Farmer's Market

It was a busy Saturday morning at the Farmer’s market. People meandered through stalls of fresh produce, fast food and artistic handcrafted goods. Tobias stared morosely over the top of a fat, green cabbage at the bustling activity. His nose twitched as the scent of sizzling hamburgers and banana bread wafted past him.

He had been assigned temporary management status over his father’s vegetable stall for the next two hours while his father dealt with a minor family emergency. Their dog, Dog, had tried to test the edibility of a can of boot polish and deciding that it was better out than in, had proceeded to throw up all over the house. And on his great-aunt Mirabel - who’d fainted. Until she was resurrected, Tobias’s taciturn neighbour who sold melancholy woodcuts was asked to kindly watch over him.

Tobias wasn’t particularly happy about this arrangement. He’d rather be partaking of the colourful activity on the other side of the artichokes than exchanging silent nods with a man who hadn’t spoken three words since the continental drift happened. Instead, here he was, organizing a mêlée between the fearless red peppers and the circumspect, yet no less formidable beets. It appeared the brussel sprouts had sided with the peppers and were insidiously infiltrating the beet camp. The beets didn’t really have much of a plan. They just rolled over all opponents. Toby liked beets. He felt this was good enough reason to grant them victory. The peas cheered from the stands.

Giving a carrot one last poke, he sighed. As far as sighs go, this was the sort that indicates that though the sighee has come to grudging terms with the present situation, he is feeling decidedly put upon, and would seriously, honestly, die to be anywhere else, doing homework in his room even, than be here with vegetables for company, Mr. Woodcut included.

“Well, hello there, sweetie, aren’t you a big boy looking after your daddy’s business?” enquired a middle-aged voice, dripping sweetness.

Toby stared. Was she serious? He was ten years old, not some gibbering toddler. 

The woman’s mega-wattage smile faltered in the face of Toby’s unimpressed stance, “Uhm, so where is your daddy? I’m having the girlfriends over for supper tomorrow, and Muffy just loves her veggies. Oh, let me tell you, that woman could use a bit more meat in her diet but it’s that husband of hers, always going on about some new diet fad-”

“Peas are 3$ for the pound,” Toby cut in.

Startled at the interruption, she paused.

“For your vegetarian friend, Fluffy. She’ll like them. Very fresh. So are the carrots. You can make her a nice tofu steak to go with it,” Toby said quickly, filling a bag with farm freshness, “Honest, she’ll be surprised it’s not meat, that’s how good they are. You can buy them at Penny’s Organic store. That’ll be 5$ and 53 cents, please.”

Dazed, Muffy’s considerate host accepted the bag shoved into her face and handed Toby the money.

Before she could recover, he desperately grinned at her, “Thank you for your business, please come back next week, oh, I think that lady at Penny’s store might be waving at you…’kay bye!”

Toby felt a tiny pang of guilt as she uncertainly waddled away. Sitting back, he sighed and caught Mr. Woodcut’s gaze.

He had an impressed glint in his eye, and nodded his approval. Toby wondered what Mr. Woodcut would have done. Just stare people into silence, probably. For all that people wanted to be listened to, with or without the listener’s consent, there was something very unsettling about the yawning receptiveness of the truly unflappable.

Proud of his first sale, Toby surveyed passing customers shrewdly, but not too closely, in case they felt the need to coo over the young proprietor of the fruit and veg stand.

“Toby! Hey! Whatcha doing?”

It was his friend, Wren, trailing behind his mother.

“Hey, Wren. Just watching my dad’s store for a bit,” he said as indifferently as he could, trying to imply that this was minor compared to other important things on his agenda.

“Cool! My dad would never let me do something like that. He says I’m as unmanageable as a sack full of angry cats.”

“Wren!” his mother flushed, “Wren is just joking, as was his father. Isn’t that right, Wren?”

At his mother’s pointed expression, Wren replied slowly, “But you also said-”

Coughing loudly, Wren’s mother took his hand in hers and turned an embarrassed smile at Toby, “Well, these sure do look fresh. How much for the asparagus?”

