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The magical lip color

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 Deep maroon or Chocolate brown? Certainly, chocolate brown! My mind quizzed me as my fingertips tapped on the shades of lip colors I own. Not many, I possess merely 2-3 lip shades. Make-up or skin care essentials are my pet peeves, but this particular chocolate brown shade is my favorite. Whenever I have an important meeting or a presentation, I wear it to work. The color applied to my melanized lips adds a spark to my attitude. Somehow, I feel I can win over the world, overcome my shortcomings, and come home with a trophy in hand. The lip color is like a trophy to my mind. It is a dangling carrot which when shown makes me believe I can conquer the uncharted islets of my abilities. I find it amusing, sometimes, why such a trifling thing is so crucial to my self-confidence. Why it strengthens my drooped shoulders? No logical explanation found to date.  On the days when I have to seal a deal for my business venture or simply when stepping out of the house for work seems a Herculean task
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Dabbafull of memory

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 I have nothing to do. I want to write but find no prompt to initiate the process. I pester the husband to give me a good word or picture prompt to write. He is as usual doing stuff that interests me little. Money-making. He ignores me. Yet, I continue nudging him in the rib. Some more indifference from his end. Followed by a little more prodding from me. 'What?' He looks up from his mobile. 'Give me a prompt to write.' I blink my eyes and give him my best smile.  'Go write on those steel dabbas!' The dabbas are lying peacefully on the bed after I have finished munching their contents are now in focus. 'Who writes on steel dabbas?' I give the husband an aluminum dabba look, non-reflective and nonchalant. 'If you consider yourself a writer, then you must able to write on everything and anything. No? Or No.' He gets back to his android and me... I tramp down memory lane. Though not immediately but surely. I stare at the imbecile stainless steel dab
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I'm a chess mom

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 Table no. 12. Final round. Ahmedabad. Under-7 National Chess Championship, 2022.  The sky was as blue as it should have been. The wind cooled the sweat beads on anxious foreheads. The sun had chosen to go a little easy on us. The outside environment was supportive and stood by us. Nothing worked for me within. Meditation, prayers, reading, writing, talking to my husband or a friend. Nothing helped to ease the trepidation of a mother's heart whose son was playing the second most important match of his life.  Life. I paused at that. Wasn't he born just yesterday? Here, he was fighting for a win. All of seven. A mere seven-year-old who was standing for the past one hour and giving his opponent a tough fight over the chess board. Sitting was not an option. His height barely reached up to table no. 12.  Table. no.12. A position where if he won, he would escalate to the top six players of India, and if his stars favored him, he would represent India at the Asian U-7 Championship. Th
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Whenever I see an abandoned toy-part2

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, nostalgia grips me in its tight arms. Initially, I feel suffocated with the hard embrace but slowly the warmth of intimacy relaxes me. A smile meanders its way on my tight lips and for a long time it refuses to leave. It watches the stack of toys that I have bundled up in a corner of our bedroom in the 1bhk home. There is no personal bedroom. It is a space I share with my parents and younger sister. The toys occupy a colossal part of the room. Clapping joker, flabby monkey, a copper kitchen set, a pair of plastic badminton rackets, a shabby doll that is oh so dear to me and umpteen other toys jostle for space in the corner. This treasure trove is a shared property. I don't have sole ownership over it but there are no qualms about it. No quandary over it. Infact, the treasure has grown by leaps and bonds with the arrival of my partner in-crime, my sister. Yes, she is the one who makes us, US! The incredible US. Our toys now have rattling,
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Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy..part1

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, an array of questions queue up in my mind. How precious it must be when bought? Which occasion did it brighten? How often the child played with it? Was it the comfort toy of little Riya and her bhaiyya often teased her by hiding it? The questions settle post a turbulence and my memories surface to run a picture film of my childhood. A walk in the forgotten alleys of life. A hop from the swinging swing and a bruise on the left knee. Yet, there would be a quick dusting of the muddy frock and a forced sprint in the leg to hide the naughty impulsivity. Dettol, Savolon did no good for they came with free, verbal rants of a mother who was fed up with a perennially misbehaved child. The swinging would be banned for next few days, and maternal singing would continue ringing in the girl's ears. But the girl cared damn! Home alone or not. She found her own creative ways to land herself in a soup. Sitting by the window sill, she would call out names
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The Pleasure Reading Tribe

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 I'm on the land of Biju Patnaik, the green and clean Odisha. Son's chess tournament brings me to this part of the country which as a globetrotter I wouldn't have considered on my travel map. Why? The terrible Indianess in me wants to visit Greece, sail to the Bahamas, savor a La French wine, and behave tanning on the beaches of Australia. But I don't care a damn about local tourism, despite the many requests, the Prime Minister makes, with folded hands, to boost local tourism. That's his job! And me, doing mine of not following his. Now that I'm here, the explorer bug bites me, and I set out in search of some luxurious time-spending option without spending a penny. Forgot, I'm an Indian after all! I have a noteworthy sense of smell. I can smell a library from a distance. Here, where I'm logged at the KIIT campus, I relish the aroma of books wafting in the air. I immediately go about sniffing and land straight at the school library. Voila! The place is s
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The Anna Raj

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A fellow passenger is playing a Telugu song. The music is soothing the soul. I can't get the words. But it doesn't matter. I enjoy the melody, soak in the tune and feel absorbed in the song totally.  That makes me wonder do our words really count if intentions are great? Can language really be a barrier?  Hmm...not much if one is eager to form a bond. This is my fourth day in a city whose language I don't understand,  a region that does not recognize my 'ye dena' or 'ye  nahi chahiye'. Yet, I'm doing fine with help of my sign language, Google and few translators.  The first day in Vijaywada was a struggle. At food counters, both the people - me and the seller slapped their tensed foreheads in exasperation. I wanted salt. But my good gracious Anna didn't understand salt, namak or mith. There was nothing in menu card that I could show to him that I wanted to order. The menu card had English and Telugu interpretations. So ordering the food was easy by s
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