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Btw, if you have not had tragedy dropped on you before, grief does fuck you up in unexpected and physical ways. If you can’t sleep or sleep more than expected or have more or reduced appetite, or energy goes weird— your brain just had a bunch of emotions dropped on it and sometimes it reacts by hitting every button in your brain. It will pass. Just try to not get too frustrated with yourself.

It’s also fine if you feel normal. Grief literally hits everybody differently, and some people are made to be able to to keep the farm going the day after a death, and some of us turn into sleepless gargoyles and get really into trying to help, and some of us are just unspeakably sad. Grief is weird. Be kind to yourself.

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Needed to see this today. Draft 0.5 woes.

Some advice from a friend that I needed on this rainy Friday.

Your first draft is to make your book exist.

Your second draft is to make your book functional.

Your third draft is to make your book good.

I've been striving for functional to good with my first drafts lately because I think with practice you can get there, but it never hurts to remind yourself that the most important part of the first draft is to get the story out of your head and onto the page so you have something to work with.

Happy writing!

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Sigh.

what is a writer, if not a miserable little pile of ideas and half written google docs

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The Children - II

27 observed the twin line of kids ambling slowly into the building with a detachment that belied her interest. She had to be detached. Some, if not most of them, would not survive the first year within these walls. Those who did would either need to learn to live within the four walls of the space they were given for the rest of their pitiful lives and die slowly, or die trying to get out. She knew people who had done both. The former a sad, lonely affair; the latter an event of almost-triumph for those who watched on the sidelines, cheering the escapees on even as they knew nothing would come of their attempt.

27 observed the children with a more critical eye. They were younger than the kids normally bought in, their chubbiness broadcasting to the world the love, warmth, general wellbeing they’d known so far. They looked cared for.

She snorted with derision. She’d been worse off than these pampered brats when she’d been brought in.

27 was standing by one of the pillars ringing the wide porch, a porch that led to tall, solid oakwood doors that needed both all of her physical strength and all the mental concentration of her powers to open. Her powers had not matured yet, despite her 16 years of age; an age where most of them had grown into this thing that had sprouted in them, the thing that had grown vines and creeped around their hearts, brains, blood vessels, their very skin cells. And despite her not-yet-mature powers, she was powerful. More powerful than some of the adults in the facility.  

She watched as the kids filed in, locking gazes with Devi, whose form turned imperceptibly rigid as he walked past her. His shoulders hunched just a bit; his stare turned flinty; his fingers flinched just so, as if he was about to make a fist but doing so would give it away and so he had to straighten them again.

27 took no pleasure in watching Devi squirm, yet she stared at him anyway. The last of the children went in and Devi and his companion, short and burly with broad shoulders and a face that looked like it had been punched one too many times, made to go in too. They stopped at the door, however.

27 clutched at the pillar, wondering what they were doing. Idling was not welcome in the Facility.

The two men had a short but furious argument, in low voices. 27 could see a vein throbbing in Short and Burly’s temple, while Devi looked like he was going to keel over. The argument finally abated and Devi motioned Short and Burly to go in. He then turned around and headed straight for her.

27’s heart rate ratcheted up. Not good. A raised heart rate meant less control over her powers. She didn’t want to accidentally kill Devi by crushing his heart. She scrambled to calm her thoughts, wanting to scramble backwards physically too, as far away as the space allowed. But she remained rooted to her spot next to the pillar, seemingly unnoticed by the others.

It’s a funny thing, her taxed brain went off at a tangent, thinking. The people who run the Facility called the likes of 27 the ‘Others’, while she and those like her locked up inside referred to them as the others. It was funny. Absurdly, morbidly, deathly funny.

Devi halted in front of her, looking down her nose in distaste. He no longer seemed anxious or uncertain. He reached inside his jacket pocket, drew out a cream envelope, and handed it to 27, who was now past fear. She was furious.

How dare he. The fool has no idea what’s at stake.

Devi, for his part, didn’t flinch at the black look on 27’s face. He simply thrust the envelope at her. “You’re wanted. And this time, don’t be late.”

She was now amused. He even managed to growl at me. Colour me impressed. Didn’t think the clod had it in him. 

Why was he giving her a message though? A message from which side? 

This had to be from the Watchers, 27 thought idly, looking into Devi’s eyes. He wouldn’t be seen giving it to me otherwise. Even he’s not that much of an idiot.

