I miss it. The hysterical laughter at inane stuff. So every once in a while, I like to think back at those crazy moments:
Gayo, me and Roohi. And one big mad dog Poali. On the road from C.P to Noida.
Susan and me. On the train from Bangalore to Chennai. Absolutely prized moments.
My sis Api and me - lots of times- growing up. In good times and bad.
Roo and me, lots and lots of times, sometimes even over the phone, which is truly hysterical.
Roo, Api and me - almost every time we three are together. Top of the charts- my rather impromptu act of Hrithik Roshans pelvic thrusts. To this day I have no idea why I did that- especially in front of two babes who will never ever let me live it down.
I laugh. Quite often.
But that hysterical laughter over inane stuff- that's something else.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
We do what we do
We were on the phone with each other. We talked.
We also got on to Google chat. So we chatted. While we talked. Conversation happening. Fingers typing . Messages flying back and forth.
She sent me youtube links to music videos she wanted me to watch. So I watched. While we chatted. And talked.
Then we told each other about interesting websites. So we browsed. While I watched. And we chatted. And talked.
I uploaded pictures on Picasa. And then I shared those with her. So she saw. While we browsed. And I watched. And we chatted. While we talked.
It was amazing. It was an hour well spent.
It was two best friends. In different parts of the world. Talking and chatting and watching and browsing and looking at pictures.
We also got on to Google chat. So we chatted. While we talked. Conversation happening. Fingers typing . Messages flying back and forth.
She sent me youtube links to music videos she wanted me to watch. So I watched. While we chatted. And talked.
Then we told each other about interesting websites. So we browsed. While I watched. And we chatted. And talked.
I uploaded pictures on Picasa. And then I shared those with her. So she saw. While we browsed. And I watched. And we chatted. While we talked.
It was amazing. It was an hour well spent.
It was two best friends. In different parts of the world. Talking and chatting and watching and browsing and looking at pictures.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Me, the subway rider.
Subway riders.
The aggressive ones in a rush to get somewhere. Missing a train is a cardinal sin in their books. So as they climb the flight of stairs to the platform and should they hear the train rolling in, they run. They dodge, they push, they run and sometimes they barely squeeze in through the shutting doors. The train cannot be missed. Even if the next one rolls in a minute after.
Then there are some who don't. Rush, that is. They miss a train. Even, deliberately sometimes. When it is too crowded and people are squeezing themselves in like sardines in a can. These will then choose to wait. For the next train. Just stand there , listening to their music, reading their books or kindles , doing their crossword. wherever they have to get to can wait another minute or two.
The crazies. Oh and you see them often enough. Like that guy who definitely seemed to be high. He just walked up and down the coach in slow motion, with a smile on his face. Just walked up and down, smiling, making everyone else nervous. Bloody drug addicts, they said to themselves!
The other crazies- the talkers. Talking away to themselves. I sat next to one , once. I wanted to hear. She talked incessantly for 20 minutes about a NASA conspiracy. To herself. She didn't seem like she was going anywhere. She was just sitting there talking to herself.
The office goers. Suits, pencil skirts, high heels, laptop bags, blackberries, Morning paper, Starbucks, looking forward to being at work faces, hating to go to work faces, sleepy faces, raring to face the day faces.
University students. Jeans, T-shirts, tights with boots, jeans with boots, backpacks, Tim Hortons, texting fingers on cellphones, earplugs, heads moving to music, sleepy faces, looking forward to class faces.
Mostly everyone has earphones plugged into their phones. Connected to the MP3 players or phones. Loud techno, some swaying, some rock their heads. There in definitely a lot of music playing on the subway.
An occasional mom or two with her kids. A three year old fascinated by the train. A baby in a stroller. Mothers mostly look nervous. Hoping the baby won't cry or the toddler throw a tantrum.
