Memory Stash

My grandmother has had a best friend since she was four. This is them five years ago.

 I witnessed the 2011 Jaipur bomb blasts in the flesh.  We were buying jewelry at a bazaar. A had just had had a tiff with M. G asked me if I wanted to have lassi, but since I was not in a good mood (and also hate lassi), I refused. Turns out my aversion to that particular dairy product saved us that day. Three minutes later, a bomb went off in the bazaar.  We had not gone far, we were in the next market shopping for shoes. I never get shows my size, but one vendor promised me that he had a pair. Suddenly, we heard a noise but we dismissed it, assuming that it might have originated at a nearby construction site. Couple of minutes later, people started run towards the shop we were at. Some ran past us shouting. Others went in a different direction. A took my hand and we started to run. A dialog from my favorite movie "Bhago!" popped into my head. We managed to escape unscathed, but I did get a souvenir. A small comb that had attached itself to my shirt in the kerfuffle....

      Mumbai Mumbai is where it all started. I was born in Worli in a little hospital on a Sunday. It was the beginning of a life long love affair. Since childhood Mumbai has been special for me. My parents lived in Pune and I have a deep connection with the city, but I always end up cheating on her with my affection for Mumbai. I used to go to my grandparents' place in Worli for every holiday. The sunsets on the Worli sea face were magical. From the balcony of their government quarters, we could see Haji Ali, melting into the orange waters. I have wanted to visit the place since I was five. I finally went when I was twenty. Walked across the narrow strait, as the water lapped against the bridge. All the way to the dargah to make a mannat. Tied a small piece of thread in faith that God will answer my prayers. I was not believer and still am not, but there is some sort of vibe in that salty air that makes me wish that I was.    The sea and Mumbai are very in...

Puberty hit me hard, and discussing it with my father was not a whole lot of fun. The teachers at school were no better. Graphic imagery of human innards is not the way one must learn about one's privates. Alright, I will admit it was not graphic, just your basic diagrams of the cross section of the urethra (both male and female, of course). It was here, in the presence of my twenty classmates, that I learnt that the vagina had a separate dedicated entrance. Armed with this knowledge, I went on an expedition with the goal of knowing my body fully. But it was not until I had my first period that I had a clear understanding of my internal plumbing.  My father's personal assistant was the only adult female around when I first discovered blood in my panties. Luckily, she was packing some heavy sanitary pads and taught me how to use one. The teachers in our school had pulled us girls aside to discuss this rite of passage that most women have to take. The selection of feminine hygien...

This is a piece I wrote in 2008. I was still a teenager.   " My mom is the Mona Lisa of my life: in a frame, forever an enigma. The light plays tricks on the photograph I have of her on my desk and I can almost discern some expression on her face at times. She is my conscience, my inner voice personified. Like every mother, she has to be convinced before I take any decisions, argued with to obtain permissions and her happiness is of utmost importance. She's my strength and when I am faced with an obstacle, all I do is ask her to be with me. She's always there, mind you. She's been my torch in several dark alleys and my only consolation when I lie alone on my bed, cursing the universe for all its faults. There are times, when I come to my senses and cry, for I miss her sorely and wish that I could be like all those other carefree girls out there, gallivanting freely without a scruple to have them do otherwise. And then there are times, when I hate her for leaving, leavi...