tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17865873374705644802024-03-08T03:34:59.184-08:00Life,ActuallyNo matter where I go,no matter what I do,at heart,I will always remain a little girl...still delighting at rainbows and little pleasures,still asking questions,and still believing in the idea of a simple world.In my journey,I gather new experiences and make new discoveries every day.And in that process,I attempt to understand,little by little,Life,Actually.Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-18076695905897480722014-08-09T02:55:00.000-07:002014-08-09T02:55:51.787-07:00Memoirs and More...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So a random casket opened up in
the cellar of my reminiscences, and out tumbled a memory from years ago:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was about eight years old. My
very first dog, Candy, had succumbed recently to old age. And to my eight-year
old mind, she had already become a direct-line messenger to God. So whenever I
wanted something, I would ask Candy to ‘put in a word’ to God, simply to
expedite the process of having it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back then, my school was located
close to my dad’s office. So in the evenings, the car would pick me and Rohit
(my neighbor who also went to the same school) up, and then we would wait for Dad
outside his office.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On one such day, Dad took longer
than usual. Rohit and I, restless and grumpy after a long day at school, couldn’t
sit still any longer. So we jumped out of the car, and put our eight-year-old
brains to work, on how we could get home sooner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, I brightened up. “I
know, I’ll just ask Candy to send Papa out faster!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Rohit looked at me like I had
lost my marbles. “Err…What? Are you out of your mind?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh yes! She is my hot-line to
God! You wait and see, she’ll send Papa out soon!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think Rohit restrained himself
from pooh-poohing my plan further because he thought angering me would not be a
good idea at all, considering he still wanted the lift back home. So when I
started my conversation with Candy, he just watched quietly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, the thing is, I didn’t just ‘talk’
to Candy that day…I thought it would be better if I could improvise and do
something more ‘impactful’, for quicker results. So, I began a little tribal-esque
practice of sorts. I marched round and round, all the while saying, “Candy send
Papa fast!! Candy send Papa fast!!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then, I do not know what came
over Rohit, but after a while, he probably thought he might want to give this
weird prayer/request thing a shot too. So he joined me in the circle, and
started marching briskly as well. Only, he didn’t mention Candy at all. (Umm, did
I tell you he had been scared of her all throughout, while she had been around?)He
made up his own chant, which was, “Uncle, Uncle, come fast!! Uncle, Uncle, come
fast!!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there we were, two eight-year
olds, marching round and round, and chanting away to glory, outside a big iron
gate that demarcated the corporate world from the outside world. To several amused onlookers, we must have
seemed like quite a crazy pair of kids. But we did not care. We were focusing
on our prayer: that of getting Papa out of the office at the earliest, so we
could reach home quickly. And when he did come out ‘sooner’, we conveniently credited
the outcome to our chants.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Looking back, I wonder if any of
the onlookers that day might have been tempted to forget their grown-up lives
for a little while, and join us kids in our little charade. Or if any of them
who understood what we were doing, might have wanted to shed all inhibitions
and ‘demand’ something from Nature in the same way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes, even if only for its limitless
imagination, interesting observations, and the lack of inhibitions, I think
Childhood should be considered a SuperPower J</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So long,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mishree.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-75997507529480829552014-04-12T11:48:00.000-07:002014-04-12T20:12:55.834-07:00Gachchi : A Playground For The Memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 20px;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
I read the word “Gachchi” on my
friend’s FB wall yesterday. Almost immediately, a very funny thing happened. I realized immediately that there was something
very warm, honey-like and familiar about the sound it made in my mind. And I wondered why
it had begun to trigger a jet of memories. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
Then, in my head, I heard a
little girl asking me, “Gachchi var kheluya?” (Shall we play on the terrace?) </div>
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<br /></div>
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For the uninitiated, “Gachchi” is
Marathi for “terrace”. And for this post, I will refrain from using the English
equivalent, simply because it will not sound even remotely as magical. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
As a kid, I lived on the top
floor of a fairly old building, and two flights of stairs – seventeen steps
exactly – took me to the Gachchi.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was an ordinary C-shaped
structure, with little blue-green-white-mosaic chips that ran along its
expanse. The parapet walls were about four-feet high, coarse, stone-grey
structures, and at irregular intervals on them, stood old TV antennae, the kind
that had to be adjusted everytime there was a transmission problem.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There was nothing spectacular
about the Gachchi, really. But to me,
the Gachchi was my perennial source of merriment, my wonderland. Back then, I
remember preferring the Gachchi to the playground. Perhaps because I never did
enjoy games that involved too much running around or that came with a set of
rules. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
I think I loved the Gachchi so
much because it let me be. If I had a friend with me on a particular day, we
could begin a game of charades or Badminton or ‘House-House’ or Antakshari. If
I did not have company, I would begin making my own stories and enacting them.
There was no one to judge or criticize, and my imagination could be as
freewheeling as it wanted to be. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
The Gachchi listened if I wanted
to cry. Or vent out anger. If I wanted to study, it allowed me to. If I needed
to sing myself hoarse, it became my audience.
If I wanted to play a make-believe game, it humoured me. If I wanted to
write, it played the unintrusive companion. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
Sometimes, my entire family would
get together, and we would have impromptu potluck dinners on the Gachchi. We
even had a table specially meant for such occasions.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
The Gachchi allowed me to
discover the wonders of the night sky. Often at night, my parents and I would
climb up those two flights of stairs, go to the Gachchi, and they would teach
me to identify constellations. Great Bear, Orion and Big Dipper are names I’ve
learnt standing on that Gachchi, tracing and memorizing patterns with my
fingers.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
Then, there were the birthday
parties. On those days, the Gachchi would be transformed into a different world
altogether, with armchairs, gaddas, chataayees, lights and balloons. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
We left that house in many years
ago, and I have never had a chance to see the Gachchi since. Sometimes, little
snapshots of times spent on the Gachchi appear in my head. Of red chilli
peppers or raw mango strips left out to dry in the warm sunshine. Of the
special blue and white table that patiently stayed put until summoned for a
Gachchi-dinner. Of certain faces that were there during those parties, but are
no more around. Of the night sky that was my blackboard. Of me sitting with my
childhood friends, exchanging schoolgirl chitchat. Of TV antennae that
frequently malfunctioned. Of the water tank that I was bold enough to climb on
top of but too cowardly to come down from. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
In a very strange way, I think spotting
one tiny word out of so many, was no mere coincidence. Because even as I list
memory after memory that the word triggered, I realize that I have really,
really, missed an old friend. And I feel a certain calling to go back to the
Gachchi, and relive bits and pieces of the yesteryears. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
So many things change over time.
