The color blue. And not just any shade. Only sky blue. I know, I know, the sky’s blue changes shades all the time. But the one shade I am referring to is the bright light blue, almost like powder blue? The kind of blue the sky used to be in April, after winter is long gone, and summer is yet to set in. No, I won’t say spring and all; India has three seasons only apparently. The blue which is visible from between the very bright white clouds, at around 10 in the morning. Visible from the terrace back home. You had to squint to look at it; the sun would be bright enough to make you. On holidays and Sundays of course; who do you find loitering on the terrace at 10 AM on a school day, tell me?

Beaches, yes. And when I say beaches, I don’t indirectly mean vacation. I just mean beaches. The vast expanse of the sea, which makes you look like a non-entity, humbles you almost, like they say? And waves, the very sound of them. Rhythmic in its own way. Sitting on the sand, guessing how high the next wave would be. Watching small fishing boats far inside the waters. Walking on the sand, letting the waves just about reach your feet. Or letting go altogether, allowing the waves to splash you all over, not minding the sand deposits in the clothes for once.

And Rain. Cloudy weather, cool breeze, the roar of thunder every once in a while. And the constant pitter-patter of rain drops. Watching the rain from the safe confines of your balcony, while sipping hot tea. Or just listening to the sound of rain, while wrapped in cosy blankets, a book in hand. Or getting drenched in it, looking up towards the sky, welcoming each drop of water that splashes on your face.

Paani puri! The exclamation mark is to mark its special importance, even if it figures late here. No limitations on the number consumed. Water, as spicy as it comes. Not a drop of sweet chutney. Preferred filling, surprisingly the Hyderabadi version of boiled chole, the hotter the better. Boiled potato from the back home version is also good; guess the relatively spicier water makes up for it.

Chocolate. So what’s new you may ask. Nothing really. I am as chocoholic as they come. They who? Women in general I hear. Chocolate in all forms. Bars of Toblerone, the amazing Chocolate Bomb from Little Italy, the equally amazing Sizzler Brownie from Bombay Blues, chocolate ice cream, cakes, pastries, brownies. All of it. Any of it.

Cappuccino from Barista. Not much foam, strong, and really hot. One packet of caramelized sugar. Everyday, at around 3 in the afternoon. Between 3 and 4 actually. And in case it is one of the I-am-not-that-fat days, a muffin. Blueberry, for sure.

Oh, and Books. Lot’s of them, colorful, pretty, bright books. Not necessarily only when I am reading them. They can be just there. That’s good enough. Like, book shops? Neatly stacked, rows and rows of band new, shiny books. Reading excerpts, checking out comments, picking and choosing what you finally want. And then piling it on the ever growing stack at home. And thinking which one to go for next. Of course I intend to finish them all. Someday.

Shopping too. Ok, before you roll your eyes and say ‘Women!’, I am not talking clothes, bags, shoes alone. Obviously, those too. But planned shopping in general is what this is about. Even if it is groceries. Yeah, go ahead, laugh. Making a list, driving down, ticking things off the list. And picking things not in the list; can be anything, an extra pair of shoes, or a box of exotic cheese. Like that.

And of course, music. The tracks you heard for the first time and liked immediately? Or the ones which took a long time to grow upon you, but once they did, they hung on for longer than many others. Or the very rare ones which you hated initially, but grew to love for other reasons. And those, which remind of you of a certain day, or event, or place or person, and bring a smile on the face. And sometimes, tears too.

And lo! I am feeling better already! That song makes so much sense, I tell you J

So, do I have a take on the Mumbai terror attacks?

I think I am not allowed to.

You know why? Because when my mother in law knocked at our door and said, there was an attack in Mumbai; my immediate reaction was, ‘Again?’ Yes, that was it.

And then I went and watched 5 minutes of television. The same shots of gunshots being heard, people running around, firing from the vehicle. Then I picked my cell phone, called and messaged those who I knew and who could have been around. Once I knew all was fine with them, I went back to the room, and closed the door behind me.

So, I think I don’t deserve to have a take on the matter. Some years ago, I guess I would give myself the right to speak about it. Because, I feel that if I had faced the same situation a few years ago, I would have been scared. Watched the encounter re-runs the whole night even. Even if it was the same shots over and over again. With ‘Breaking News’ covering half the screen. With the reporters quoting the same things over and over again, while giving extremely irrelevant opinions on what the police, and the intelligence, and firemen, should be doing. I would have watched, and been shocked and surprised, and hated the wrong doers with vengeance.

I do hate them even now, really. But more than for this particular act of terror, it’s for making me immune to terror, and violence, to news of innocent lives being taken. For making me accept things as they are, and going to the extent of just nodding and saying ‘So what’s new in this?’ I hate that I am not shocked enough. That though I feel sorry for those who have been hurt, I am unable to empathize. If there are tears, they are no longer tears of sorrow. They are more to do with anger. Anger at being so helpless. And at times, tears of relief. Relief that people I love and those who matter are safe. I know that is selfish, but that’s how I feel. And that’s what I hate those terrorists for; for making this feeling of relief for myself, my family and friends, stronger than the feeling of sympathy for the others at this moment.

And the fear. No place is safe anymore. The mother calls and asks us to cancel the weekend plans, what with all this going on, it is not safe. The Mother in law asks us not to visit crowded places anymore, malls, multiplexes, you never know what might happen. Extreme suspicion, if someone leaves his bag under the seat in the train, while he gets off to say good bye to his family. Twice in the last month, people at work were made to stay back within premises for 3 hours, till the police dogs were brought in and made to sniff that bag on the bike parked outside of office. It was an employee’s gym bag once, and clothes he had brought along for donation the other time. I hate them for the feeling of suspicion which has now become an inherent part of the mind.

But I still remain optimistic. No, I am not positive that things will change for the better, or all this will stop. I can only be hopeful for that. But I am optimistic in a very crude kind of way. That these people, who are responsible for the terror they caused, the sorrow they brought upon people who were minding their own lives, will suffer too. In a much more painful way. And no, it doesn’t bother me that they are sons, brothers, or anything else, or that there are people for whom they are everything. For me they are animals, in fact worse, because atleast animals kill when they are provoked, or hungry. The acts of this category of living creatures cannot be justified. And all I wish for is pain for them, even if it means hurting those who matter to them.

Good things happen to good people, that’s my most positive belief ever. And for once, I am just hoping that the vice versa stands true too.