Pick-me-ups

Rustom ki razai

Genre- Dessert in words

This is like walking into a painting, Sara muttered under hear breath to Sanjiv who was three steps behind. He was more acustomed to carpeted offices where windows were sealed with extra rubber, where only sounds not frowned upon was of steam jutting out into beverage cups turning dairy into foam, where every activity that was a direct connect to human nature was outsourced to someone less priviledged. Someone watered the plants, another agency removed the lint from the upholstery. 

Sara’s romantic view of the cotton worker’s 10x10 shed was more like a discarded mural from Sanjiv's office. The one where his office thought they were promoting local artisans and the artisan felt he was infusing the grey atmosphere with specks of colour.

Aray you are here, collecting his loose unstitched attire Rustom got up to welcome his guests. Work hardened his hands, and softened his smile as he lifted the lid of the Earthen pot and offered them water. Sheepishly, Sara explained what they wanted. It gets very cold in a few months. Can you make us a Razai? Short winters, cheap heaters, mechanised blankets had dwindled interest in Rustom’s handmade Razais’. It was perhaps Sara’s grounded demeanour that prevented cynicism. 

Ofcourse his smile brightened as he opened his small notebook to take the measurements. As they walked out Sanjiv lifted the handkerchief which he used to prevent the micro-threads from disturbing him. Sara handed out the money. Shouldn’t you have waited? the process driven boss couldn’t contain his doubts. I could also have floated a tender. Sara was snickering at the difference in their worlds. Trust, my world runs on it. She didn’t want to annoy him as he had taken time out of his very busy schedule for their decided let’s do something together each month. I have only given him money; he will give me handmade razai but before that he’s planted a picture in my head to paint. A modern day chariot that signified her husband’s status- their luxury car drove them back to their house. Their house had his precision, but her personality. Corners adorned with nature inspired words, drawings, sonnets, and couplets. By the time he could collect his papers, she had heated up the kettle. Sip some slowness with me, she poured his favourite Kahwa. You still flirt the same, their together activity had managed to bring a smile out of him. I will be late, there is a conference he said before shutting the door behind him.

The phone rang, ready hai. Sara recognised Rustom’s voice, ok I will send the car to pick it up tomorrow. She thanked him profusely excited in anticipation of her handmade razai.  The detailing brought out rows of smiles on Sara’s face. A collection of flowers in one corner, a flock of birds to indicate the top, scattered leaves, Rustom had really worked magic on this piece. The children sat around as she explained how handmade embroidery was done. Wow mom, the generation used to pre-made everything caught on her appreciation. Can we make a drawing, yes of course if you each want one, then you can give me a drawing or your comic character and we can get that stitched on your own razai?. Can mine have pockets for the books? She squealed. Books or sweets? her brother pinched her as he teased.  

Sanjiv was late as usual coming back home, being the captain of his ship his time was never his. The children sat around and updated their day’s activities as he wound down with a drink. Next morning, Sara had forgotten Sanjiv’s routine as she rushed to start her day and send the children off. The night had been blissful. Heavy cotton filled razai had almost absorbed all her aches and pains. Usually by the time the children went to school, Sanjiv’s own work priorities or his mobile assistant took over his day. She sat down with her cup when the pindrop silence from the room struck her. Isn’t he getting ready? By this time, he is normally smashing doors always late for something. She got up to check.

She sent a sick leave message from his phone before turning it off. The Razai had cocooned her husband who was obviously in much needed deep sleep. A sight to behold, before she called up Rustom again, thanked him for his handmade Razai and told him that she will send the Spiderman’s picture for reference.

Pen-friend

Genre- Dark serenity

It sold like hot cakes, there are people who have placed their orders, they have left notes. Her words echoed bouncing off one mould ridden wall on to the ceiling. The ceiling much like their life was now exposed, specks of old paint added a bright contrast to the roughness of the natural browns. He tightened the sheet of cloth around himself, words bit pieces off him now. They stung, they pained every sense of his being. All sentences whether spelt right and grammatically correct were ridden with suspicion. Life had taken him down roads whose bright lights hid shady monsters. She slowed herself dragged and shunned by one and all, she had perfected the art of being her own melody. Usually not without a song or a word of praise, she spoke simply. It is true they loved it, every word, we sold every single copy. Even your draft which I had kept on the shelf by mistake, I told one customer it was ridden with spelling mistakes. He said its ok, he will make sense. This is a list of orders, hundred more copies. Slowly he sliced himself out of the sheet, afraid to show his smile. The change of skin colour – gave away his elation. Here take a bite, he enjoyed the first meal in days. Soon enough they were cracking up, covers out, bellies full. It had been years since laughter filled their room. I haven’t read it, do you know? The final version. I had written so many drafts that all the words blurred by the time the final was done. It fell off me like a dried leaf which had taken all nutrition added to my being and was out.

I have spoken to Ms. Jhelum, she said she will have the prints ready in two days. I asked for five hundred, we may get more orders. Did you read it? He looked sheepishly. No. I didn’t get the time and I didn’t want to influence you with my version. Let’s read it together. Hmm ok, he was far more accommodating today with the burden of failure off his chest.

As she read each line she saw the some of the flush leave his skin. Till he turned like the sheet of paper he wrote on, pale, blank and weightless. This is not what I wrote, it is beautiful but it is not what I wrote. She read a few verses from the middle. The curves from the side of his mouth travelled up and formed frown lines. It…its not different from what I thought but I didn’t write it like this. What does that mean? She asked nibbling another piece from the loaf of bread. Well, writing is not like turning on a tap. Most people see it like that, she said. Yes, but there is usually a collection of thoughts. On good days, they are like an Army- coherent, flowing without ripples. On most days, they are a motley crew, each thought dragging me down its own road. As it unwinds, another one jumps in screaming for efforts to stretch in its direction. That is the most time-consuming process in writing. There are no mistakes. Each wrong word can lead to a new chain of thought. 

Is that why you lose your sense of self, time, food when you write? She was standing in the middle of his mind. Yes, the leaky roofs, the torn clothes, the unpaid bills they pale in comparison to the abundance which is in my mind when I write. Then how is it that you don’t recognise your own work? They stared at each other, no answers. The thoughts and style of writing is familiar but these are lanes I bypassed. He pressed his face in his palm. Why don’t you try again, she suggested? After I leave to meet Ms. Jhelum try writing a page.  Ok but how will that help. Maybe you’re imagining that you didn’t write this, and you did after all. She handed a shiny new pen, try this. Ok.

He was bent over, sheets of paper decorated the floor. She sneaked up, let’s see. She read line by line. This is what I wrote, nothing’s changed. They knew it was something else. Let it be, sometimes the answers come with the wind that we have closed the windows for, she opened the window. Being with him, she had started making unobvious connections of her own. He laid out two plates and served from the dish she had picked up on the way. Hot food was a luxury; it was after years that both of them had rested after a peaceful meal. He had sprung up, the unanswered question played havoc with his mind. Bent over pages again, he had given in to his familiar tools. The old torn notebook, his old ink-filled pen. Pressures of his thumb and two fingers had almost indented the metallic tube of the pen. It was mid-morning by the time she awoke, he was resting besides the pages. She started reading aloud. He awoke to her voice. Tiny arcs accentuated the corners of his mouth, this has changed. A gust of wind tore through the cotton curtains.

The pen rolled on the floor, a drop of ink spill left its signature as it fell from the ink-pot which had mostly dried up.