Rains!

What’s with rains and me? I love rains and that’s an understatement.

I was sent to a boarding school at the age of five or so. My parents, both working professionals thought it better that I should be raised in a boarding rather than be left on my own among the house help .The school was called Pine Mount and true to its name it was on top of a quaint hill surrounded by pine trees in the picturesque capital of Meghalaya, Shillong.

Meghalaya as the name aptly defines, is the abode of clouds. Most days of the academic year we would wake up to cloudy grey skies or a light drizzle. Even at that young age I loved wearing my rubber gum boots and raincoat and running off to play hide and seek in the light drizzle. What fun it was when low clouds suddenly made everything within a few meters disappear and then suddenly reappear again like magic. Aaahaa! Planting the first seeds of a romantic in me!

During my teenage and growing up years in Guwahati I have some nostalgic memories of rain. The rains would start as early as April and continue till late September.

The flooding of streets, returning home drenched from college, the sight of the turbulent  Brahmaputra spilling into its embankments, the lush green foliage on the Navagraha hill. And of course I slowly blossomed into a poet! Who wouldn’t? When the rain fell on the tin roof of my Assam type house, I discovered rhyme and rhythm in that cacophony. What else can I say I think I had fallen in love with the monsoons!

Delhi and rain is a misnomer! Yet in my first home on the fourth floor of a DDA flat in Vasant Kunj,I witnessed lovely short spells of rain. My little daughter’s enthusiasm to use her new umbrella didn’t get dampened.

And finally Mumbai! I re-discovered my love for the monsoons!

Sudden down pours during walks on Marine Drive, the sight of approaching grey clouds over the Arabian Sea, roast corn on hot coal, high tide on chowpatty beach, reaching work in wet shoes, drenched seats of the yellow and black cabs, cycling in the rain! I can go on and on describing the many shades and sounds of my love!

I wonder why I love the summer showers so much? Is it the soothing sound of rain falling? Is it the sight of everything washed, cleaned and sparkling? Is it the cool breeze that brings summer temperatures down? Why do I feel so happy when it rains? Anyway how does it matter? I am in love and as long as the raindrops keep falling on my head I am happy!

 Listen to this lovely song to go with the mood.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OT1HCQcSHW0

The Great Indian Dress Code!

No bikinis on Goa beaches': After short dresses, minister calls for ban on skimpy swimwear 'to prevent sex attacks'.

 ‘Union minister of state for tourism  wants to end ‘pub culture’.

 13/7/2014 headlines on TOI.

Dear Minister

 I applaud your wisdom and mature observation regarding crime and its prevention in your beautiful state of Goa. Your esteemed self has rightly, in the manner of a fine, cultured and highly educated person, given this conclusion that  pubs ,short dresses and bikinis (hope I got the order correct, saar?) lead to crimes. Your duty to uphold our Great Indian Culture is truly an honorable decision.

 May I as a humble citizen of this nation make a very small suggestion in this regard? (Of course with your permission, saar!)

Firstly, why not introduce a dress code saar? This dress should cover from head to toe. Nothing except the eyes should be exposed (the female species are known to seduce even with bewitching eyes) so the eyes too should only be seen through a net.

The Dress-Code!

 The implementation of such an extra-ordinary dress code will not only boost tourism but also earn you laurels from party high command. You will be upholding the GREAT INDIAN CULTURE!!(Thundering applause: background score)People will visit your state from every corner of the planet to witness such a unique place which has such a beautiful dress-code. The Taliban will be dammed (we will beat them on this score)

   

Secondly, brigades of Goa Moral police (these can be party supporters and happy volunteers) should move around the whole state (in similar dress code) and catch the violators. A public lashing (minimum 5 lashes) should be accorded to such indecent public who dare to wear short western outfits or the equally scandalous outfit called the BIKINI!

 Such dresses tantalize the vulnerable Indian male, transforms him into a violent criminal! The strong grounding he received in his morally righteous Indian upbringing  just melts away like butter at the sight of such alluring clothing. The Great Indian value system crumbles when he witnesses such indecently clad persons especially in the pristine beaches of Goa. And when he is forced (much against his will) to visit bars and pubs and down a few drinks, the helpless and powerless male loses his mind and is tormented to break his ties with his pure desi-bred culture and values. He becomes an animal who is compelled to rape. He is absolutely innocent and cannot be held responsible or guilty in any score for his sex crimes! He is after all The Great Indian Male (hail to thee!)

