A boy and girl within earshot are bantering on the metro. They're friends, evidently.

But it's the kind of friendship that often slants into undertones of all sorts. Where eyes catch, as do hearts—I can tell.

The girl, it seems is on her way to a date.

THREAD. The boy, it seems, approves of the date, but not the party his friend has elected to meet.

Laughing, they're bantering through a list of the worst possible outcomes to the date.

"What if he turns out to be boring? Or worse, has awful person hygiene?" he says.

2.

There is a hellacious hullabaloo at the Mallik Household tonight.

The senior most Mallik (my Dadu), has been told by Jr Mallik (my father) and Fledging Mallik (me) that his Sugar numbers are off the charts. Amends need to be made.

But Sr Mallik is staunchly in denial.

THREAD. "Diabetes does not exist," Sr Mallik says unrelentingly. His stare would make many a scientist wither.

We try explaining. Numbers are flung about, excesses are articulated.

Jr Mallik is angry as he often is, I attempt damage control.

Dadu is despondent.

2.

After dinner today, Dadu & I have an ice cream date.

Post the usual catch-up and the regular mutual complain-session about baba, the conversation moves old v/s new.

Dadu in many ways is my real-life (slightly-deaf) time machine.

Today, we talk cigarettes.

THREAD. Born in 1933, for most of his life, Dadu smoked Wills cigarettes.

Examining my box of Iceburst today, he reads out from the front of the pack, "Smoking causes painful death."

He chuckles.

He cannot see too well anymore, and peers at the photo in the front of the box.

2.

A couple on a train, giggling by the door where the rain sprays. Their hands secretly touching, even as the stand "respectfully" apart. The train jolts, his hand shoots out to support her, lingering even after she steadies at her waist.

+ A couple on a foot-over-bridge. The woman, teary, fervently yelling. The man, fearful—thunder more in his heart than the sky. Privacy to fight in the thick of an uncaring, drifting, rushing public. Someone bumps into him. Midscream, her hand shoots out. Half concern, half habit.+

When they speak of lovers and nights they speak of coiled bodies writhing between sheets. When they speak of lovers and nights you imagine sepia skin, honeydewed with sweaty satisfaction.

What they don't speak of is the silences and the words.

+ The truth is, sometimes nights come from someone's text message goodnight. The day ends because ending it with them feels right. Over a million kilometre fiberoptic connection, discussing the milliseconds of one's day seems to make things alright.

+

It is silent, now. The almost repentant silence of a Sunday gone too soon. Stray cars purr past. The quiet roads soak in rainfall, as if preparing for a fertile Monday. A Monday full of promises, of tasks and emails, and sheafs and sheafs of work.

+ "Do we fill our lives with work to shut out loneliness?" An older friend asked baba & me this evening.

"But does the loss of people draw in hectic days? Or do hectic days push out people?" I puzzled.

"Either way," says baba, "They're gone."

+

I walked into the gym today, feeling like a unicorn—revved up to do a gazillion squats and lifts.

My new gym pants, a size smaller, made me want to kiss my mirror reflection.

"You've lost weight!" my trainer told me. I lost another kg just smiling!

Then, she entered.

THREAD. Crop top, perfectly fitted slacks. An ass that can only be called the gift of the God of Squats. Trim waist, flat and tapering. Powerful shoulders.

Not just slim—but fit.

Swishing hair, smiling over a bench press. Even the gym music slowed when I looked at her.

2.

I'm on the 6am Shatabdi to Gujarat for a work thing—and wow, I have never seen a more concentrated congregation of Gujaratis in my life 🙈😂

A gaggle of Uncles in crisp formals & balding pates are standing in a circle and discussing everything from new bahus to stock broking.

+ A man with a well maintained paunch is speaking on a video call to his daughter in (no points for guessing) the US. He slips out of Gujarati as a tiny head with wispy curls appears on the screen. "You come flight India?" he asks.

+

In a few weeks I will enter into that time of the year, when last year, ma fell sick. Over May, June & July she struggled and over this May, June, July, I will again.

Many times in the last year, I have closed my eyes and pretended.

1.
Trigger: death It feels easy to disbelieve, to tell yourself, it must be a mistake, a lie. That one day I'll go home and there she'll be.

But ONE year, 365 days without her, stands ahead like a brick wall. A very real reminder, a very solid marker of her perpetual death for all my time.

2.

. @UIDAI the process to link mobile number to Aadhar seems to be a NIGHTMARE. Why does one have to stand physically outside enrollment centres for hours? The people in the line here in Sewri say they've been here since 4am. So much for digital India. @Aadhaar_Care The number of issues people are facing across the country on the same thing is so high. Delays, lack of clarity and absolutely no complaint redressal. @PMOIndia sir I'm sure this revolutionary device can work only if it actually functions properly...

+

I get into the lift, it's 10 o' clock.

The crowd in this Mumbai hospital has thinned to just a few relatives, regulars and every day staff.

On the 10th floor two men enter.

Alarmed, the lift man stands up.

