Anna's Height - Short Story Published on Amazon for Kindle

 

Anna's Height is a short story told through the eyes of six-year-old Anna. It's a story about how the very things we yearn for sometimes alter the course of our lives. 

Read it on the Kindle app by purchasing from https://amzn.in/d/0Fcvavl for Rs. 49/-

THE FIRECRACKER

There's a firecracker in my house

It walks around all day

Getting lit by the weirdest things

And the things I do and say

It shows me love throughout the day

And gives me kisses too

It's so goofy sometimes

I think it should be in a zoo.

But many a times it crosses the line

Of what it is to be kind

It yells and sneers, and pushes me

I can see it has lost its mind. 

"Was what I did so bad?" I think

In the stillness of my heart

Did I really deserve that scolding? 

Did I really play a part?

I realise when I look closely

That it doesn't need a flame

Some things just set it off

Yes, even things that are lame. 

I see its short little fuse

Trimmed by ache and pain

I also see the ways in which

My trust it tries to regain. 

I see its silent tears

And the regret in its eyes

I see when its still burning

But tries to be nice. 

It says it'll be better

And change its mean ways

But the proof is in the pudding

And all the future days. 

I know its heart is aflame

With love for my sister and I

This firecracker of mine

Is my do or die. 

There's a firecracker in my house

It's a pain in my bum

But, I love it nevertheless

Because it's my mum.  

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

Wrote this as an apology to one of my daughters for my poor behaviour. Posting it here with her permission. 

My Ammachi's Hut

Last night I dreamt of my Ammachi's hut

It was different from what I'd known it to be; 

Bigger, with a few more rooms,

And a backyard that stretched to beyond where I could see.

The front door latch was just as I remembered,

Strong and painted ochre red,

The door was open to the muddy front yard,

And the path that to the century-old church led. 

Beds and desks were nicely arranged

The rooms were orderly and neat,

Not at all like my Ammachi's hut - 

Small and thatched and beat. 

The backyard gate was wide and strong,

And it creaked as it swung by the wind.

But the trees and bushes were quietly still,

My heart felt heavy - like disappointment and sin. 

I felt something unwelcome in the air -

Probably a memory, a person, a feeling or fear. 

I closed the gate and ran over pebbles and bricks;

And locked all the doors in the house... it felt near. 

The moment the latches locked in place,

My Ammachi's hut became glowing and warm.

My fear dissipated and fled,

I felt the familiar calm. 

My Ammachi's hut, so thatched and small,

Smelling of firewood and jaggery sweet.

Was my joy and my place of rest,

Where imagination and freedom would meet. 

It's gone now, my Ammachi's hut,

Amid human sins and greed,

These dreams of my Ammachi's hut,

They make me happy and are all I now need. 

An Evening at the Beach

The young men enticing children to take horse rides - they themselves, with their taut bodies and princely posture looking regal. 

The group pf women - mothers, daughters, sisters, holding hands anticipating the waves. 

Older women sanctioned off to look after valuables and slippers; who, though some may feel sorry for, are actually happier there than at the sea.

The daughter who wanted to call her mother to the water, but was dissuaded by her brother. 

The sundal sellers moving on quickly from one customer to another.  

The myriad selfies that were taken, families, friends. 

The burkha clad family at the beach. 

So many new languages around me. 

Stylish women in sunglasses. 

The sky spread like thick, smooth velvet - greyish blue with tinges of pink like the faded mardaani on a woman's hand. 

The moon direct, staring at me, but with a softness that reminds of all the times that my mother was understanding towards me. 

The constant ding-ding of the soan papdi man - a shrill reminder of the buzz behind me. 

The group of adolescent boys who were behind me made me a little nervous. Don't know why. 

I'm constantly scared that a horse is going to go haywire and come running towards me. Any movement in my peripheral vision alerts me.

I feel like I'm sitting on a quilt. The sand is stuck on some parts of me. But, I'm not bothered because I know when I dust it off, it'll go. I feel like there's an analogy here about troubles and trials and whatnot. Maybe. 

