This Boy, This Man



This boy,
This crooked eared, half toothed smile boy,
His shoulders so broad,
With this tiny crook for me to rest my head and offload,
Looked quite comfy from across the road,
Those eyes, travelled for years, not yet bored,
Stories and stories untold
Where you going, heart? Hold!

This boy,
This honey eyed, silk voiced boy,
He moves with such grace,
Leaving me in a daze,
How can he maintain such a casual poise ?
His fingers entwining in mine like the most exquisite lace,
“I mango you too!” responding in all earnest, he holds me in the softest, warmest and safest embrace.

This boy,
This animal taming, baby stealing boy,
Melting hearts of man, woman, child and pet with such ease,
Smiling his big smile, it’s a clean sweep.
365 days without crease,
There there Vijoy! You got me! Can you just stop it please?
He holds me tight, “ it’s alright! I am here! Don’t be scared now. You’ll never forget to breathe”

This man,
This protective man, this nurturing man,
He gave me a prescription with a ring recently,
Tight unbreakable hugs for the anxiety,
Tall strong shoulders against the jealous eyes of society
Eyes of conviction for self-doubt no matter how mighty,
Calm soothing voice for the times the voice inside is too flighty
From now to infinity.

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Ingredients of Comfort

That time between summer and fall. No I don’t mean monsoon.  Even after monsoon. There is this listlessness and emptiness about it. Everyone is either falling sick or in the process of recovery. We are just longing for that first fallen leaf of autumn, the first symbol of the end of the tyranny of summer. Funny how soon enough we would be waiting for spring and an escape from the harsh cold of winter. Oddly, we are always running from one oppressive reign to another. Our very own Stockholm syndrome. So while in the lull, we pretend. We pretend that the lackluster of our hair is just an issue with our diet. The backache is from working long hours and not because we have had those sleepless uncomfortable nights. Some of us take a hobby, inebriation seems like the latest fad. Basically any form of distraction from reality.

Food has always been my poison. On this listless and particularly depressing saturday morning, I armed myself with a ladle and pan. Butter, pasta, fresh beautiful vegetables and chicken ham. Whats not to love? Did I mention butter? Butttaaahh. Its not good for you they say. But the smell of butter melting in a pan has to be therapeutic. That sweet smell almost like pine trees on the mountain side. I automatically get a smile and a certain tint to my cheeks(few inches to my waist). that reminds me. Have you ever had butter on the hillside? It feels so light and comforting. Hence the logic that no food can be comfort food without butter in it.

I put that along with a beautiful creamy white sauce with some scotch whiskey(I was looking for white wine but i couldn’t reach it being the tiny person I am). I absolutely love putting alcohol in the food. It pretty much compliments every cuisine in one way or the other. Its like this magic potion. It brings softness and moisture while sharpening the flavours a tad bit.

In the end I had this bowl of comforting pasta which would remind you of your mum or grandmum even if they never made pasta. Comfort is a flavour we dont really have a finger on but we know when we have it that this is it. No matter how fancy we go, we are always going to crave for that tiny whiff of comfort. Even if comfort is a facade for oppression..