Rashmi's Space

The schools would’ve given the timetable for the term-end examination and studies would’ve started in earnest. Monsoon would be well into its second full month, and there would be frequent showers, accompanied with strong winds. Afternoons would pass doing homework in the muggy weather, with tube lights on in the living room to battle the darkness and gloom brought on by the rainy days. I can still smell the petrichor mingled with the fresh Camel Ink I would fill in my pen to write with… And in the middle of all this, would come one festival, that made all this bearable and more – the Gauri Ganapati festival! Celebrated with aplomb in Maharashtra, especially Mumbai. Weeks before the actual arrival of Ganapati Bappa, preparations would begin at home. It would all start with visiting a shop (the same shop for ages!) to pick out the Ganesha idol we would eventually bring home. And then would start the cleaning of the house from top to bottom. Sweets would be prepared, fruit

One day the men of the world bristled, At the women and their gall – The women who always made them feel That they were good for nothing at all! Coffees in the morning, Breakfasts, dinners and lunch, Cakes followed, and cookies, and snacks, And the cocktails even covered the brunch! The men never cooked any meals you see, They never helped around the house – And even when it came to minding the kids, They squirreled away like a mouse! The women never said anything, of course, But it was there for all to see; So the men thought and thought; and thought and thought and thought, How they would ever equal, the Queen Bee?!   Then they came up, with a brilliant plan, Which they thought would never fail; Their women were sure to fall for their trick, The maidens, so fair, and frail – So they bought them clothes and trinkets, And diamonds and emeralds, so swell; And then they got them beautiful houses, And thought they’

It was 9:30am. The family was having breakfast. Priti poured out coffee for herself and the husband; and milk for sonny boy.  The husband sat at the head of the table, reading news on his smartphone, absently sipping his coffee. Sonny talked animatedly about the game he had played with his friends this morning. He’d taken two wickets, he informed them; and then all the boys had chatted, he said, sitting around on the lawn, sipping from their water bottles, cooling off.    “What did you guys chat about” Priti asked. “Oh, this and that,” sonny said. “Sharav saw that latest Avengers movie this weekend, and he was telling us all about that. Sandy went to watch the IPL match at the stadium yesterday, only to have the game abandoned due to rain! But then he got to see what the groundskeepers did to clear the rainwater and shit…” “Language,” “Sorry…” Priti smiled. “What else?” “Oh, you know Pranav? He went to this tea estate with his family, and he took

Dear Rashmi… That is how they begin. Each of them. With that endearment. No, not because they know me personally. They don't. They just have my name in their database. Like millions of others. And an email id, or phone number, that is stored with them. So that they can send me messages exactly three times every year – once on my birthday, once on my anniversary, and once on Women’s Day. And since neither my birthday, nor my anniversary falls on Women’s Day, I get to enjoy the discounts and special offers they entice me with, on three different occasions! Awesome, right? And they are of all sorts! But the best are the ones who wish to sell me jewellery at a huge discount. And I cannot believe they are being so generous. I mean, really. If it weren’t Women’s Day, would I think of buying jewellery? Of course not! I would be busy doing what I would do on any other day – cook, clean, do the laundry … you know, the normal chores. But not for a moment would I think of jew

It was on a cold December morning that I read an email asking me if I would like to review a book on Cricket. Coming from an editor who takes her work very seriously, this gave me a pause.   I couldn’t help but wonder why she would ask me, of all people, to review a book on sports! I am not much of a sports fan. I have never written on sports before. Fiction , yes, parenting , oh, yes; general book reviews , definitely yes! But sports? And that too, Cricket? Growing up, I’d always seen my dad scold my brother for ‘wasting his time’ watching ball-by-ball play of one-day matches when he would watch cricket instead of studying for his exams. I remember hiding the remote from my brother just so I could watch HBO and not let him watch cricket. But of course, marriage, as we all know, is a game changer. After I was married , I was introduced to the world of cricket. No, my husband isn’t a big cricket fan or anything, he doesn’t watch ball-by-ball matches either, but he does watc

Clay figurines. Colourful. Vibrant. Bucolic. That is their trade. Dealing in snazzy, bright clay figurines, bowls, masks, wall-hangings. They sit by the side of the road. Their wares displayed along the pavement. So people can see when passing – on foot, in their cars. Every once in a while, someone passes in their car and then parks the car further along the road and comes walking back to inspect something that has caught their eye. They ask the price. Which is usually not too much. They still bargain. And eventually, at a much lesser price than the artifact is worth, they buy the piece. It will look amazing on their feature wall, they think. It will dazzle their boring passageway. It will welcome their guests warmly... But more often than not, no one buys much. Especially on working days. Busy days. When the adults are rushing to and back from work and the children are tired, being taken to school and back. But they still sit there. Their wares spread. Eve