And so many remain just as constant. Perhaps in our quest to deal with the
variables, we forget that the constants are still around. And that they are
waiting for us to re-establish contact. Strange as though it may sound, I think
one such constant just found out a way to reach out to me. And I cannot wait to
do the same!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #00b0f0;">PS: Did I mention I love discovering magic
in the most random occurrences?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #00b0f0;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Much Love,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Me.</div>
</div>
</div>
Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-72974038209980046712013-07-16T22:36:00.000-07:002013-07-16T22:36:11.897-07:00The Girl In Ivory White<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I see a little girl</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dressed in ivory white</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her brown locks curl around her face</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her eyes dance a happy dance</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And when she giggles,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her little button nose crinkles</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And makes me smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She prances around from corner to corner,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like she owns the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From time to time,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She breaks into a song,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tuneless, but soulful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She makes me smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, she starts to dance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her feet possess the rhythm</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That her voice does not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She is free, uninhibited, inspired,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She has a magical quality about her,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That makes me smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She picks up something from the ground,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Something that has caught her fancy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is a triangular blue piece of glass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She holds it up against the sun,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Chuckles at the triangular green patch on the blue sky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her laughter makes me smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It is only if you look closely,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That you spot the holes in her ivory white dress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That you see the cracks on the tiny feet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That you realize her brown hair,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Is because of more sun and less food.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That the piece of glass is entertainment she has chanced
upon,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maybe today is her lucky day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She continues to sing, she continues to dance,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But now holds her blue treasure close to her heart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She is careful to not let it fall on the road below,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Because she does not want to lose it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just the way I hold on to that treasured moment tightly,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Because I do not want it to fall out of my mind,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Because I do not want to lose it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-16452613110002990902013-07-12T00:41:00.002-07:002013-07-12T00:41:53.406-07:00The Ceremony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am sitting in a plush,
well-decorated room. The room is a mishmash of the smells of smoke, incense and
flowers. Neatly arranged on the cream coloured floor are steel plates - some
with flowers, some with fruits, some with betel leaves, one with a red and gold
cloth. The priest recites Sanskrit chants with practiced fluidity. A lamp
stands in the centre; its flame flickers restlessly, almost like a defiant
child. And on a little green stool, covered under heavy yellow and pink
garlands, lies a photo-frame. The frail old lady whom everyone fondly referred
to as ‘Mashima’ peers out from behind the flowers. She strikes me as a meek,
inconspicuous element in the surroundings. Not as the person the ceremony revolves
around. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The portly fifty-something daughter-in-law
has the most flagrant presence in the room. She welcomes the guests as they arrive.
She scuttles between the kitchen and the drawing room, sometimes doling out
orders to the servants, sometimes handing over to the priest what he requires.
She animatedly tells visitors stories of her deceased mother-in-law. I perceive
an almost cheerful demeanour that seems jarringly out-of-place for the
occasion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The son, the Executive Director
of a firm, walks in and out of the room intermittently. He is a very busy man.
He has put his meetings and conference calls on hold for the first half of the
day. When it is time for his part of the rituals, he sits down cross-legged in
front of his mother’s photograph. From inside the frame, his mother seems to
look at him almost apologetically. She knows she cannot demand her son’s time –
she hasn’t been able to do that for over thirty-five years now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Five minutes into the ritual, the
son begins shifting in his seat impatiently. “How much longer, <i>Thakur Moshai?</i>”, he questions. “Do I
have to read this entire book of hymns?” The women of the family burst out
laughing. How amusing you are, you poor thing, they tell him. The priest
smiles. “Only a little more time, Ghosh Da, and we will be done.” The son begrudgingly
sits on. From time to time, he glances at the wall-clock.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You know, in the last few
months, Sunil couldn’t spend much time with Ma. He would probably get very
upset seeing her like that, all frail and helpless, you know? That is why he
wouldn’t go into her room too much”, the daughter-in-law explains to the guests,
almost as a defense mechanism. The guests nod sympathetically.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maanu, the resident household
help, takes care of little details pertaining to the guests and the ongoing ceremony.
I remember Mashima telling me that he came to their house as a ten-year old
orphan. He has learnt early enough to shop for groceries, to cook, he even
knows how to drive. He has shaved off his hair as a part of the mourning
rituals.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> “We did not want to put her in the hospital.
She liked it here at home. But then, on the last day, the doctor told us her BP
was falling rapidly. So we admitted her”, the daughter-in-law tells us.<b><span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“How long was she in hospital?”,
a guest asks. “Oh, only a day. She went peacefully, <i>Dada</i>, no pain, no discomfort”, says the daughter-in-law. “After my
father died, the crooks at the hospital put him on ventilator for half a day.
Money-minting mechanisms, these, nothing else!”, says another guest. “What else
can we expect, <i>Dada</i>? In times of so
much corruption ruling the State, especially, <i>bolun</i>?”, the daughter-in-law offers. The guests nod. The
conversation spins off into a discussion about the latest political scamsters.
And then, football, Rituparno Ghosh and automobiles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The maid enters the room with a
tray, an ornate, delicately carved wooden showpiece (“Oh this? Sunil got it
from Sri Lanka!”). Little gold-rimmed porcelain cups (“And these are a gift
from my brother. He picked them up from Italy.”) stand on it with dignity. The
daughter-in-law coaxes her guests to drink tea. Some of them pick up the cups,
some others politely decline.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Sunanda here took care of her in
the last few days”, the daughter-in-law says, gesturing towards the maid. “She
managed to persuade Ma to eat something at least. Otherwise in the last one
month, she had practically given up eating. Like she had lost the will to live,
you know?”, the daughter-in-law narrates. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sunanda smiles politely, then
gracefully retreats into the kitchen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The grandson sits inside his
room, showing his friends his new mobile phone. Occasionally, peals of their
laughter wander into the drawing room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What is Rohit doing these days,
Mala?”, a guest enquires of the grandson. “Oh, he will begin with his MBA now.
You know how important these MBA degrees are. And so expensive, no? But then,
what to do, he is our only son. So we encouraged him fully. It is a very good
college, one of the <i>best</i>”, the
daughter-in-law informs loudly enough for the other guests to hear. She somehow
forgets to mention the hefty donation the son paid for the admission. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The priest asks for something.
The daughter-in-law hurries inside the kitchen and steps out with a plate. “All
of her favourite things, you know? <i>Samosa</i>,<i> begun bhaja</i>, <i>dhoka-r dalna</i>, and most importantly, icecream! How she loved
icecream. Could eat so much of it at one go!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hear one guest murmuring to her
husband, that a lot of the actual rituals aren’t being followed, and what kind
of casual ceremony is this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A wisp of a memory crosses my
mind. It is a summer afternoon, about a year ago. Mashima is on her rounds in
the colony garden. Alone. She spots me as I walk past, and calls out to me. I
detour, walk up to her, then lead her brittle body to a bench. She is happy to
see me. Asks how I am, how everyone at home is, how work is, and everything
else she can remember. I answer her queries one by one. When she sees my mobile
holder, she exclaims that it is beautiful. “Can you get me one like it? I will
pay you”, she offers. I tell her I will be happy to. But then, her face falls.
She changes her mind. “Mala won’t be very happy, let it be”. Then she asks me
to store my number in her mobile phone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Asha, let us go downstairs to
the community hall, we will be starting with lunch shortly,” someone says in my
ears. I am jolted out of the flashback. I realize the ceremony is now over, and
that the guests have started vacating the house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I walk down the stairs, into the
lawn. At the other end of the lawn, the son, now relieved of his personal
duties, stands with a lit cigarette in one hand and a mobile phone in the
other. He has ignored his professional commitments for more than pardonable
time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I cross the grandson too; he is
making plans to play football after the ceremony. And the daughter-in-law is
telling a new family how Mashima had lost the will to live. I finish my lunch
(an elaborate affair) mostly in silence, making small talk with some neighbours
I know. Before I leave, I walk up to the daughter-in-law and thank her for the
hospitality. “How did you like the food?”, she asks. I tell her it was very
good. “We got these caterers from Kolkata, you know? So difficult to get them
at such short notice, but we managed!” I smile, and request to take her leave.