 Dear Minister, I am awed at your innate judgment and insight. I salute you. It is only leaders like you who can lead our nation to earn new laurels in today’s progressive world. We shall give excellent competition and sleepless nights to the likes of the Taliban and Boku-Haram. They will have to come up with more innovative ways to deal with those vultures of western society and cultivators of immoral women who visit pubs in bikinis and go to beaches in short dresses. (Deliberate mix up) They are all the same these scum bags, these dirty women. They are all evil, evil westernized women and they should all burn in hell or wear the new dress
code. After all what you want is just to protect them.

 Uphold the  Indian naari of this Great Indian nation and uphold our culture, isn’t it Saar?!

   

The Middle Ages!

Why didn't anyone warn me that growing old was going to be so tough?

40s should come with a warning! Sharp decline ahead!

 First the kid leaves home to look for greener pastures .And the house falls silent. Deal with that, its heavy!
 Now it’s just the two of us, me and my spouse and long evenings of discovering unique ways to eat each other’s brains for dessert!

 The most dreadful thing of the 40s-the reflection on the mirror!
 It’s a horror show most mornings. I look scary, bags under eyes, over- exhausted look, and hair oily and stuck to the scalp or dry and frizzy! There is either no color on my face or I look terribly tanned. Then there is the excess baggage pouring out from everywhere, the arms, the chin, the butts, the middles (why are they called love handles? Beats me, you can go figure, I am too disgusted by the stretch marks on it, eeewww!)

Then there are days when I can just about tolerate my looks. Layering on the cream, compact, rouge and all the works, I slowly start to transform into an extra-terrestrial. (These are my feeble attempts at what my daughter one day forcibly made me buy, it’s called make-up.) Make up for the loss of   youth is what they actually mean, mean guys. You need make-up now ma, never step out of the house without it she said!

 I will need a lot more then make up, more like amours of steel, that I tell you, but who is listening!

The thing I am most upset about is I can’t even speak the way I always used to. Society expects me to be polite, refined and sensible and if not then it isn't classy or you are a cookoo head!
 Who ever made these rules? Why can’t I continue to make silly mistakes, say ridiculous things, wave my arms about when excited or irritated, be impulsive, do a sudden gig, make  faces at obnoxious people and use all those cuss words like the young ones do all the time? Why do I need to act like an adult, speak only knowledgeable words and sound only stern or solemn?

 Now consider this; my all time favorite dress has always been my blue denim jeans and a t-shirt. But of late I feel it doesn't suit my age and certain occasions. I get those looks from  female species and you know what that means. Most outfits that look smart on the mannequins look ridiculous on me nowerdays. Why oh! Why do the great fashion houses and designers only create clothes for the 20s and 30s ultra slim and petite women?What are the rest of us suppose to wear? Leaves,animal skin and fur like in the Paleolithic ages?

My insides are facing the enemy too and losing out! Most days I can’t resist a second helping of that yummy mutton Rogan Josh and then the dreadful after effects  the morning after, less described here the better for the sensitively endowed.The hot flushes, the thinning hair line and widening middle line all familiar territory now. The poor better half suffers my mood swings and impatience quite well (he has little choice!) Who would provoke the godzilla at home?

 I am spear- heading towards the 50s too fast for comfort! What lies in store, God only knows, but I will definitely keep you posted. Take care friends and I hope all your aches and pains disappear as it just did for me (on completing this blog post!)
 Find a hobby, there that’s it, that’s the secret to get the dreadful old age blues out of the system. Eureka! What a discovery!

Memories

Why does the memory of some people you love never fade away? Do the dead really die? Or maybe they just live on in the minds of those they love, forever lingering on!

The only difference is that you cannot visit them physically.

That familiar lane is a dead-end now, it’s just someone else’s house there. You ring the bell, the face you were expecting there at the doorway, isn’t there. You dial the number from your memory, waiting for that amicable voice to caress you like it used to. But it’s a robotic voice that answers, cold and indifferent as the reality. Nothing seems the same and yet everything is still the same. Someone just left foot prints in the sand.