The moonlight reflected on the waves makes me joyous. 

The sea is a vast grey expanse. 

The breeze - the cleansing breeze. I feel it wash away my cobwebs. I feel it unburden my lungs, straighten my shoulders. 

People are getting more and more comfortable with the ocean. The waves are now waist high and they're laughing. 

The policemen in their smart horses came whistling asking people to move away from the water. Within seconds of their retreat people were back in the water. 

What is it I smell? It's the ocean, I know. Is it the salt? Where did the salt come from? Does amniotic fluid have salt?

Of everyone, children seem to love the water more than life itself. 

Now almost the whole expanse is covered in moonlight. It reminds me of nights in Anilady* and Ayandur*. Ayandur mostly. Just thinking about those nights, those memories teared me up. Like how one would miss a dead parent..a good parent. Maybe those villages brought me up. Their mud roads, their down to earth people, the food smelling of firewood. And family. I was its and then it died. Now I'm living and I remember them on a night like this. 

Like that mole on my chin, there suddenly appeared a planet by the moon. 

The night sky expands over me. Tight and taut. I can't make out the details of the faces around me. But, I see that we are all one. Same calf muscles, same skeletal frame, same voice box, same pain, same grief, same joy, same beach. 

__________________________________________________________________________

While cleaning up my cupboard, I found a notepad from many years ago. I just typed out the notes as is (mostly) from notepad to blog! 

I remember taking it to the beach one evening when I was deep in the throes of exhaustion from being a new mom (might explain the melancholy). I remember walking around Madras, aimlessly, not knowing what to do or how to be without my infants on my arms - it was my first time out alone after giving birth. Life has moved forward and I can say with gratitude that I am in a place where I feel closest to God and better about life. 

*my paternal and maternal villages respectively

Agendas and winning

When my children were toddlers, I had a quote stuck on my shelf which read, “When we lose our agendas, everybody wins.” At that time I was just beginning to take tiny steps towards gentle parenting and words like ‘triggers’ and ‘childhood wounds’ were unfamiliar to me. But, this quote gave me some direction in my otherwise ambiguous motherhood journey. ‘Stop having set plans and you will not struggle so much with your toddler’ became my go to, to give my children more of a peaceful mummy and less of a yelling and disregulated mum. 

It’s almost eight years later; the paper I wrote the quote on was removed a long time ago. But, this morning, something happened that had me stand up straight and realise that the journey of the gentle parent is always an ongoing one, until we say goodbye to life on Earth. 

I was making chapatis for lunch today. Both my children show curiosity about what lunch I’m sending and after some episodes of ‘Ugh, sambar today’ and ‘eww, why kootu’ they were disciplined (gently, of course, maybe, probably) to not say these mean things about food I was making to nourish them. After that, my little ones (who now reach my shoulders), began wordlessly coming into the kitchen and inspecting the menu for themselves - without the grimace and commentary…haha! 

Anyways, I was in a hurry to finish things on time when my older twin asked me to make a baby chappathi. I was short on time and told her that it would not be possible. She was a little disappointed and walked away. But, after I finished my work, I had a little dough left, so I made two tiny chapatis and began roasting them on the tawa. I wanted to secretly pack it with their lunch and my heart felt contented imagining their surprise and the non-verbal way in which I would have told them that I loved them and that their desires meant so much to me. 

As I was roasting the secret chapatis, my younger twin walked into the kitchen. I was like, ‘oh no’. So I told her about my plan to surprise her and her sister, but now since she knew, she needed to keep it a secret. She agreed and found ways to keep her sister out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, I was outside, packing lunch, when my older twin walked into the kitchen and as she took her breakfast plate, she noticed the tiny, baby chapatis. She immediately asked, “Amma, is that for us?” 

So absorbed in my agenda was I that I completely forgot the whole purpose of me making those baby chapatis - to show my love to my children. Instead, I felt anger that my plan had gone kaput and was annoyed with both my girls for having found out. Thankfully, I’m in a place in my journey where I’m able to control (most times…not all the time) my outbursts and I just sulked quietly. That’s when ‘When we lose our agendas, everybody wins’ surfaced back into my conscious. And suddenly, I saw the quote, the situation, my motherhood and my growing children in a new light. 