As Toby completed the transaction, he caught up on the events since the previous afternoon, because everybody knows that an evening is a lifetime of interesting happenings in the life of a ten year old. Virtual villains were slain with gut-spilling gusto, empires were created, and strategies spawned; but only for an hour because too many videogames are bad for the eyes, and you better clean your room right now, young man, or you’re not getting any chocolate fudge ice cream after dinner.

And thus did the time pass, with Toby filling up his father’s cash box using his winning smile and excellent customer service, which largely involved saying, “Yeah, 4.50$ please, thank you, laters.”

Toby saw his father rushing through the crowd, looking frustrated and not a little anxious, “Hey son, how’s it going?”

“Good,” Toby continued proudly, “We made 64$ and 29 cents. Wren’s mom said to keep the change and your friend Alan said to remind you about fishing tomorrow. He said you should pick up bait. Is that worms? Can I see them when you get them?”

Grinning affectionately, his dad ruffled Toby’s hair, “Good job, son. Maybe next time, you can come with me when I go pick these up from the farm. Thanks for watching him,” he said to Mr. Woodcut, who simply nodded amiably.

“Can I go see the stores, now?”

“Sure, ask Mel to go with you. Here’s twenty dollars. Get whatever you want,” he grinned as Toby whooped and gave him a quick hug before dashing off to fulfill his dreams for the day.

All in all, he reflected later, as he chomped on an artery-clogging cheeseburger with one hand and hacked at invisible opponents with his newly purchased wooden samurai sword with the other, market day ruled.

You always ruin everything

The Scent of Bliss

You cradle a warm cup of coffee in your hands and watch the steam gently rise up to meet your olfactory receptors. You inhale deeply with your eyes closed. Before you realise it, you’re becoming nostalgic about the old days when colours seemed brighter. You even begin reminiscing about misty mornings in places you’ve never been, worlds that never existed. You hitch a ride on the steamy, undulating waves of caffeine and drift through streams of memory and imagination with a blissfully contented smile. All this before you’ve even taken your first sip.

This experience can be compared to the phase preceding a romantic date, when you concoct delicious fantasies – a preview of things as good as they can possibly get. Anything and everything seems possible at the first whiff of potential. Then, quivering in anticipation and chuffed with optimism, you delicately sip from the cup with the intention of savouring every molecule of flavour. You close your eyes happily – it is as good as you expected to be. A niggling voice suggests that you expected it to be better given the advanced publicity, but you quickly silence that traitor. No, this is excellent, you tell yourself. Then you take another enthusiastic sip. Still pretty good. Gradually, the rest of your numbed senses began to take note of your surroundings. The outside world trickles in, warm and unpleasant. Before you can say ‘failed expectations’, you’re staring morosely at the bottom of an empty cup with a lingering sense of loss and confusion that follows when you go seemingly instantly from a full cup to an empty cup with no knowledge whatsoever of what happened to the stuff in the middle. Perhaps it was swallowed by your alternate persona in a parallel dimension when you weren’t looking? Dimensional uncertainty seems a more comforting explanation than one steeped in actuality. It was a special house brew too- consisting of beans roasted in the dull flames of disappointment and ground firmly in the doldrums of reality.

Alas, the taste of coffee can never live up to the smell of it. Hoping to recreate that experience, we find ourselves addicted to 6 coffees a day, convinced that we cannot live without that seductive taste. Swirling in every cup comes the promise of something more, of that unique brew that will revitalize every aspect of your life and give you the confidence you need to achieve your dreams. The cup that changes everything. The One.

It’s not like it used to be, you confess sadly. Every taste used to be like a feast of the senses. But it only ever seems bitter now. Maybe it’s not the coffee. Maybe your taste buds have shrivelled up in defeat. Or perhaps you’re ready for a distraction. Yes, that’s it. You’re just too used to the monotonous experience. It’s not like you’re dependent. Oh no. Of course not.

Maybe you should try the caramel mochaccino for a change?

Lullaby

On a scale of 1 to 10...would you take me home with you?

