The Missing Ingredient.

She hated the stains he left on her marble countertop while cooking. Soon she realized her insatiable appetite for hate. Her gut told her that she'll hate nothing more than how his absence managed to make everything in life blander.

GPS Failure. #Microfiction

It was a complaint hidden behind the sweetest of smiles. 'Why did you take so long to get here?', she asked.

His hands went into a half-shrug and then his eyes met hers, 'I didn't know what I was looking for.'

The Journey. #Microfiction

They picked up pace. The speedometer now read 30. The palm trees bent down to greet them. 

Looking out of her window, she pondered, 'Are we there yet?'

'I'm in no hurry to reach', he replied. 

'I ain't either', she replied. 

New Beginnings. #MicroFiction

If you had to put some distance between you and your past, then 8,000 kilometers felt like a safe bet. So, for a week, he missed every deadline. Stealthily he searched for jobs in Iceland and two months and a turbulent flight later, he was there. 

A different country. Heck, a different continent. A new time zone. Strange new faces. Strange new voices inflecting on vocal notes he hadn’t heard before. He would have much preferred closure but escape was a close second.

As he waited for his baggage to arrive, he marvelled at his reflection in a giant Johnny Walker ad. You kissed your old life goodbye without second thoughts. That’s something you make a toast to.

And then, he saw her again.

Upon closer inspection, he found there was little in common. Blonde, not black hair. A chin piercing, not cheap earrings picked up at Linking Road. No hint of a speck-like mole on her neck. All this Scandinavian woman shared with her was an overbite. And even though he felt he had escaped, he now knew, no matter where he went, he was going to find her.

Advantage - Love. #MicroFiction

With every shot he returned he felt their marriage taking a hit. Playing tennis was his idea. Getting a second car, hers. And the recession, life's.

When swimming didn't cool her off, she started squaring off with him on the court. Today's encounter was closely contested. Not by the way of points but actual distance. They were standing as close as Ping-Pong players.

So while trying to return his deft dodge, she lobbed her racket in his face. The game, he thought, will now continue over the dining table.

As he placed an ice pack over his nose and rubbed his eyes with his free hand, he sensed her presence around him. She precariously balanced herself along the edge of the couch.

Her lips, showed the slightest hint of a smile. Her hands ran through his hair.

Marriage, he remembered, was a contact sport. 

PS: Written as a tribute to the great descriptions of Lolita playing tennis in Nabokov's magnum opus.

Kissing Black Coffee Goodbye.

He had no business being there. He, a habitual black coffee addict. The tea stall, the enemy territory. The chaiwallah in question wasn't helping. His torn sweat-stained vest was revolting. He wasn't big on customer satisfaction or offering a varied menu. He didn't serve black coffee. He even refused to take instructions on how to make black coffee.

Yet all was forgiven for she loved him. She called him 'Dipu Bhaiyya'. She said his name with a smile. And he couldn't help but smile in return. He wanted to tell her that her 'Dipu Bhaiyya's business' was illegal. That his 'cutting' glasses were never properly washed. He also had the urge to jokingly ask her if she knew of some statistic on how if there's a commercial building, then there has to be a gruff tea vendor hawking cigarettes in its parking lot.

Instead, he did what he always did best. He listened.  As she ran her hand through her impossibly brown hair, she deduced, 'This tea tastes like cat piss. Correction, this tastes like piss from a neutered 90 year old cat.'  Then, she explained to him that what usually comes in sachets is the sissy stuff British call tea. She said real tea was what you get when you throw in some ginger and cardamom. Mmmm, she went.

She said she was only drinking tea from the office pantry because 'Dipu Kaka had left for his uncle's chautha and will only be back by Monday.' She mentioned that the first thing she liked doing on Monday morning was to arrive before everyone else. Around eight-ish. Then, have a nice hot cuppa and then rush back to her desk to map her entire week.

So, a week later, he found himself avoiding the deep penetrating stare of 'Dipu Bhaiyya' and loitering in the parking lot. He focused his sights on an imaginary pebble on the curb and kicked it. When he looked up, the chaiwallah was still staring at him. To bring some change to the scene, the chaiwallah put his hand under his vest and started scratching.

He cursed himself for thinking she was dropping a hint. Arranging their next 'coincidental' encounter. He knew that at 25, he should have been able to walk up to her and chat her up. He hated how his colleagues would exchange numbers with women they met in the office elevator. He hated how in the 2 weeks she had been in his office, all he had managed to exchange with her were coy smiles. 

