Sent packing

It was a disaster. I sat there trying to calm my nerves, trying to stop my hands from pulling my hair off my head and from reaching the phone to say, “I can’t do this,” desperately trying to not have a full blown panic attack. Everything was a mess around me—clothes strewn in a heap, bottles scattered on the floor vying for space with packages and bags; and there I sat amidst that constricting circle of four open suitcases waiting to be packed.

It goes without saying—I am a horrible packer; it’s not like I can’t pack but more like I prefer not to pack, especially for a long journey. Things had to be labeled, everything had to be sorted so the weight is distributed equally, and also the contents so as not to arouse suspicion of overzealous customs officials, and the list, that never ending list of what cannot be left behind at all, was getting on my nerves. I took a deep breath and said, “Take it easy. One bag at a time.” Famous words, especially when I was struggling to fit things in the last suitcase. I can honestly say, I wanted to cry. Out of frustration. Out of helplessness. Out of frustration at being so helpless. Four hours later (or was it six, it felt like a lifetime though), at 11:30 in the night, as I forced zipped the last bag, I swore to never open the bags, till I got back home. That’s when I saw two small polyethylene bags, one with food tins and the other with Christmas decorations that needed to go in. I shut my eyes in silent rage and decided to just add another bag and stuff it there.

Today, I go back to reopening the bags. My sister, the expert packer, is coming in to help. It’s absolutely embarrassing but at least I know that everything will be in properly and not a thing will be left out.

All I can think of at the moment to best describe my situation is ‘Three Men in a Boat’ by Jerome K Jerome (somehow the author’s name is unforgettable) and with all pardon to Jerome, “Packing is (definitely not)one of those many things that I feel I know more about than any other person living.”

Emptied out

Her heart is hurting from an indescribable pain. There is a sadness, a sense of loss, like a foreboding of horrible things to come. It feels empty, like there is nothing more left there. The body feels like it’s been hollowed out and all that is there is an empty shell —useless, listless and lifeless. It’s like a pallor of gloom has descended and made its home in her heart, never ever going to leave; it’s found its perfect host. There is a bleakness that seems to proliferate with every passing day, infiltrating every action, every breath. Life seems to be the same, yet there is no more joy. A few moments of laughter seep in but there is no lilt to that tinkle, and the warmth of joviality doesn’t make it to the eyes. The eyes look haunted, like there is no more hope. They look guilty.

She tries to break free from this suffocating hold. She’s making an effort to be normal, and everything should feel normal, then why does it seem like there’s this constant pin-pricking somewhere in her heart. She should be feeling liberated, free of a burden she never wanted to carry, so why does she feel this restlessness. She never felt the joy when it existed, so why then does she feeling this pain, this anguish? She chose vanity over courage, an unsullied reputation over truthfulness. So why is she wracked with the feeling that something terrible has happened, that she’s torn and shredded something innocent within her.  She alone knows the truth, this is her cross to bear, her secret to keep.  She has to get over it, soon for her sanity. She has to live like it never happened even if she knows that her hands are soiled with the blood of an unborn child. 

Drunken behaviour

I’m slumped across the bar, trying to forget, maybe by pretending to shut my eyes, I can probably avoid the scene playing in front of me. But no they have to come here too and disturb me and make me see what I’ve been trying to avoid all evening.

They call themselves my friends. If they are my friends, why aren’t they doing anything to stop her? Why are they letting her get her filthy hands all over him. “He is mine, all mine,” I scream out. “Who is she? Some pretentious, snooty little nobody from some god forsaken city with her farmhouses and talks of dramatics and politics and photography and philosophy. Wasn’t being from the same city not enough to reminiscence over that she had to show that they shared similar interests as well?”

I am rambling all this as they take me staggering across the dance floor. I’m pushed down onto some chairs. Did I just climb those stairs?, I wonder. I laugh at the thought of how awkward it must have been for Miss Manners here. What a beating her public image must have taken hobnobbing with a drunken woman. I then see another familiar face. I call out to him and tell him to get me some more drinks. If Mohammed is not allowed to go to the mountain, the mountain will have to be brought to him. Miss Manners is frantically trying to signal no and our Lover Boy here won’t miss a chance to impress, which means I’m left thirsty. Such a sad little love story theirs is—Mr Popular, extravagant, fun loving, almost ladies man falls for our uptight Ms Right. But who am I to laugh at them. Look at me and my pitiable state!

I get up and join the few who are dancing here. Then I spot them. She’s throwing herself all over him in that barely there dress. Who dresses like that—that cheap little slut. And he’s got his hands on her. Such a two-timing hypocrite.If I didn’t have to recommend her, she never would have met him and we wouldn’t be caught in this unholy mess. She knows what I feel about him, she knows that we are lovers or were till yesterday, yet she’s gone ahead and twisted that proverbial knife in the back. Incredible! Does she think I’m going to stand here and watch. No Ms Boyfriend Snatcher! Not in this lifetime.

I look around wondering what to do—I spot that ashtray. I pick it up and announce my intentions and before I know it I am held back by too many arms. There, now I’ve done it. They all know. Nevertheless they let me be, watching over me in turns. I sit like a statue for what seems like hours. Miss Manners and Lover Boy are on the dance floor and that’s my second surprise of the evening—Miss Manners actually dancing! Though dancing is all not what is doing going by some of the coquettish looks directed at her partner.   

I see my man standing all alone. Where has Ms Snooty gone? I wonder. I spot her dancing with some guys. This is my chance. I go up to him and try to put my arms around and say, “I’ve been waiting to do this all evening” but he pushes me away as discreetly possible and hisses, “You’re drunk.” What a surprise! Two thwarted attempts later, I’m disgusted with his highhandedness. Petulant, I leave him and join the eager arms of another group of boys. Nobody is judging me here, nobody wants to know my past, my present, how many drinks I’ve had, how short my dress is. They are here just like me, looking for a good time.

The evening ends before I know it, the boys want to take me home. Miss Manners stoutly refuses and I want to yell out, “Yay! My defender.” but I’m too far gone for that. She pulls a coat over me and orders Lover Boy to drive me home (he looks like he could strangle me). My last thought before I pass out, remind me to thank her later, and apologise to Lover Boy.

The writing assignment

As part of an initiative I started, to get myself writing, I decided to write a short story based on a character  from my office. I got so excited (or rather disappointed with each one) I wrote three.

Let me know what to you think.

The office guy 1

He walks in the corridors compulsively. Walking helps him think; one can spot him walking in circles, up and down, every few weeks. That’s the cue that work is hectic, that he has too many things on his mind. This walking while chewing his nails and the nail bed, head tilted to the right, lost in thought, is his way of calming down his agitation. The fingers looked raw, gnawed away, the nails all pared down, except two fingers on the right hand that sport longish nails.