Voices

Fall

G vs. Advanced Genetics

How to study for exams

The Ride Back Home

You wait amidst the bustling crowd, your face turned towards the right in a synchronous display of neck arching that is the custom about 30 seconds before the train arrives. A huge billowing column of air smacks you in the face and you position your feet in an alert, ready-to-board stance.
Train stops, you clamber on with your newly styled crazy-cat lady hair and race a high-school kid/punk to a vacant seat with your name on it. Sure, the lady next to you is oozing on to half of your seat, but as someone who identifies with the burden of excess blubber to a lesser degree, you hold no grudges, and with a gamely attitude try to keep as much of your behind on the seat as you can without toppling over.
You give a small smile as you think about what awaits you at the end of the ride. Old comedy episodes on youtube, reheated food from the day before, and at the end of it all…that comfy bed with the stuffed multicoloured chameleon that doubles as a pillow or even a foot-rest. Sigh, life is good.
As you gaze out the window, you notice a large truck with six pairs of wheels drive by, with another pair hovering in the midsection. Spare tires, you realize. It occurs to you that even you, like the truck, carry your spare tires around your midsection and chuckle inwardly. Then you make a solemn promise never to say this joke out loud in public.
You make the cursory glance to the doors as more people climb in at the next station and freeze. There he is, you think. Your daily dose of tall, handsome man. He’s not even dressed like a tramp. What a bonus. Trying to keep your expression neutral you try not to bounce in your seat when he sits across from you.
You drift into daydreams while trying to pretend that you’re not checking him out. You’re hardly a hormone-driven adolescent with uncontrollable urges. For a moment, you clench your bag tighter and think, maybe not literally. He meets your gaze. You’re struck motionless. You flush guiltily. He’s smiling slightly.
You wish you’d reset your hair. Maybe worn a less conservative shirt. And then, that hideous, ugly wench that calls herself your sense of low self-esteem crawls on to your shoulder and whispers to you, “He’s probably looking at the girl behind you. Oh, and did I mention, you suck!”
You deflate just a wee bit, but before that bitter hag fills your ears with more poison, a tiny flea-sized entity also known as your spirit rears up like the champion it is and smites the venomous wench with the sword of rationality. In a frail voice, your spirit quavers, “Don’t listen to her! Maybe you do look a bit weird right now, but I think you’re cool! On a side note, I think he is looking at you.”
You notice a quizzical light in his eyes. Then you realize that while your will waged an internal battle you likely had a glazed look in your eyes reminiscent of that seen in the eyes of slain pomfret in the seafood section at the supermarket. You clear your throat, and smile tentatively. His smile broadens.
Little cherubs explode with joy in your heart and you can barely hear anything what with the loud trumpeting and cat calls. As the train slows down, he gets up and waits at the doors, winking at you before he gets off.
You gape, mouth slightly ajar in an ultra-cool response. The lady next to you leans over and says, “That boy, he is fine.”
You nod meekly as you watch the pretty boy shuffle along, and out of your life. Oh well, at least you got a wink out of it. Maybe there’s ice cream at the end of the ride home too.