THREAD. "Kahan ja rahe hai aap? (Where are you going)." He demands of one of the men, holding the door open.

"Ground," replies the man—gaunt, in plain clothes, thick, messy hair, holding a wad of cash.

Our lift man, Radhe Lal, blinks.

2/12

It is 10am on a Monday.

I am in the crowded bowels of Mumbai’s Tata Memorial Cancer Hospital.

Outside here, Mumbaikars have pulled back their chairs, surr-uped their chai and gotten down to a new week of work.

THREAD. Here, people, files in hand, in snaky lines, have been waiting 3+ hours—the usual start to their week.

Between 5 to 9 our city will pack up, go home. Here too, apart from some of the regulars, most will retire.

They will be back tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow—

(2/15)

What makes a family, a family?

That's what the new film Hum Do Hamare Do asks—dinner tables with people who share the same surname?

Or a bond of caring and concern—someone to pack tiffins, call when you land in new places, someone you love "despite".

+ Like the Earth and our bodies we inherit our familes—and some of spend a lot of time fighting them. Listing what's wrong with them, rebelling against them, spending time away from them.

We put days and hours into our work, surprises and anniversaries into our—

+

Two male colleagues at lunch time are discussing who's the better husband.

One asks the other, "If your househelp doesn't come, what all will you do to help your wife."

"What's even there to do?" says the second, drawing a blank.

Both turn towards me.

+ Next they discuss wiping their toddler's bum after a poop. Mr One says he's done it in emergency situations. Mr Two says he's done it a few times.

Both's kids are 2+ years old. Hmm...

Both acknowledge their wives are super women.

+

Chakshu started at the screen. Eight windows of work colleagues talking, discussing; their voices filling his empty room.

8 colleagues he had never met.

His finger inched towards the cursor to unmute, an important point on the tip of his tongue.

He sighed, let it go.

THREAD. A 100 unread emails filled his inbox. Names of people whom he spoke to every day about numbers and projects, and nothing else.

He knew Deepa by her energetic Hiii-s, Pankaj by his slight stutter and weird punctuation, Milan by her smilies and pretty ppts.

Nothing else.

2.

I met a man in a cab the other day. He was awful, impatient, terribly rude.

He honked at every car he saw, and almost knocked down a lady crossing the road. When I asked him to slow down, he glared at me.

I clung to my seat, counting minutes; hoping for the best.

THREAD. A beggar lady came by. Our man glowered at her. Yelled at a tempo driver. Spoke very rudely to a couple on a bike.

What was his problem, I wondered. This rude, rude man.

Finally, destination reached, I rummaged for change. There was none.

Gingerly, I produced a ₹500.

2.

Grief is strange.

Some days it hurts so much, colours all your hours. Other days, it's no where to be seen.

Death is not strange.

It's always there, ever permanent. The only thing that's truly permanent—thus entirely incomprehensible. What is the point about being sad about death, though?

The sadness comes in waves..your heart squeezes inside your ribcage. You hug yourself and cry out of frustration—frustration because there's no end to this grief. No matter how much you cry they won't come back.

Indu stared at the empty-ish platform, panting. In the distance, the train picked up speed. The soles of her feet felt hot and dirty, the wet patch on her blouse clung to her back.

it was too late.

Who would bring Rishi from school today? What about Babuji's lunch?

THREAD. On call, Mahesh listened to her predicament in silence

Then, in the way common to every man, he issued directions for the next time this happened. "Always go 10minutes early to the station. Don't attend the last darshan if it's close to the train timing. Go with a friend..."

2.

Three years back, when considering a job in Delhi, I found a broker online.

I saved his name as "Noida PG", spoke to him once about a flat, eventually didn't move, but somehow never landed up deleting the number.

Three years on, I feel like I've been a part of his life.

THREAD Just like the 100 odd numbers we save ("Doodhwala Ramesh", "Aruna Taxi", "Kunal bus ticket guy" or "Satrangi Bandra Vegetables") and then forget, for months Noida PG sat in my phone contact list, forgotten.

Then, one day, while idling away, I saw a strange WhatsApp story.

2.

I met her, a couple of Feb 14s earlier, on the way back home. It was post-9pm, the compartment was empty, save one girl.

She was dressed up—dress, heels, lipstick—the whole deal. She quickly wiped her tears when I walked in, switching to looking out, resolutely.

THREAD. I tried doing nothing for a few stations, but then, restless about all the grief that came off her, took the bench opposite hers, finally.

“All okay?” I asked.

She hesitated. Blinked.

“Valentine’s Day,” she replied, sadly.

“Date didn’t work out?”

“He dumped me!”

2.

I met him about a month back, instantly affronted by the fact that he giggled at my name. And ofcourse, said it wrong.

In formal shirts &crooked laughs conversation with him flowed like Mumbai's traffic doesn't—on and on and on, almost till you want to hit a speed breaker!

+ Full of anecdotes and jokes, this man's pitara of memories seemed bottomless. From escapades in his small town home with his neighbour's daughter to more audacious runs in city malls—he was the heart and soul of every conversation.

+