She says good-bye, and moves on to talk to more guests. As I walk out of the
hall, I hear her thanking someone for coming, and telling them how Ma loved
visiting their house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In my building lobby, I notice
Gupta Ji, the watchman, staring at the community hall. “Sab kuchh theekh se ho
gaya, madam?”, he asks me. I smile and tell him it all went off smoothly. “Bahut
acchhi thi Mashima. Woh hum se kabhi-kabhi bolti thi dukaan se saamaan lane ke
liye. Unke ghar mein kisi ko time nahin milta tha, na”, Gupta Ji recollects. I am
not sure what to tell him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For one last time, I turn around
and look at the colony lawn, where Mashima used to walk. Alone. All at once,
there is a vision, of Mashima ambling past with her walker. Alone. She seems to
look at me, and waves. I smile, and in my heart, ask her to take care. And with
that, I turn back towards home.</span></div>
</div>
Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-74446025477856612202013-07-09T00:00:00.001-07:002013-07-09T10:10:06.721-07:00Of Factors, Equations and More...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I do not remember very much of
how that day began. But I do recall that it was a very early morning in the
summer of 1993. I was woken up gently by Ma, who helped me get dressed, and
then the three of us – Ma, Dadu and I – left for Allahabad. I had no idea who
lived there, or why we were going. But we boarded a crowded train that trudged
reluctantly along inconspicuous stations, farms and <i>kachcha</i> roads, as if protesting the relentless heat all along.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Seven hours later, we were
knocking on a grey door. Then we were being greeted by the surprised shrieks of
family members who had not been informed of our arrival. As Ma hugged relatives
she was seeing after many years, I kept looking around, lost. I knew no one
there. I distinctly remember feeling that all of those people, our relatives,
were very, very loud. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eventually, Ma realized that I
was there. And bit by bit, over the next four days, the Allahabad connection
was unfurled to me. I learnt that the house we were in was where Ma had grown
up. I learnt who was who. I was asked to call certain people by certain names. And
I was pampered to the core. I was Mitali’s daughter after all; Mitali, who was
the youngest of her generation, and the apple of everyone’s eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over those four days, I
experienced many ‘firsts’. For one, I had always lived in a fairly small
apartment in Mumbai. It was a quiet life, with just my parents for the most
part, and occasionally with my grandparents. In that huge ancestral home in
Allahabad, there was a courtyard, there were fruit-trees inside the house, there
were staircases, there were two terraces, and there was a “choubachcha”, or a
water tank. And there were aunts, uncles, cousins, grand-aunts and grand-uncles
and neighbours all the time. It was chaotic, but it was beautiful. I realized for
the first time what it was like to be in a joint family, and I loved it. But the
best part was that I had resident playmates all the time, in the form of my
siblings. And to an only child like me, that was complete bliss.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After that trip, my cousins and I
began writing to each other. I would wait to spot the blue of inland letters or
the beige of postcards with familiar scrawls. My life in Bombay had plenty of
other distractions, but I looked forward to those intermittent bits of
communication. And on birthdays, there would be the much-awaited phone-calls.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I made subsequent trips to
Allahabad over the next few years. In the interim, our games had matured; from
Blind-Man’s Buff and Chor-Police, we graduated to Charades. Occasionally, we
fought, then we made up. Allahabad was a small, unambitious city, and power
cuts were commonplace. I remember hot afternoons of no material comforts in the
form of fans or coolers, but of the solace of lots of laughter and mad company.
There were many more rooms and many more
beds in that sprawling house, but somehow, despite that heat, we slept huddled
up on one single bed, using each other as side-pillows.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One morning, two of my cousins
had a fight. Bubul Dada was picking on Tumpa Didi, she said a few nasty things
in return, and they fought. Bubul Dada sat down quietly in a corner of the
room. The rest of us continued with our games, glancing at both of them from
time to time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After a while, I noticed a tear
trickling down Bubul Dada’s cheek. “Bubul Dada is crying!” I shouted. Tulu
Dada, our eldest brother, who was normally very quiet, swooped in on the scene
at once. He hugged Bubul Dada, wiped his tears, and told him to not pay
attention what Tumpa Didi had said. And then, with the stern authority of a
father, he commanded Tumpa Didi to apologise. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tumpa Didi flatly refused. “He
was the one to provoke me”, she said. “I am not saying sorry, no way”. The rest
of us, much younger than them, started wheedling to Tumpa Didi to apologise so
that everything would go back to normal. I, in particular, wanted it to soon because
I was leaving for Bombay the next day. All of a sudden, I do not know what
happened, but Tumpa Didi burst out crying as well, and ran to Bubul Dada
screaming out multiple sorries in quick succession. The next minute, all three
of them were hugging, and we were watching them, amused. Five minutes later, it
was as if nothing had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That
memory is still vividly etched out in my mind, because that was the first time
I had seen so dramatic an argument between my cousins. Now that I think of it,
back then, Bubul Dada was twenty and Tulu Dada twenty-three. I had seen a
grown-up man crying, so uninhibited, and only because of something his little
sister had said to him. And Tulu Dada had cajoled him like one would a little
boy of four. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">*********************************************************************************</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Today, Bubul Dada is thirty-six
years old, and is the father of a five-year old. Today, Bubul Dada, as per his
wife’s orders, does not speak with the rest of us anymore. After a series of
incidents, we have learnt the hard way to cut off from them. To not call. To
not convey enthusiastic wishes on birthdays. We have not seen him in many
months, and doubt we will again. We have also learnt to consider his absence
from our get-togethers normal. We know we won’t see his son growing up, the way
we see the other babies of the family. When we have our family con-calls, we do
not mention him. When we send each other forwards on our Whatsapp group, we know he will never get to see them and laugh. I still want to send him a Rakhi, but even if I do, he won’t
wear it. When family members die, Bubul Dada won’t think of a perfunctory
condolence visit or phone call. Things are different.<i> Very</i> different.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I recently recounted that
childlike fight of sixteen years ago to another cousin of mine. “Do you
remember how simple things used to be then? I wish they still were”, I told him. “That’s
alright”, he said. That was one kind of life, this is another. We made the most
of that life, we need to thoroughly enjoy what we have in this one as well.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">*********************************************************************************</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As we grow older, we begin to realize
that certain things that we considered ‘factors’ in our life weren’t really factors
at all. We learn to live without people, without things, without abilities. And
we discover new possibilities and new lives with new people, new things, and
newfound abilities. Sometimes we look back and ponder over things that aren’t
the same, but then, that is only momentary. And we are back to this life. Just
like </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">that</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Maybe this is wishful thinking,
or the emotional fool in me talking, but sometimes, I wonder what would have
happened if once more, something else or someone else intervened, like Tulu
Dada had back then? What if someone could swish a magic wand?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But then, I know the answer.