The paradigm shift helped and I crawled out of my bad mood and was able to go on with the rest of the morning prep and rush with a cheerful spirit. 

It’s continuous and demands work, but the gentle parenting journey is the most Christ-like, God-like parenting that I can imagine. The grace I receive from my parent - my God, is the inspiration with which I offer grace to my children. 

Of Parents and Children

 

By the way....I've written a collection of short stories called, "Of Parents and Children".  

Here's the link if you're interested:

https://amzn.eu/d/6xvMLAv

It's an ebook and can be downloaded to the free Kindle app via the Amazon website. 

Giggles

Perched at the end of the pool lounge I watched a child wake her snoozing mother and ask, "Mum, are you sleeping?" I couldn't help but grin at this textbook 'child' behaviour. The mother, now woken up, slightly irritated, headed out to the pool. Her second child, younger, maybe two years old, ran behind her asking her to take her along. But the mother said that she wanted a swim (dad was also there, keeping an eye on the girls). The mother went for a swim after which dad and the older child entered the pool as well. The little one, however, annoyed at mom for not taking her along, refused to enter the pool. The dad - from inside the pool, at the edge - spent more than ten minutes convincing his little firecracker to come join them. She had her arms folded across her chest, chin up and her lips pouting in classic, strong, two-year-old adamance. Mum was watching from a little away. Finally, the little girl relented and jumped into her dad's arms into the pool. Mum, waded to where she was and held her. 

In a few seconds, the pool was filled with the tinkling sound of a toddler's giggles. Mummy was tickling baby under water, playing with her and making her laugh. Annoyances evaporated. 

That evening, while at dinner, I noticed a family of three - mum, dad and a pre-teen daughter - sitting at the table beside us. There were some serious conversations, maybe arguments, going on between mother and daughter. While I was busy attacking a pepper crab curry and golden fried prawns, I suddenly heard giggles. What was obviously a disagreement just a few minutes ago was now a full blown laugh attack - for both mom and daughter. It was contagious! I had to restrain myself from laughing with them - to preserve their privacy. Mom's face was pink from laughing and the girl's hair was all over her face as she tried to stop her mom from tickling her. They were in a mirth-ey embrace. And it was beautiful. 

Often with my own children too, I have observed that playfulness diffuses potentially explosive situations (where usually, I'm the one triggered into an overreaction); I mean, sure, I'd like to remember that every time and not in retrospect, but in the times that I do remember and consciously incorporate playfulness in the dealings with my children, life seems easier and less tedious. 

Yes, there's patience and benevolence and stepping away from the situation and deep breaths (all of these are important and they work beautifully when employed); and then there's giggles.  In the midst of anger, tears, irritation and a triggered mom wanting to practice and model calmness, but really getting ready to yell, giggles and playfulness can be that shower of cool rain on a scorching summer afternoon. 

What's important, again?

 Grammar is important. Spelling is important. The thought behind the words is important. Honesty is important. Integrity is important. Telling it as it is important. Saying it with kindness is important. Staying grounded is important. Giving flight to the imagination is important. Life is important. It need not be seriously important. Can be a little loose. A little messy. A little all over the place. Actually...that is life. 

The Good Ones

A couple of days ago my daughter came back from school with a drawing of the outline of India. I was convinced that it was done using a stencil, but to my utter surprise, she nonchalantly stated that she had drawn it freehand. It was a very good freehand drawing. She's only five.

This got me thinking of the time when I was in the 10th standard studying in Delhi - I must have been fourteen years old - when my geography teacher, Mrs. Jaya, asked someone to volunteer to draw the Indian map on the board. I loved Mrs. Jaya, and in my bid to impress her, I jumped right out of my seat, grabbed the chalk and proceeded to draw the map. I was pretty confident that it was a good one; Mrs. Jaya took the chalk from me, went to the board, drew a circle around the Southern Peninsula and said, "This part is excellent."

