Skip to main content

Khulja sim sim...

Today, a colleague and I went on a professional call to a big hospital -- you know, one of those corporate places that are spotlessly clean and quiet and where I always get lost and where I always feel my shoes make an awful lot of noise. Anyways, she was sitting in the reception waiting for me, when she noticed this little boy. He had come to the hospital with his grandmother. This is one of those hospitals that have those 'sensor' doors -- the kind that automatically open and close as you go near them.

This little boy was too young, I think, to be overawed by all the corporate plushness around him. So with little boy daredevilry and mischief, he went right up to the reception doors and yelled: "Khulja sim sim!" Then he went to the other side and yelled : "Band hoja sim sim". And it did. Just like that.

Sometimes, I think we forget to be enchanted by the little things in our life -- the warm, toasty feel of a cuddle in bed especially when its nippy outside; the perky flavour of that first cuppa as it slithers down your throat and the heady caffeine is kicking in; the first showers melting into the earth (no perfume even comes close!); the tantalising aromas that waft from your Malayalee Christian neighbour's apartment every Sunday; the naughtiness of a shared joke or experience -- for some obscure reason, I usually think of the wicked things he said or did only when I'm sitting in an auto or walking down Brigades and then I smile goofily to myself, much to the bewilderment of people passing by.

Like that little boy, I'd love to run up to an automatic door and shout: Khulja Sim Sim! If I did that, two smartly dressed docs would probably march out and guide me to the mental health section. They'd make me do a complete health check and for good measure, charge me an exorbitant, heart-burn-causing amount for telling me I'm perectly fine even if prone to bouts of strange behaviour. And that they'd put down to the stress of modern living. Sigh!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wasteland

Something happened over the past two days. Our next door neighbours, or rather one particular family (like all metrizens in this cramped city, we live within literally, touching distance of the others in our neighbourhood), have decided to demolish their home. Fine, so what, you ask. They see how valuable land now is. Who can blame them? But along with their home, they have also decided to kill off the two trees -- a mango tree and a coconut tree -- in their compound. I used to look at those trees from my kitchen window. The mango tree, in particular, was a welcome sight. Bunches of ripe green fruit used to hang heavily from it. Looking at it, I'd think of my home in Kerala -- of the time when I was a little girl in a white petticoat helping my father pluck mangoes as they slowly changed from parrot green to a golden reddish-yellow-orange shade. That was our annual summer ritual, you see. My father plucked mangoes using a long stick with a hook or a 'kokka' (in my collo...

Morning scenes

The wind blustery Skies grey blue A light so muted Birds are quiet too We walkers go Sidestepping Couple-dancing No touching Looking or meeting Glances…Oh no!   Masks dangling From chins Below noses Hanging from one ear Or sometimes Fitting so properly Covering everything So no one can see Or know What we’re really like.   Runners running Soundlessly Iron determination Seeping through So much so   That dogs being walked Know they cannot Wag tails Or even Bark a greeting.   Two men Creating content One breaking into Hair flipping, body popping Dance Faithful friend filming In fits and starts As a security guard Sips his chai Utterly bemused.

This is why acid attacks continue to destroy lives

  Last week, I went to my local kirana store and bought a bottle of ‘acid’. You know the kind of store I mean -- one those neighbourhood shops that stocks everything from groceries to greens, to cheap Made-in-China toys, to household germ killers. I wanted acid to clean my bathroom. So the friendly shopkeeper called out to his assistant: “Hey, get that bottle of ‘acid’, will you.” “Do I need to wear gloves or any protective clothing,” I asked. “No, you can either use it as is, or dilute it,” he replied. The shopkeeper did not ask me for either age-proof or id. The other patrons around me saw nothing amiss, either. They went about their purchases. So for just Rs 60, I gingerly carried a bottle of ‘acid’ home. Life went on as usual. But should it? Shouldn't we all be more concerned that acid can be bought so easily? Did you know that the Supreme Court has laid down a number of guidelines against such sale or purchase of acid, in order to prevent acid attacks? For in...