by Gargi | Aug 25, 2026 | Stories
“Where do I put all my stuff now? I remember this room was bigger.” Moving back home from medical college hostel wasn’t a transition as smooth as I had expected. Six years ago, I had packed all my life in two suitcases and today had returned with seven. A lot had changed- the room seemed shrunk, my waistline was wider, and Baba had gotten increasingly sour.
“Yes, it has. You were not there so we cut the room up like a sheet cake and distributed it to the neighbours. I should have asked you to clean and mop it when Shardamma was on leave during COVID. Then you would have realized how palatial it is.” Sarcasm came to baba as natural as breathing or sleeping. “Clean it up and it will magically enlarge.”
“Alright Baba! Let’s Marie Kondo it.
“What’s that? That video game you played where the small guy knocked out turtles?”
“No baba. That was Mario. Marie Kondo is an organization technique wherein you get rid of everything that doesn’t make you feel happy.
“Then please betaji start with that mini store of a hundred scented candles gathering dust on the north mantlepiece. They haven’t been lit in ten years and are obviously useless. They give me no happiness, and the diabetic sweet scent exacerbates my headache. I say, please Marie Kondo them.
“No baba, Marie Kondo doesn’t work that way. It should give ME happiness since they are mine, So I should be the one deciding what to discard, donate or recycle.”
“But I paid for them. So technically they belong to me, and I say throw them out and see the mantlepiece magically push the north wall further.” Baba refused to understand the definition of Marie Kondo technique.
“You see baba, it is not a technical concept but emotional. If I have emotional connect with the object, as per definition, I keep it.” It is always exhausting to explain Baba something he does not want to understand.
“You cannot possibly have any emotional connect with this eight standard history textbook.” Baba waved a tattered old book in my face. “This textbook has absorbed more drool than any sponge all that time you pretended to study. I doubt anyone will be desperate enough to receive a donated drool covered book. Just discard it and have mercy on people receiving your donations.” Sheepishly I put that and other books suspicious of having any hint of dried saliva atop the discard pile.
“Now this closet- I will shave my head if you fit in any of these clothes since you have expanded like Cinderella’s pumpkin; socks not included.” Baba read my mind before I could sass with the socks counter argument. Looking at his confident demeanor, I further refrained myself from pointing out that he was already bald. I stared at him as he tried to measure the length and breadth of the closet preparing to hit me with another fat shaming comment when it dawned upon me.
“Baba, you are not exactly happy with me moving in, are you? He stopped and stood still like a statue.
“Of course, I am. You are the light of my life.” Sarcasm? Maybe. A lie, definitely.
“Baba, your face and your words don’t match. It’s like watching a Clint Eastwood classic with Jim Carey subtitles.”
Baba sighed and sat cross legged on the floor with a slight wince. I realized then, he had grown old. He patted my hand and spoke with a tremble.
“Do you know, your mother hates Okra? I always loved how she made it but never noticed how much she hated it. Do you know why? Because I was so wrapped up with you sisters and my work, trying to be a good provider that I forgot being a good partner. Your mother and I balanced a brilliant juggling act raising you sisters, but it never occurred to live for ourselves. Now with both of you out of the house, I thought I will try being the good partner I never was, spend more time with your mother- Get rid of the clutter that distracted us so that our world seems larger. That will be ‘Marie kondo’ing it, isn’t it?
“A metaphorical Marie Kondo! I think you now understand the concept Baba. I agree with you, me moving in the house would set you both back to the same rut but I give you my word baba, I would stay out of your way as much as possible, clean up after myself, be a bit more independent so that Ma and you get to Marie Kondo your life. You can travel, go to movies, have an occasional coffee, workout together.”
Baba nodded and smiled. “You know what Betaji, that gives me an idea. I will turn your sister’s room into a home gym. Clear up the space by the north window, I need to put a bed there. Your sister called today. She too is moving in. She says she is ‘between jobs’ … fancy way of informing that she is highly educated but totally unemployable…wants to be something called as ‘influencer’. Whom is she going to influence? A cult? Can we Marie Kondo this trash idea out of her?”