Kalpana

The little black bird perched itself high on a branch and started nuzzling its feathers with its bright red beak. Kalpana stumbled up to the base of the tree and grinned at the little bulbul. Unable to decide which path to take in the woods, she had decided to just follow the bird instead of making a choice. As the bulbul crooned its song softly, she felt her impulse had once again rewarded her.
She turned, her bare feet absorbing the dew-coated forest floor. She wiggled her toes and squatted to watch a little spider scuttle across her big toe. Careful not to step on anything that moved, she took in her surroundings. Tall forest trees, the names of which she’d probably learn, and just as soon forget, stood around her like sentinels. Some had smooth, long trunks; some, gnarly and multi-branched. Their dark green leaves were laden with moisture and barely stirred. Some of the taller trees seemed to shoot straight through the thin mist that blanketed the forest. It was like a cloud had temporarily sought rest overhead.
She squelched her way to a gigantic banyan tree. It must have been at least 5 metres in diameter; its branches trailed down like whiskers on an old man. Alongside the branches dangled colourful scarves and ribbons. So many wishes for the sacred tree, she thought. Bright red, blue, pink, even a yellow polka-dotted dupatta that looked like it had a great deal more sequins than it had now. Some of the birds likely plucked them off it to beautify their homes.
The banyan tree had a history. It simply had to. It may have been dwarfed in height by the surrounding trees on the little island of mist, yet it stood out, twisted, colourful and ancient. Not as old as the forest, but a continuation of the wisdom, the cycle of life. Surely, in many of the stories, the events that unfolded here, this tree would have had a part to play. Longings: for a lover, a parent, a mansion or maybe even a confection, had left their mark here. How many had been fulfilled, Kalpana wondered.
As she walked around the banyan tree, so did her imagination drift. There was magic here. Secret pacts of childhood, whispered promises of love, and solitary moments of thought…they all hung in the air, taking on a life of their own. She could imagine giggling children weaving in and out of these trees. Tales of dark peril and heroism. Soldiers of another time, of an ancient kingdom, fleeing for their lives from a greater threat, or perhaps advancing to defeat it. As Kalpana scraped her fingers over the tree trunk, she wondered what her mood demanded today. Was it a story of valour and triumph, or one of fun and laughter?
She turned abruptly when she saw a tiny dark shape scurry away. She smiled widely. Mystical and awe-inspiring. Perfect. She envisioned a young boy. He would have to been an outcast from society. Why else would he seek refuge in this vast and dangerous forest? There would be beasts. Great, mythical, fantastical beasts who walked the earth, like maybe giant white wolves with piercing blue eyes. Perhaps the boy would have the power to make them yield to him. Hmm, a world with humans, and not-entirely-human people. People with the traits and powers of animals. There would be wars of course, but far away. Where she was in the moment, there would be harmony, and the strife borne of an unfortunate beginning, but tinged with hope of joy to come. Anything she could imagine, was. All she had to do was change her mind, and the world would be as she wanted; the magic bleeding out into her reality from that of her imagination.
She sighed and decided it was getting late. Her mother would probably have a lecture prepared for her for vanishing in a new place. She began humming a tune and skipped in time with it, back to her grandmother’s house. She noted that her mother was standing on the back porch, looking out towards the woods. She quickened her pace, and waved.
Her face lined with concern, her mother lightly swatted Kalpana when she raced up to her, “I told you not to be away so long! You shouldn’t go into the woods alone. You’re new to this place. God knows what kind of people roam there.”
Kalpana gamely accepted the rest of her mother’s admonishing, figuring it was due anyway. Her sparkling eyes shone with amusement, and belied her contrite expression. Sandhya knew her daughter perhaps better than she knew herself, and merely sighed, “You’ll never learn. Come, your grandmother needs help in the kitchen.”
Her grandmother was a sturdy woman of seventy. She never revealed how many years over seventy, so they’d been wishing her a happy seventieth birthday for a few years now. She was sitting on the floor, one leg stretched out, as she ground some pungent-smelling ingredients into a paste. The heels of her feet were cracked as a desert parched for water, and almost hard as stone. Her head, thick with white hair tied in a bun, lifted as they came in. She cackled, showing her betelnut-stained teeth, “There you are. You’ll worry your mother to death some day. Lost in the woods again, were you?”
“Lost in the woods, lost in my thoughts, same thing,” Kalpana hugged her grandmother around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
“You’re too old for daydreams. Now you’ve finished college, you’ll find a job soon. And before you know it, marriage!”
Kalpana made an exaggerated gesture of pain, making her grandmother laugh. They busied themselves in making dinner whilst chattering about the latest in village gossip.