Or was he? Was the reason he was giving her the message in public, in front of all and sundry because he wanted them to think it was from the Watchers? 

27′s thoughts tangled with each other as Devi shook the envelope in her face. She hadn’t even taken it from him yet, frozen in place by her galloping thoughts. 

“Tonight, 8 pm. The usual place.”

And with a brusque nod, Devi turned on heels and marched past. No one noticed his fingers trembling.

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The Children

The kids marched in a short line, two to a row, shoulder to shoulder, scrunched against each other as if each was the other’s shield. They couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old. Their hair was cropped short, just below their ears and no one could tell the boys apart from girls. They all wore the same drab grey trousers, their shirts cut into ugly boxy, ill-fitting shapes that drowned them.

The whispers from the crowd followed them as they marched along, slowly, hunchbacked, as if to merge themselves into the scared, agitated mass they were becoming; each whisper, each pointed finger, each frown directed at them making them more aware of their surroundings, more anxious. Some held their head low, others’ eyes darted from person to person in the crowd, one or two clenched their little hands into ineffectual fists.

The whispers only got louder the farther the children walked. Their destination was a bright blue building some distance away, towering behind massive iron gates painted black; a black that could put the darkness of the most distant of caverns and deepest of wells to shame. The gates themselves were flanked by tall walls arcing gracefully on either side of them, topped with barbed wires that may or may not have been electrified. Critics would say the gates were painted as black as the souls of those running the programme. Others took it as a suitable metaphor for the evilness that permeated the souls of the children housed in the building.

“This was a bad idea,” said one of the two adults shepherding the children. He was dressed in navy blue trousers and a matching shirt, every crease sharply ironed to perfection. A whistle hung on a thick rope, attached to another that stretched from his left shoulder to his right hip. And at the hip, a baton, also navy blue.

“What are we supposed to do? Build a tunnel from the curb to the gate? This was unavoidable, and you know it. Do your job, Devi,” said the second man, similarly dressed.

Devi scanned the crowd, nervous. It was becoming a smidge raucous; he feared shoes would begin flying any moment. He wanted to hurry the children, but they were already stumbling wildly in fear. Antagonising them was not an option. They might snap and then... He didn’t even want to think about it.

Barely a handful of steps now.

Devi and the second man flanked the column of marching children on either side. They stopped at the gates, the left side of which swung open—not too wide, but not too narrow either that the kids had to squeeze through—timed just right for the children to walk in without pause. The two adults waited, feet planted firmly in the soil, hands behind their backs, backs to the gate as the children filed past, picking up speed now that they could put the crowd behind them.

A tomato came flying, hurling dangerously close to Devi’s shoulder. It missed, becoming a shapeless splatter on the gate instead, sliding down slowly and leaving a wet trail in its wake. It could have been from anyone, aimed at either the children or the guards—there was no way to know.

Devi flinched inwardly, but didn’t shift from his rooted posture. The last of the children disappeared behind the gate and he heaved a silent sigh of relief as both him and his companion turned around to step through the gate.

“They are scum! Those children need to be put down!” a voice screamed at them as the gate closed slowly, its size hindering its speed. The rotten fruit was aimed at the children then.

Devi turned to see who shouted, just in time to see another tomato fly toward him from the corner of his eye and moved his head just enough to dodge it. This too hit the gate and left a second trail of tomato juice and innards next to the first one.

Realising more vegetable missiles were incoming, Devi and his companion ducked into the compound hurriedly, the gate swinging shut behind them instantly, muting the crowd’s roar into a dull buzz.

The kids were marching ahead of him, slower now that they were safe inside the compound. They kept looking here and there, curiosity painted loudly on their faces, along with fear of what was about to happen, and relief that they would no longer be hunted.

If they only knew, Devi thought. To be continued...

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Bun

There are a lot of buns in the women's compartment of the metro.

Stay with me.

I mean hair buns. 

Those end-of-day, can't-be-bothered, haphazard bunches of hair atop scalps. Buns that once would have been perfectly brushed, straight hair in the morning commute; those that would have turned into, 'I can't think with my hair loose, I need to tie it up' buns by afternoon; and by the evening commute back home, wisps of hair escaping from the scrunchie holding the hair so tightly against your scalp that your hair looks like it has been painted over.