Back in my seat and now in a position to clearly see the 'map' in all its entirety, I right away knew that it was a piece of cr*p! But, I couldn't get over how Mrs. Jaya, despite the hideousness and inaccuracy, found something nice to say to me.

Some people are just born to build others up. Imagine them as teachers - healing hearts from broken homes, pumping love into low self-esteems and filling pained minds, ears and heads with kind and uplifting words.

Remembering with love and admiration all my teachers who did all of that for me.

Sprouting

Hello, virtual space traveler,

I last blogged here over four years ago. What? What kept me from blogging all these years? Nothing much; just body altering, life altering, hormones altering, brain cells rearranging, topsy-turvying childbirth/motherhood, that's all.

I've decided to once again force my opinions, experiences, tips and tricks, observations, dry sarcasm, drier humour and pathetic jokes on unsuspecting readers. Pishkew! Pishkew! (That's me shooting air bullets with my finger gun, btw.)

Be back soon with some super dumb ideas.

Two Left Thumbs

Fifa madness began just a couple of weeks ago for most; but, in my world footballs were being kicked and penalties being handed out for over a month and a half now. K’s focus and sincerity at playing the PS4 baffles me. I mean, I call myself a voracious reader, but can’t read more than a few pages at a time (that’s right now. There were times earlier in my life when gripped between the pages of a Forsyth, a Follet, a Sheldon, a Puzo or a Collins, I’ve gone for a whole day without food - ok, two meals….ok fine, one meal). He doesn’t call himself any grandiose names but is able to reach alarmingly high levels and ranks in short spans of time! 

Anyways, the gentleman that he is, he always invites me to play all his PS4 games with him; and though I really, really, really, really do want to, my two left thumbs leave me way behind the start line. Seriously. Behind the ‘start’ line. That’s how bad I am. But this time, when his new FIFA game arrived, I sincerely believed that things will be different.  I’m a fast learner - most of the time - but, this time, much to my feminist dismay, my very muscly footballers ended up doing a strange version of Ringa Ringa Roses on the streets of Brazil. And while they were ‘a-tishoo, a-tishoo’ all falling down, my thumbs, forefingers, index fingers and usually also the rest of my body did a weird mating/rain dance sequence to somehow get them to play football. 

Fine, so I made my peace with my non-sportiness and rejoiced when we bought a new game - a strategy game. Now, this had to be right up my alley, being the thinker/ponderer/mystery girl who also did some vague strategy courses in business school. Right? Right. 

Let me humbly and honestly lay my game controller down (for its own safety) as I admit, that apart from my two left thumbs all my other fingers go comatose during game play. Seriously. My characters just don’t move - no matter the button punching and lever pulling. They just stand there and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk. I mean, at least my footballers did a sort of dance; but my strategising criminals/vigilantes stay put and indulge in small talk - usually in the dining area. Hmmm….!!! 

I am at that point in my gaming life where I’ve accepted who I am - the girl who can’t handle more than two buttons at a time. The thing is, that's okay; because, to shoot a very irritated bird at a gluttonous pig my two left thumbs are almost all I need. 

The Inconvenience of Peace

Arms crossed, lips pursed and an adamance in his eyes that I found amusing and disturbing at the same time, I watched my barely three year old cousin refuse to apologise to someone he had just been rude to. Sheesh! Egos develop early. 

As we grow, some of us learn our lessons and are able to keep our egos a small size - most of the time; while the rest of us let it balloon and usually have it pricked and deflated very quickly by the world. Thats why, seeking peace becomes a very important thing. 

I know that now. But, a couple of decades ago, after going for four days without speaking to my brother (post some silly squabble) I was feeling quite the victor - as a kid, being the sweetheart that he was, he would buckle and give in within a day, but the years added a lot of sense to him and, worse, diminished the efficacy of my vampish strategy. Four days of empty victory later, along came Sunday! 

