November Rain

Wednesday, 30 November 2016



“Moi, je deteste la pluie.”
(Me, I hate the rain)

Well why wouldn’t she, the surreptitious sun falls off the horizon so soon these days. By five, the darkened streets are mired in confusion of soft rain but later cajoled by some streetlights. My French teacher, Magalie, had a point. The rain wasn’t a romantic; rather she sided with the sinking sun.

As my teacher was dictating the seasons in French, I remembered my late night drives through the blistering rain back home in Kochi. The old-fashioned music that still played CDs in my car had to bear the morose tones of the album Ultraviolence. Contrary to the mood, the car raced through the swampy roads.  The wait at the inevitable signal was when the car slowed down, I shifted the gear to neutral and always let out that sigh. The view of the blurred cars, simmering bouket lights and finally the music, promising as it always is. That was the rain I knew, the one that brought a certain lightness to every moment, a romantic.



It was all Yellow

Tuesday, 8 November 2016


Rarely resting upon her nose, her eyeglasses lay idly beside her antiquated phonebook. It's hard to picture my grandmother with those spectacles. She never wears them, or you could say that she never made a spectacle of those rimmed things. But then, there are those few times she makes exceptions. One, when she reclines on a sturdy wooden chair, near an open window in the living room to read newspapers that occasionally enticed her with their promising ‘matrimonials’. And occasionally it was also for that secret pleasure of hers-  the sight of the aftermath of ‘matrimonials'- a vindication that comes gilded in gold on some art paper.