But the evening commute is also the time when the hair is left to brush one's shoulders unfettered by torture devices that invariably break a good bit of otherwise healthy hair, bringing a look of resignation and horror on the faces of those trying to restore blood circulation to their scalp.

But the hair is let loose, nevertheless. Chin length, shoulder length, mid-back, all held back by a variety of scrunchies, clips, and hair bands, all safely tucked away in handbags and back pockets to be brought out for use the next day during a particularly onerous part of the day.

Shampoo and hair oil commercials turn this ritual into something glamourous. Sexy. An act of seduction.

Reality, however, is quiet sighs of relaxation; tips of fingers massaging the scalp, luxuriating in the pleasure it brings.

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Change

Sometimes, I dread going home.

There are new books on the bookshelves, in addition to the books I deemed not important enough to take with me to my new home. Books that are not in a language I usually read in, books that I didn’t even know my mother liked even though her eyesight is failing and the most she reads these days is a page or two from the Tamizh magazines that land on her doorstep every week.

My notes and books from university—only a decade ago but feels like several—are neatly packed in a cardboard box languishing in a corner, gathering dust because I’ve not bothered to unpack the box since we moved to this house. The dust rises every time the window is opened, floats gently around the house, and settles. On the bed, on the rickety side table that also doubles as a makeshift kitchen counter for the induction stove when the gas runs out, on the line of shirts hanging behind the door, on the clothesline that extends from one corner of the bedroom to the other.

Years ago, I would have fought for that clothesline to exist outside the house, where my mother would have been embarrassed to hang her freshly washed blouses and petticoats and nighties. I wanted a clean, clutter-free, dust-free bedroom. I couldn’t fathom the embarrassment then; I do not have the mental capacity to bother about a clutter-free house now.

The kitchen has been rearranged, and I find that jarring even though I never cooked in my maternal home. I reach for the salt; my hand automatically goes to a specific shelf in a flash of physical memory that leaves my brain reeling when my fingers close around a jar of ground pepper instead. There is sambar podi and saaru podi in the corner where the lentils used to be. The rice has been relegated to the middle shelf because my mother cannot bend down to reach the bottom shelf anymore.

I try to make tea and I find myself facing brown sugar instead of white.

Everything is unfamiliar and my heart lurches because I’ve come home to help out, and yet, I find myself turning to my mother at every step of cooking.

My mother, who hovers.

Hovers while I’m roasting spices in ghee for that final touch for the sambar. Hovers while I’m sweeping the floor, something that has not been done for weeks now. Hovers while I’m rearranging the shelves that hold nondescript everyday items. I want to put the photo frames and the plaques on the top shelf so my parents will have easy access to the things they use every day, but she insists that the frames be put where she can reach them. The frames showcase a bare handful of moments from the last couple of years or so and they need to be dusted and cleaned everyday. Even though the cloth bags end up on another, higher shelf and my father will need a stool to reach them.

There are other changes too.

My mother has a visitor every day, who alights on the kitchen windowsill for his habitual dose of mosaranna and chips. He caws in protest if she delays his food or if someone else feeds him. Or if, god forbid, he happens to get bread instead of rice.

The crow doesn’t have a name, but on the days he doesn’t turn up, my mother’s anxiety levels ratchet. My father has eaten, she has eaten but there’s still a member of the family that remains unfed. I rarely ever get lunchtime phone calls from my mother making sure I have had lunch, what I ate, and whether I ate well, but if I ever do, I know there was no crow visit that day. Only leftover mosaranna.

------

My father does not take his bike out anymore. A rickety thing, that motorbike.

It’s nearly 20 years old and has accompanied my father to all of his sales and marketing appointments, school pick-ups and drops, household errands, and leisure trips. It has gone with him on sneaky alcohol-fuelled Mahabalipuram visits, on long drives to middle-of-nowheresville to visit relatives, and on short trips to pick up quick dinner—maybe a plate or two of idli-chutney or what passed for bisi bele bath in Chennai 15 years ago.

The motorbike was my father’s constant and he wouldn’t use it anymore.

Instead, the arrival of Uber has made him more social than before. He wouldn’t go all the way to the other end of the city to meet friends; yet, now, he goes out with enthusiasm, much to the displeasure of my mother who is neither asked if she wishes to come along nor has any say in the matter of his departure.