As he makes his way to his desk, he throws his bag with flourish, takes a sip of his coffee and flops on his seat. He has been trying to keep things in control but everything seems to be spilling out. Restless he reaches out for his morning fix of cigarettes, and doesn't find it. He rummages through the drawers, table top, pats his pockets but nothing. “Drats!” he thinks, “not again.” This is the second time this week he’s misplaced his pack. He’s always been forgetful but this is too embarrassing; he can’t go around asking people if they've seen his pack anywhere, not again at least. He mumbles to himself, half cussing, half berating his clumsiness. The missing pack is annoying him to hell. “Is someone playing a prank?”, he wonders. That thought is enough to let loose another string of expletives. Swearing vengeance on whoever was behind this, he begins to run down a list of suspects. Halfway through, he considers adding the girls to the list. Somebody could have easily put them up to this, and this kind of irrational, childish prank would be just up their alley. The girls don’t like him as it is. He senses their animosity veiled under their smiles and laughs. Still, in so many years they have never bothered to trouble him, so what could have changed now? Did he cross some line with someone? Quite possible, given that he always speaks his mind.

He needs his fix quickly. Borrowing (actually just taking) one from a colleague, he heads to the unofficial smoking zone. Plugging on his head phones, he tries to sit and wrap his head around this work situation. The music changes to Radiohead and he gives a wry smile, happy that at least something is right for once. The day progresses, work gets more hectic; more arguments, more abuses and the worst part is the cigarettes haven’t shown up.

He picks his guitar and hears something move within. It’s the damn cigarette pack. “I’ll be damned,” he said, his left hand scratching his head wondering how they landed there in the first place.

**************************************************

The office guy 2

He sits looking around the room, hoping for someone to catch his eye. He adjusts his coat, checking it for lint. His wonders if he should shed it anyway; he knows his bowler hat, sitting atop his longish black hair, peppered with white and golden strands, is enough to at least earn him a glance. His skin-tight rust jeans and white t-shirt actually cling to the contours of his maintained body. He is very particular about what he wears especially making sure it displays his best assets.

He walks across the room, confidently with a little spring in his step; this is his zone, he is most comfortable here. Sometimes, his bearing can appear like that of a king looking down on his subjects, or glad to be gracing the rest with his appearance, but today it is just a self-assured walk of someone who knows what he wants. Reaching the bar, he gives the bartender a flirtatious smile and places his order. Turning around, he places his elbows on the counter and rests a leg behind on the bar wall. Looking around, he is surprised at the number of good looking women; they surely outnumber the men raising the stakes unfairly. He hates to have to resort to ‘tricks’ to catch attention, but enjoys the build-up to the chase. In this place teeming with beautiful people, what makes one stand out? He knows his type and all he needs, is that one special thing to tell him, "This is it".

Collecting his margaritas, he spots something. As they make eye contact, his eyes light up. “Gotcha!” His excitement is impalpable; just to tease, feel and up the tempo, he deliberately walks close to his prey, gives a reassuring smile and heads to his booth. Chugging down his drink in one go, he collects his coat, kisses his friends and promises to fill in the details later.

As he makes his way out of the booth, he wonders, what name he should use today. Smiling to himself, he looks at his reflection in the mirrors and takes a deep breath saying, “This is it!” He taps the black coat and says, “Hi, I’m Priyanka!” 

**************************************************

Someone, somewhere

He sits patiently sipping on his favourite frothy brew. There is a reverence on his face, soaking in the splendour that this time of the day brings; this place too is perfect—with not too many people to rankle him with their talk but just enough for him to look up to from time to time.

He debates whether to put on his headphones; they are a bright enough colour to attract attention, but that’s not his intention for now. Now, he needs to concentrate on people. It’s one of the things he likes to do — look at people, read into their actions and then weave a story describing their life. Once he settles down with his observations, he can devote all his attention to the girl who will come in shortly—in another fifteen minutes actually.

He had first noticed her last week, while making a selection of the muffins. Her milky white skin, dark brown hair and petite body drew him instantly. Her face looked familiar (only later he realised that she looked like a cross between Kristen Stewart and Briana Evigan) and he would have approached her, had she not just picked up her black satchel and walked out. It would appear strange, and not to mention obvious, if he walked out right after her, mid-order. Shaking his head as if to come out of that moment, he gave a wry smile thinking about all the times when he would have cared less.

His friends would not believe him if he told them of letting someone like her go. Bad enough they had a hard time trying to categorise him, but he prided himself on his ability to be a modern day Proteus. To a casual observer, he presented himself as a mixture of contrasts, actually contrasts within contrasts—one moment the master, next an ardent student, comfortable in playing the role of the leader and the easily malleable one as well. These are all masks he dons to throw off people, just for the heck of it. Like a storyteller toying with his characters, at times he deliberately baits people with his calculated passivity, then intentionally inserts his presence in all kinds of situations and often manipulates people to reveal more of themselves. 

Within him lay polarities that are designed to confuse—one moment he can hold you with his unwavering, unblinking eyes, daring you to look away, enjoying the fact that you are aware of his scrutiny, the next, his gaze can freeze you like a cold hit from the Artic, and at times refusing to meet your eyes, talking to you self-assuredly but looking at some point beyond your left shoulder.

His bluntness of speech is hidden in the glibness of the words, tools he uses as a shield against mediocrity; he rarely suffers fools. Yet, he is not beyond using subterfuge to get his way; little things of timings and placements that he thinks people don’t notice, but that happen often enough to reveal a kind of pattern. When something catches his eye, he knows he will pursue it with an obsessiveness that is unnerving, but is smart enough to pull back when it’s a lost cause.

His smile broadens as her spots her entering. She was not a lost cause, definitely not a lost cause at all; as he gets up to enfold her in a hug. 

The diary of obsession

It starts as an innocuous exploration, an appeasement of curiosity. Then it takes over your life, becoming the driving force for your existence, the reason for your living, Take it away and you react like a child who is denied his favourite toy—pained, angered, abandoned and petulant in varying degrees. Rejoined—it’s like the universe has come alive again.

You find pleasure in everything around it. You worship the ground it dwells on. Every day you say, “I breathe for you. You are in every breath I take.” You spend every waking hour thinking about it, how to get closer, how to bridge this gap. It’s inconvenient, it’s distressing and it’s unacceptable.  A glimpse, a whiff, a brush, anything will do; you’ll gladly feed on crumbs. Then just this much will not do, you get greedy, you want more. Every hour, there is a need to sate the inquisitiveness with action. It’s like an overwhelming passion; the one that sets the soul on fire and torments your life. Every moment apart is like drawing in ragged breaths of life.

