Reverse

Ambience - The calm before the storm (Of kids coming home after school)
Mood - Unexplicable - a little grey, a little white, a little whimper being suppressed!
Looping - Ronan Keating ,saying nothing at all :)
(pardon the poor resolution, revel in the emotion)


I heard once,
That there lived  a wise soul
Who said
Nothing!

Now, what's a naive soul to do?
When there's words tumbling inside its gut
Foaming out of fervent need
To be said, to be heard!
Words morphing out of earnest emotions
Words that scream of sincere spirit
The ones that knit comforting throws
To kindle the coping mechanisms
Of putting up with life's chills!

What's a callow soul to do?
When these strings of symbols
Give form to the depths of sentiments.
When these heaps of banter
Dub as a soothing balm
On the bruised heart!

What's an ingenuous soul to do?
When these very words
Penetrate the  hallows of indifference
Resonating an echo that fills
The valleys of apathy
With melodies of empathy?

What's a mortal soul to do?
Except let those words loose
Beyond the dams of right and wrong
Just flowing, quenching the parched plains
Of an impaired inside?
Until, the silence jumps the fences of coldness
Spreading like solace
It is in these words
This existence is doused
Smearing them everywhere it treads!
Spreading perhaps, a comfort
The sterile silence fails at.

Inverse

Ambience - Raindrops on the windowsill, breezy indigo night.

Mood - Lovey dovey parafait, post pigout ;)

(Life is beautiful!)

Looping - Arijit singh flexing his vocal cords on my favorite lines.

He asked me, what the butterflies do

After dancing around from bloom to bloom

Where do they lounge and rest?

Do they have a home, or may be a nest?

Do they have hearts thumping in rhythm

Heartbreaks that destroy them?

Do they weep do they laugh

Do they have an other half?

I look around, masking my surprise

What do they do really?

How do I answer these queries

That had never in my mind arose?

They dance like you, I told him

Oblivious to the world around

They sway and they swoon

Living in the present profound

And then they fly like your spirit unbound.

He holds my hand in his

leaning on my shoulder 

Where do their moms live?

Are they as warm as you?

I let out a laugh..

Of course, there's no creatures without moms

Just like you have me

Those butterflies have mothers

Waiting by the doors of their cocoons

For the apples of their eyes 

To return home.

He lets out a smile.

His cherub cheeks blushing bright

Now tell me about those ladybugs..

Do they get love and hugs?

I go silent!

I scoop him in my arms and go-

"My little lady bug

Here's your love, here's your hug!"

But silly lady- I am neither a lady nor a bug

You are silly, really silly, Ugh!!!

"Guess what? You're a whole lot

More than ladies and bugs

More than love and hugs

More than all that, little prince of my heart!

So, let me give homes to butterflies,

Hugs to lady bugs - 

Just command me, and consider it done,

That's what love can do, it can get a new world begun.

In food we trust

Preeto is petite and svelte. She is into the medical profession and lives her life on the edge, powered by the scheduling prowess of her mobile calendar. Every time we speak,  she quickly fidgets around the touch pad of her screen, promptly entering the event we are planning into in her calendar. 'Dosa at 4 pm Thursday' she would  key in with punctuated whispers. She'd text me very randomly asking me to join her for tea on a weekend. While we sip on her fennel tea and catch up on our 'coping mechanism' routine by talking of temperamental kids, ageing parents and a certain fatigue that only overworked moms can experience,  we branch into our gastronomic expeditions as well. 

For someone who has three kids in three stages of growing up and in three different schools, a set of very old in laws and a frequently visiting father and immediate family in the bay all in the foreground of a very strenuous and stressful profession,  Preeto's ambition to make elaborate South Indian dishes from scratch really charms me. "Teach me how to make ginger Chuttneie" she would plead for the dozenth time, pronouncing chutney like a true blue Punjaban. Now, I wouldn't know how to make her do a DIY on something as complex, especially given the fact that she's never processed or even looked at a slab of ripe tamarind in her life nor does she own a heavy duty mixie to grind tough pieces of fried ginger and coarse spices. "I'll make you a batch as well" I'd add to which she'd roll her eyes and go "How am I going to ever learn then?"

We both have kids in the same grade, a reason that got us together as friends in the first place - or we are as contrasting as north and south in our personalities, temperament and even culture, quiet literally. But this amusing thing that we call compatibility has nothing to do with anything outward. The way her and I became friends over the years really outdid the  friendship of our offspring who have a lot more in common than the mothers in question. The way she sits at my nook table, licking her fingers dipped in sambar while biting into a piece of dosa and exclaiming for the twentieth time that noon about 'how lucky she is to have this food' makes me withdraw myself into an observer mode and reflect upon the amazing sense of gratitude she has over life, not just my everyday fare of food. Apart from consistently complaining about how pressed she is for time, she utters audible 'how lucky I ams' every time she happens in my earshot. Our love for our spiritual Gurus is another thing that makes her that much more endearing to me, though I never really express all this to her in this many words.

Last Thursday, they had an Akhanda Phaat of their 'Holy Gurugrandhsahibji' at their place. She was planning it in my earshot while we both carpooled to our middle schooler's  back to school night. Now their ideal of having and open door and believing in offering food to everyone that knocks on their door is something that makes my heart dance in joy, in a "I know exactly what you mean" sentiment. Sikhs have a 24x7 Langar (Or kitchen) in their places of worship. They follow the same rule when they bring home their Holy scripture. Their homes become Gurudwaras. (Sigh....how beautiful.) So while we were on the conversation of planning a three day Langar at her place, she asks me quiet innocently "How would Idlis store in the fridge? If I make them on Wednesday evening and server them Saturday for a family gathering post the completion of the recitation of the scripture?"  Now don't get me wrong or as a culinary snob, but it would be blasphemy against my south Indian upbringing if I let my friend eat a three day old idly, reheated in an oven, commemorating a very profound event. At that point in time, I didn't know how I could help but later that week, I texted her in the middle of the day saying "I'll make those idlis for you on Saturday and get them with the condiments - fresh off the stove"

She called me moments later "How lucky I am, really how lucky" went the voice on the other side as we started off planning the quantity that needed to be prepared.

I'll cut the chase for you all - A chutney, sambar and a hot piping pot of upma made to the spread alongside when the significant other and the mother board of yours truly had to enhance the experience of my 'helping a friend in need'. What ensued is the spread pictured above. The spouse and I put everything in our wheeled cart and made an appearance at the loud and glitzy Punjabi party. The food was set on the buffet table while Preeto and I exchange a smile and a warm nod.

Post script - Gurugrandhsahibji is rendered in Gurmukhi, a language that sounded like a mix of sanskrit and hindi. It reminded me of those exotic and beautiful interracial children that are bestowed with the best of both gene pools. I sat myself to a wall, a cushion propped against my back and meditated like a saint in training while I let the sound of the scripture flood my senses. I do not know what vibes that place contained, if it was the power of a Guru's grace or the sincerity of Preeto's gratitude, That a few houses down the lane, even upon walking out of that spiritual experience,  yours truly had the most restful sleep of the year that night.

In Food we trust. And in God, and in Gurus and in Gratitude. 💗🙏💗