It wouldn’t be too far from the truth if I said Appa’s constant Ubering pissed Amma off. She’s at home all day, all the time, and the only company she has is busy gallivanting around the city in search of entertainment. Most times, this involved rather long ‘walks’ in the park; I put walks in quotes because that’s his time for gossip with the other neighbourhood uncles. Like the 80-year-old retired cardiac surgeon who had a heart attack while his chartered accountant son was abroad. Or the uncle whose diabetes count was in the 500s and was still miraculously alive and functioning.

Appa’s friends are a motley crew and he loves it.

This was jarring too. He was the man who would collapse in front of the tv the moment he came home from work and refuse to move a finger. He now has a wide social circle, washes dishes at home, sweeps the floor, and generally contributes to the upkeep of the house. Of course, this is in addition to the endless hours of cricket and mindless news he still watches. He simply transferred his office hours into socialising and doing household chores.

He Ubered around for household errands too, pointedly not taking his bike. It’s too heavy he complained at one point. Roads are too crowded. It’s hot. Too many idiots on bikes. But we knew, both Amma and I. His reluctance to take the bike had nothing to do with any of these but more a realisation that he was the provider for the household anymore. No more pressure to make ends meet, no need to kill himself driving around to sell newspaper real estate in return for a pittance. With retirement, he passed on the duties of the breadwinner to me, the only child at my just-turned-into-an-adult age of 20, and blissfully switched off. That was eight years ago. Now he makes dose hittu runs in an auto for thirty rupees and whistles while climbing up the stairs.

It was one of these Uber trips that I realised the parents were not the only cornerstones in my life that had changed.

My city had changed too.

---

Most teens have specific hangouts that they frequent. I belonged to the very small minority of those without hangouts and other teens to hang out with. I had friends, yes, but they were mostly like me—serious about academics, had protective parents who wouldn’t let them out anywhere without supervision. After school hangouts at juice parlours were an absolute no no. “You see them at school everyday” or “Come home and talk with friends” were constant refrains in all our lives.

And I didn’t have friends whose parents said and did none of the above.

Oh those girls existed and we knew who they were, but of course, my friends and I were very gently discouraged from making those associations. Not from parents, they didn’t know. But from the girls themselves.

As a result, all my hangout spots were near college when I’d gotten a degree of mobility that did not involve a parent. I also finally discovered the spots that the popular girls from school hung out at and I made sure to frequent them at the ripe old age of 18 when everyone else around me was 14+ and gave me weird side-eyes because I was not in school uniform. In tamizh, this would be called alpam, but I didn’t really care.

I nodded along with others when the topic of these spots came up.

One pani puri place had been renovated but puris did not taste the same anymore. *Nod*

The old juice parlour shut down and there’s some weird stationary shop in its place. *omg, I miss that place!*

The computer centre is no longer around, what a shame; I used to chat with my boyfriend everyday for an hour there. *mortified grin*

You get the gist.

The roads to my school are now nearly unrecognisable. New store fronts, apartments, restaurants have all sprung up rapidly, like the first gush of water when you open a tap too fast before you can dial it back. My actual memorable spots are missing; like the paan-beeda guy who used to give me a spoon of free tutti-frutti every time my dad stopped for a paan; the general shop opposite my school that stocked everything from sanitary pads and rice to highly specific barbie doll-themed geometry boxes and lemon cupcakes; the then-new vegetable mandi that father and I used to go do our weekly grocery shopping instead of my mother buying from her usual vegetable pushcart vendor. All gone.

My school with its massive rusted navy blue iron gates and seemingly impenetrable blue walls was now several shades of demure brown. I’d hated the blue back then—our school uniform was mustard brown and my anal soul was horrified that the paint did not match the uniform. Now that it does, I am not sure it is any better than the blue. The whole thing still looks quite ugly, especially when combined with the yellow and brown tiles they’ve used on the compound walls.

Every time I pass my school now, which is admittedly only for the duration that I am at home, my eyes want to roll back into my head and stay there. At least the blue had a comforting familiarity. The brown is simply monstrous.

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Maragadham I

Rekha couldn’t get a seat. It was six o’clock in the evening, the train’s compartments teeming with the rush hour office crowd in a hurry to get back home to their tear-stained soap operas and hysterical, prime time news. She put a foot inside the women’s compartment, automatically being propelled into mix of jasmine, cheap perfume and the musty smell of a thousand cabins by the mass of bodies behind her. She hitched up her handbag and pulled up the now-wrinkled saree at her breast, safely tucking its pallu into her waist, lest it be caught in the throng and tear.