The hunger quickly multiplies like a rabid disease. The more you feed it, the more it demands; it’s mutated and mutilated. You notice that everything around you falls to the wayside. There are signs everywhere—forgetfulness of mundane activities, lack of communication with others, sloppiness in other tasks, yet it’s like you’ve been consumed by the all-encompassing force that commands your existence.  You can do nothing other than obey its calls, your will has no say, you are the subservient slave who has to acquiesce it’s every demand.

You realise you need to pull back. “This is not healthy,” you tell yourself. It’s a struggle of wills, an intense battle between sanity and obsession. You do everything to pull back—you try not to acknowledge its existence, you deny and deprive yourself, you bury yourself in work and menial tasks but it is a gnawing presence within, scratching, itching, wanting to rise to the surface. You call in for reinforcements, you medicate yourself and look for an alternate source of outlet. It’s easy for a while, you learn to ignore it yet you know it’s there, biding its time, waiting for the moment when you’ll be vulnerable. One day, the need returns, more ravenous than ever, angry at being denied for so long; it doesn’t take kindly to rejection. You are desperate now—you need satiation; “One, just one,” you plead with yourself. And another voice screams, “NO!”  The agony is too much to bear— you shut your eyes, your ears, your mouth but the thirst still beckons. “Just this once, NO! Don’t do this to yourself. Just this once. No! Don’t do this to yourself.” The chant is on a loop getting louder and more aggressive each passing hour. In desperation, you lock yourself up, cut yourself—let the bad blood flow. 

It’s a never-ending battle. Each day brings it challenges and torments. You’re learning to live with it. 

Talk it out

The ladies loo in my office has a chat board. What fun!

Spotted # 5?

Isn't this funny?Or is it just me?

At The Miller

Last year, the task of getting wheat ground at the local 'chakki' (flour mill) fell to me. Usually, my mom or the maid used to take care of this, but given that everyone was busy with the wedding duties and I had my 'errand girl' hat on, it came to me. Just like the garbage duty, the collect clothes from the laundry duty, the run around and get 'this' from 'that' room/place duty and the little trips to the local 'kirana' store for a packet of some innocuous thing that somebody forgot to bring—all this fell under the purvey of the 'errand girl'.

Going to the flour mill was something I never did. I always managed to excuse my way out of it. Standing there and waiting for your wheat to be ground, and slowly getting dusted in white, chalky powder is not something I fancied, and then there is the carrying of the tin, for which, according to me, exists no way to disguise. Since the flour mill is just a couple of buildings away, we usually walk it out. Carrying a tin of ground wheat ranks quite high in my list of 'not to be seen carrying' along with buckets and brooms. (I have no reason but it's just something I feel 'shy' about lugging out in the open, even if it's brand new!)

So, luckily for me, I didn't have to wait there since he had quite a few other things to grind, the 'chakkiwala' (miller) told me to come after a couple of hours. Such relief! Two hours later, I land up to collect the flour and he tells me he's just about finishing my batch. With nothing to do and no one else around, I decided to click his pics with my mom's phone.

I thought he could not be bothered with me clicking, till (the last pic will show) he dusted a bag of flour in my direction!

Ek, Do, Teen

So finally yesterday, after a lifetime of promising myself, I joined a dance class.

Eschewing the popular trend in ballroom dancing, I went for a session in waltz instead of salsa. Since this was a couple’s dance session, I was partnered with my cousin’s brother-in-law to be. I have danced the waltz before so the first class was not much of a struggle, at least for me. An hour just flew by and all I have to do till the next dance class I have to learn to turn, the whisk and chasse, and as my instructor said, “don’t lead the man, let him lead you!”

My next class, by popular demand is a cha cha cha, which I would have to skip, considering it falls on the day of the week that is jinxed whenever I have plans. 

Till then, I'll be going 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3

The memory of ...

“So, what do you want to do today?” I plonk myself on the sofa and ask. “Do you want to play rummy or seven-hands again? How about dominoes?” He shakes his head in bewilderment. “No, I don’t feel like. Besides you always cheat.” I look at him shocked at the accusation. “This is like the pot calling the kettle black,” I mumble but he catches that and gives off a loud laugh. I ask him again what he wants to do today. “How about dancing?”

Is he up to it? Can he handle this exertion? I look at my mom asking for permission. She nods her head even though she is surprised at the request. The music starts and I wonder if he would remember the steps. He’s already gone ahead and waiting for me. He expresses his impatience at my delay and asks me to hurry on. The song is our favourite, a smooth waltz. As he takes me in his arms, he fumbles with the first few steps but he keeps going on. Then as if by magic, everything comes back to him. He leads expertly, twirling me slowly and gently across the room. This moment is something I’ll always treasure. It’s been ages since we’ve danced like this. I miss these little moments of ours. Everyone in the room is astonished at the way we move, especially him after all these years. The song ends and they all applaud with gusto, whistles and all. He just guffaws and pulls me in for the next dance and this is the song he first taught me to dance on. I smile at the memory and catch my mom’s eye. She too is reminiscing about that moment. As we dance, I can only admire the grace in his movements and the surety of his steps, consistent even now after all these years even though the arms holding me have aged and the person frail. The dances weave one into another and he still shows no signs of stopping. Five songs later, I can see him exhausted and I call it to halt, even though I want to prolong this moment for as long as I can.

As he makes his way back to the bed to rest, my arms reach out to enfold him in a hug of longing, thanksgiving and love and I whisper, “Welcome back, dad.”

Spotted

Noticed this interesting looking rat trap (?) First I thought it was an ad for a pest control agency... then read that it's a rodent bait station (quite fancy sounding name, right?). I wonder how it works.

Then dinner with friends produced this enlightened bit of spelling. Maxican first of all and then it includes Spy Beef. We were debating what it could mean when someone figured out it could be a short form for spicy beef. Needless to say, I didn't go for this Maxican spy special!

Mini Onam

My landlady served me a mini Onam dinner today. Mini because they plan to celebrate it on Friday... 20+ items in all! I wonder if I should skip my Thursday dinner and Friday breakfast.

This was my meal and of course dessert was a lovely jaggery and dal payasam (forgot to take a pic). I should say 5 Onam celebrations and I've mastered the art of eating on a banana leaf.