Those things will never change. The good thing, though, is that we have our own
magic wands, with which we can change our expectations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And in the end, that is really
all we need to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Much Love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-25238427978047647402012-07-18T20:33:00.000-07:002012-07-18T20:33:58.641-07:00Because I have ignored you for a long long time...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Blog,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I am sorry. I just haven't been able to concentrate on you for a while now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Today, on one of those trips, where I hop from blog to blog, and read bits and pieces of what other bloggers have written, I wonder <i>how</i> they get time to write so beautifully. Rather, I wonder how they manage to <i>make</i> time.And then I envy them, envy their patience and calmness of mind, and I feel a teensy bit of anger on my own self, for not trying too hard, probably.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I don't think words come to me as easily as they used to. At least, the big, nice words.(Have I actually ever managed to use big words??)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My blog followers have been stuck at 48 for the longest time now! :-(</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I guess it is a mix of too much work, and lots of travelling, and very little peace of mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I guess for hyper freaks like me, peace of mind doesn't come easy. Maybe it is time I made my peace with that. (Ironic, hehe.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I think this is the first time I don't have any qualms about sounding silly on my blog. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I am also happy I am writing here, devoid of inhibitions, after a long long time. No premeditated, rehearsed, written and deleted and rewritten thoughts - just an easy flow of words. It is like talking to a close friend, with no one around, no one eavesdropping and making judgements, you know?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Thank you for listening, Blog. You are always so unconditional.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I love you too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'll drop by again later, okay?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Don't miss me too much. And if you do, call out to me the way you do and I'll come, the way I do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">XOXO.</span></i><br />
<br />
<br /></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-90199497623889155792012-07-10T10:31:00.004-07:002012-07-10T10:34:00.492-07:00silly.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I want to make a silly poem, with you.<br />
<br />
:P<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-33525284004603721872012-04-28T23:31:00.000-07:002012-04-28T23:31:43.856-07:00Ramblings...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Let me see.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to write,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">About what,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I think,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to ask questions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To whom,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to argue,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">About things unchangeable,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With whom,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know.<br />I want to frame sentences</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Sentences that explain,<br />What they should explain,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know.<br />I want to speak my mind,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And say what I feel,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What I feel,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to break into a song,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A song that describes it all,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What it should describe,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do know,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That there is Hope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hope that will never die.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hope that will keep rekindling the Fire,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Fire of Dreams</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Fire of Belief</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Fire of Passion</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Fire in my belly,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Fire that is Me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So I may fall,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I will Rise,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I may bleed,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I will Heal,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I may err,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I will Learn.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And that is all that matters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<br /></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-36606366578916171962012-04-22T03:38:00.000-07:002012-04-22T03:44:48.537-07:00"Something Called Polo"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The year 2008 changed a lot of
things for me. I began with a new stint academically. I met new people, I
formed new equations.I started pursuing a lot of forgotten interests. I
developed some new ones. I also learnt that I could love again – I only had to
try a little harder, and believe a little more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This isn’t a story about how a
lot of things changed me, or about how I changed a few things around myself –
that will take up a lot of time, and make for many little stories. This is
about one of those little stories – about how, among all the changes, something
called Polo happened to me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The first I remember of her is on
an Orkut Community for our college. She struck me as bold, really bold – and definitely
not someone I could be friends with. But then, we got talking. And we would speak
for hours every other day. About the man she loved and wanted to marry, about
the man I loved so much but could not marry, about her cocker spaniel, about my
pomeranian, about our XLRI and IIM Dads, about the active social life that she
led, about the boring existence that was my life. And somewhere, in this
jumbled equation of startling similarities and crazy differences, I found a friend.
A rock-steady friend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We decided that when we both moved to
Chennai for our MBA, we would be roomies. I was unsure, but I needed the madness, the
difference in lifestyle, the change that Polo would bring into my world. And I
was really looking forward to it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But then, I received an offer to
study in Bombay. And it seemed like a practical thing to do, because my mom was
alone in the city. So I chose it over the other life that I had already started
to construct so imaginatively in my head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Once the MBA course began, we
lost touch. But a year and a half later, Polo’s parents moved to Bombay, and
soon, Polo followed, with a transfer to my campus. We finally met, and spent
the last semester together. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In what would turn out to be another
coincidence, we both got placed on the same day in the same organization. While
choosing our locations, she opted for Gurgaon and I for Mumbai. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The day before she left, I went
to meet her. Both of us were on the verge of starting another phase of our
lives. This time too, we were eerily parallel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With the jobs, staying in touch
became difficult again. Once in a while, we would speak and update each other
on our lives. She seemed to love her role, I hated mine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Last year, I changed jobs and
moved to a profile of my choice, a job that I love. Earlier this year, Polo got
married to Anand, after more than five years of a beautiful, fulfilling
courtship. I couldn’t make it to the wedding.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Recently, I went to Gurgaon on an
official trip, and met Polo (now Mrs. Anand!) after almost two years. Things
were just the same - conversations were easy and from the heart. I told her my
parents were groom-hunting and that sometimes it got scary. She told me I was “gorgeous
and honest and creative and fun and caring bloody brilliant” and that “I shouldn’t
settle for something or someone less<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">”.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I met Anand as well, and absolutely loved the couple. Polo asked
me for my approval (yes, after five and a half years of courtship and two
months of wedded life!!) and I very willingly gave her the thumbs up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Last week, I received a random phone call from her early in the
morning, when I was at work. “Tanu!!” She shrieked into the phone, and
continued, “So I called my mom some time back, and said to her, Ma, go find
Tanu a nice guy!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Erm…o…kay??” I responded. “Yeah!!” She went on, excited. “And then I called my mom-in-law, and I told
her the same thing! So you are in any case looking right? Always better to have
someone who knows you look out for you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">I wanted to tell her that her mom-in-law hadn’t the faintest
clue who I was, but her earnestness, her enthusiasm were way too touching. I laughed
and told her she was crazy. And we hung up grinning and went back to work.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After four years of knowing Polo,
I think we were destined to connect in the craziest ways. I think back to that
first day I saw her on Orkut, and of how convinced I was that she was “too cool”
for me to gel well with her. I realize, off and on, that we have counted more
and more similarities between our lives every now and then. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Today, four years later, she is
still crazy, still bold, still unconventional, still forthright. She is also
still one of the warmest, most honest, most genuine people I have known. I wonder what made us click, despite hiatuses in communication and distances in location. And I realize
something that I am now putting in words for the first time…Polo and I may keep
counting our similarities all our lives, but it is the differences that have
kept us really strong. And for those differences, and the intermittent
crisscrossing of our destinies, and for the time that something called Polo
happened to me, I will always be grateful!!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Much Love,</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me.</span></o:p></div>
</div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-90432414061356719022012-04-14T10:33:00.002-07:002012-04-14T10:46:11.096-07:00"Invisibility"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to fade away</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">into that realm of oblivion</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Where I can scream out my deepest fears</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Where no one will hear me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to write</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Freely, sans inhibitions</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On a clean slate<br />