The women’s compartment was so packed that Rekha counted herself lucky that she was able to get a little space for herself near the door on the other side of the train. She leaned back and took a deep breath. This was the third time this week Mohan had held her back to go over the budgets for next month’s travel plans for the marketing team. The half an hour delay meant that she would be swept up in the traffic - and be late for dinner. She exhaled slowly, counting the seconds under her breath until she had expelled it all. Her husband didn’t know how to cook and the kids would have continued playing with the neighbourhood kids, instead of being shepherded into the house to do their homework.

Being half an hour late also meant she wouldn’t be meeting Maragadham on the train today. The chirpy flower-seller, who lived in a one-room-kitchen house with a husband and three kids down the road, would have long gone home to stash the day’s earnings. And take a swig of her husband’s brandy if he wasn’t around.

After a lifetime of abuse, I wouldn’t begrudge her the alcohol. She could moderate it a bit better though.

Rekha caught hold of the handrests hanging from the steel rod above her just in time. The train jolted, picking up speed as it sped out of Egmore station into a sky that was just turning ombre with sunset. The stars were beginning to pop out one by one.

She craned her neck to see the twinkling street lights that were coming on one by one, thinking about whether the tomatoes in the fridge would be better used for today’s dinner or tomorrow’s breakfast when a rough, high-pitched voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Yemma, inna panninugura? Yenchi nillu ma.” [Ey you, what are you doing? Get up and stand!]

Rekha turned her head around to see a short squat woman, the kind of person whom you would not want to get into a fight with, glaring a scrawny young woman sitting on the floor who was balancing her toddler and an enormous flower basket on her lap. She had been stringing flowers together and cutting it into mozham*-length pieces.

That in itself was odd - it was the end of the day, when everyone was returning home. The flower sellers should be wrapping up their strings and counting their losses. Instead, this young thing was starting her work only now. Odder still was the long string of green stones that reflected faint yellow lights from outside the train. Her toddler had a chubby hand clamped around it. The necklace reminded her of Maragadham. Rekha shook her head, trying to dispel an odd feeling of premonition.

“Eyy. Can’t you hear me? Get up and stand I said,” screeched the dumpy woman. “The rest of us are standing and coming. You think you are a queen or what. Get up. The rest of you too,” she added, looking at the odd assortment of four other women, all toting flower baskets. The woman was angrily chewing betel leaves and the inside of her mouth was a garish red-pink.

“Akka*, if you want, I’ll get up,” piped up the woman sitting opposite the scrawny woman. “You sit here. Alli has to finish her stringing her flowers by tonight,” she said by way of excuse.

With that, she thrust her flower basket at Alli and got up nimbly to her feet. Alli gave this one a grateful smile and the angry woman sat down heavily in the vacated space, grumbling about being squished in the process.

Rekha stared at Alli without really seeing her.

Maragadham had wanted to talk last night. She had turned up at Rekha’s door, insistently ringing the bell.

“It’s probably Maragadham,” Rekha had told her husband, whose hands were busy running up and down her hips.

“It’s 10 o’clock, Rekha. That woman has nothing else to do other than rant and rave to you. Ignore it,” her husband Muthu had said. His hand had moved to unzip her frilly nighty, but she had lain still. “She’ll go away.” She’ll wake the kids up, Rekha had thought.

The doorbell rang once more. Rekha had squirmed, trying to extricate herself from Muthu, who had her in an iron grip. Resigning herself to the fact that she wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight, Rekha had turned towards Muthu.

His breath was hot in her ear when the doorbell had pealed again. Muthu let out an oath. “Fine, go to her. Be back as soon as possible,” he had said, pressing a dry kiss to her forehead. When Rekha had opened the front door though, there was no one. She poked her head out and saw Maragadham drunkenly swaying in the watery yellow street light, walking away in an unsteady gait.

“Maragadham! Maragadham! Adiye!* Stop!” Rekha had cried out. Maragadham had gone on walking, turning around the corner and disappearing. Rekha had wanted to run after her, but her hair was in a frightful state and her nighty was still unzipped. The grungy man sleeping on the pavement across stirred. Gulping, Rekha had closed the door and gone back to Muthu and his groping hands.

xxxxxxxxx

“Endi*. Why so late? That office has no mercy on you,” Muthu chattered, following her into the kitchen like a lost puppy as she came home, dripping from the sudden shower that had come out of nowhere.