The way you see me

We talk about so much and so little at the same time, we skirt around issues I consider revealing, you consider honest. Yet you know so much about me, more than I wanted you to and certainly more that I’d like you to. You see me the way I never wanted anyone to see me. You see my vulnerability and my passion, my reasons and my defiance. You know what makes me tick, what gets me riled. When I am up or down, you know it all; you can sense it, better than before. I let the defenses down; it was a momentary loss of fidelity and you walked right through. You impressed me by avoiding and overtaking all the obstacles and stop signs I put up. You disarmed all the alarms and evaded the booby traps. Now you know me.

And I don’t like it one bit; it’s the reason why I can’t look you in the eye anymore. Why I can’t continue this. It’s too close for comfort; you’re too close for comfort. I need that distance, that place within me, where I can be me, without worrying that someone else knows me, knows where and how to find me. But now that’s gone. There are no more pretences that you won’t recognise, no more walls that you won’t get around. It’s disconcerting, you seeing me for what I am. I can see it in your eyes. The eyes that give me the benefit of the doubt, where you once would doubt, accuse and suspect. The eyes that push me to do things you know I want to but will never unless it’s you telling me. It’s there in the hands that hold me the same way as before, but differently still. They linger a second longer than usual and I know why; I can sense it. You want to reassure me, I know, but that’s what’s causing my anxiety. It’s there in the smile, when you see me for the first time in the day. It’s telling, even when you don’t want it to. It’s full of anticipation, hinting at what you’d push me to do today, what you’ll get me to reveal even when I don’t want to. Along with the eyes, they speak untold things that you want from me; they encourage—and I try hard to ignore. It’s there in the kisses, the one thing I thought would remain untainted, but it’s corrupted as well, infected by the hope they now communicate, and I don’t want that.

There’s always been tenderness but this empathy is killing me, slowly.

Like the awkwardness of a morning after, this felling of walls, is hard to get around. I know you know me and that you know that I am aware of this knowledge that you now hold, and I’m trying my hardest to ignore. I’m trying to pretend like it doesn’t exist, it never happened, it doesn’t matter. I’m trying hard to blank it, to play it cool, but now I can no longer do it, there are no more pretences left, no more safe place to go. Remember? You’ve invaded them all. You know me. You see me. You get me.

So you see why I have to stop, why I can’t let this go on. You see me for what I am. I can see the way you see me now, and I don’t like it.

“I can see the way you see me now, and I don’t like it.” I read this line in an article on Elle and thought to weave a perspective around this idea.

Falling over myself

This weekend has been all about protecting myself—from my clumsy self. Bad enough I’m prone to cutting my fingers, as is evidenced by the number of band-aids adorning my fingers every now and then. In fact, a colleague once pointed out that he had never seen anyone be so careless about their fingers.  It’s true—I slice off skin from my forefinger whenever I’m in the kitchen, burn and scald, and cut the other digits (sometimes even lop off the tops of my pretty nails), and get paper, tin and plastic cuts regularly. Matter of fact, I am typing this off with a band-aid across my right hand forefinger (plastic cut)!

Getting back to my weekend with my clumsy self, I started it off by hitting my head against the wardrobe, injuring my arm trying to lift something heavy, dropped my phone into the frying pan, oil and all but mercifully off the fire, dropped the chicken stock over the counter and splashed some on myself as well, tripped over the wire of and pulled the hair dryer out of the power socket, hit my shin against the bed, dropped the vacuum on my feet, tripped over the footstool and not to forget the aforementioned plastic cut. Quite an impressive haul for this weekend alone, right?

I thought it was over but then my sunglasses fall out of my hands and onto the floor. Sigh!

Our dangerous selves

We all court danger, it’s inherent in us. All dangerous things seem desirable to us—irrespective of age. Which probably explains why as babies we were drawn to buckets of water, power sockets and barrels or as children to finding out what happens when we stuck peas and assorted things up our nose, took a dive from the flight of stairs, raided our parents and siblings’ stuff when they weren’t around.  As we grew older the curiosity didn’t ebb; we needed and wanted all things that were forbidden, were taboo. The denial was the bait that lured us in. We had to find out for ourselves. Our adolescent years saw us playing truant, chasing after the objects of our obsession, experimenting with drugs, drinks and sex, rebelling because it gave us a high and made us stand out and feel powerful.  Then as adults, we get cynical, slower, jaded with the experiments. We crave for more, to push the danger envelope a bit more, just to feel the original high. So we cheat in relationships, lie some more and about bigger things, embezzle, cut corners and play dirty.

Each time we flirt with danger, we feel empowered. Like a siren calling, it’s hard to ignore. We ask ourselves, “What is the worst that can happen?” So, we take our reckless selves and do stupid things. Things we wouldn’t do, if we didn’t like to tempt fate, to play with fire. If we get away with it, it’s a license to do it some more and more often. If we fail, it’s a lesson well learned and we exercise caution till we feel the itch again.

This attraction to danger is addictive. It makes us irresponsible, it makes us egoistic, it makes us dangerous people to be around. Yet we pursue it. Why? Simply because by chasing after danger we are fanning the desire for importance, we are acknowledging the arrogance within us, we are feeding our ego with our conquests. With every successful venture, we find ourselves getting bolder, undefeatable, indestructible and insatiable. Nothing else can substitute. 

The Shame

Why do the hands not quiver when they reach out to invade, to plunder, to outrage? Does the mind not say, “Stop!” Does it not question the actions about to take place? Does the heart not agitate profusely? No, wait! That rapid beating of the heart is not fear; it is the excitement and adrenaline talking. When have they ever listened to reason?

Do the hands not remember the times when they rose to caress someone lovingly, when they were raised to protect, to assure, to condole? Do they not remember all the times when someone ran a comforting hand over them, held them back, safeguarded them, loved them? Does the brain not superimpose images of a loved one, does it not flashback to siblings, friends and family? Does the conscience not recognise the wrongness about to happen? Why isn’t it saying, “No.  There is still time. Turn around!”

The hands reach out, nevertheless.

An alien sensation washes over — it’s cold, it’s warm, alternating and peaking as panic sets in. The brain momentarily freezes; it creates thresholds—you’re safe as long as it not there, okay you’re safe as long as it not here—it’s desperately rationalizing. The assurances are not working. It’s not just one, there are many. Despair takes hold and sets free paralysed limbs and loosens the tongue. The screams can be heard; it’s not longer within. The hands and legs take on whatever they can reach. It’s a struggle their determined to win —pulling some off here, dragging some off there, but they are slowly weighed down. The numbers are overwhelming. It’s not working. It’s getting closer; there are no more safe zones, the brain has no more placations to offer. It’s telling you you’re doomed. Shut your eyes, and it’ll be gone. The eyes comply, the brimming tears slip out but the nightmare doesn’t. Its stranglehold is very real, it’s bruising, leaving marks, its intention is to hurt and maim. Belligerent, pleading, broken, fighting, crying, begging, praying —the body and mind tries it all. Then numbness comes in. Slowly everything fades, subdues and is finally gone.

