I am a Fleabag fan.
The obsessive kind. I have the poster placed in such an angle that it’s the only thing my coworkers can see in video calls. She is my laptop wallpaper, my Twitter cover page, my Hinge main photo. I have seen her performing her one-woman Fleabag…
Sunsets and surprises
She was 62. And she was 58.
The world called them best friends.
They met at their kids’ school annual function. She was wearing a lemon yellow saree. She told her she reminded her on Sunshine.
Sunshine indeed she was.
They met each other every afternoon when…
It was the fifth day today.
Abuses were being hurled, things were being said about each other’s family, fingers pointed at each others’ weaknesses; poking each other’s deepest secrets.
That’s the thing about knowing each other for three decades. You know each other’s every flaw, every trigger, every defect.
She just wanted somebody to tell her what Zoom was.
But she was afraid to ask. Because she very well knew what the answer would be. Those annoyed looks when she enters their rooms and disturbs their important work meetings or video games. She doesn’t really want to disturb them…
Boxes of a family sitting together, sharing the first mango of the season.
Boxes of strangers sitting together, becoming friends over shared grief.
Boxes of kids planning a surprise birthday party for their mom.
Boxes of a mother wearing her favourite saree, to see her daughter after a year.
Boxes filled with laughter of an infant and her nanny.
Boxes filled with nervousness of a couple about to get married.
Boxes of dreams. Boxes of giving up dreams for someone else’s.
Boxes of hope and boxes of helplessness.
Boxes filled with humans planning their next prey.
Boxes filled with humans who help and heal.
Boxes that feel like home to some, prison to others.
Boxes that save us from rain. And unforeseeable pain.
Tiny boxes. Not-so-tiny stories.
My story has no title.
It hardly even has a theme.
It has no start, no end. Just dreams and regrets gushing in and out like unforgiving tidal waves.
The ink is fading.
The corner of the pages are tearing.
I have lost too many pages.
I have scribbled so hurriedly in others, that I cannot even understand my own handwriting.
There are people there I no longer remember.
There are stories there that I can never forget.
My story has no title.
But if it did, it would probably be Stories.