Support system

Enjoying story? First thing in the morning Jaya rushes to get dry laundry from our terrace, later arranging it in the bedroom. When she’s doing jharu-pocha, I sort and pack clothes for ironing in a special bedcover. Mr. Sharma goes through his mails, lazily sipping coffee on the sofa, I retire to the bathroom and get ready for office, letting home work happen side-by-side. We leave that bundle with disheveled garments in the car boot. Rafik, our driver, would give

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For the Love of Raj Kapoor

Enjoying story? On sunny December morning Mr. Sharma and I went to Mumbai for lunch with my friend’s mom from Kyiv. Heading to Russian Centre of Science and Culture, I enjoyed Sea Link drive and busyness of Peddar road. Mrs. Svetlana appeared at the gate in elegant ankle length dress, hiding behind the bags of Roshen sweets. Her icy blue eyes were sparkling with girlish excitement carefully disguised by delicate demeanour. Hugging and chit-chatting we headed to The Trident. Besides

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Indian Christmas

Enjoying story? There was no snowy wonderland and “Jingle Bells” this year. My Christmas came on a cool breezy morning with bright sunshine of Indian winter. I could feel it among the palm trees while walking in the garden, and in sounds of traffic wafting from afar. It’s our first Christmas at home together. The living room is lit with garlands, fir-tree is shining with gold and silver balls; bhindi is chopped, rajma is soaked, roasted masala is ground and

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Solitude

Enjoying story? Avocado-green melamine plate and spoon are left in the sink for Jaya to wash. It’s 9 am, half an hour as office started, and she’s not around yet. Dressed up, I sink into sofa, sipping green tea from ‘I love you Paris’ mug. Ten minutes later our melodious bell rings. I let Jaya in, going through my Facebook timeline. From our Marathi-Hinglish chit-chat I get the latest news about her husband, children and neighbours on the third floor. Once

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Cashless Birthday

Enjoying story? I’m adding chopped mushrooms, sliced onions and grated carrots into wok, carefully mixing them with golden brown slices of garlic floating in hot oil. Then transferring ready tadka into boiling vegetable broth with potatoes, cauliflower, bay leaf and pepper corns. I am moving to Farhan Akhtar’s “Manzar Naya” on the radio, slowly sipping Cabernet Sauvignon from red wine glass by my side. It’s my birthday and i am making soup in Indian kitchen. Mr. Sharma woke me up,

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Distance

Enjoying story? We  agreed to talk once a week chatting before her birthday in September. It took two months to make it for next fifteen minutes conversation. One of those that earlier we would have sipping Gluehwein and hiding from Kyiv October chill under woollen blanket with her cat in between. Or in bustling Bun Cafe next to Golden Gate, where as students we used to study finance over the cup of yummiest hottest cocoa and plate of buns with

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My Bollywood times

Enjoying story? Mr. Sharma is rewatching Sultan on TV, while I’m writing in our bedroom. To say he loves movies, is not to say anything. If by any chance it’s a holiday and we’re home, Sudhir would easily watch 4-5 movies that day – Bollywood masala followed by ski-fi action, topped with a thriller by the end. I would join him for romantic comedy, while cooking breakfast and lunch in between, and hide away with a book if there’s violence

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Sounds in India

Sounds in India used to make me crazy. The privacy i felt and cherished behind the thick walls of tiny Kyiv apartment was gone once i moved into spacious 2BHK in outskirts of Pune. Suddenly i heard neighbours at different times of their daily routine, - bathing in the morning, making sabzi in the pressure cooker, playing with the dog and by the end of it - snoring.
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Monsoon is almost over

Enjoying story?In Kyiv i would celebrate summer fall – indulging in freshly harvested fruits, breathing in morning coolness, sipping the hottest coffee from paper cup picked up on the way to subway. In India i celebrate last days of the monsoon. The rhythm of the rain is nocturnal, drumming heavily on the office roof top, tapering to drizzle in between. Pausing and then clearing. Grand beats of Ganapathi Visarjan processions are heard from afar. I enjoy this feeling of the monsoon

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Police station

Enjoying story?We squeezed into a buzzing corner of local police station at the dusk. This faintly lit tiny room with beige painted walls and disproportionately small windows accommodated one police officer and a young assistant. His appearance kept profession in disguise – at a glance he was simply middle-aged man wearing white cotton shirt. His short thick hair, accurate moustache line and sharp nose resembled Manoj Bajpayee in Gangs of Wasseypur, yet lively dark-brown eyes were showing kindness. A bunch

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