A Vintage Print

Thodi si meethi, thodi si kadak,⁣ Thoda sa doodh, aur thodi si hi patti chai ki,⁣ Acha thodi aur,⁣ Itna ki colour aa jaye,⁣ Colour Bhala kyu?⁣ Bas man hai,⁣ Chai agar chai hi na lage toh bhala swaad kaisa.⁣ ⁣ Thoda adarak, thodi Tulsi,⁣ Acha tulsi jaane do,⁣ Arey ruko, adarak abhi nahi, baad mein,⁣ Khaulne do thoda pehle use,⁣ Doodh phat jayega,⁣ Thoda vakt do,⁣ Thoda sa sabr, bas thoda hi,⁣ Dekho kahin meetha zyaada toh nahi.⁣ ⁣ Thoda vakt do,⁣ Samjho vakt ki bhi ahmiyat ko,⁣ Thoda ruko, pucho kise kise peena hai aakhir,⁣ Dhoondho cups ko,⁣ Ek cup, do cup, teen cup, chaar,⁣ Ho gaya, ab gas se hata lo,⁣ Stove pe toh banaye ho na kabhi tum,⁣ Chalo koi nahi, vakt hai abhi,⁣ Aakhir banaye ho hi kitni baar.⁣ ⁣ Acha chodo,⁣ Baatein Baad mein,⁣ Jaane do ab,⁣ Dekho chai dhaal toh loge na?⁣ Giraoge toh nahi?⁣ Dekhna chai Patti na aa jaye,⁣ Thodi kadvi si hoti hai,⁣ Chalo koi nahi,⁣ Dekh lenge.⁣ ⁣ Acha suno,⁣ Kitne cup huye?⁣ Agar pyaar hi baant rahe ho,⁣ Toh ek cup idhar bhi,⁣ Bolo, pilaoge n...

It is always easier to break something down, than to put it back together. It's the mending that takes effort. So it's easier, you see, for me to keep breaking my sentences into smaller ones. With little breaks, punctuated by commas and periods. It's easier this way to break it down into pointers, than to have myself confused with lengthy paragraphs. I don't do well with consistency. I often lose my train of thought, the rails slip, and my sentences fall over. Hollow, devoid of any real meaning. I could act smug, and tell you, how it's open to interpretation, maybe if I do it well, I might even be able to hide it. The lingering emptiness behind the false facadé, that is the english language. Notice how my paragraphs are getting longer, it's no longer fitting for me to continue. I might just lose it any minute now. My fleeting chain of thought, but I said train, words, you see. They are so damn replaceable. All my works are incomplete. I have never known how to....

Of course,⁣ there are days when I wish to have learnt another language.⁣ Besides the mothertongue, the coloniser's gift.⁣ To have more words to say is to have more to choose from.⁣ To express what one feels.⁣ For often 26 alphabets run short.⁣ ⁣ "My consonants hate my vowels".⁣ ⁣ What on earth would that even mean, you think,⁣ but you get it, you get the gist, think harder.⁣ So yes, there are those days, when I wish still.⁣ Another language, another tongue.⁣ Same words though.⁣ Truth is, I don't always know what to wish for,⁣ If only.⁣ So wait a little more,⁣ Read another book, another poem,⁣ It's the same words, you see,⁣ Same letters.⁣ ⁣ "How does your tea taste now?" (without me) ⁣ I'm looking for a language without a tongue,⁣ I don't yet know the difference.

The greatest gift in the universe is being alive. Life can easily be seen as the best thing one can have. Unfortunately, that is only realized when life itself is threatened. Being grateful doesn’t work. Remembering your boons doesn’t work and other positive thinking tactics don’t work. But when a certain virus surfaces somewhere, you find people cooped up in their homes. The depressed girl who was about to swallow a bunch of pills is seen in her parents’ home, washing her hands and wearing masks not because she’s scared, but because she worries about her parents. She finally sees her life from their eyes. How desperately they want her to be alive and well and for the moment, only that. Not be a millionaire, not birth a baby; just be alive. So she does. That’s the beauty of death. Even if we say we want it, the actuality of it terrifies us. Someone once told me that sometimes negative thinking keeps us safe. And I can’t help but think of this when fear has us checking up on our loved ...