He walked a few steps. This time, he spotted a real pebble to kick off the curb. He felt pitiful and decided to spare the pebble. He was making his way to the lobby when he spotted her. She flashed a smile that made words seem redundant. Even that rotten Dipu Bhaiyya seemed to perk up. Dipu Bhaiyya then quickly poured some inconsistently brown tea into two hazy cutting glasses and kept them on the counter. He knew in his heart that his steamy affair with black coffee was coming to an end.  

The Bright Spot in the Dark.

And in all honesty, when you didn't return my calls I happily thought this was over. So, yes, my cynicism is still bulletproof. Except maybe I feel optimistic about us. Now in the large scheme of things, is that so bad?

Eating Alone Can Prompt You to Get Married.

'You're not as young as you think you are.'

That remark brought the grinding of my jaws to a halt. For the first time in my life did I find it difficult to chew on a tender Paneer piece. How did things get to this?

As usual, my parents are to blame. Not in the Freudian sense. They were out of town for a couple of days. My culinary skills won't win me praises and I don't have it in me to cook. Especially at 11 in the night. So, I found myself at the quintessential Indian restaurant. You know the types. The kind of place you can take your family to without feeling you've carved a big hole in your pocket. The kind of place where the food is bland but not boring. The kind of place where there's no service charge (so, you must tip) and even if they add VAT, you won't feel as if an extra person joined you for the meal.

As it is custom in most restaurants, they directed me to the most inhospitable spot. That's what happens to us lone customers. We get the worst seats. And things don't get any better. Order the same item as a large group at the same time and the large group will get served first. There will be a waiter hovering around them. Holler for the waiter and he'd simply nod an acknowledgement. As if between his nods, you'd find a way to address whatever issue you were having. You can't blame anyone for this. It's simple customer relationship management. Large groups bring in more money. So there's little sense in treating us small fish well.

I've grown accustomed to this ill-treatment. Sitting next to grumpy middle-aged men and having dinner doesn't feel strange. Most of these chumps are in the city on business or men whose wives are out of town. Yesterday, I found myself seated against a jovial middle-aged man. He was wolfing down a biryani. He acknowledged my presence with a smile. See, this is rare. Men who eat at around 11 in the night don't acknowledge each other. Least of all with a smile. A couple of middle-aged women were seating next to us and were ordering what can only be called a little pulmonary disorder inducing feast. So, there was little space for me keep my food. This man promptly moved his empty plates in a corner and let me have some room at the table. I thanked him sincerely. Saying to myself, 'What a nice, guy.'

As if reading my thoughts, he indulged me in a conversation. Explaining how he didn't like eating here. Not like this, at least. He added that his wife was out of town because her brother had a child. When I congratulated him on this, he blankly blinked at me. He ranted about long hours without his wife's lovingly cooked meals. He said he was happy to have her back home the next day.

I thought that would be it. I thought now there'd be some peace and quiet between me and biryani but he interrupted. Again. He asked me, 'So, where's your wife at?' This man had been nice to me. So against my better judgement, I indulged him, 'Um, I haven't found her yet.'

He was shocked to learn I wasn't married. I told him I was still too young. He then made an inquiry about my age and when I told him I was just 24 (24 years, 2 months to be precise). He then scientifically concluded that I wasn't that young. Which took me by surprise. See, all my life I've been young. Because, well, I've lived among people older than me. Everyone in class was usually a year older than me. My brother is 7 years older than me. I was the youngest guy on the team on all the 4 jobs I have had so far. I was the youngest guy to get through a prestigious fellowship. And now, I'm old. Not just that. I'm old enough to get married.

I recovered from this conversational shock. Not that it mattered. The conversation took another low. He said he was only a year older than me when he got married and so it made perfect sense for me to marry the next year. I nodded and told him, I'd rather get married  when I checked off some emotional, financial and other goals. I wasn't going to discuss with him how I wanted to marry someone I fell for. And hopefully wait till Jennifer Lawrence agreed that we were destined to be together. He wasn't the kind of guy you discussed the matters of the heart with.

I thought he'd shut up but he continued, 'You never really finish your goals. I still have to buy my home. You can't lead your life like that.' Which honestly was a sensible suggestion. You don't always meet the goals you set up for yourself. But I rescinded, 'They aren't all big goals. Like this right here - if I could cook properly and actually enjoy cooking, I'd never be here in the first place. I'd be at home eating a home-cooked meal. I just want to be self-sufficient before I get married. So that I don't get married because I want someone to do the things that I don't want to. Or won't learn to.'

