The Incident of the Leather Bag.

Okay, before you are misled, I want to tell you’ll that this isn’t a feeble attempt on my part to recreate Sherlock Holmes by trying to write something Doyle-esque. My little efforts at writing have amused people, especially those pieces that I had courage to put up on this blog, but this particular piece is far from fiction. It’s a reality. A fairly mundane piece of family related anecdotes, and yet, I feel it is a mere symbolism for our larger confusions regarding People in general. Sounds too philosophical? Read on. It’s not. At your own risk though. It’s fairly domestic.

My dad was in Dubai recently and got back yesterday. He called from the airport regarding certain medicines he needed, and due to some misunderstanding, he yelled at me on the phone. I had my first fight with him before he even got home. No matter. That thing was sorted.

Then he came home and as he always does, showed what all he had gotten for us, either by himself, or gifts sent by relatives. (They send a lot of stuff. All my tailored clothes are dress-pieces sent by my aunt. No, she isn’t generous. She has a dress-material business. So, yeah)

Anyway, he showed me a shiny bag that he got from Dubai duty-free for me. It was very lady-like. And Prada (don’t know if really original, but looked quite original to me), oh and Leather. I know what you will react with, “Your Dad got you that and you have a problem??You and your #firstWorldProblems!” At least, that is how twitter folks would respond.


But those who know me, know I’m just the opposite of the leather bag kind. I’m usually clad in Kurtas and their equivalents, and choose to trudge around with cloth bags, a.k.a jholas. They are humble, eco-friendly, and good for carrying books and other college related things. And even they fail to prove as college bags for me. I have too many books to punish my one shoulder with, so I go for the back-pack kind. Sadly, school hasn’t gotten over for me in this aspect, even in the last year of degree college.

So, the first question is of utility. Where will I carry it. Secondly, did my dad not realize that it does not go with who I am?

Of course, my wise friends would suggest that I shut up, keep the bag and not use it if I don’t want. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

But my question is, did dad not realize that it will not go with my personality? Or did he, consciously or unconsciously choose such a bag on purpose? you know, in order to change my rebellious traits into feminine chic ones?

If you think I’m overanalyzing, of course I am. I’m a psychology student.

So now the bag rests in the deep recesses of my cupboard as I ponder,

Is it better to not expect and not get anything from people, or to react with mild irritation or more when people think they understand you but they actually don’t and you can’t even point it without things getting somewhat uncomfortable which seems to big a price for such trifle matters?

Still pondering. If you have any suggestions let me know. Till then, that’s all folks.

Crockery Conversations – Part 2! (a co-authored post)

And The Manor lived by another day. Its members and inhabitants doing what they were supposed to do. Live on, do their daily work, blissfully unaware of the existence of talking crockery. And just like these members, lived the Crockery of that Manor, the sun went down, lights went out and the Crockery came to life, like always. Slowly, gradually, trying to shake off the stagnant daily life off them, and shedding the darkness. Beginning to talk and move. This day had been quite eventful. Hell, not just eventful but full of hectic work and excitement. It was Neelofar’s birthday. Neelofar, the middle child of one of the brothers of the Manor, was celebrating her18th birthday. Every event, like a birthday or a marriage, at the Manor was a huge, ‘talk of the town’ sort of event. The magnificent Manor would be lit up like the Sun, covered by unbelievable and brilliant decoration, making it truly look like a wonder. Richie rich guests, friends and family, all occupied the Manor for Neelofar’s birthday, to get together and meet up, greeting each
other, the party being a reason for another social comparison, who was prettier, who was richer, and by how much?.

While the legally living greeted outside, the pseudo non-living prepared them to serve their guests with exquisite food and beverages. Dishes of many varieties and kinds were served on them, to cater to people of every type .For a manor this big, serving a family this royal, the amount of Crockery in the kitchen had to be humungous and unbelievable too. Years of serving the royal blood and friends, they had tasted almost every dish, every drink and every stain. They would show off, about how many dishes they have served and which the best was. Surprisingly,
these were the things who had tasted more than any man could have (or woman. We no sexist, bro.)

Shaking off the memory of the day, Mrs Potts, the all mother, the oldest, announced it was safe for everyone to come out. With her permission and assurance, all the unboxed, unchained Crockery came out. Cluttering on their way through the counters, hopping, rearranging themselves, and finally walking down from cabinets, and the strong ones jumping off heights, they all gathered around Mrs. Pott.

Mrs. Potts, with her favourite pots and cups, started chatting about how the day had gone. What went wrong and what was new and what all happened. Comparing everything to how they did it before. Condemning some new things and praising some. While the pots and cups kept on with their chat, two imported, English plates, brought specially from
England, argued with other Indian plates about a recent game of cricket between India and England. David, one of the English plates said, “We invented the game, we play it the best. Everyone else came and cheated from us and learned it. We own cricket!” To which, a furious Indian plate, Rex, replied, “Yeah, and who stole hockey? Don’t you people play it, too? Everybody in the world does. That’s our game. Give that back to us and you can have the
right to lecture me about owning cricket.” Disgusted at being levelled by a comment equally valid, David had to give in and cluttered back into his stand, stomping angrily, giving Rex the meanest of looks. Rex continued to talk to the other English plate, Harrison. Harrison was rather a calmer, more reasonable plate. Now, that’s the kind of personality a plate should have, Rex thought approvingly. He would talk is way out of people but never fight. Taking David’s place, Harrison started talking to Rex and everyone, the other Indian plates knew, Rex was going to succumb to Harrison’s way with words. Thus they popped open their ears and patiently waited for it to happen. Knowing that this night, was going to be all about it cricket and Harrison.

Only, they noticed that one of Neelofar’s friends had forgotten her cup at the Manor, and it simply wouldn’t talk! This was pointed out by the very observant kettle, Jaya. Then it struck her that, *maybe* only the crockery which has been in this Manor can talk! And that spun all kinds of questions – Was the manor bewitched? Were the owner’s wizards? This would explain the incident of last time, when they thought morning came too soon! Do time and other fundamental things behave differently in this Manor? The uproar that went around was magnanimous! But how much of it was true? Only time would tell! (Whether it behaves fundamentally normally, or not.)

{ This blog was co-authored along with Adam Fredie, in fact, the post is mostly him. Do encourage him by comments 🙂 }