I chuckled and wondered how that super entertaining conversation would go. The room will again feel small but entertainment, larger than life!
by Gargi | Aug 25, 2026 | Stories
“I told you. I have been driving through here since I was your age. Even Chandru knows me. “Kyon Chandru?” Baba surprised Chandru Chaiwala with his shrill “kyon?” Chandru replied with a nod and full display of his piano smile; the ebony of toothless spaces and ivory of stained whites greeting in unison. Chandru had mastered 101 of Business Management- pretend the customer is always right. Whatever sells more chai!
“Baba I am telling you, it’s a new road. This area used to be a forest when you were my age. Let’s ask GPS.” My Baba like any other Baba in his sixties had a disdain for technology that speaks.
“Arey beta I am telling you, I know the way better than that computerised talk. Let me drive”
“No! My car my rules! I will drive and you sleep. I will wake you up when we get there.”
“Chaa! You will follow that GPS talking mausi. She guided some family directly into the river in Karnataka, or was it Orissa? I don’t know. It was in the papers. The real print newspaper, not the fake kind you read on your phone. I am going into the river only when I am in an urn. Besides, you don’t know how to drive. You failed your driving test twice.” Baba was now shaming digital media, blackmailing me with his death and clawing at my past failures all at once.
Tears, protest and four chais later, Baba settled in the passenger’s seat with a vintage map spread open on the dashboard and me driving slowly.
“Reading maps is an unvalued skill. This is why I had asked you join the Scouts and Guide. But you wanted to sleep late on Sundays. Relying on that computerised voice? Pah!” Baba’s rant continued as I followed his ‘now right’ and ‘take left’ sprinkled with ‘Why are your hands not in ten and two position?’
An hour and half later, I saw something which made me question Baba’s judgement.
“Baba, did we not pass this Gandhiji statue a couple of hours before. I still think we consult the GPS app.”
“Nah. We are on the right way. It must be some other Gandhiji statue. They all have one standard design. One is like the other. Besides, I am appalled at your dependence on technology. Have you learnt nothing from that Arnold Shivajinagar movie?” Baba had now turned to Hollywood, guns ablaze.
“He is Arnold Schwarzenegger Baba, not Shivajinagar and I do feel it’s the same statue and no, ‘The Terminator’ situation does not apply here because I don’t think Skynet’s greatest mission is to prevent a daughter and her technophobic Baba from reaching a remote village in India”. My patience had run its course and I screeched the car to a halt. To my surprise, I was greeted with a knock on the window and the classic Chandru piano smile.
“You missed my Chai, Sahib? Should I whip a cutting?” Fuming with rage I looked at Baba who was graciously accepting a cutting chai from Chandru. A sip later he concluded
“Railways are more reliable than your driving. Let’s take the train next time.”
by Gargi | Aug 25, 2026 | Stories
Sweet and spice
I saw her standing in a corner waiting for the crowd to disperse as I was handing out the ‘khatta jyada meetha kam’ batch to twenty something year olds. I knew her since a long time, when she used to come with her late husband each week. She used to be different then- would chatter with him and smile. Since he passed away , she came alone; every Monday sharp in her punjabi suit of some pastel shade, her grey hair neatly combed for her share of six pieces of ‘meetha jyada teekha kam side me pyaaz’. She didn’t like to wait with others. She loved it if she were alone and I handed out golgappas one after the other to her. My muscle memory made it difficult for me to reduce my pace for her but I know the overwhelming feeling she must be experiencing if there is one golgappa in her plate ,one in mouth and the other ready in my hand. she preffered it that way- alone and in silence.
Today she had to wait long for the crowd to dwindle and the dusk started settling in. As she started to bite into her first golgappa, Mr Lobo from the society across the street jogged towards my cart for his ” Teekha only no meetha.” Still a handsome man at seventy, Mr Lobo was a bachelor who lived all alone. I looked at her and she silently gestured that he could join her.
