The Fourth Seat

I was introduced to the Vishu tree a long long time ago. I had not seen one until I saw it on the cover of PCM's The Children Magazine - a popular magazine published in Kerala. I used to read the magazine as a child until I grew older and then became hooked to the Reader's Digest. It was a Vishu special issue. Vishu, like many regional festivals, is one of the major harvest festivals celebrated widely in Kerala.  It is marked by the blossoming of the beautiful yellow flower of the Vishu tree, every petal of which shines bright in the summer months. Ever since I learnt about it, the Vishu tree started becoming my favourite tree to spot as I roamed the streets during summer holidays. Though in Bombay, back then, there were very few spots where this tree could be seen. Perhaps there are even fewer such spots now. There was the one near the railway station, you could only see it when you were standing on the footboard, living life on the edge. And then there was one by the flyover,

Five years is a long time in today's world. Stay at the same workplace for that long and you join the gratuity club. Every five years the Indian democracy presents all of us with a chance to change our world. But five years is not a long enough time to heal you. Personal loss takes a long time to heal they say. I can tell you that they are right.  Every February as the sun makes its journey up north, it begins to warm up everywhere. The faint signs of spring - the occasional tree in bloom signal promising times after a cold winter. As the days turn longer and the nights shorter, I feel myself drawn to the chilly evening of 2018. The breeze was cold as I rushed to the hospital. The air was crisp and fresh as it is often during the bewitching hour of midnight. The gurney was ice cold, and his face was getting cooler. The light had gone out of our lives.  Death severs all bonds or maybe it doesn't. But the time spent together when alive is far more precious than you think. It is p

Each time there is a cyclone near Chennai, Bengaluru goes into a melancholic mood. The skies become overcast and if it weren't for the steel and glass buildings on the skyline, I swear I could have been at a hill station. During such times it is hard not to be inflicted by its gloom. The chilly temperatures and the cold wind don't brighten up your heart and for a Bombay boy like me, it is hard to remain cheerful. That's when I try to find comfort in a warm plate of Thalaserry Biryani. I always prefer a good Donne Biryani but all the Military and Naati places are too far from where I live.  What is the point of food? Most times it is only to satiate hunger and provide nutrition for the body. But on other days it does more than that. It provides comfort and hope. For instance, when I fell sick recently, a warm bowl of rasam provided much hope and reminded me, at least temporarily, of what good health feels like. With every sip of the hot liquid, I could feel its transformativ

There are various types of silences. Some are more welcome than the others. A silence that follows a din, for instance, provides respite. It offers time and space to reflect upon the events that caused the cacophony. Some silences are deathly, often they are feared. And rightly so.  What kind of silence do I prefer? I prefer all kinds of silence nowadays. It has been a long time since I heard anything else. Nature sounds are part of my environment  - white noise as they call it. Human voices, however, are rare in this part of town. I was not used to it before but right now I don’t mind the silence.  This one is what they call the comfortable silence. Shared between friends and lovers. I was a prisoner of this silence. The awkward silence. The kind that is shared after arguments. But now I don’t mind it so much. How did I grow fond of my own captor? They call it the Stockholm syndrome it seems.  Sometimes I sit and ponder over the mysteries of life. I don’t need a cave to meditate in. I

  I first met Shimmy in 2017. He had moved in with my grandma when his previous owner relocated elsewhere. He growled at me first and then became playful, like all good home dogs. He would keep my grandma company throughout the day while everyone was at work. But at 7 PM when the Angel bell of Victoria Church rang, he would howl. We figured he was remembering his older master. He was a good dog after all. I kept meeting him every time I visited Mahim. And each time I would visit - we had the same routine - he would growl at me at first and then become thick friends throughout the evening. He would come to see me off till the main road and then run back home.  But in the Diwali of 2021, Shimmy ran away. Traumatised by the fireworks going off, he would often seek shelter elsewhere and return late at night. But this time he did not. For weeks, my cousin, aunts and uncle kept looking for him but to no avail. Then in January a friend of my aunt Hema casually showed her some photos of her ne

You are a dream. An impossible, recurring one. The sort that you expect on a particularly lonely night. It is set in the same wondrous locale where the buildings are of uneven sizes. There is no uniformity but the roads largely run straight, only to curve sharply when you least expect. In such a dream no one dies instantly but everyone is not fully alive either. No no, not the Zombie-type. You are more beautiful than death. The roads run around cliffs which overlook the sea, the kinds which you don't care about. Perhaps that's how much you think about me too. Not much.  I wonder if you ever wonder about such things. But dreams don't bother about who dreams them. Though the dreamers struggle with many different dilemmas. Neither of which concern the dream itself. You play hide and seek but I always lose. Though I also always play. I am not a big fan of losing but losing to you, I don't mind so much. Other dreams don't matter so much to me but you do. Such a strange b