The Fourth Seat

The district of Coorg, in Karnataka is one of my favorite places on earth. Madikeri, the headquarters of this charming coffee growing district is the answer to Mussorie and numerous other hill stations that adorn the crown of our country. The ones up north are much younger though. Lying nestled in the Himalayas, they retain their own charm. However, winding roads, misty valleys and cheerful locals are much the same across all hilly regions of our country. The nature has a calming effect on the most violent of tempers. So it is hard to believe that Coorg is home to one of the fiercest warrior clans of India. The Kodavas. History reminds us that no ruler could ever conquer this land as the Kodavas were brave fighters and hence their culture till date remains intact. About two years ago, during the month of May we decided to seek shelter in the cool environs of this town, to escape the heat of our city. The evenings were chilly and we generally spent them over good food, some drinks an...

I have no clue how my day will begin tomorrow. I do not know what time I will be waking up. I only have a vague idea about what I need to do tomorrow and whom I might be meeting. But more likely I will surprise myself by doing something entirely different from what I had intended to. do. However, what I do know is how my day will come to an end. I know this for sure because I have developed a routine that I don't seem to mind very much. Now I am not a stickler for routines. I don't like them a lot. But for one reason or the other, my day ends in a similar fashion and I don't do anything about it. It all begins when the Rajabai clock tower starts to chime as her two hands form a right angle. The second quadrant to be specific. The tower, of course is female. She was named after Premchand Roychand's mother - Rajabai. Roychand not only funded the building of this magnificent structure but he also founded the Bombay Stock Exchange. The evening bell of the tower would rem...

I do not have a native place. A village. A place in the country if you may. Some old house amidst lush fields and a well nearby. I have been born in this city. And I have lived here since then. Just like my Father and his Father. We don't know much about my Grandfather's father. So when someone asks me where my native place is, I simply say Bombay. However, if you ride down on the NH-17 towards the Taluka of Mangaon, and turn left and ride another few miles, you would come across a quaint place called Kadapa. And here on a small elevation lies a temple. This temple houses the shrine of Kadapkarin Devi. Or simply Devi as she is known in our family. As a child, going to Devi was an adventure in itself. My folks would offer our prayers and return the same day or at times stay over. On one such trip, when I was 10, three families descended upon the temple. Most of us kids decided to explore the small hillock that rose behind the temple. There was a winding road going up to the v...

Sandhurst Road station is one of the many nondescript stations that dot the central and the harbour railway lines of Bombay. You pass it everyday but you never bother to alight. It is a remarkable engineering marvel. Located on a hill, the harbor line is elevated onto the upper level while the central line runs humbly at the foothills. The only exit is at the peak. Named after Lord Sandhurst, an erstwhile English Governor of Bombay, the fabricated material that holds it together has been imported from the UK way back in the 20th Century. And the metal pillars still stand strong. However, the history of the station is not important. We need to walk down the peak, onto the slope and through Nowrosjee Hill Road number 5, past St Joseph's Church and cross Jail Road to enter Umarkhadi, Dongri. One glimpse at this region and the contrasts are glaring. The newly re-developed buildings versus the old school crumbling ones. Co-operative housing societies with passages that double up as b...

I always wondered how could she forget. I feared she had amnesia. But she couldn't. She was the smartest, I always believed. She would have had reliable memory otherwise how could one explain her rank in the merit list? But now that I was a student of Psychology and true to its image, it indeed held a lot of answers concerning human nature. I learnt why people forget and it finally dawned upon me. It was all in the Interference Theory. All those times when she never called. Because she was suffering from Retroactive Interference. Newly acquired information competing with already known information for recall. And it also wins all the time. But then when I managed to speak to her, she wouldn't like it and asked him to stop. Why would she do that? Maybe because now Proactive Interference was at play. Already known information prohibiting the recall of newly acquired information. And there in those hallowed pages of his Psychology textbooks, I imagined hearing Saundra Ciccarelli...

You are tired from the day's work. You lie down in bed but you can't sleep. You are waiting for the call that never comes through. You twiddle with your phone to make sure it is working. The glow from the small screen brightens up your face. But that's artificial. You are not really glowing. Your eyes twitch at the sudden brightness.They are tired. For you work all day and you don't sleep at night. You turn the phone over and try to doze away. But the conversations start to play. They are quite clear. No static, no call drop, as sharp as your senses. But they are unreal. Like all the good things in life. Not to be confused with surreal. Surreal exists, a surreal evening for example. Unreal is fake. A fake evening can't exist. However, a fake conversation can. The fake conversations seem so real because you have had them for as long as you can remember. The voice is distinct. Even the pronunciations you remember correctly. They echo in your mind every time you clo...

There was a time when he looked forward to being in the photographs. He was a stickler for them. He always believed that they captured memories. Those moments that would soon become past would live on through the photos. Flipping through the photo album, he would often pause and stare at some of the photos. The photos of them. Him and her. It would seem like such a long time ago if he looked at himself in the mirror. He was ageing. His temples were graying. But his jaw was strong. He had circles under his eyes but the eyes still carried the old glint. He was never considered good looking, he was a regular old man. Those photos had kept him company. The albums were a treasure trove of memories. The eyes that he had longed to see for 20 years were in there. Smiling at him. He could never picture her old. To him, she would always remain young and lithe. Laughing like a kid and crying like one too. But assuming the role of a mature woman when life demanded. She was naughty too but would...