” Hi Mrs Verma. How are you?” Mr Lobo tried to strike up a conversation.
” All is alright ji.” Mrs Verma was eager to get back to her solitary weekly activity.
” How are your children” Mr Lobo was determined to make this golgappa in his hand soggy. Some people didn’t appreciate my art of conjuring up the perfect crisp golgappas. But then it was Mr Lobo- always ready to talk to everyone.
” Happy in Germany but want me to be unhappy by eating the boiled food and being alone. Once a while I think diabetes and hypertension can take a hike while I eat golgappas.”
” Being alone is a choice Mrs Verma, being lonely , well something that should be corrected. It is never too late to make acquaintances, is it?”
I was so vested in the conversation that accidentally I mixed up their golgappas, the no meetha of Mr Lobo ended up in Mrs Verma’s plate and she certainly wasn’t happy with that.
” Let it be Mrs Verma , a little bit of meetha kam can add some spice to the routine sweetness; makes you appreciate the sweet things in life more, isn’t it?For the first time in a long time I saw Mrs Verma smile. She stared at her plate and then looked up at me, ” Do one thing, make the next one, teekha only for me and give him meetha jyada now. Let him too appreciate the sweetness breaking monotony of all the spice.” Mr Lobo chuckled. Mrs Verma smiled.The khatta meetha water of the Golgappa was on its way to spice two lives.
by Gargi | Aug 25, 2026 | Stories
Juan Suarez was in two minds this morning. On one hand he was still up and about; but on the other hand he had been duped. That bloody clairvoyant had ripped a thousand bucks off him.
” The death shall occur on Friday the Thirteenth”, he had put on quite a show rolling up his eyes, screaming in a breathy voice, caressing the crystal ball like a fluffy cat.
“I should have known that he is a charlatan when he spread out those Uno cards instead of tarot”, Juan cursed himself.
“Get all affairs in order for on Friday the thirteenth, Death will strike”, he had rambled as he shuffled through those laid out Uno cards and instead threw the tarot cards in the air with a little song and dance number. Wasn’t he supposed to lay out the tarot cards? Juan now felt really silly. Although visibly shaken, Juan had taken his wife to dinner, called his children, reviewed his will and prayed full rosary. He had slept after gulping down a decent dose of Xanax but here he was next morning – walking, talking and yes fuming with rage.
By midday his mind was made up. He was going to get his one grand back before his wife found out. He called his chauffeur and went back to the ‘ psyche fortunes”. The dingy room was full of suffocating incense and the wind chimes tinkled and swayed. He rolled up his sleeves convincing himself that brute force might be needed and entered the inner chambers.
The dimly lit chambers held a mortifying sight. The clairvoyant lay on the chair lifeless and limp like a deflated rubber doll, his oriental headgear fallen on the ground. Juan dabbed the sweat off his head with this rolled up sleeves and approached the clairvoyant to check on him. A shriek escaped his throat and a chill ran down his spine – the clairvoyant had a Uno reverse card wedged between his dead fingers.
Glossary
Uno reverse card – It is a card in a pack of Uno cards. The reverse card when played means that the direction of the play is reversed.
by Gargi | Aug 18, 2026 | Stories
The Ultimate Game
Camille Leroy checked the alignment of her pearls for the umpteenth time as she worried about the tea party, she was hosting that afternoon. The rich ladies from high society can be quite difficult to please. Six months ago, she wouldn’t have given a hoot about these rich ladies; in fact, she sniggered at these ladies behind their backs when she was working at ‘The Haute Couture’ boutique as a seamstress. Her husband Oliver sold the software he had invented and suddenly Camille was thrown into the whirlpool of high society. Camille, who used to worry about discounts at grocery stores and how they would manage in the next paycheck, suddenly was worried about repeating outfits and the social calendar. Not that she enjoyed it; she avoided these ladies like the plague. However, Oliver realized that business deals are finalized on the golf course, not conference rooms and the way to the golf course was through the Country club. Today’s tea was precisely for the same reason for getting Mrs. Ravenscroft to put in a good word with her husband, the new President of the country club.