The hands are now satiated, they slap and slide against other fellow hands, shake other hands, congratulating each other on a job well done, on helping with the fun, and they move on.

Somewhere, another set of hands try to restore dignity, they try to pull it together but then when they can’t offer any more succour, they cover her face in shame.

This piece was written in reaction to the Assam molestation case.  

The sun is shining

Summer is well and truly here. The glasses are fogging up, the seat belts are leaving burn marks and the humidity is kicking in with full force and the office feels like Siberia. As people feel the need to compensate for the heat outside, the AC's are working overtime. So now, besides my shawl, I now need to pack in a pair of mittens. 

Two days ago, as I stepped out of office in the evening, it felt like I walked straight into an oven. It was 6:45 pm yet hot as ever. And my hair? It promptly frizzled to twice it's volume. I tell you I could actually hear the pop and cackle as it bloated up!

Get me out of here

I generally have a fear of getting stuck in an elevator. So, if I see a questionable-looking elevator, especially antique ones that come with wire grilles and doors that open outwards, I take the stairs or say a quick prayer (depending on how many floors I have to go).

Today morning I got into my building elevator and hearing the distinct sounds of a drill machine, getting louder as we descended, hitting the loudest at the 10^th floor. All I could think during the ride was the movie ‘Speed’. The scene where Keanu Reeves rescued the passengers stranded in the lift. I could swear that the drilling noise was exactly like the one in the film, and for a moment I almost had a scare. Not that I would mind a Keanu Reeves rescuing me.

(I couldn't find the right scene, so...)

Madonna live in concert

Can a Madonna concert be tame even if it is in a relatively conservative Middle East country? Unapologetic, pulsating and edgy best describes her artistry. We waited an hour and a half for her to take stage and this wait was peppered with jeers, taunts, catcalls and boos as the MJ tracks kept playing on loop, false starts and cheers for the random crew making an appearance and the strange case of three chefs making their way through the crowd with a shawarma spit and baskets of bread. Plus, my friend and I were intrigued by the fact that the stage was being thoroughly mopped even though it had not been used. Was it some kind of divaesque demand or pre-act ritual?

Then she came on. With monks clad in red, a big censer swinging and bells tolling. From there on it was a fantastic display of theatricality. The song selection may have disappointed most of the crowd but there was no denying that when it came to performance, not many can match the sheer force that is Madonna. We all knew that this would be a toned down version of a regular Madonna concert but who knew that even the watered down version would be so provocative and gasp inducing? Grinding and pumping on and against her scantily clad dancers—both male and female, religious imagery, graphic images of guns and splattered blood, provocative strip dancing, conical metal bra and all she tantalised and pushed as far as she could that invisible line of decency she was expected to toe—at one point she almost kissed a lady dancer.

What was the most exciting aspect of the concert? Me actually being able to see Madonna—not just on the screen but on stage. We were not that close, but bobbing and weaving my head, and standing on my toes I did really, really see her. 

Raindrops, keep falling on my head

I never miss the rains. The rains meant power cuts, mud and grime that coated your shoes and lined your toenails, wet soggy clothes that clung to you making you shiver and feel icky, splashes and splotches of  brown, wet mud that looked like someone spray painted your trousers, and not to forget the umbrellas and raincoats to trudge. In a city like Bombay, especially if commuting by train, carrying anything extra meant added need for dexterity. Your umbrella has to be ready to open in a flash yet it should not come in anybody’s way, you cannot afford to poke anyone, and God forbid if your wet umbrella or raincoat touches anyone else, who may just be a tad dryer than you!

When I moved to the Middle East, I knew I said goodbye to the rains; and I was happy about it. The occasional rain showers meant nothing, although I still grumbled about having to carry an umbrella. However, in the last couple of years, I’ve started to miss the rain.

What do I miss? The smell of the water hitting a parched, baked earth —why haven’t they bottled that scent as yet, I wonder; the draft that hits you when you open the door in a thunder shower and you leap back from the spray and the chill and hurriedly usher in whoever is at the door. I miss searching for candles and then waiting in the semi-darkness, talking, laughing, singing and making noise—noise that seems to amplify in the stillness brought on by the power outage. I remember the afternoons, when we children were kept on dark, threatening to rain cloud watch—if we got it wrong, it was a mad dash to get the clothes off the line before they were soaked completely; facing mom’s thunderous glower afterwards was something we never looked forward to.

I miss sitting by the window ledge watching the bolts of lightning crash somewhere in the sky, listening to the sound of thunder, the droplets of water hitting the protective shades over the windows and the leaves rustling, the chatter of people as they huddle under the giant tamarind tree that once stood as a sentinel in our building compound, protecting the building and all those who sought shelter from the rain. I even miss trudging through dirty, muddy water and the rush to the bathroom to clean off the slime and treat the feet to a Dettol wash to ward of any possible infection. My walk home would include walking through pucca roads between paddy fields and avoiding the water snakes, crabs and fish that swam past.  Sometimes, I miss the spraying of water from oncoming vehicles, some deliberate, some unavoidable and the evasive actions we took, the turning of umbrellas when the wind was too strong, the sometimes having to sit with umbrellas open in the train when the windows or doors would be jammed. Yet, I know, above all these things, what I miss most is me grumbling about the rains. 

The push and the pull

Her mind is a whirl. It’s like something has snapped. She is free of whatever had her tethered. It’s a moment of clarity. The foolhardiness she had been indulging in, the dangerous games she had been playing — she saw it all now. It’s like she is floating, above, somewhere, watching everything unfold, cringing at her shamelessness and reacting with incredulity. Who is this provocative, self-indulgent person? Is it me? Is this what everybody sees? No! Someone stop her! Stop her before she makes a complete fool of herself! Why is she doing this — to me!

Why is she pretending to be what she cannot clearly be? Is she being indulgent because that’s what it takes to get noticed? It’s not real. It’s just a game but she can’t stop it anymore. The game is now more important. She wants to know how far she can go with this pretense. Now that she has stepped on to the stage with its strobe lights and festoons and glitter, she doesn’t want to get off —it’s just getting interesting. How far is too far?

When the lights are off and the audience gone, she is dismayed at her desperation. Yet, somewhere deep down she is questioning this guilt. Does it stem from the shame or from the truth? Has this pretense taken off the mask of civility and exposed all the darkest secrets of her mind? Did she walk into the trap knowing that it would force her to face her baser self? Why did she bait this demon with information, with charm, with guile? Oh you masochistic fool! Why did you have to persist to walk down this foolish path and kill us both!