Sometimes when you wake up suddenly from a deep slumber, you stare at the darkness and wonder what woke you up at that odd hour? It was them. Their memory. They visit you then, float into the dark room, sit on your bed, look at you and wait for you to go with them into their memory. Each time it is a small splinter, something tucked away, already fading, like an old yellowing paper fragile to touch, and with the writing almost illegible. And you lie awake hearing their happy thoughts and eventually fall asleep. In the morning you think it was a dream and sweep it out, attending to mundane rituals of life.

 

Sometimes on hot humid afternoons, with the electricity gone, you drift into a room, open the cupboard full of odds and ends, things kept there for no apparent reason. Things you were meaning to sort out and throw. You find them then, old photographs. They fall like dry dead leaves, soundless, right at your feet. Wave upon wave of colourful memories pick you up and carry you to your yesterdays. Memories settle upon you like dust. You hear the once familiar voices, the intimate smells, see them there right in front of you! You smile at the sight of them, your vision turns blurry, tears pour out, and then a stabbing pain starts to grow somewhere in your chest. You cannot breathe, gasping and struggling you let it go, brush away the cobwebs, rush out, taking refuge in daily chores.

The dead never die. They just live on in the minds of those who they had loved. Waiting in the shadows. Waiting to be remembered. They live on in those memories.They come alive when you remember. They visit you when you are alone- Sit beside you and share forgotten moments. Bookends by Simon & Garfunkel says it all-

"Long ago . . . it must be . . .

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories

they’re all that’s left (of) you."

Time Flies

Less than a month left for her to leave the house and move to a hostel! The thought fills me with dread. Can a month sometimes seem too short? Where do I begin?

My mind races back to the days when she was a toddler. We ooohhed and aaaaahhed her every milestone. The sight of her toothless grin which lasted alas only just a few months: priceless!  Her comical crawling style avoiding her knees on the floor technique, mispronouncing words in a unique gabble, her fascination for the Bindi, my dupatta, my lipsticks, even my hair! Dolling up and kissing her reflection on the mirror! All this and many more memories bring a catch to my throat as I prepare for my D-day (daughter’s going to university). 

I was one obsessive parent. I used to wash her toys while she was teething in anti-septic solution! Dr.Spock was my bible and the charts given on feeds and naps on Johnson Baby Book was my almanac. I made friends with other mothers so I could exchange information on novel ways to feed, soothe, bathe and amuse her. Bedtime stories were supposed to be calming down time but ended up in her getting more excited. The dimming of lights, the A.C and the fact that her parents were around would result in her breaking off into bouts of jumping fits on the bed! I knew all her school lessons by heart and the TV cartoons she followed (Pokémon, Kids next door, Avatar) were a part of my vocabulary too! I surveyed all neighbourhood schools looking for the best, idealised the concept that nursery should be only fun- learning.

Her teenage years are filled with memories both sweet and sour. She was growing up with a mind of her own. Fiercely independent in her thinking, often leading to frequent show downs on rules and priorities!  Many a times I let her be, testing how far she would go. But she is a sensible and sensitive child and the values I had sowed were planted deep.

I learn so much from her every day. On many occasions I have followed her advice (starting a blog was her idea). 

Sometimes I get the feeling that she is much more sensible then her mom! Yes, I am her biggest fan.

Will my life be the same with her not being in the house? Not at all!

Disagreements over sleeping and waking up time (she can beat an owl in night time wakefulness), choice of food, studying too little, texting too much, and the list goes on!

Will I miss her presence in my life? You bet I will.

She/I slamming the door and walking out in a huff can’t be replaced with long distance conversations on Skype! That satisfying feeling when she polishes off the last bit of Rajma-Chawl on her plate can’t be replaced by her telling me she ate this and that at the hostel mess. Peeping into her room and hearing her soft snoring and angelic face framed on the pillow can never be replaced by her framed photograph on my desk!

They call it an empty nest syndrome and a stage in the cycle of parenthood and life. Electronics help of course and distance is now only a matter of the mind. I smile as a beautiful thought creeps into my mind, “A son is a son till he takes a wife, and a daughter's a daughter the rest of her life".

So I have a whole life time to enjoy her company! *Wicked grin spreads across my face*