Talking Back

This time last year, I wrote this post about the importance of stories. Today I'm reminded of how important words, the building blocks of these stories, are to me. They have been my weapons to hurt with, my sugar to sweeten with, my rain to cool with, my friends to share with.

They've been my food and water and air.

I'm not sure what I would do without my words.Over the years, when I've been in the jungles of Bageshwar, or in the malls of Saket, a paper and a pen have been all that I've needed. And my heart and my brain have poured out on the backs of bills, old visiting cards, pieces of paper handed over to me by confused waiters at restaurants. And when I'm done, I'm almost always happy and relieved, and feeling like there has never been a better friend at that point of time than that piece of paper, or that keyboard and computer screen. But the truth is, my words can't ever disagree with me. They always show me what I want to see- they can't talk back. And for a girl like me, for whom talking back and speaking up is just so goddamn important, I'm beginning to realise how much of my conversations end up being with myself.

Crossroads

There is a lady who lives in one corner of the major intersection on my way to work. Every day, when I get caught at the signal, I catch a glimpse of her daily routine. She is old, and alone. She has an assortment of clothes, blankets and knick-knacks piled up behind her. She has a plate and a glass, and a broom as well. When I arrive at the signal, she is usually in the process of sweeping the area around her with her broom. She pours out water from the plastic Bisleri bottle into her glass, and under the meagre shade of the sole tree, she takes a sip. She pulls out her plate. I've never stayed long enough at the intersection to see what goes on to it,or if anything does at all.