Routine


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The Instagram Project: Lens and Piston

Lens And Piston( @lensandpiston ) One of the early memories Fayaz recalls from his childhood is of him crawling under a Maruti Gypsy. He viewed the underbody of the Gypsy with as much fascination as someone seeing the stars in Milky Way for the first time. “It runs in the family,” Fayaz said “the love for automobiles.” With time the toddler’s fascination grew. He identified cars by its bumpers before he could count numbers. Fast forward a few years, the teenage Fayaz pined after bikes his father couldn’t afford. Undeterred, he saved up for his first bike, doing odd jobs. He bought his first bike, a Yamaha YBX 125 in his second year of Engineering. The depth of love and pride he felt for his hard-earned bike knew no bounds. If he could cuddle it in his sleep, he would have. But in his final year of college, the trend of owning a Royal Enfield Classic gripped Fayaz, just like everyone else. Everywhere he turned the exhaustive sound of the Bullet bikes followed him like a gh...
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Going home

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There was a groove towards the right side of the pathway, that led to my home, and I remembered that my aunt's driver would manoeuvre their over-sized white Ambassador car through it. All the backseat passengers tumbled a little to the right side as the car slumped past the groove and rounded the long cow-shed. My aunt later sold the ambassador car. She told me it was as old as I was. Today it was just me and my mother and we came in an Autorickshaw. The rickshaw driver wouldn't know how to steer through the groove, so we stopped in front of the gate and walked the rest of the way, keeping to the left. Little white spiked flowers of the Elengi tree, that stood guard at the end of the pathway, had fallen down in millions all around its base. The sharp smell of it always reminded me of coming home. Some of the clay tiled lining on the roof were broken and the vast majority of it was covered in moss. Kamalakshi opened the double doors to my mother's ancestral home, its hin...
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Time-lapse

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First aid box in my home is a small-mouthed tin with a wide assortment of things inside it, from cotton balls, band-aids, Dettol, to abandoned hairclips widened beyond use, bobby pins unearthed from other dimensions..a myriad of things had found a home in our first aid box. One day as I was rummaging inside it for a band-aid, something red and translucent caught my eye and I fished out my old wristwatch from amidst the clutter.  Memories of my childhood clouded my senses and I was transported back in time. Back in the days, owning a wristwatch was like being inducted into “I am intelligent and mature enough to tell my time” hall of fame. My cousin had bought back this red translucent strapped watch as a gift from the United States where she had visited Disneyland. The dial of the watch had Minnie mouse with her hand clasped as if in a sigh, smitten with Mickey, who if you would have it, was the second's hand. Mickey was this small heart-shaped second-hand orbiting the love ...
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