Dancing the dating dance

“I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies.”

-         From the movie He's Just Not That Into You

I don’t know how many of you were nodding your heads in agreement when Drew Barrymore explained her pitiable state of dating and communicating in a technology-reliant society, but I felt that her character was saying everything I wanted to say but in a eloquent yet matter-of-fact way!

Need I say more? Given my dating experience through all the portals and channels available to find the one person I could marry—online, matrimonial columns, matchmakers, priests, friends, friends of friends, relatives and their extended families, colleagues—you would think I would have gained some insight or clarity on the subject.  All that I can tell you is this, with enough conviction and case studies to boot, dating is a murky world. It’s an exhausting platform designed to infuriate you and leave you helpless and confused about who you are, what you want and why are you doing this in the first place. There are more questions each time you go through the whole rigmarole.

Practice makes perfect but practice in the dating world can make cynics out of even the most optimistic, romantic person. 

Stand out and be counted

Inspiration comes from various things and it’s not always your usual suppliers. On an episode of Modern Family, the uncle (who is gay) is comforting his step-brother (who is in high school) not to be worried about being considered weird, because he says that when we are younger we always want to fit in; we don’t want to be one of those different people, but when we get older, we want to stand out and be different. That’s when I had an epiphany … ok …not epiphany but I realized that there was so much truth to that.

The last thing you wanted as a school or college student was to stand out from the crowd. Of course, you wanted to be popular and brilliant and famous but only for the right reasons. You didn’t want to be the make-way-there’s-a-geek-coming-through person. No sir, not at all. So you did the best you could to hide your quirks and blend in. You shopped where everyone shopped, ate what everyone ate and talked, spoke, laughed like everyone else.

When we grow older everything changes. Our priorities don’t allow us to conform. As adults, we want to steer clear from the mundane and the common. We learn very quickly that if we want to be something or get anything, we need to sprint ahead; and the only way we can do this is by being different. So, the difference that we tried so hard to camouflage under the guise of conformity in our younger days is the only thing that is going to make us stand out as adults. And just like that, the things you were so ashamed of as a kid becomes your saving grace. It’s ironical then that when we seek to stand out we no longer find the going easy. It’s like we’ve angered the muses that bestowed those gifts to us in the first place. Try as much as you want, seeking them out again is a painstaking process.

Chance and me

I gave you an opportunity

Said Chance to me

A million and more times over

But I didn’t need it then

I petulantly cried

And you always come when you’re not needed

But Chance is adamant

And doesn’t like being slighted

After all it what is its purpose

if people don’t take him on?

Every single one of them

You squandered, rejected or ignored

And you expect me to forget?

said Chance incredulously.

Ok! I admit I screwed up

I was blind, proud and lazy

But can’t you see I need you now

I sobbed terrified at being left alone.

Chance and I continued to squabble

The conversation was getting nowhere

Or so we thought

But the more we talked

The more we realized

that Chance needed me as much as I needed it.

I need assistance.

He needed validation.

I needed reassurance.

He needed utility.

So now we’ve come to this partial truce

To give each other one more break

I take the chances that he provides

and Chance makes sure that he arrives when needed.

Did you just say that?

Taken out of context, words can be twisted to some very hilarious and icky levels.

Like I overheard this colleague instructing a supplier who installed some artwork for a client, “Front ka picture le. Full front ka chaihiye. Peeche ka bhi le lo. Bad mein kam ajayega” (Take a picture of the front, full front. And the back. We can use it later.)

Or this colleague, who is not a native speaker of English, telling someone on the phone, “Go there quickly. The girl is already waiting in the room.”

In the office pantry, I asked a colleague washing his dishes, to move aside since I wanted to pass water, and he burst out laughing at my exact use of words.

And the ickiest comment I received after my haircut goes to —“you’ve cut your hair… nice… what about the bikini?”

Get your handkerchief out

We’ve replaced “Do you have a ‘kerchief?” with “Do you have a tissue?” Leaving aside arguments about the environmental friendliness and hygiene factor, I want to dwell on the simple fact that I miss the use of handkerchiefs.

The countless games we played as kids—dog in a manger, A Tisket, A Tasket (that for many years I phonetically pronounced isket and tasket) where we substituted our handkerchiefs as the object indicating the ‘bone’—wouldn’t be the same if we had tissues then.

The ruse of the handkerchief-dropped-by-the-girl-and-picked-by-the-boy-that led-to-an-eternal-love- story used in so many movies and emulated by people in love wouldn’t be so potent with a tissue.

What about the aunties who tucked their kerchiefs under their bra straps in their blouses and dresses that they happily produced when you needed it?

The handkerchief also served as a temporary bandage on all scraps, cuts and wounds earned on the playground, not to mention wiping away tears, sweat and drool!

I remember carrying a kerchief to all the rosaries when the statue of Mother Mary ‘did the rounds’ to people’s homes in the month of May and October. As part of tradition, boiled Kabuli chanas (white chickpeas) were distribute to people attending these rosaries and these chanas were only ‘served’ on your handkerchief.  The bigger the ‘kerchief, the more chanas you would get! And no handkerchief meant no chanas to take home.

While women’s handkerchiefs have remarkably disappeared from the scene (and I don’t know why?), the men have retained theirs. They still proudly carry their neutral-toned, line-bordered designs in their pockets.  Once upon a time, my uncles used to pull out their ‘kerchiefs with flourish and wave them in the air for the ‘mando’; now the hands are raised but the ‘kerchiefs stay tucked firmly in their breast pockets.  

Looking through the lens

Photographs have a lot to tell. Your happy days, your fun days, your crying days and fussy days, everything that dots the colourful journey of your life from childhood to present day, all preserved on glossy paper. Every time you go back to albums you can almost plot your life captured artistically through the lens. They are instant nostalgia evokers, sometimes so powerful you remember things long buried. They bring a smile, make you cry, amaze, and astound you by their simplicity. Black and white or coloured, they floor you with the details that the lens captured—those dress patterns and hair styles, those younger and fresh faces now wrinkled and weary, those smiles and glances that plays out the nuances of relations and their equations —it tells you more than the mind ever remembers.

Pictures with family members, some long gone forever, some forgotten in time, puts into perspective how much we have lost and gained. When you look back at pictures from your childhood, an inadvertent smile creeps up. You stare at a younger version of yourself looking back at you, smiling so openly, not yet affected by the worries of the world. You can only wonder on what brought about that look. What were you thinking at that time? How did you go from being that carefree soul to the ‘you’ you now are? The photographs capture everything—the closeness of siblings, the struggle with weight and appearance, the warmth of family and friends, and you cannot help but compare that life to the one you’re living now.

