Nescafé’s hot brew gently erased her nightmare through a calculated series of sips and blows. Cupping the warm ceramic, she kept replaying that bizarre dream- an unsolicited trip to the  swimming pool. Clad in a black synthetic suit and latex cap, being hastily dragged by her mother into the blue waters on a sweltering noon seemed surreal. Even in fantasy, her tiny self was expected to learn something new and instantly excel at it.

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One hour more to just be. Mondays were cursed from beyond. Nevertheless, this window of peace can’t be compromised. It held the propulsive power to survive another chaotic week. Her high-rise 2 BHK apartment had the best balcony view with an unbeatable hodgepodge of organic scenes. Each land plot operated with dedication.  What was once a huge patch of green cover gradually crumbled into small pockets of construction sites piecemeal. Like a junkie taking the last puff, her eyes soaked up the surviving flora and fauna.

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She stood fascinated by the symbiotic affair between grazing cattle and chalky egrets on one of the tracts. They provided a picturesque rendition of “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours”. But ever since the JCB’s takeover in a few spots, those birds knew better days were coming. Not to mention, an alliance upgrade between biotic and abiotic. They began to carefully tread around the giant machine as it bucketed mounds of chill earth with its backhoe. This smart move boosted their sustenance. It was raining bugs.

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That very backdrop stirred up some lamentable memories. Almost a year had passed since the “amicable” separation. Their 10-year-long mutual partnership ended when she and her twin flame completed a successful personality interchange. And that was precisely why in her next “whatevership”, she wanted to unabashedly wave the red flag. Character development became a corrupt file. For now, she found her JCB in a charismatic Chatbot.

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A huge 3-tier residential building was quietly looming, thanks to the relentless labourers of Delhi’s property managers. Concrete flesh expeditiously crawled up the bony scaffoldings. Perfectly stacked yellow and white cement bags pigmented the sombre scene. The evolution of those grey structures stood as faint reminders of her therapist’s words.

“You have to do a lot of inner work before letting anyone enter your life”.

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While a few male worker bees engaged in bringing their civil engineer’s plan to fruition, a couple of them, from their borrowed terrace, spectated a cricket match on a remote Maidaan. No female drone bees were in sight, and no one cared for a bunch of kids gleefully flying tattered plastic kites around the job site. They weren’t done with Lohri yet.

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Shrill sounds of drilling bits, heavy machinery, metal clangs and bustling workforce kept the city on high alert. Adapting to it was her only choice. At least they weren't as pestering as the pandemonium trapped in her skull. Distant bridges snaked around the metropolitan state, carrying gaudy vehicles day and night. Except for the V-shaped parade of birds above and a few pink trumpet trees amongst scrapheaps below, Mother Nature mostly vacated the vista. All this fast-paced urbanisation had irked one community in particular. Rock Pigeons that once dominated the landscape now have to struggle for shade and shelter. Birdnets fended them off any leeway for nesting. Flapping, strutting and pecking, they flaunted an elusive aggression awaiting change. As if an avian revolution were afoot.

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However, the view did offer glimpses of optimistic episodes. Every morning, the complex’s residents kept its pathways booked and busy. People, vainly laden with untold tales, went on about their daily routines. There was beauty in boredom when witnessed from afar. Young couples strolled hand-in-hand, oozing lust. A newlywed announced her marital bliss through vermilion Choodas. Boys on skateboards, girls on bikes, toddlers on strollers, men and women in Tracksuits and Fitbits. It was all on display for the oldies to watch and judge snugly from their Senior Citizens square. Their premature energy and enthusiasm irked her.

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An infirm woman slouched against the compound wall with a walker on the side. Her mature greys shimmered in daylight. Another middle-aged lady kept company whilst indulging in doom-scrolling.

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“Let this be the deleted scene of my life”, she wished from her vantage point.

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Why was this disturbing? Was she cruel for not wanting to see her mother age? Wasn’t she instinctively supposed to reciprocate the care for her source of life, who was emotionally absent only because she was miserably toiling to build a better life for her happy accident? Isn’t this a categorical imperative? How can two halves of the same soul not stand to be in the same room? Is it atrocious  to break free from a natural shackle melded with manipulation?

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Long and winding was the road to recovery for all the PTSD induced by her mother’s chemo sessions. A heart attack would have been kinder. Cancer was cruel. Ironically, distancing herself from the one person she truly loved seemed to make future loss easier to process- a forbidden self-care technique.  Detachment law was her way to be. There were even moments when she didn’t mind hitching a ride into oblivion before her Mom could. In fact, it was an exigency.

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She stifled the torturous inner echoes, taking one last lukewarm gulp and let her eyes wander. What seemed to be a vast, vivid view lazily shrunk into  confined spaces full of crawlers doing their time. A life sentence in a torture camp- an ignominy allowed to lurk in everyone’s mind but not to be openly addressed, counting out withered philosophers and predatory preachers.