The there are the grade school students. They come in packs. Once in a while on their way to a field trip. Noisy, talkative- they bring the 6-9 year old energy into the train. They like standing up and trying to balance, without holding on. They like sitting by the window.
Crossword doers. Sudoko doers. Video game players.
Avid readers. Newspapers. Metro- The subway paper. News, gossip coulumns, ads. The Toronto Star. Sometimes, a Globe and Mail. Books. Mostly paperbacks- easier to carry. The Secret. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. How to be Rich Quick. Life's a Pitch. And a few magazine readers thrown in for good measure. And these days, an increasing number of electronic readers.
The tourists. You can always tell. They scan the subway map. They listen attentivley to every station that is announced. They talk about every station that passes. They look out the window. They look around. They compare transit systems of cities.
Subway riders. An interesting lot.
Subway rider- Me. I'll miss a train. I listen to music. I am a crossword doer on some days. A reader, on others. I am not a tourist. Never play a videogame. Have been the nervous mom with the stroller.
Guess I fit right in. One way, or another. But I never squeeze myself in like a sardine.
The aggressive ones in a rush to get somewhere. Missing a train is a cardinal sin in their books. So as they climb the flight of stairs to the platform and should they hear the train rolling in, they run. They dodge, they push, they run and sometimes they barely squeeze in through the shutting doors. The train cannot be missed. Even if the next one rolls in a minute after.
Then there are some who don't. Rush, that is. They miss a train. Even, deliberately sometimes. When it is too crowded and people are squeezing themselves in like sardines in a can. These will then choose to wait. For the next train. Just stand there , listening to their music, reading their books or kindles , doing their crossword. wherever they have to get to can wait another minute or two.
The crazies. Oh and you see them often enough. Like that guy who definitely seemed to be high. He just walked up and down the coach in slow motion, with a smile on his face. Just walked up and down, smiling, making everyone else nervous. Bloody drug addicts, they said to themselves!
The other crazies- the talkers. Talking away to themselves. I sat next to one , once. I wanted to hear. She talked incessantly for 20 minutes about a NASA conspiracy. To herself. She didn't seem like she was going anywhere. She was just sitting there talking to herself.
The office goers. Suits, pencil skirts, high heels, laptop bags, blackberries, Morning paper, Starbucks, looking forward to being at work faces, hating to go to work faces, sleepy faces, raring to face the day faces.
University students. Jeans, T-shirts, tights with boots, jeans with boots, backpacks, Tim Hortons, texting fingers on cellphones, earplugs, heads moving to music, sleepy faces, looking forward to class faces.
Mostly everyone has earphones plugged into their phones. Connected to the MP3 players or phones. Loud techno, some swaying, some rock their heads. There in definitely a lot of music playing on the subway.
An occasional mom or two with her kids. A three year old fascinated by the train. A baby in a stroller. Mothers mostly look nervous. Hoping the baby won't cry or the toddler throw a tantrum.
The there are the grade school students. They come in packs. Once in a while on their way to a field trip. Noisy, talkative- they bring the 6-9 year old energy into the train. They like standing up and trying to balance, without holding on. They like sitting by the window.
Crossword doers. Sudoko doers. Video game players.
Avid readers. Newspapers. Metro- The subway paper. News, gossip coulumns, ads. The Toronto Star. Sometimes, a Globe and Mail. Books. Mostly paperbacks- easier to carry. The Secret. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. How to be Rich Quick. Life's a Pitch. And a few magazine readers thrown in for good measure. And these days, an increasing number of electronic readers.
The tourists. You can always tell. They scan the subway map. They listen attentivley to every station that is announced. They talk about every station that passes. They look out the window. They look around. They compare transit systems of cities.
Subway riders. An interesting lot.
Subway rider- Me. I'll miss a train. I listen to music. I am a crossword doer on some days. A reader, on others. I am not a tourist. Never play a videogame. Have been the nervous mom with the stroller.