Not all old pictures make you smile. Many simply embarrass the socks out of you ,while others make you cringe—that unkempt look after a boisterous game, that mad-hatter pose, the one where you’re caught staring at food, the one with the weird hairdo, and of course that perfunctory nude picture. I just don’t get the obsession parents have with showing off their kids au natural. Without fail, every album from any set of friends carry that one embarrassing naked pose and for some, awkwardly so, several more.

Recently, my cousin shared a few pictures of my siblings and me that he had in his collection. I had no recollection of ever posing for photographs like these but there we were, all four of us sitting on the sofa and grinning at the camera my uncle held. I couldn’t help but grin back and then stare some more. I noticed that each one of us had our feet on top of each other, toes up in the air, big toe to big toe. I went back to some other snaps and noticed the same thing. Amazing. How alike we were to each other, even back then, more than we seemed to realise! Then I noticed some more things, like how we girls had our hands firmly gripping the hem of your dresses. Only one person could be the reason we were so careful—Nana. My grandma, would constantly be on our cases to make us sit properly and act like girls. And my brother?  It made me realise how much and why I used to absolutely adore him. He looked like a cute little mouse, and I remembered that I loved him so much that I once hid him in a basket of hay so that no one could take him from me!

Looking back at photographs can unleash a wave of emotions, some pleasant and a few unpleasant, but there is no denying that it awakens something in you. It makes you wonder if you realised then how precious you were to someone, how loving you were in return.   

Would the love remain?

Witnessed in the bookstore a couple of days ago:

I was browsing the ‘Thrillers’ section at a bookstore, when I saw this woman, who seemed around 75 or 80 years old, looking for a Tom Clancy novel. Helping her find the books was another lady, who seemed like her daughter. They bumped into me and apologised for ruining my own search. Not finding the title she liked, the mother-daughter duo kept looking around. The mother spotted a title, and asked the daughter her opinion. What followed next, made me smile — the daughter suggested that she’d read out the synopsis and then they could decide. She read it aloud and the mother exclaimed, “This sounds familiar. Isn’t this like the novel we read last year?”

I wonder if a) would I live that long, b) would I still be reading that voraciously, and c) quite enviously, would I have someone who would read the synopsis out to me so lovingly and patiently (sigh!).

The search for a good night's sleep

It’s a brand new day in a brand new month and all I can think of is why am I not getting any sleep? You know how there are days when you crave for a thing — may be something to eat, read or dress. After an endless craving for more books, a battle that I have wisely left to fate, I now just want to sleep. A dreamless night of pure and unadulterated sleep — is that so much to ask? Apparently so, if you go by the number of people who suffer from insomnia and the other sleep apnea.

Mine is just a case of a week of listless and fitful sleep and I’m worried that I’d have batman-like dark circles (I swear, a professor of mine did have dark circles that looked like the bat symbol). Generally, I’m not sleep hungry; I can happily survive on five hours of slumber but those five hours have to be undisturbed and relaxing. Where is Hypnos or his son Morpheus when you need them? A week of blissful sleep and the pattern repeats itself. I am back to broken sleep, one where I know what time it is, who is up in the house, who just left the room, the cars outside, the damn birds chirping, the prayer call for the faithful — I’m painfully aware of all of it. Yet, I dare not open my eyes for fear of actually having to stay awake. So I’m asleep, yet not asleep, awake yet not awake!

So what am I doing to combat this? I tried reading till late or watching reruns of old series to tire myself but sleep is still elusive. If nothing, I find my mind too hyper, full of images and thoughts of the characters. I tried clearing my mind, you know telling myself, relax and let your mind be blank; it does work at times but then an errant word pops on that wonderful blank board and I shoo it off, only to have more of them appear and then it’s back to negotiating with sleep gods to have some mercy. I’ve also tried prayers with some better results; there’s nothing like the monotonous tone of prayers on the prayer beads, with your head against the pillow. My mother always believed that the devil was at work, keeping the faithful from completing their prayers.

Yet, for all my troubles, I still seem to have a hard time finding a good night’s sleep. I think I’m going to invest in a dream catcher, though I don’t know how that’s going to work, given that I have to fall asleep to dream but I’m hoping the dream catcher looks forward to catching something and casts a spell on me. Or I might invoke Morpheus with all my heart and ask him to sing me to sleep or whatever. It’s so ironic that when I want to sleep, I can’t and when I have to stay awake, I can’t. Sleep deprivation in the night is making me sleepy all through the day. Talk about luck!

Word power

I know some very fantastic words, big words, crazy words, awe-inspiring, eye-catching, make-me-seem-smarter-than-I-am words. I honestly do, except the problem is, I don’t know where and how to use them, how to push them into sentences even when I know their meaning. When I want to use them, I never remember them. For some reason they only pop up from the strongbox of smart words at odd moments; then I just can’t seem to get rid of them. Sometimes, the words are commonplace ones, I’ve seen them a hundred times, read them in a million books, yet I never get a hang of using them like puerile, obfuscate, salubrious, sagacious, perspicacity and more.

For e.g., verisimilitude — I loved that word from the moment I heard it, yet I never get to use it. I remember dropping this word in an essay in college only to have it circled by the professor and admonished “incorrect usage”. Another word, I can never get the usage right is film noir. For some inexplicable reason I always assume that it is something along the lines of genre. I’ve been pulled up for that more than once, so now I just avoid it altogether. Then there’s schadenfreude and kaffeeklatsch; I may have used them just once in all my years of writing.

Some words sound exciting enough, that they play in your head at all times like kerfuffle, quiddity, borborygmi, and then they are words that absolutely fascinate/stump you like beetle browed, stevedore, phantasmagoria, smorgasbord.

Someday, I hope to expectorate verbal pyrotechnics and dazzle everyone with my remarkable sangfroid and equanimity. 

Rusty brains, cobwebbed memory and modern technology

A simple question posed in the office had most stymied for an answer. I faltered and recovered quickly, gave the answer but lost credibility as the one-source of information. The question? What does South Asian countries mean? I started with Southeast Asian countries and then realized that I was mixing up the two so corrected myself and said India, Sri Lanka, etc. Once upon a time, I used to be quick at these, before technology took over, before I began relying on Google, and then on Wikipedia to answer all my questions.

Now when I sit down with a pen to solve my crosswords, I’m struggling for answers that I subconsciously know but can’t remember, and answers to clues that a few years ago you could wake me up from my sleep and get the right answer. Then: What’s the capital of Bulgaria? Sofia. Now: What’s the capital of Slovak Republic? I don’t know meets just blank.