That no one can see.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to paint<br />
Images in garish and subtle colours alike<br />
On a canvas<br />
That no one can judge.<br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Invisibility,<br />
How I long for thee.</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-24675070825308813522012-01-04T09:00:00.000-08:002012-01-04T09:00:34.572-08:00On Today...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I coax sleep into my tired eyes </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And mind</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And soul</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Wake up in the morning</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To the same uncertainty</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The day begins on a wrong note</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Things happen</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Things that I do not like</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Things that daringly question my new-found belief</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A belief that is supporting my sanity right now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I almost break. I feel the tears stinging my eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I hold on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I pull on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Not letting go of the goals that I have set</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do my bit to achieve every one of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The day ends</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I leave</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To begin another journey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wonder if I will buckle,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Somewhere, in the middle of the rut</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of one journey after another.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of one challenge after another.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I know I can't give up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I know I won't give up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That is the other belief.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the mean time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There is the warmth</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of unknown, unseen 'strangers'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of the familiarity of family</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of the wagging tails of my dogs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of actual jokes on Facebook that make me laugh,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Because they are genuinely funny.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I like that variety of laughter more</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Than the kind that sarcasm or irony evoke.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And that is how it shall remain. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Oh</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Did I forget to mention </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The simple joy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of a triangular block of Toblerone?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(The strongest chocolate by design, apparently!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Anyhow...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In this way,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Piecing together bits and chances of happiness,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I get through Today,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And wait</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To welcome Tomorrow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
</div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-83328904369058094962011-12-17T23:58:00.000-08:002011-12-17T23:58:48.427-08:00I miss...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Laughter.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Enthusiasm.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Expression.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Singing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And so many other parts of 'me'.</span></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
<div><br />
<div><br />
</div></div></div></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-13670233802558274472011-11-25T11:09:00.000-08:002011-11-25T11:09:23.753-08:00Today...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Well, quite simply, what marks the end of an era.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At least I think so.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(12:38 a.m., 26th November 2011)</span></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-13383915506537588992011-11-04T11:56:00.000-07:002011-11-04T12:02:50.422-07:00Simply.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">...And they are only dreams</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dreams that remain unfulfilled</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That do not kiss reality, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That do not even see it from a distance</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But then, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That is how</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dreams remain what they are,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Simple, Untarnished,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dreams.</span></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-70452497787737632642011-10-30T02:03:00.000-07:002011-10-30T02:03:37.392-07:00One day,all this will come true...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day, the running around will cease to be,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day, this city will have emptier roads,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day, we will think of pollution in 'flashback mode',</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day, the fatigue will stop creeping in before it actually does,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day, the air will be fresh and clean and inhaleable again,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day....some day....some day in the future...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">All this will come true.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hah, now that is some serious wishful thinking.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What is your craziest dream?</span><br />
<br />
</div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-21503663935079215432011-10-18T12:29:00.000-07:002011-10-18T12:29:56.551-07:00The Child In Me...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devoid of inhibitions,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fearless, Spirited & Free,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Another time,Lord,yet again,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Let the Child awaken in me.</span></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-44876493210395238922011-10-10T11:08:00.000-07:002011-10-10T11:09:04.292-07:00Randoms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I am beading my dreams together</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One, by one, by one,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On a silken peach thread,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Most of them will remain where they are,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A few will sprout wings and fly...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Who knows where?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A few will break free and fall,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One,by one,by one,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And Life will go on,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dream, by dream, by dream.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-52659364786566027502011-09-17T23:49:00.000-07:002011-09-18T11:23:04.665-07:00"For I Have Promises To Keep"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-style: italic;">I sit by my window, sipping a cup of piping hot herbal chai, staring at the rainy greenery outside. As the rain plays on its steady, pleasant rhythm, I subconsciously begin to hum a song I learnt as a child. A monsoon song that my Auntie Flavia taught me. And I am transported back in time.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She was the odd - one - out in all our get-togethers. While these social gatherings were usually excuses for my neighbours to parade in all their dazzling traditional finery, she always came in wearing flowy pastel dresses. She was also the only senior-citizen in the motley group of couples who mere much younger, couples who addressed her as Auntie Flavia. That is how I ended up calling her Auntie Flavia too, even though she was old enough to be my grandmother.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not know what drew me to her. Maybe it was the fact that I did not have a grandmother. Or maybe it was the fact that both of us had no contemporaries in the whole group. But I grew attached to her in a way that I secretly like to consider priviliged.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She and Uncle Frederick had been a childless couple, and shortly before I was born, Auntie Flavia was widowed. If she did have relatives, no one had never heard of them. But, like my parents have often told me, Auntie Flavia never seemed to complain. She seemed content and secure in the midst of my family and our other neighbours. Her most special affections, however, were reserved for me. Looking back, I realise I was much more than Auntie Flavia’s god-daughter. I was, in fact, Auntie Flavia’s way of filling up a void in her life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Auntie Flavia was my Santa-Claus. Her gifts were unambitious, often home-made, but very frequent. Sometimes she made me cardigans, sometimes little handicrafts, and sometimes sauces and pickles. I loved all her little surprises, but what I enjoyed the most were her home-baked cookies. She could rustle up batches in the most unimaginable flavours, in the most intriguing shapes possible. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Once, seven-year old me proudly told her that my art-teacher had declared me the best “drawer” in class. She’d been delighted. “Will you make me a drawing for my birthday?” she’d asked, earnestly. I’d nodded. “Promise?”, she’d ventured, and I’d nodded again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But her birthday came, and I remembered nothing of my word. It was then that she told me something that I was too little to understand at the time, but carry with me everywhere now. “Promises are little treasures,” she said, “Learn to keep as many as you can.” “Why?” I asked. “Because each time you keep a promise, you make someone happy and allow the person to trust you a little more. And, as you grow older, you will realize that few things matter more than trust.