So, we go to church - maintaining status quo - and though we would have loved to sit on opposite ends of the church, we had to sit together as a family ("get, set, go inconvenience!") Half way through the mass the priest said, “Let’s now offer each other a sign of peace”. Now, sitting beside each other made things extremely inconvenient for me; however, surrounded by the hawk like eyes of our parents, we had no choice but to look at each other with folded hands and say, “Peace be with you.” It sucked the air out of both our ego-balloons; but deflated as they were now, the inconvenience of peace suddenly became a bridge to truce. 

One thing I’ve noticed is that the inconvenience of peace is a global phenomenon. In Edinburgh, I’ve seen at least a couple of people, every Sunday, who suddenly just HAD TO find something in their purses or cough vigorously when it was time to say peace! In India, I’ve seen fellow church goers stand immobile, their necks straining as they stared straight ahead while those on their left and right looked expectantly - almost longingly - at them! I’ve even seen some family members prod their loved ones who were refusing said peace and offer it to them persuasively! 

But, my best ‘peace’ experience was in Shanghai. Despite the mass being entirely in Mandarin, by sheer habit I knew what prayer was going on when; so when it was time for peace, I was all set to say peace to my Chinese brothers and sisters. The Chinese offer peace pretty much like us Indians - folded palms - and I did the same. It was a few moments before I realised that a very, very old Chinese lady (did I mention how ancient she was?!) who had been sitting a couple of benches ahead of me was completely enthralled with the only Indian face in that entire, huge church. She did a complete 180 degrees turn and continued to offer me peace with folded palms for a very long time! 

Inconvenient? Not really. Amusing and a just a tiny bit embarrassing - to me and everyone else in between me and cute old lady? Very much! 

Home is where my camera's heart is

A trip - any trip - is a rejuvenator.  Seeing something new or even revisiting something that you have already seen and enjoyed earlier can help remove cobwebs and infuse freshness into our drab routines. That’s why when K told me that we were going on a trip to Tokyo, I was over the moon and whatever is beyond! And the first thing that I got ready was my camera. 

My camera was my husband’s ‘thala Diwali’ (first Diwali after the wedding) gift to me. It’s an Olympus XZ-1 and is one of my favourite things in the world! And the pictures it takes are pretty awesome too. 

And being a passionate photographer’s spouse it’s only natural that I picked up a little bit of that interest too! Sayonara Chennai, Konnichiwa Japan it was! After some initial literally 'picture perfect' shots, my camera got moody and after a while simply retreated into a shell. 

Our second trip - to China - was met with even more over-the-moonness than the first! I love…LOVE…LOVE Chinese cuisine and after watching A Bite of China both hubby and I were looking forward to our food…err…business trip! (If you haven’t watched A Bite of China yet, please do! It’s an amazing documentary and an addictive watch - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRHNa9qdtlw. ) I had vowed to take photos of every single thing we eat - B, L, D and any snacks in between! So, we reach Shanghai and, as promised, I take pictures of the ‘original’ shrimp fried rice, the mind boggling Xialongbao and the tarts and biscuits that were complimentary at the cafe in our hotel. A day later, my camera starts sulking and a few hours later goes to sleep. 

The thing with traveling is that though you might be blown away by the newness, awesomeness and yumminess of it all, at some point in time it makes you realise that the chaotic, messy and familiar place you left behind - and only that place - is the legendary ‘sweet home’ people talk about. 

So, when we returned to sultry, hot and traffic-jammed Chennai and my camera suddenly sprung back to life, I realised that despite its Japanese roots,  my sweet camera is actually a Chennaite at heart. 

P.S: My husband says that the sensor in my camera starts acting up because of lower temperatures (both Tokyo and Shanghai were chilly when we went) and that’s why what happened, happened. I think this argument is best settled over full meals and filter coffee. 

Kidnapping of a different kind

Growing up in Delhi was a very social affair; we lived in a housing quarters for bank officers, so everyone knew everyone else. Birthdays, every kind of festival and other happy occasions were celebrated with much fanfare and togetherness. Deaths too saw neighbors and others show their solidarity and consolation - many a times relieving the grieving family from the chores of cooking for days together. This particular incident happened during a birthday party; there was a family that lived in the floor above ours and it was their elder son's seventh birthday. All the kids in the building - including my brother and I - were invited to the birthday party.

