Manifesting Secrets

by Ambareesh Sr Ja


I needed hundred bucks, I got it from Appa’s almirah. Hundred bucks was a lot of money. A lot. That was the single biggest amount of money. The Gandhi on the note was blue- like someone had poured out all the blue ink in the world on a ten rupee note (after adding an extra zero of course) and rubbed their fingertips on it to spread the color. I learnt that in school. Gave a cool look to all my pencil drawings. Jeez! Hundred is a huge number. Learning to count till hundred is such a big deal. I was writing a letter to Appa and Amma – from “The Teachers of the School. To Father and Mother’. There was a format to a letter; they teach you all this in school. Formal letter format- for official purposes. Official was fancy word for serious. Or grown up. Or moustache. Or sari-wearing. “Giving hundred rupees to me for being a good student in school” would come under official purposes. They wrote letters for ridiculous reasons anyway- last week we wrote a letter to the Principal – all of us – thanking him for the summer holidays! Pshaw! As if he had a choice. So yeah, official letter it will be. Got out my composition book and copied the format with precision. Complete with subject, date and my sign. You ought to sign near the bottom right corner under your name- I always kept forgetting that. Last term, paper that was the only mistake I made. I wrote it in my neat exam handwriting, tore the paper from the notebook with a 30cm Camlin scale, and folded it right across the middle. Got an envelope from an unlocked drawer (Appa was a very trusting person) wrote the addresses (“From- The Teachers of the School”), kept the letter inside and dropped it inside the letter box before I went to sleep.

Next morning Appa took the letter from the box and smiled, and showed it to Amma.

She thrashed me.

Appa keeps telling her everything even when he isn’t supposed to. Amma was a bad bully. No idea why they got married. If she had kept her almirah unlocked like Appa did, I would have taken all her Gandhi notes and given it to the neighbor’s goat or something. Lucky for her that they have no goats. But how on earth did Appa know? Should have copied the informal letter format- knew I’d forget these things.

Damn English composition.

Akansha. My Akshi. She was tall, gorgeous and curly haired. I love butter chicken. She gobbles up panner tikka masala. I read Dawkins, Forsyth and Roy. She buys glossy magazines with girls on the cover- name immaterial. I was lucky if I knew which class I was supposed to go to, and she never missed topping a subject. I am not much of a talker and she happily takes my share too in a conversation. We fight, I disagree- she stops talking and wins any argument. She dances, and… well I can tap my foot in rhythm – almost always. I met her on the first day of college, and everyday hence. I adore her.

I call my parents every day. At least one of them. Even if I just talk for a minute, I summarize a day’s events. On the last day of college, a week after I got my first job, I call up my Dad having made up my mind to tell him that [Continue reading at ]

Ambareesh Sr Ja [08/07/2015]

[Article written for MADCUE | Reinvent. Title – Damn English Composition –

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