“Camille, take a deep breath, smile and look elegant.” Her personal assistant and best friend Gina assured. Camille sighed; she knew it was an arrow in the dark. Mrs. Ravenscroft was unlikely to be impressed by someone she still considered ‘working class’. After all ‘new money’ is not as dignified as ‘old money’. Mrs. Ravenscroft proved to be more difficult than expected- the macaroons were too sweet; the tarts, not sweet enough, the tea too hot and the air conditioner not cold enough. As Camille closed the door behind her back after biding the last guest goodbye, she knew in her heart- Oliver was not getting into the Country club anytime soon. There was one last hope though, the ladies talked about how Mrs. Ravenscroft loathed shoddy needlework and would give anything to get preferential treatment at ‘The Haute Couture’ boutique. Camille knew exactly what to do. She sent Gina with a bottle of the finest French wine and gourmet cheese to ‘The Haute Couture’ for the head seamstress, Mabel. It seemed to have worked because the next time when she saw the Ravenscrofts, Mr. Ravenscroft personally handed Oliver the membership lapel pin and Mrs. Ravenscroft couldn’t stop talking about how tasteful Camille’s home and outfit were accessorized. Camille gave Gina a discreet thumbs up. Oliver was so proud his wife had got the job done.
II
Six afternoons ago, Gina walked the pavement of Magnolia Lane with the basket of French wine and cheese, when a Porsche sped past nearly knocking her off. The Porsche halted near a sleazy motel and she recognized Mr. Ravenscroft enter it, trying to hide his face behind the collar of his overcoat. Gina wondered and a smile appeared on her face. First, she went to ‘The Haute Couture’ and met the head seamstress, Mabel. Gina knew there was some smoke there, for a patronizing boutique like ‘The Haute Couture’ loved throwing themselves at the likes of Mrs Ravenscroft and voila! she found the fire. As it turned out, Mrs Ravenscroft had something little on the side going on with the stock boy, Maynard, who also was incidentally Mabel’s youngest offspring. A baseless rumour about how some rich ladies seduce young boys, planted in the right ears and repeated by witless tongues made Mabel sing like a canary about her own predicament to the entire workroom; names excluded of course but Gina got the ammunition she needed. The way Mabel stabbed needles into Mrs Ravenscroft’s alterations stitched the whole picture for Gina.
Later that day, Gina proceeded to attend one of ‘Assistants’ High tea.’ The Assistants’ high tea was where assistants of the high-profile society members wined and dined every Tuesday mainly to dish about their employers. There was just one golden rule though- no gossip goes back to the employers; for what is spoken at High tea stays at high tea. Gina knew Dolores, Mr. Ravenscroft’s secretary, could confirm her suspicions. To make sure the high tea was indeed ‘high’, Gina brought along her very special brownies. All she had to do was mention the sleazy motel to her in the powder room and a high as kite Dolores, who would surely forget everything by evening, confirmed her suspicions about the discreet rendezvous between Gabrielle, the French tennis instructor and her employer. With two anonymous notes saying- ‘I know your little secret’ placed in Mr Ravenscroft’s windshield and in Mrs Ravenscroft’s letterbox, the trigger was pulled. Further, an innocent thank you note written on behalf of Camille saying, “Thank you for gracing the tea party. I look forward to seeing you at ‘The Haute Couture’ and hopefully play a game of tennis at the club,” hit the mark. Gina, without breaking the golden rule of The Assistants’ high tea had played the ultimate game- hit the bull’s eye leaving no trace of the shooter. Camille got her false sense of achievement, the snooty Ravenscrofts learnt a lesson in humility and Gina got some really juicy matter to dish about at her next ‘Assistants’ High Tea’ as Camille gleefully devoured the ‘special brownies’ gloating about her faux triumph. All was finally well.