The party had a great turn out, and sans one unpleasant incident where their younger son planted himself at the door and refused entry to those who didn't bring gifts everything else was as much fun as a kid's birthday party could be. A few minutes after the cake was cut and we were all balancing our share of it on our paper plates, the door opened and about four men came in; the birthday boy's parents welcomed them with much respect and led them to another room.

Somehow, I remember that when they all walked in everyone became very quiet and there was an uncomfortable silence until they were out of sight. The oldest of them must have been in his mid fifties. He was well built, wore a pale green kurta pajama; it didn't look new, but it was perfectly ironed. He wore a black cap - a wooly one made of some animal's hair - sort of like a badly made wig. The other three men with him were much younger, maybe in their early twenties.

After some time, when we were all finished with our cakes and drinks, the birthday boy's dad scanned the party and invited a select few children - children who were my brother's age and younger - to the room. Now, I have always been very competitive, especially with my brother; even as a little girl, I would divide the chores such that my little brother and I had equal work to do!  I began arguing, obstinately demanding to be allowed into the room and finally - with much exasperation from everybody - was allowed.

They made the children stand in line and I watched entranced as the old man began to speak to them in soft, hushed tones. There was an unsettling focus in his eyes and though he didn't use any of the things we normally associate with it, I realize now that he was, in a way, hypnotizing the children. He began asking them about a child - a relative of the birthday boy's family -  who had been kidnapped. The children were asked what they could see, what they felt, what colors they saw; they were asked to describe the surroundings, the clothes they could 'see' the boy wearing and such. The man took his time with each child, patiently repeating questions and probing for answers. By the time he was with the third child, I was bored and decided to go home.

When I reached home, mom asked me where my brother was; not knowing what hypnosis was and being too  young to be aware of the gravity of the situation, I nonchalantly answered that some old guy was asking questions about some child who had been kidnapped. I'll never forget the look that came over my  mom's face; I was really scared, because though she wasn't yelling, I knew that she was very very very angry.

She marched upstairs with me in tow; like an angry mother lioness, to the shock and horror of the birthday boy's dad and the hypnotizing man, she barged into the room where the 'interrogations' were taking place; my mom gave them such a piece of her mind that they both cowered in embarrassment and a little fear. My brother was the one who was being questioned when we had walked in; mom grabbed him from the chair and came back home. The funniest thing (in retrospect) was that despite this, the birthday boy's parents kept asking for just another minute with my brother because apparently he had found a 'connection' - but they kept their distance.

Mom was so angry and emotional. I didn't understand it then, but I do now. Her fear and shock of having had her youngest baby misused that way. After we came back home, she prayed over my brother and did the other things that Indian mothers do to ensure that no bad vibes were around my brother. I was still in awe over my usually calm mother's near violent outburst that I don't really remember how the other parents reacted. But, I do know that hearing all the commotion several of them pulled their children out of the party.

A few days later, I asked my brother what it was that he had actually seen and that little imp tells me that he never saw anything, but let his imagination take over and made up stories for his own entertainment!

Be careful where you send your children and whom you leave them with. There are many wolves in sheep's clothing lurking around the most innocent of places.

Some songs...

There are some songs, especially French and Italian and those that they play on old time World War movies when soldiers are enjoying an unexpected glass of wine or cigarettes - amid chaos; songs that unlock the uncomfortable thought of the volatility of life.

When I listen to them, I feel like I'm at the cusp of change; like I've fought and battled against it; like the wave of change has crashed over me and drenched me in its inevitability.

Like, life moves on....life must go on.


Listen to Edith Piaf's La vie en rose, you might just feel the same way as me.

The Future Beckons

It was a lovely Saturday evening in Pondy. Mum and her friends were walking down a 'Salai' that I can't remember the name of. I'm not sure if they were shopping or were going some place. I was tagging along, a six, probably seven year old. We stopped at a crossing, waiting for the light to turn green for us pedestrians. There was a little jostle for space at that corner and I suddenly found myself standing right behind one of mom's friends whose braid fell way beyond her waist. In fact, I reached only up to her bum and the curling end of the braid was right at my face.