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“A simple comparative analysis between the haves and have-nots is enough to know what a gift life is!”, spoke the graffitied words from a deserted wall.

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Then, where is this desire to depart coming from ? Trip to the abyss? She had no business reading Nietzsche in middle school.

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“One has to do the time  before attaining Moksha”

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Oh, this was Transcendental Meditation and Bhagavat Gita talking. Exotic jargon like these helped her cope and posed to open secret portals that only rich self-proclaimed indigo children could afford. Spirituality called it “the third eye” while science spelt out “pineal gland”. Whatever it was, at least it made sleep and pretence easy. It taught her to dispatch empathy and sympathy in the right doses. She was becoming an expert in sentimental mixology. It was now possible to tolerate people by nimbly ignoring their loathsome hypocrisies. Her usual hatred and bitterness were bubble-wrapped under the covers of compassion. She finally gained a placebo-driven superpower to crucify deeply buried triggers, if resurrected.

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“Alelelele..Aooo…meri pyaari bachi..”

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Her stream of thoughts was rippled by a woman’s parentese who was patting her squealing infant on the park bench.

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Events like this would spasmodically set off her broken biological clock. It would chime in to chide her for failing to fulfil that one sacred obligation. A maternal role would have obliterated  this pessimistic worldview. Purposefulness and distraction would have domesticated her. She could have had that coveted New Mom’s grind.

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But, she did have a wonderful family in the Minecraft world of her mind. She would venture there at least once a day, during board meetings, commutes, and especially at night when rest took a rain check. With a fitting melody, a quick transportation to those delusional dimensions did wonders for her mental health. She was God, constructing riveting realities, conflicts and resolutions. Proposals, weddings, baby showers, labour pains, soccer practices, college send-offs, graduations, growing old-she had it all.  It didn’t cost anything to be petulant, to own her flaws and to be vulnerable. Subservience sounded sexy. No one diagnosed her with daddy issues. Every experiment was controlled, monitored and regulated. Endings were enthralling. Love-bombing had no casualties. Encounters were erotic but never gaslit. Healing was linear. Despite the concerning age-gap, a man was just there to handle her, love her, accept her and also bring out the worst in her. It was toxic yet therapeutic. Her insufferable self was crowned and celebrated while the midlife crisis happily fed off its teen spirit. All rose for  The May Queen from Midsommar!

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​“You are like that unpopped kernel in a popcorn packet”, her ex-partner used to quip. Being the one to end the family lineage was risky business. It meant placing a lid on the boiling rage of her bloodline. The Clan’s disappointment. In retrospect, a black mark.

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“Isn’t mothering art and ideas as good as childbearing? I mean, there’s pain involved either way.”

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She was shadowbanned from house parties after posting that text on the “Apartment Moms” WhatsApp group.

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Her eyes casually  feasted on the compound’s brilliant blue murals. They somehow summoned up the fountainhead of her fulfilment- Creative Expression. Art, Poetry, Stories, Music, Crafts- she did it all and documented them with diligence. Isn’t that why people leave a note before committing the last act? One last chance to finally be heard. Call it ego or legacy, she wanted to leave as many trails as possible of her boring existence. Like Red’s liberation etched in the prison walls of Shawshank or the Indonesian cave paintings. As a single, empowered, childfree woman, none of this is enough to insulate the occasional sneers of cynics, even her female Gynec. It is what it is.

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Scanning the venue again, she turned left to rest her eye on a comfort zone for a moment. A special section featuring long stretches of headstones, planted with precision, tall and small, black and white. A palpable obituary column. Couples had their corners, too. On a random day, long processions would jazz up the yard with fresh flowers, incense and music. Once the rites were done and respects were paid, pallbearers left, and cows arrived. They feasted on garlands of marigolds and roses. That sight came with relief and reassurance. A symbol of hope that promised an impending eternal solace. Not that she yearned to end it all, but the thought of a safe exit before getting fully devoured by the vicious  jaws of life’s mediocrity or a chronic indisposition. That was scarier than death itself. Explosion appealed more than erosion.

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“Soon. It’ll all be over, and none of this will matter”, a soothing voice chipped in.

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White Cars in the society’s parking lot almost resembled her Pentobarbital bottles. Having a stock of peaceful pills stashed under second-hand paperbacks gave her a sense of autonomy and dignity- to bring down the curtains of her own accord.

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She unlocked her Galaxy by force of habit and the muscle memory tapped on its browser icon. A couple of tabs with essays of E.M Cioran and Sylvia Plath were waiting to flame her morning melancholies. She didn't dare to venture there. Not today.

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A buzz of an Event reminder startled her.

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“Your Life Coaching Seminar on ‘Go from Flawed to Fabulous!’ is starting at 10:00 AM !”, said the pop-up

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Another day to put that revised 45-slide presentation deck to use, after pulling an all-nighter.  Time to go and inspire a few people to live, laugh and love.  Pfft!