Rashmi's Space

Every house has a routine. Every family has a routine. The husband does a few things, the wife does a few; and the daily grind goes on, like clockwork. So long as everyone sticks to their jobs, and does them perfectly, things go right. Kids reach school on time, adults get to work on time, and all is right with the world. Of course, as simple as it sounds, it also sometimes gets monotonous with everyone just doing ‘the same old.’ And every once in a while, the thought does occur – what if, say, one day the husband did the cooking and the wife drove the kids to school? Wouldn’t it be great to just drive, with songs on, drop the kids, and on the way back, listen to one’s favourite songs? Ah, what a blissful hour that would be! What’s more, there would be hot breakfast ready, thanks to the husband who would have been busy in the kitchen while the wife was out driving and listening to songs – I mean, dropping the kids to school… And then, some days, the smooth clockwork ...

“Everything alright, Sir?” Vivaan looked around the beautiful room bathed in the slanting rays of the evening sun. “It is perfect. Thank you,” he said to the concierge, giving him a generous tip, and closing the door behind his grinning back. “It is perfect.” Pia said from where she stood at the corner of the room, near a large window that led out into a spacious balcony.   Vivaan crossed the room in a few long strides and went to stand behind her. He held on to her waist, his shoulders bent, his head resting on her shoulder.   A soft breeze caressed Pia’s curls, as they relaxed against each other, taking in the view of the vast sea before them. The tall palm trees rustled in the fading light, warm, calming; the lithe waves, mesmerising. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Pia rested her head sideways on Vivaan’s. “Yes.” She breathed, hugging his hands tight around her waist. “I am really glad I am finally here…” Vivaan began in a whisper. “...

A hundred and forty kilometres. A little above three hours. Three and a half, tops, with any unscheduled breaks. Before noon, she would be at her destination. Myra took a deep breath. Found a local radio station she could live with, and cranked up the engine. The automatic sprang to life with a slow purr.     The traffic was light at this time of the morning, and she was on the highway within a half hour of starting out. She had now found a station playing classics, with hourly news thrown in, in the local language. The sun was shining behind her. The cloud cover increasing ahead of her. Shades on her eyes, she put the car on cruise control, and stared straight ahead.   At first she wasn’t sure she had heard it right. But she reduced the volume on the radio anyway. And tried to hear more carefully. She was right! There it was – the muffled, but unmistakable thumping noise coming from the car! Myra groaned. Oh, please! Not a flat! Not now! It wasn’t the ...

“What’s with the face?” Karan and Priya were going out to a formal dinner in about an hour. Priya was at the dressing table, twisting her hair this way and that, trying to get it to stay in place. Karan, who stood behind her fiddling with his tie, looked seriously at her reflection in the mirror. “I just found my first grey hair,” Priya said to his reflection, in dismay. “Welcome to the club!” Karan smiled at her reflection, caressing his grey-and-black, close-cropped beard. Though not much older than Priya in age, Karan had begun sporting grey hair for the past few years now. And proudly at that. Of course he had no idea of the hurt and dismay that Priya felt, having found that one stray grey! But to Priya, it was devastating. It meant that she was crossing over to the other side. At the back of her mind, she knew, that there would be a time when she would actually, proudly let her greys show. But that time wasn’t now. Not now when their children were st...

They were five of them that day. The sun was shining brightly and the track was gleaming after the early morning rain. They had just sent their children in the school bus and were now taking their regular rounds, walking. After the initial discussion of who had packed what for their kids' lunch, they had now settled in a quiet rhythm, brisk walking around the building complex. Silent and together. Keeping pace with each other. A tight group of friends, five middle-aged women. He came from the other direction. He was young, lean, with an athletic build. He was wearing a branded sports vest and shorts, running shoes and wireless headphones. His cell phone was strapped to his bulging biceps. He was jogging, and the rhythmic thump of his feet could be heard long after he had passed them on.

I have always been a sucker for stories. Stories in all forms – books, movies, even songs – hold a fascination for me like none other. I don’t know whether this habit was the result of growing up in a family of readers and movie buffs, but it definitely helped being surrounded by people who knew to appreciate a good story. Needless to say, being married to a man who doesn’t read fiction and considers movies as something to help wind down at the end of a hectic day, took some getting used to, no, a lot of getting used to.  I remember spending countless hours watching movies when I was a child or sometimes just watching songs on Rangoli or Chayageet or Chitrahaar on Doordarshan. Each of these songs, especially the ones from the movies I hadn’t seen, led me to ask my parents about the movie and if we could watch it. My Dad was of the opinion that the Bollywood movies of his time (the ‘70s and before and some from the early part of the ‘80s) were and always will be the best!...