He gave me a sage smile. I managed to choke on my paneer. Things were looking dark. He continued, 'What sort of goal is cooking? Better save. Save a lot. Your wedding will be expensive. It will eat into the money you have saved up for buying a home. And besides, why do you want to cook?'

I thought if I kept chewing my food in the way those wicked cowboys chew tobacco and stare down the crooks, he'd stop. Turns out my chewing isn't wicked. He added, 'And aren't you coming from office right now? At 11. Why would you want to cook this late? Best to have your wife do it all for you. I count on my wife to do all the ghar ka kaam and she counts on me to provide for her.'

I had it at that point. This man ruined paneer for me. Nothing and believe me nothing can ruin paneer for me but this man was the reigning world champion of ruining all things Paneer. I'm open to believing his wife's perfectly happy with their current 'situation'. I can give him the benefit of doubt of being a good provider. Of being a great husband even but he was rather sexist. My mother raised me while working nights as a nurse. My father cooked all the time. At times, better than her. Sorry for saying this in public, mom. So, yes, I was a little pissed. Also, this man was ruining my paneer.

I watched him glug down some falooda as he said this. In my heart, I had decided, this man ruined my paneer. And for the sake of paneer and all the women out there, I'm gonna ruin his dessert. I bought a spoonful of paneer near my mouth and said, 'I might experiment a little with my marriage. I will work from home and do all the ghar ka kaam. And I will make her do some of the providing too. You know, for kicks. Bada mazaa aayega.' 

I got onto chewing my paneer then. My alpha male style of chewing might have improved the second time around because the man promptly finished his falooda, smiled at me and left. My paneer started tasting better without the sexism in the air. That man was only around for some 7 odd minutes but I had to give him credit. Nowhere before in the history of mankind have two perfect strangers sat in a restaurant and discussed the subject of marriage this quickly. 

It's Better To Arrive Before Time.

Int. Corner Office. One of  India's Top 5 Agencies

Distorted sounds. Dropped lines. Greetings and guffaws from old acquaintances. Cynical young copywriter feels like all conference calls, this one too will go south.

On the other end is the regional marketing head of one of the biggest brands in the world. He's briefing all the agency partners on how to leverage their global sponsorship at the FIFA World Cup.

The cynical young copywriter smiles. This is IT. Real time responses. Dedicated apps. Separate fan-based ecosystems. On-ground integration. In-store promos. Games. And then he catches the marketing head's voice. 

The budget for digital is a little above his CTC. He's slowly accepted the fact that digital campaign budgets will always be what, 1/10th of the main marketing budgets. But this? This is the last straw.

His boss' boss is on the call with him. He's taken aback but not as surprised as the young lad .

The marketing head explains that India is still an emerging market for the sport. We are betting big on the IPL. Don't forget that there's the Cricket World Cup next year.

The boss' boss agrees. 

They start talking numbers. 

'So, what do you think is possible?'

Ever to wait his turn, he weighs in. Suggests something cheap, effective with good ROI for the client and a shining badge for his portfolio.

The client likes it. The boss' boss beams. The price is bought into question.

The boss' boss throws a number.

The client renegs.

The boss' boss and the client go way back. They both know the agency isn't out to suck his coffers dry.

The client keeps trying to find some slack. The boss' boss won't budge either. The client says, 'It's not really a big deal for us. We'd rather have you focus on the bigger events.'

The copywriter adds with some reluctance, 'But sir, that's the point. No other Indian brand has the leverage you will. No other brand will ever have any association with soccer. You will be the first to have it and eventually own it. Standard Chartered has Mumbai Marathon. This, if we use it right could be our Mumbai Marathon. Any other brand could later try to outspend us but we'll win by virtue of foresight. Indians will migrate to soccer. They have already started and when they do, they'll remember us. Anything we do here is not a marketing expenditure, it's an investment.'

The distortion and the noise on the line is so much that the client mistakes him for the boss' boss. 'I thought you weren't keen on this dude.'

The boss' boss butts in again. The conversation fizzles. Another agency steps in. One which would bite the bullet and settle for the bargain. And no one in India remembers that the food brand was a global sponsor at the World Cup.

The said food brand and soccer never form a strong association.

The cynical young copywriter shrugs and thinks to himself, 'To sit on a goldmine and not know it. To own the soccer field before other brands take a run at it. To, ah, no wonder, I am this cynical.'

The next day the boss' boss receives an email.

The subject line reads: 'Cricket World Cup Ideas for big food brand.'

Maybe he is far less cynical than he thinks.