can't stand to see him smile.

as for me?

i can't stand the traffic jams. but the secret to my composure lies in the worn hedges of the wheels and the roaring bump bump bumps of every rickshaw i ever sat in.

i hate the smell of smoke, cigarettes or car fumes. yet, i've probably inhaled half as much smoke that wheezing old man with the tired lungs, who lives on the third floor.

noise, chaos, people, rush, crowds, sweat, tears?

i can find all the places to hide, and yet can't think as clearly anywhere but right amidst all the pandemonium.

this is what breathing in my half of india tastes like.

there's always so many conflicting factors, variables, arguments. but not one of them would blossom without the existence of the other. much like the way in which the few million people, homes, families, divorces could never thrive without the other's nudging and prodding.

i've wanted to dance with every smiling passerby on the half-tiled footpaths, and read the diaries of every homeless nomad on the street, with the wild hair and lingering eyes.

i've wanted to let every girl i saw with a shying smile out of the ropes that tied her down, and watch her sing and blossom like the brightest of parakeets that gnaw at the almonds on the tree outside my window.

even the parakeets here go on to chirp the songs they overhear repeatedly, over and over, blaring on several television screens, teasing out all our weary smiles.

and i understand when they do this, for my ears, too, have learned to echo the lessons i learn from every scream i hear, muffled or otherwise.