I stood there captivated. The way the locks of hair seemed to slide into each other, without tangling, was nothing less than a ballet of the tresses for me. At that moment, I felt such a pang of anxiety as I had felt only a few days ago.


I wasn't allowed tea or coffee as a child. But sometimes, mom would let me have a sip of what she was drinking (always non-alchoholic! Mom's a teetotaler!). So, on this particular day, mom asked me if I wanted 'garbled sound' to drink - I said yes. The drink - warmed to my liking, arrived. I took a sip a another and another and another and was overcome with a heavy heart. A feeling that I could relate to an incident that had happened only a few days ago.


I loved Sundays more than any other day. Of course, no school, no piano practice - no Sister Judith. It meant a visit to the bakers after Sunday mass and a non-vegetarian meal. Being the coastal girl that I am, fish and prawns are and have always been my all time favorites, but the family preferred meat, so it was usually chicken or mutton. So, on this particular day, lunch was quite delicious. Though, after my meal, in that state of utter obliviousness to reality - when you're almost asleep, but not quite, I had a thought that distressed my still growing brain - what if I am never able to tell the difference between a chicken dish and a mutton dish?

Which brings me back to the lukewarm drink. I couldn't tell if it was coffee or tea - it was just a brown, sweet liquid. How was I to grow up and offer people coffee or tea and then make it?

Which brings me back to the braid. How will I survive this world without knowing how to braid my hair.


Looking back, I can see that I worried a lot about my future! What a trying time it is to grow up, huh? But, as I look at myself now, I am filled with gratitude for the knowledge and friendship of God. The future beckons, but doesn't scare anymore! 

The sound of running water

In my building, the apartments are such that the kitchens share a wall. So, when my neighbor cooks, I'd know, with all the clanging and banging and the whistles from the pressure cooker. It was reassuring, somehow. Or at least that's what I expected her to feel, when she heard my vessels clang and bang and the mixie whizz at, umm.....unconventional cooking hours (K & I are both midnight snack lovers!)

But my neighbors moved out about a month ago. So, I don't hear any anymore Bengali through the brick walls. There's no constant, rhythmic thud, from a pre-teen practicing basket ball at home. And of course, there's no clang and bang and no smell of food cooking in the Bengali favorite mustard oil.

A couple of days after they'd left, one afternoon, I heard the tap from something I imagined to be a bubble top water storage open and close. I thought, 'Hmm..there are new people here already? How come I never heard them move in?' I soon forgot about it.

The next day, I heard the same sound, again. It was like someone opened the bubble top and were filling a bottle with water. I was in the kitchen, so I came out to see if K was using our bubble top. Nope. So immediately I opened my door to check if my neighbor's door was locked. It was. From outside. A small shiver of fright ran criss cross inside me. Asking God to help me control my high flying imagination, I went about my day.

But this sound of water wouldn't leave me alone. Seriously, whenever I was by myself, I'd hear this sound. What is supposed to be calming (the sound of running water) suddenly started scaring me. I thought, gulp, I was hearing things. And things were making themselves heard only to me.

One afternoon however, while K and I were having lunch, I heard my ghost sound. This time, K reacted and was looking around for the source of it. Can I tell you, I was so relieved that I wasn't the only one hearing these sounds. We tried to figure out the source, and before he left for work, he managed to whisper "maybe there's a ghost here" and bid goodbye, chuckling naughtily.

By now, I was pretty distraught at hearing these mysterious sounds. Why running water? Why at only certain times? Why not at night? Why does the source of sound seem to come from different directions everyday? Are there invisible people living next door? Or are there invisible people living in-door? Maybe there's a time dimension oddity and there are two families living in the same house and I can hear them, but they can't hear me. Maybe the audio will turn visual one day and I'll be able to live in my dimension, but also witness a different dimension.

