The Fourth Seat

Dawn was far away. But I was up, splashing cold water on my face. The sink seemed new but the hotel was old. The lightbulb was awkwardly placed. It made me look older in the new mirror. It was the greying stubble. But it didn't matter then. I had a flight to catch.  My phone buzzed and broke my self indulgent questioning. A driver had been assigned to me by Uber. My scheduled ride for 3:30 AM to the airport. But the driver was eleven kilometers away. Would he actually make it?  “I hope he doesn’t change his mind” I thought. It was time to brush and get ready for the ride. The ride to T1 is always a long one, no matter where you started from. If you were on the other side of Hebbal it is a banal ride at best on a very good road, gliding over Yelahanka town.  The driver arrived before I could wear my shoes. “I’ve arrived” – he texted using the pre-programmed message. “Be right there” – I used the other pre-programmed reply. I paid my dues to the groggy front desk staff who ...

One evening, around this time last year I caught my everyday train,  the 6:06 Borivali from Bandra. By a stroke of luck I got a window seat. And before Khar I had dozed off. My usual power nap Ended abruptly at Goregaon. A dark curtain loomed, stretched taut outside the window For how long was I out? Was the train going back all the way to Churchgate? Was I approaching burnout? I looked down  At my faithful Titan only 6:35  Said my silent companion. A slight chill  caressed my face, gently Oh the familiar chill Cold but warm.  It was the time when Winter had arrived to shorten the days 

While growing up I always peered into the living rooms of others Glowing yellow with ceiling lamps. I always wondered, what did they do in there? Inside buildings and bungalows, A designated room for living with no fluorescent tube-lights Seemed rich and unnecessary. What did they speak about? Was the TV playing foreign films? Was there laughter too? Did they worry when it rained or sat by the window to see it with a cup of tea and a book. Was there a couch with an ottoman of course, and a teapoy on a rug A rocking chair too maybe? Is that what one calls cosy?

A certain desperation has creeped into our society. The need for a little bit more. Each one is busy chasing a little bit more without a pause. The idea of contentment is lost. As active members of society we have become consumers of everything. We need a little bit extra of everything. More value for our buck. More buck for our value.  The constant bargaining and maximisation of value is growing tiresome. If one were to examine this phenomenon, it is obvious where it stems from.  The deep uncertainty of the future, the widening inequality and the absolute lack of a safety net. The haves and the have nots - both have become desperate to maintain the status quo. And the only way to achieve this is by doing more and acquiring more. So when it all comes crashing, you have something remaining.  Add to it rising costs of living, deteriorating environmental conditions and an unstable geo-political climate - and you have a recipe for desperation.  The other day a friend men...

Coffee at Dawn - Patnem, Goa '22 Mornings ought to be silent. The day needs to start slow. The tempo needs to pick up, slowly, eventually. Just not right then. The crescendo of the day can come later, I don't care. But not in the mornings. Nature moves unhurriedly in the mornings, then why don't we?  Have you observed how dawn breaks? The darkness fades, slowly as a grey breaks into the sky. More light. A streak of sunlight. Brightness. Birds chirp, dew vanishes, the day begins.  Mornings are for contemplation, for reflection, for the quiet moments of silence punctuated only by bird song and sea waves. There is no need for music at that hour. Not even jazz. Only the sounds of nature waking up and embracing the day are welcome. No voices. No chatter. No discussions. No arguments. No sweet nothings. No honking. No TV. Nothing.  Though one knows that Silence is not always welcome. Other times you need to hear the humming, the chatter, the retorts, the clanking of the vessels...

There are certain mornings when you don’t need to actively reflect upon anything. All you need is a cue, a trigger, a nudge, a few couplets of Urdu poetry to launch into a tirade against oneself. And to step down from one plane of consciousness and into the rabbit hole of nostalgia. A wild montage of images, sounds and smells takes over your mind as you lie perfectly still on the bed that you slept in the night before. Your body remains still but your mind is shuddering, pulsating, rocking to the sounds and beats of the times flown by. What happened to the dreams which you dreamt about during your wakeful hours. To those things which you wanted over everything else. For whom you left everything and everyone by the wayside. How did you land up here where you didn’t intend to? Is this all a chance or some misdirected motivation towards the comforts you secretly crave but openly despise? What is the idea of work? Is it what is done for purpose and passion or a mundane activity undertaken ...