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">If you look at Life closely, you will realize that everyday, something or the other is changing. And you will discover that somewhere, some changes are getting to you. Suddenly Life seems different, and you want to run away from it all, and hold on to that one constant that makes you feel secure. That restores hope, simply because it is the way you’ve always seen it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To me, Auntie Flavia was that constant. She saw me through some of my most challenging phases. Whenever things became too much to handle, I would run to her for comfort. The fact that her house remained brick-red, with the same doorbell, the same furniture, the same plants, the same antique piano, the same porcelain dolls, the same wall-hangings, the same unmistakeable freshness of the cookies and the same bedcovers I saw being rotated periodically, year after year, gave me a lot of solace. In more ways than one, Auntie Flavia and that house kept me going.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When I turned seventeen, my parents decided to migrate to Canada. Auntie Flavia was seventy-nine at the time. Knowing that we were the only family she had, and also how difficult her life would have been without me, we offered to take her along. I know it was a very difficult decision for her too, but she declined. “I am too old for a new country now,” she told my parents. “I cannot wake up in an unknown land. And besides,” she smiled wistfully, “I have promises to keep.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">All the persuasion that I could manage did not work on her. Eventually, we came to the eve of our departure. I went to her house for my last cup of tea before I left the country. Auntie Flavia brought me my favourite cookies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Promise me that you’ll come and visit me whenever you are here,” she said to me. “I do not know if I’ll live to see you again, but still, promise me you’ll come.” “I’ll come only if you promise to bake me your cookies again whenever I’m here”, I said, in what was probably a lame attempt to lighten our moods. “I promise”, Auntie Flavia said, a hint of tears in her eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We left the next day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Canada was a beautiful country, and we settled in eventually. Over time, we also made a new set of friends there. Once in a while, news trickled in from India. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day, I heard from a former neighbor that Auntie Flavia was very unwell. Since I had some money saved up, I decided to travel to India.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was a clear morning when I went to meet Auntie Flavia. Surprisingly, walking into that old neighbourhood, and past my own home of seventeen years did not make me as nostalgic as seeing Auntie Flavia’s house did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I rang the doorbell. Once, twice, thrice. No one answered. Fearing the worst, I decided to walk over to another neighbour’s house to inquire about her. But just as I turned towards the driveway, I heard the door open. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I turned around. There she was, my Auntie Flavia, frailer than ever, but smiling. I ran up to her and hugged her tight, the tears flowing freely. “Thank you, God,” I kept saying in my mind. “Thank you SO much.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I drank in everything - her familiar homely smell, the same furniture, the same plants, the same antique piano, the same porcelain dolls, the same wall-hangings,and the same unmistakeable freshness of the cookies. For a while, I was frozen in time. I could see myself, at different ages, running around from one room to another, Auntie Flavia keeping an administering eye on me all the time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I held her tiny little palm, and asked her to sit down next to me. “Wait,” she said, and hobbled in to the kitchen. Five minutes later, she came out with a bowl of chocolate-and-roasted almond cookies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Just like I promised,” she said, with a twinkle in her eyes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“I kept my promise too, you know,” I replied. Auntie Flavia smiled. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“You know, Frederick and I met at my Uncle’s anniversary party”, she began, all of a sudden. “He heard me laughing at someone’s joke, and decided right then that he wanted to marry me. He proposed to me soon after. Told me he would never let me feel unloved, even for a moment, for as long as I lived. I said yes, and we got married in a few months. Life was more beautiful than I’d ever imagined. And Fred lived up to his word of loving me incessantly. Even though we never did have children, I did not miss having any because Fred made me so complete.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wondered what had led to her suddenly talking about Uncle Frederick. But I kept listening. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“When Fred died, I did not think I could survive on my own. For days, I would go to bed at night, praying that when I woke up, it would be in Heaven, next to Fred. But that did not happen. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And then, one day, your parents moved into the neighbourhood. And you were born soon after. Between you and me, I think Fred sent you to me, because he wanted to keep his promise of making me feel loved for as long as I lived. Because after I saw you, Life seemed worthwhile again. You’ve been a wonderful child.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We spoke throughout the afternoon, about our life in Canada and her life in India after our departure. Everything seemed just the same, like the good old days. And then, it was finally time for me to leave. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> “Will you do me a favour, Chickie?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I nodded.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“I haven’t been able to visit Fred’s grave in weeks. My health hasn’t allowed me to venture out. Will you visit his grave for me, with his favourite flowers?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I smiled and said I would.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“And I hope they haven’t laid anyone to rest in the patch next to his grave. Remember how I had promised Fred that whenever I died, I would lie down right there? I had sort of ‘reserved’ that place for myself,” she added with a little smile. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">How well I knew that promise of her’s.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I got up with a heavy heart. Something told me I would never see her again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Auntie Flavia read my mind. “You’ll see me soon,“ she said. “I promise.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wondered what she meant, but I assumed she was just trying to make me, and herself, feel a little better. I hugged her tightly and left.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">An hour later, the red and white roses in my hand, I walked into the graveyard. I knew where Uncle’s Fred’s grave was; Auntie Flavia had brought me along several times. But as I stepped up to the grave marked ‘Frederick Mascarenhas’, my face fell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The formerly vacant patch next to it was now occupied.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Part anger and part sorrow gripped me. I thought I’d let Auntie Flavia down. I knew this was her last wish – that she be laid to rest next to her beloved husband. I wanted to scream out in anger at whoever had dared to occupy Auntie Flavia’s ‘reserved’ spot. The flowers still in my hand, I bent down to see who had been buried there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And then I froze. It couldn’t be. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I sank down onto the grass, blank, weak in the knees. Her last words kept echoing in my ear - "You will see me soon. I promise".</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the distance, the sun was slowly setting, and the world was becoming darker by the moment. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-12840481842047377222011-06-23T21:04:00.000-07:002011-06-24T12:43:02.144-07:00One More Story...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">“Misha, did you know that Alamelu got married recently?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">Sometimes, life drops explosive news on you. The news is by no means unpleasant, but it causes your face (and your brains) to go through a series of psychological expressions before you can actually react. I’m thankful for the fact that this piece of news came to me at a time when no one could really see those expressions, owing to lack of sufficient illumination.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I guess I’m also thankful for the fact that there was no mirror around.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;"> I met her in 2004. The first time I saw her, her leg was bandaged. She’d been in an accident and was walking around with a limp. She was two years my junior, but taller and very lanky, and I remember being a little shocked at the (un)ambitious length of her shorts. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">She was obviously in pain, but very cheerful. We hit it off pretty quickly. We spent the afternoon chatting, the conversation surprisingly easy and free-flowing for a first. And then, in a few hours, it was time for me to leave. We promised to keep in touch.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">We met again a few months later – she was in town, visiting her father for a couple of weeks. This time, we bonded over shopping and lunch, the way teenagers do. We spoke about our closest friends, our families and our interests, and got to know each other a little more. After she left, we started staying in touch over the phone.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">There was something about her that appealed to me. In her apparent innocence, I could see overtones of maturity. Perhaps it was because I knew that she had had a very difficult childhood; she had lost her mother at the age of three, and ever since, her father had sought refuge in chronic alcoholism. He had even remarried, for a brief period; her stepmother seemed straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">I was actually amazed at her unrestrained appetite for life.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">On one of her subsequent trips, just after the 2005 deluge in Mumbai, we discovered a litter of puppies in the middle of the road. Their mother was nowhere to be seen, so we brought them home, and took care of them for the next three weeks. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">I was nineteen, she was nearing eighteen. Both of us were experiencing our first serious relationships. We would giggle and gush about our respective boyfriends from time to time over the phone. She met mine when he had come down to Mumbai, and I met hers. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">Technically, she’d been my partner in crime, more than once.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">One night, around the middle of 2005, she called me up, and started to cry. Her father’s alcoholism had taken a turn for the worse – he used to drink every night, and even had to be hospitalized a couple of times. That night, the way she put it, things had almost gone out of control.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">My parents heard about the situation from me. Knowing that her father wouldn’t live very long, they discussed asking him if we could adopt her. I had already started to love her like a little sister, and was more than willing to go ahead with the idea.