It was confusing and scary and weird. So, I did what any normal person would do. Watched T.V. In HD. So good.

It was while I was watching T.V, that I heard the sound again. This time it was very soft. And 'EEEEEEE' very close. I investigated around the sofa like a hound. Only I used my ears instead of my muzzle.

And I found it. The source of my distress and mystery and fear and palpitation for the past week.

Drumroll.

 It.....was........my.......phone.

Sheesh.

It was then that I remembered that a week ago, I had downloaded an app to remind me to drink water every few hours. And it had been dutifully doing so. At regular intervals, with the sound of running water.

To say that I was relieved would be an understatement.

Imagination....thou art an fickle friend. 

Quite fishy this

I wanted to be adventurous today. So instead of seer fish, I bought pomfret. I came home and 'dabbled' in fish curry and fish fry making and immediately thought, 'I should have bought the seer fish'. Even in a screwed up curry, it tastes good!

Growing up, fish curry was my absolute favourite. My brother hated the fish, in the fish curry, so I automatically inherited his share. The curry that mom used to make was this tangy, dark one, which had whole garlic pods, that had been cooked in the stew floating around. Aah, thank God for my brother's pet peeves, for I inherited those garlic pods too!

Over time, now that I have a more mature palate, when I taste mom's fish curry, it seems so much tastier than what I used to have as a child. However, I cannot seem to master it no matter how many times she repeats the recipe to me, or how many times I google 'traditional tamil fish curry'!

What I made today was Ooook, but that didn't stop my lovely hubby from telling me that 'it's good'! I think I'm going to practice a lot lot lot more to get it as right as mom's. It's going to take a while though, I can feel it in my taste buds.

Maybe I'll even post some pictures and spice things up a bit ;) 

Midnight crisis

This summer when the Government announced that there'll be power cuts, it was no surprise. Happened last year, so this year was no shocker. Their business plan (or whatever it can be called) was surprisingly convenient. We were told in advance about how many hours and at what times power would be disconnected. That was relief because, I could plan lunches ahead (use the blender at the right time and not become panicky when I switched it on and there was no whirr.) More than anything, I could go out and come back at the right time, to use the elevator!

Today however, there had been an unscheduled power cut, at night. Midnight. Can I tell you, unashamedly, that I couldn't sleep without the hum of the AC. I tossed, turned, sighed, heavily sighed - no use. After what seemed like many years, the power came back and believe me, for a few minutes, I surprised myself at how deliriously happy it made me.  And like the cake that came so close to the mouth and then was snatched away, the power got disconnected, again. 

I almost cried. 

The power's back now (came back about half hour later), but like a 'once bitten twice shy' person, I'm unable to go back to bed, because I'm afraid it'll go again and this time, I'll be mad! 

When I first started this blog, in 2006, I was quite confident that it would last as long as a goldfish's memory. I had begun and abandoned so many blogs by then, that this my blog had a very slim chance of surviving my lack of attention! 

All true, until one fortunate day, I found out that my then boyfriend was reading my blogs! Delighted, and very pheromones-ically, I subliminally thought that, looking after my blog would be akin to looking after a pet, or a plant and show to him in some subconscious way that I was 'responsible' or maybe even 'nurturing'! Haha! 

Recently I was going through some old diaries of mine and was quite bewildered that some of the incidents I've written about (some codes were involved! Teenage was tough with curious and snoopy family members!) don't exist in my memory anymore! I mean, it's as if some of my diary entries were pieces of fiction! 

However, when I go back to posts written so many years ago and read about incidents that are merely fading pictures in my memory, it gives me a certain joy! It also reminds of many other related things that had found their happy corners in my mind. 

So, growing older I've come to realize two things. One, changing your blog's name all of a sudden will ensure that no one, apart from the 'Next Blog' visitor will ever read it (hello you!) And two, it's not as easy to rattle away about one's day as it used to be before! 

Therefore friend, whoever you are, who's reading this - welcome, and thanks! 

And to my aforementioned 'then boyfriend', if you're reading this, I'd like to say - "Hi hubbykins!"