The Fourth Seat

The hallmark of a good novel is how relatable it feels. It does not matter where in the temporal-spatial zone the reader is situated. In other words, the hallmark lies in its universality.  The ability of the writer to draw you into the lives of the characters and make you feel more than an observer is what distinguishes great storytellers from the rest.  So when a book like Cuckold ends, I am left thinking about the land of Chittor for a very long time. About Greeneyes, Leelawati, Kausalya and  Maharaja Kumar, the arch nemesis of the Flautist.  Why do some books matter to you more than the others? Why do some novels stand out and then stay with us, etched in memory? Maybe it is because it's how the novel touches us. Maybe it is also how one catches glimpses of one self in the characters, in the plots and the geography of the story. They reflect a little bit of ourself. Why does your heart yearn for the seemingly villainous protagonist? Why does Maharaj Ku...

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?