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">Around the end of 2006, her attitude began to change. She started maintaining a calculated distance from me. At first, I thought she was genuinely busy, but then, it wasn’t really like her to not answer or return my calls or messages repeatedly. One day, a few months later, she asked me to stop “interfering in her life”. To “give her space”. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">At the time, I was already going through a bad phase, professionally, academically, even personally. Her words were extremely painful. She was a very close friend, and I needed her to be around, but her sudden, uncalled-for acerbity made it easier for me to stay away. I resolved never to call her again.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">We lost touch. I lived up to my resolution; she never attempted to contact me either.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">One day, a common friend informed me that her father had passed away. I did not know what I was supposed to do. Ideally, I knew I should call her, but her turning away from me, and our friendship, had hurt me so much, that I did not have the courage to do so. What if she refused to speak to me again, or said something I wouldn’t want to hear, like the last time? That would hurt me even more. And I did not know if I was ready to get hurt another time.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">After a lot of thought, I called her. She sounded strangely normal – not like a girl who had just lost her second parent, or who was talking to a former sister-figure whom she had told off so ruthlessly.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">I kept the conversation brief and formal. A few days later, I called again to check on her. It felt strange, as though I was being mechanical in my actions, as if it wasn’t concern but obligation that was making me call her, but that was the least I could do. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">That was the <b>only</b> thing I could do.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">A few months later, I woke up one morning to find an SMS from an unsaved, but still familiar number. “Hi, I’m sorry for all that happened in the past,” it said. “You were one of my closest friends and I did not value you the way I should have. If you ever think you want to speak, re-establish our friendship, the way it used to be, let me know. I am only a call away.”</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">Part of me was seething from within. It isn’t that easy, I wanted to yell at her. You were heartless and insensitive and you do not deserve someone like me. How can you even think that a simple three-liner will help me forget everything and attempt to “re-establish our friendship”? Did I not deserve more? A more elaborate apology? I decided I’d not call her. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">Two days later, I found myself dialing her number. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">She told me she had distanced herself from a lot of people over the past two years. And that after her father’s death, she wanted to re-build as many ties as possible. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">I empathized. But I could not spring back to my original self as easily as I had done earlier. I conveyed that to her, and she understood. Over the next half hour, we discussed briefly the highlights of the past two years, and when our conversation ended, her words, her tone, suggested that she wanted to attempt to make things up to me. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">She never called me again. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; line-height: 150%;">~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">“Misha, did you know that Alamelu got married recently?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">Have you ever experienced a situation where you don’t know something, but <i>really</i> want to know about it, but then again, you don’t want to, because more knowledge will only cause you pain? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">This was one of those situations. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I later learnt, purely by accident, that the boy was Canadian. He had worked with her father on a project; that was when they were first introduced to each other. They were married earlier this year. That is all I know.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I don’t think I want to know more. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I found her profile on Facebook recently. There was a picture of the couple, probably taken on their honeymoon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">She looked happy. As though the ghosts of those tough years of the past had finally been laid to rest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I know I don’t need to know more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</div></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-19511477886129369062011-06-19T22:00:00.000-07:002011-06-19T22:27:50.867-07:00Reminiscences In Red<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I spent the first sixteen years of my life in a house with a huge verandah overlooking a Gulmohar tree. Twice every year, once during the summers and once during the winters, the tree would burst into cheerful red flames. And the stone-grey ground below would be dotted with red petals, or occasionally even the whole flower.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I subsequently moved in to a new house. Unlike my old colony, which could only boast of limited greenery, my new apartment had a huge lawn with an assortment of trees. For some reason, though, there wasn’t a Gulmohar in sight. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I did not realize how much I missed the tree till I found myself staring at Gulmohars every time I passed them. It took me a while to understand that subconsciously, the Gulmohar was actually a link back to my childhood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">Even today, when I pass by a Gulmohar tree, I experience an emotion that is fairly overwhelming. Sometimes, I pick up a stray flower, bring it home, and keep it in a water-bowl. Otherwise, I simply look at the tree in all its red glory and smile, as if between us, we share a little secret. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">I love the Gulmohar flower – its energetic red colour, the one white petal with little red dots that stands out proudly, the tiny red petals with their uniform yellow borders. I think it tries to tell us to be vibrant, unique and colourful always :-) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">Not all memories are in black and white and sepia. Some are a cheerful red too!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">Much Love,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">Me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</div></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-56434785294134767192011-02-13T23:53:00.000-08:002011-02-13T23:57:02.350-08:00Saying Good-Bye.....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Can I wake them up?” , I ask Mami. She nods her assent.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I step into the room that Bhalo Dadu and Amma now occupy. They are sound asleep. I know I have to wake them up – because I have to say Goodbye. Probably for the last time.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I touch Bhalo Dadu’s arm, and shake him gently. “Dadu,” I say, in a voice that is loud enough for him to hear. He opens his eyes.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Dadu, I’m leaving,” I say. He tries to sit up as promptly as his ninety-four year old body can allow. He holds my hand, draws me into a hug, and kisses me. I kiss him back, once on each cheek, then hug him again. “I will be upset for a while, now that you are leaving,” he says. I do not know how to respond.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then I call out to Amma, once, twice, then stop myself, thinking I should let her sleep peacefully. I know she is deteriorating, bit-by-bit. I walk over to her side of the bed, kiss her lightly on the cheek, and touch her head affectionately. Her grey-white hair has thinned, so much so that I can see her fair scalp glistening beneath. I take one last look at her sleeping form – her rani-pink bindi, the prominent streak of sindoor, her tiny little eyes, her swollen cheeks, which can fool people into thinking that she is still in good health, her shankha-paula, and her brown checkered housecoat. I hold her in sight for a moment too long, and then pull myself away forcibly.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dadu attempts to get up so that he can see me off to the car. I ask him not to take the trouble. With all the obstinacy that he can still muster, he makes for the door anyway. I hold him around the waist, so he doesn’t fall. His tall frame, surprisingly erect even at that age, steps slowly towards the verandah.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hug him one last time. I do not know what to say. Part of me wants to ask him to come to Bombay sometime, but reality strikes as harshly as it always does. I know that will never be possible.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">And somewhere, I realise that even he is searching for the right words.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Bhalo theko,” I say. I think that is all I can manage - asking him to keep well - as my last words. And I touch his feet, and step out of the gate.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">From the glass window inside the car, I see Bhalo Dadu waving out to me. I wave back, but I’m not sure his line of vision goes that far. Suddenly, I realize that I want to tell him a lot of things, but I don’t know what. What do you say to a person, who can go any day? Or when you look at a couple, an eighty-six year old wife and her ninety-four year old husband, when you realize that they still have a marriage that has lasted almost sixty-eight years, when you see the shankha-paula and the sindoor still adorning the wife, can you really ask God for more? How much more life and health can you wish them, when He has already been so generous? </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mama starts the car. I suddenly think I’ll burst out crying, but I don’t. I look at Dadu for the last time; he is still waving.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Slowly, the car begins to move. I hear the gravel crackling beneath the tyres. And in a flash, we are out of sight.</span></div></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-24797029632016568292010-08-26T12:27:00.000-07:002010-08-26T12:27:26.697-07:00Quotable Quotes...(10)<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span dir="ltr" id=":1hh" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"Life is only difficult when u have choices"</span></span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span dir="ltr" id=":1hh" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> - Avi, 26/08/2010 [when I was (as usual) whining about something that hadn't even happened :P]</span></span></i>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-4993674543640073832010-06-11T11:32:00.000-07:002010-06-11T11:32:08.595-07:00One Little Story...<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">We met over our blogs. While looking for bloggers from Mumbai, he randomly happened to chance upon and comment on my work, and, just out of courtesy, I read his. It struck me as simple, nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, there was a startling, fresh hilarity in his posts. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">I think that is how our journey began. He would comment regularly on my blogs, and I, on his. Then we chatted online, and soon, added each other up on FB. The first time we spoke on the phone, I found his way of speaking a little gawky, and it actually surprised me, this incongruousness between the polished English he used on his blog, and the tapori Hindi he used while talking. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Our phone conversations were effortless. He heard me out when I needed to speak, I lent him a ear when he needed one. Sometimes, I would try to get him to reveal more about his girlfriend, but he would keep mum. "Some things you say, some things you don't," he told me. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">One day, I saw his girlfriend's photograph. "She is sooooo pretty!!" I told him. "Haan, I know," he quipped. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">We bonded over F.R.I.E.N.D.S, How I Met Your Mother and a number of tiny little stories. The day we met for the first time, I gifted him a chocolate. He lent me his pen-drive, which contained a few F.R.I.E.N.D.S bloopers, and some Animax cartoons (another of his passions). "Tell me if you like them," he said. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">I once asked him who his best friend was. (That is a childish question I ask a few people even now, just to get to know them better). He told me he'd never had one, because no one he knew came close to his definition of the term. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">We met another time. I wish I'd known that my second meeting with him would be my last. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">The last time we spoke on the phone, he was happy...deliriously happy. He wanted to share something with me, but I wouldn't let him. "It's too special," I said, "Keep it to yourself". And then, he said something that will remain with me forever. I don't remember his exact words, but he told me that his 'special news' was something he didn't want to share with anyone...but if at all there was one person he could say it to, it would be me. I think that was the best thing he ever told me. It was also the last.</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;">********************************************************************************** </span></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">We had a funny friendship, you and I. You aren't the kind of guy I would fall in love with, but my friendship with you a was sweet little phase that will always make me smile. Sometimes, when I think of our last conversation, part of me is annoyed, because you never did say goodbye. But then, I look at the larger picture. I think that is something life has taught me. And when I look at the larger picture, I can see your happy grin. And then, I tell myself, that one little sacrifice was totally worth it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-54849046603856262732010-05-06T00:07:00.000-07:002010-05-06T00:07:52.906-07:00Blah Blah...<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I start work on Monday. Frankly, I am super-apprehensive. (I would have used a more politically incorrect term here, but I still want to look like a good girl, atleast to my fellow-bloggers who have still not met me ;-) ) Anyway, so I do not know what to do at work. I will be in Banking; Banking, which is a word that has always, always turned me off. I do not know how the people will be, I do not know what my job will actually entail (beneath the flowery, impressive job description, i.e) </span></span>, <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">and I do not know if my work-place will be at Vikhroli or at Parel. Yes, I am looking at that too. I don't want any more exhausting train travel every morning and evening.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">And the truth is, I hate times like these when I am so confused. I do not like being unsettled. But like R once told me, I am perenially confused. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I don't know if I will ever </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">stop being unsure, frankly. But I believe I've shaped up fine this way, so while I can handle it, I'll let it be.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">You know what I really, REALLY want to do, like never before? Go back to learning music. Which means, classical music as well as a musical instrument. Maybe the guitar, or even the piano. I want to sink into these activities whenever my work-life permits me, and drown all my worries in them. Really.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Speaking of music, I've missed it <i>big</i> time. But you know what, I just realised, Life is like a game of Musical Chairs. You run, you run to get to a place that you fit in, and even if you don't, you just have to force a fit or else you are out of the game. Sometimes, you are so taken with the idea of finding a place for yourself, that you forget to listen to the music. You stop enjoying it. It is only when you are temporarily out of the game, that you are able to listen to it again. And you want to start running. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I have no clue why I wrote this. Does it even make sense? Confusion doing its bit again. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I'll see you later.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Much Love,</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Me. </span></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1786587337470564480.post-90348113125263266032010-04-29T23:18:00.000-07:002010-04-30T00:18:56.089-07:00Just so I can start writing again...<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">For weeks now, I have been giving in to what someone artfully labelled 'Writer's Block'. Sometimes I had nothing special to say, sometimes I wasn't very happy with what I'd written, and sometimes I just didn't have the enthusiasm to go on. But right now, there is a burning desire in me to just come back. Get back to this passion of mine. I don't care if this isn't good work...I just want to know that I have triumphed over a bad frame of mind and done what I should have done long ago.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think I'll just put in a few updates here, since I still need to get some thoughts structured before they can assume a form on this virtual space. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">To begin with, this week started off on a HORRIBLE note - I lost one of my batchmates in an extremely tragic car accident. He wasn't a close friend, but he wasn't a stranger either. We had worked together and were the hi-bye type of friends, and I don't think I ever saw him minus his genuine, warm smile. His death made me want to re-connect with friends all over... I wanted to ensure that everyone was okay. Also, in the last ten months, I have lost three of my batchmates very, very suddenly, and it makes me so uncertain about life. How do we forget that the only certainty in life is that it will end one day? Why do we not make the most of our time with everyone around us? Why do we not hate less and love more? WHY ARE WE SO STUPID?</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had to abandon Whiny. Whiny is a stray I have taken care of for years. But things were getting unpleasant with her in the colony...she had attacked Lily, another stray I have pseudo-adopted, and if I hadn't reached the scene in time, Lily might have died. After a brief stint in hospital, Lily came back to the colony, but lived in constant fear of being attacked again. So much so that she was afraid of leaving the building premises, and had started answering her calls of nature inside itself.That would eventually have caused the residents to revolt. I was given a choice: either abandon Lily, or let Whiny go. For the first time, I felt like a mother would, if she was asked to choose between her babies. And I am not exaggerating or trying to sound noble. I am just saying it like it was. So anyway, I had to choose, and I knew Lily couldn't survive on her own; she was too timid and too bulliable to manage. And so I chose Whiny. When I dropped her off, she seemed so terrified of the new place that she didn't even come to me for what was probably the last time. I wanted to hug her, tell her I was very, very sorry, but she wouldn't come to me. I did the only thing I could do - leave. I want to go back and make sure she is okay, but how do I know I'll find her the next time I go there? Whiny won't hate me, will she?</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">On the good side, Oscar started his sessions as a Therapy Dog. The kids loved him. And it was lovely spending time with the little ones. Spending time with innocence. I had actually forgotten how innocence felt. How do we forget something that we are all born with? I can't wait for his next session.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Purvish moved back to Bombay this morning. I'm so happy for him and Ritu. Distances may make the heart grow fonder, but not everyone is wise enough to use that cliché to their benefit. Purvish and Ritu are, but I'm still glad they can meet often now.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I shopped for Shwetu's shaadi. Damn, I can't believe my best friend is getting married. But she deserves every bit of the happiness she is getting. And I'm so happy for Asha Aunty, Shwetu's mom. Things were really difficult until long after Uncle's death. I wish Uncle had been around to see his princess getting married...but I guess he will be there, it's just that we won't be able to see him. After all, I'm pretty sure he made Prasad come Shwetu's way. God bless them all.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I went to Mahim Church for the first time today, thanks to Jenny and Judy and Aunty. Churches are so beautiful - they remind you that there is a thing called serenity. Sometimes the chaos around you does its best to make you forget that, doesn't it? And it is always lovely to see Jenny and her family. Looking at Judy makes me wish I had a little sister, really. And I love the person she's turned out to be. Also, may I proudly add, I'm glad I'm one of her sister's friends she likes! :-) I met Ruffles and Apu too (Jenny's dogs). They are sweethearts. And something about Ruffles's eyes remind me of Whiny, I realised today. It's not just the fact that they are honey-coloured, like Whiny's; the same trust, the same unfaltering love oozes out of them, too.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am going to Shirdi on Monday. FINALLY. It's a beautiful feeling.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am trying to catch up with a lot of friends this week. Once HDFC begins, I doubt I'll have the time. Besides, friends and family are always therapeutic. I need to see them, and I'm glad I'll be able to soon.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh and yeah...I saw Shai's dad on TV. I feel nice to know that I am friends with a celeb's son! </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">There... I think I've emptied my system quite a bit. I feel better now. And this time I'll make sure I don't stay away for too long from blogging. That's therapeutic too, you know, just like family, friends, dogs, books, chocolate - and a few other things.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's about it for now...I'll see you soon, people!</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Much Love,</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Me.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"></div>Mishreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16797588013499447209noreply@blogger.com3