Later that night, Kalpana tossed and turned in bed. Normally she rather enjoyed the prelude to falling asleep. Here, in the dark, her imagination was most uninhibited. In her mind’s eye, she would see civilizations fall and rebuilt, underdogs seizing victory after a lifetime of antagonism, sailors adrift on an ocean blanketed under stars…and sometimes, she would see herself. She would be impressing her colleagues with her skills, confronting someone who had wronged her while still being dignified, meeting the love of her life at an unexpected moment.
She’d been trying to sleep for 3 hours now, without succeeding. Her waking dreams were giving way to frustration and the hopelessness of facing that none of them were actually true. Quietly, she crept out of bed, trying not to wake her mother. She made some coffee, heavy on the sugar, and poured it into a small, steel glass. Inhaling deeply of the scent of caffeine, she settled down cross-legged on the verandah and watched the moon. The dark silhouette of trees rustling in the breeze cloaked the night.
Sipping her coffee, Kalpana watched the night come alive. The crickets were chirping somewhere nearby. She could hear the distant cry of the nightjar. She tried not to think of the responsibilities that lay ahead. She turned when she heard the tinkling of her mother’s ankle bracelets.
Her mother smiled, “You’re turning into more of an insomniac than me.”
Kalpana sighed and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, “You don’t understand the stresses that we, the new generation have to endure each day.”
Her mother laughed and poked her in the ribs. They sat in contented silence for a while.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Sandhya murmured.
Kalpana hummed in assent and settled her head in her mother’s lap.
“Were you dreaming again?” her mother stroked Kalpana’s hair.
“Maybe,” Kalpana smiled, her eyes closed, “Do you think I dream too much?”
“Of course!”
Kalpana’s eyelids flickered open, “Well, yes, I do. But do you think it’s like grandma says? Am I too old to be doing this? Maybe I should grow up.”
“Who said you aren’t grown up? You have the sensibilities of someone older than you.”
“Yes, but. None of it’s real. And, perhaps it’s childish. I have all these things I need to do. Get a job, get married, have kids, grow old. None of these things seem to encourage being fanciful.”
“Now that does sound dull when you put it like that. Kalpana, why do you make these fantasies up?”
“I suppose…because I enjoy them. I don’t know. I don’t really have to try very hard. Sometimes they just come when I see something, or hear some kind of music. I just run with them. I mean, I’m not ignoring my duties. I do everything that’s required of me. Mostly,” she grinned.
“Yes. The point is, it doesn’t consume you. It comforts you. You see magic in the most ordinary things. That can be a very precious gift. You laugh more, you live more.”
When Kalpana remained silent, her mother went on, “I know you think your name is too common, but do you know why you were named Kalpana?”
“Why?”
“Your father named you. You’re so much like him,” Sandhya paused and stared at the moon wistfully, “The first night after our wedding, I was so nervous. I had been told some awkward stories from my married friends and my mother. Your father had always been courteous and kind to me until that point, but…”
“You were afraid that in his amorousness he would forget being gentle,” Kalpana pouted her lips in kissing motions.
Her mother laughed and slapped her lightly on the cheek, “Essentially, yes. So there I was, lying shyly on my side of the bed, waiting. Then all of a sudden he sits up, bolt upright in bed, and insists that we go for a walk. I thought he had gone mad. We were staying here. There was nothing for miles around, then. I was a city girl, so I thought there would be wolves and bears in every corner of the woods.”
Her eyes alight with interest, Kalpana asked, “What happened then?”
“I agreed. I wanted to delay the inevitable. It was frightening at first, but he just held my hand and pointed out the different trees, and named the creatures making the sounds. Then he began telling me stories. I was so enthralled I hadn’t even realized it was almost sunrise,” Sandhya sighed, “He was the most charming man. And a good one. He often told me stories, you know. And you, as well. Even when you were a baby. You used to like the sound of his voice. You’d cry if he didn’t tell you a story before you went to bed. I wish he had lived until you were a little older. ”
“I wish I could remember him more,” Kalpana said softly.
Her mother leaned down and kissed her forehead, “Coming back to why he named you. Kalpana means ‘imagination’. He said then, that he didn’t know what legacy he would leave behind with his daughter, but at least if she had the gift of seeing the magic in things, he would feel like he had passed on something vital.”
“I never knew that,” Kalpana whispered, her eyes damp.
“You’re his legacy, my love. Don’t ever let anyone convince you that you’re too old to dream. You know better than that. Your father certainly did.”
Kalpana swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and squeezed her mother’s hand. She buried part of her face in her mother’s sari, which smelled of her, like talcum and jasmine. As she watched the moon, her eyes fluttered close, and she slowly drifted into memories, of what was, and what only existed in dreams.