Malathy and Vikram, as predicted, had been playing without doing their homework. Rekha’s stern glance at them as she came inside hadn’t dampened their enthusiasm. “Sollu* di*. Why are you so late? And when are you going to get dinner started? I’m starving,” Muthu piled on. “And why are you so wet? Go change, na. You’re going to get a cold.”

Rekha was hearing none of this.

“Did Maragadham come by today?” she asked.

“What?”

“Maragadham. Did she come by today?”

“I’m asking about dinner and you’re asking about Maragadham?”

Rekha didn’t reply. She turned back into the kitchen and put down the bag of groceries she had in her hands. She stared at the onions and potatoes without seeing. The coriander had raindrops clinging to its ends; she herself was still dripping water all over the kitchen floor. On any other day, she would have been fretting over the dirty water, wailing over how much work it was going to be mop it all up. But she was immune to her everyday worries today. Maragadham, where are you?

“AMMA AMMA AMMA AMMA!”

“Stop shouting, Malathy.”

“Amma, Vikram is pinching me! AMMAAAAAAA!”

“Rekha, where is my green lungi? And have you gotten dinner started yet? I didn’t have time to eat lunch today.”

“Amma! Malathy is LYING. I’m not pinching her. She only kicked me first! Amma, I didn’t do anything.”

Mari was drunk last night and I didn’t see her on the train today. Is she okay? Did that bastard of a husband finally kill her? I hope she’s not lying drunk in a ditch somewhere. Oh god, that is entirely possible, considering how much she drinks. Where would she have gone after coming to my house?

Rekha’s thoughts were awhirl.

“Amma, ask Vikram to stop tearing paper from my rough note!”

“MALA THAT IS MY ROUGH NOTE!”

“Kids, can you please keep quiet? Amma is trying to make dinner, don’t bother her.”

Did Indu also get a visit from her last night? Maybe I should I call her and find out. Wait, no. I should call her after dinner, she is probably busy right now.

“Rekha, darling, can you hurry up with dinner? The kids are getting too much for me to handle, and I have to look over some reports for work before bed.”

“Mala, stop it. Use your own crayons for homework, I won’t give you mine.”

“You broke my crayons, you stupid!”

“Mala, do not speak to your elder brother like that!”

“Amma!!”

“Ammaaaaaaaa!”

“Rekha? Rekha!”

She snapped out of her thoughts, but doing so also put into motion a very unfortunate series of events. The knife she was chopping the tomatoes with slipped out of her hand; she went to catch it but upended the chopping board, which in turn knocked the saucepan with the hot water off the stove. The knife ended up on the floor, the saucepan on the kitchen counter, and the hot water splashed all over her in a hiss of steam, making her damp saree wet again.

There was silence, except for the drip, drip of the water from the counter to the floor, as the kids and Muthu all stared at her like she’d grown three heads. All four of them opened their mouths in tandem, words that were yet to spill out of them hovering in the air like an uneasy cloud.

But before any of them could get a word out, the phone rang.

------------

Mozham -- a length of measurement used by flower-sellers, from the tip of the fingers to the elbow

Akka -- elder sister

Adiye -- an informal way of calling out to a woman

Endi -- an informal form of address to a woman

Sollu -- tell

Di -- informal form of address to a woman. Can be rude or affectionate, depending on who use it

Lungi -- a length of cloth South Indian men use as leisure wear; similar to a sarong but not entirely

[inkscreen]

From the women’s compartment

The women’s compartment of the Metro is an odd place on earth. There is none of the elbows-out, shoulders-in, bag-at-the-ready routine going on that is so familiar to those who take public transport everyday. Instead, bra straps show. Make-up is put on without furtive glances at the male half of the population. Someone tells the other to help re-pin her saree pleats, someone else takes off her heels and sinks into a seat just vacated with a deep sigh of relief that comes prepackaged with that shiny pair of red heels that one buys during Diwali sales. This is probably the only place where gyaan on how to handle a boisterous two-year-old son and a cranky fifty-year-old manager who acts like he’s a two-year-old are heard together. Funnily enough, sometimes the same thing applies to both situations.