The ad campaign war between The Hindu and Times of India just emphasized how badly my ‘general knowledge’ had taken a beating. I didn’t do as bad as the guys in the ad but for every relevant question I didn’t know or got wrong, there was not a single vapid news story that I got wrong. 

How to catch a fleeting thought

Of the zillion things buzzing in my head

One takes more precedence

For only a moment before it is lost

Replaced by a new thought

That I struggle to hold on to

Thoughts flee my mind

Like bees disturbed

A torrent is sometimes unleashed

That my hand finds hard to match

At times it’s a bog

Sucking in everything, never to be heard of again

How to recover fleeting moments

Pause. Stop. Hold. Grab.

Now only if they would stay still

A butterfly catcher has his net

I keep notes

Little pieces of paper

Scattered everywhere

Jottings of vague ideas

Barely making sense

But vital to my being

Ideas, questions, thoughts, answers

Seeking acknowledgement

Pick me, choose me

The thoughts seem to say

A bizarre dance of competition

I never asked to be part of

Behind the lines

Lines. There are lines that divide us all the time. Some lines are invisible, some open. Lines can be useful and sometimes these lines fence us in. They separate us from other people, they categorise us; they shape us. They create boundaries. Boundaries that we are comfortable in, boundaries that don’t allow us to cross other lines, boundaries that becomes barriers and keep us from discovering ourselves.

So how good are these lines really? They function as an invisible entity that keeps us from becoming one of them, which may be a good thing or not. So when do we know which is what? Often, lines come in place when realisation dawns that things may have gone out of hand. It could a diatribe on religion, ethics that alienated and offended people, an extra drink that ended in embarrassing situations, a plain uncoated truth that shattered relations, hope and trust, an incident whose scars are hidden yet very much alive. Anything.

So what happens to lines that are drawn out of upbringing, prejudice, or fear? Are these lines more dangerous and damaging? Can these lines be erased? It takes a lot of courage to admit others in. To put down the lines that expose you. You may be rejected, you may be ridiculed but at least you have the satisfaction that it was not on account of not trying. And it could be that the incident may teach you something new. You may draw new lines again, but they may not be as impenetrable as before. These lines are the ones that leave an end open. Open to welcome new suggestions, people and incidents.

Potted mania

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?”

What is about plants that makes everyone go green (pun not so intended) Okay, not everyone, but many people? I see it every time and everywhere. You talk about plants and flowers and blooming buds and flower beds and then someone always comes up with a story that outshines the other. Sometimes, it’s not just the talk, just the sight of someone’s beautiful garden or potted plants that gets people envious and makes them dig deep to find their soil and plant loving souls!

Take for instance, the flats on my floor. A new family moved in last year, and four months ago she placed a potted plant outside her door. Two months later, my landlady does and today morning, when I stepped out of the house, the other lady outdoes them all with two potted plants and a new doormat! How’s that for really taking the bet and raising the stakes! Now it’s just a matter of time before the last remaining neighbour discovers her newfound love for plants. I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of me. It took me back to the colony I lived in as a child. My mom loves her gardening, though you can hardly call that given the limited space in apartments. However, we did have a balcony that had around 40 potted plants of varying sizes and shapes. Every week, she would tend to the plants, bathing them, snipping off dead leaves, reshaping some and even rearranging their placements. What was interesting was that the apartment opposite us would reflect whatever style my mother chose to display her plants. Now, that neighbor loved his plants as well, and in a way he was competing with my mom. Whenever she bought a new variety, he would get a similar one or another variety a few days later, if she hung a few plants up, the next day he would do the same; they would come down, if mom got rid of them.

Mercifully, I feel I am immune to this whole love for plants craze but then the two potted plants sitting prettily on my window sill would definitely beg to differ!

Childspeak

A couple of months ago, at a colleague’s birthday party, I heard a mom tell her three-year-old daughter not to eat the cake. Reason, “You will become fat if you eat cake”. I was shocked when the daughter said, “I don’t want to be fat; I want to be thin like you.” Sharing this news with a friend, and wondering over the change of phraseology from “Your teeth will rot and fall out” or “You will get worms” to “You will get fat”, she provided me with another expression she heard, “You’ll get diabetes!” Wow! Times have truly changed.

I know that today’s kids are smarter, growing out of their childhood faster than we would like. Honestly speaking, how long does this period of being children last these days? I also know that they are more aware, learning things faster than we would ever dream of.

Last week, a colleague’s 10-year-old daughter reprimanded me for drinking a particular brand of water. She said, “Don’t drink this, it has too much sodium.” (Here in the Middle East, all bottled water packages indicate the level of minerals present. Different brands offer different sodium concentration, and as we all know the lesser the sodium the better.)

I guess I will never adjust to how intelligent or conscious children these days are. A couple more years or by the time I have kids, I wonder, will infancy be the only stage of blissful ignorance and innocence?

Of Greetings and Hugs

It's been too long. I got busy and I got lazy; a trip back home, sister's wedding celebrations, the death of an uncle and then some much needed R&R only to get back to piled up work in the office. So, it's been hectic but one that was absolutely worth it!

Over the weeks I have been wishing and greetings so many people, and I still haven't got the routine pat. Do I kiss and greet or just wave and nod and say hello? If I'm greeting them with a kiss, do I begin left to left or right to right? Given that I live in the Middle East, where there is the added third kiss, it all gets more confusing? The worst, when you lean in for the kiss and the other person stands frozen doesn't! Awkwardly embarrassing, I know.

Sometimes, people lean in for a hug. Now, I'm not a huge 'hug me' person; I've never been. However, in the last few years the number of times I've been hugged on a daily basis, makes up for all the years of my existence. Still, I have not grasped the basics of a hug; I just fake hug, always. A half, barely there, limp, something is all I can manage, irrespective of the gender or fondness of the person. Even side shoulder 'hugs' are awkwardly given and received. Sometimes, knowing a person's fondness for hugs, I throw my hands up in a grand gesture of enveloping them in a bear hug, only to have them kiss me on the cheek, thrice! Now locked up in a semi-hug and moving your head can be quite the thing!

This New Year, I'm still working around the whole hug and kiss and greet routine. For now, the only strategy I've come up with is a handshake with the arms stretched, thereby creating and extending this invisible 'do not cross'space, though, I must say, that has not been that effective. A few determined and enthusiastic individuals have broken through and enveloped me in a bear hug I never saw coming! Sigh!

*hugs* to my dearest friends and the three who loyally read my writings!