Guess I fit right in. One way, or another. But I never squeeze myself in like a sardine.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Wildflowers and a 6 year old
My 6 year old went to the woods today. And brought me back some wildflowers. A bunch of white. A stem of purple. And then some random yellows, reds and oranges.
And as he handed them to me he explained how he had not plucked a single one of them. He'd picked them up from the ground. Because he felt if he'd plucked them, he'd be hurting nature. Taking away from the woods what wasn't his to take away.
And in that explanation, he had articulated my "still evolving" view on education. My growing belief that education goes much beyond the walls of a classroom. It goes into the woods where a 6 year old boy will know how not to tamper with nature.
A bunch of wildflowers collected from the ground. Report cards fail in comparison.
And as he handed them to me he explained how he had not plucked a single one of them. He'd picked them up from the ground. Because he felt if he'd plucked them, he'd be hurting nature. Taking away from the woods what wasn't his to take away.
And in that explanation, he had articulated my "still evolving" view on education. My growing belief that education goes much beyond the walls of a classroom. It goes into the woods where a 6 year old boy will know how not to tamper with nature.
A bunch of wildflowers collected from the ground. Report cards fail in comparison.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Blah
Whoever thought of that word- genius! More so when used in the context of describing an emotion.
I have felt blah. I feel blah. Here and there. Now and then. It comes, it goes. And then visits again.
Bad hair day. Skin breaking out. Three broken nails. Nail paint chipping off. Appointment to the waxing salon way overdue. Bloating. Pants not fitting right. Nothing fitting right. Blah.
Husband getting on nerves. Arguments over little things. Kids getting on nerves. Noisy as hell. Whining. Crying. Messy rooms. Blah.
Boring mundane work at office. Annoying colleagues. Even more annoying meetings. Deadlines. Blah.
Body hurting. Calling out for a massage. For which there is no time. Missed yoga classes. Gym sessions cancelled. Blah.
Loads of laundry. Messy house. Depleted stock of groceries. Trip to grocery store seeming dauntingly mind numbing. Blah.
Load the dishwasher. Clean out closets. School forms to be filled out. Lunch bags to be packed. Breakfasts to be managed. Blah.
Yes, I have my blah moments.
Blah.
I have felt blah. I feel blah. Here and there. Now and then. It comes, it goes. And then visits again.
Bad hair day. Skin breaking out. Three broken nails. Nail paint chipping off. Appointment to the waxing salon way overdue. Bloating. Pants not fitting right. Nothing fitting right. Blah.
Husband getting on nerves. Arguments over little things. Kids getting on nerves. Noisy as hell. Whining. Crying. Messy rooms. Blah.
Boring mundane work at office. Annoying colleagues. Even more annoying meetings. Deadlines. Blah.
Body hurting. Calling out for a massage. For which there is no time. Missed yoga classes. Gym sessions cancelled. Blah.
Loads of laundry. Messy house. Depleted stock of groceries. Trip to grocery store seeming dauntingly mind numbing. Blah.
Load the dishwasher. Clean out closets. School forms to be filled out. Lunch bags to be packed. Breakfasts to be managed. Blah.
Yes, I have my blah moments.
Blah.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Stoning...... Seriously??
I find it absolutely appalling that somewhere on this globe there is a woman who has been condemned to be stoned on charges of adultery. And due to intervention, for now, her stoning has been halted. What truly is appalling is that there is even a discussion around to be or not to be. And yes, I know it is not all that simple...but really? A woman being stoned to death? And there is a discussion around it.
Call me naive if you will... But I think it should be a simple thing like " No, there is no law in this world that should sanction the stoning of a woman"
Call me naive if you will... But I think it should be a simple thing like " No, there is no law in this world that should sanction the stoning of a woman"
Monday, August 30, 2010
You know you have a best friend when.....
The conversation goes like this....
Beep beep beep beep beep beep (numbers being dailled)
Thank you for using Yak ( meaning it's an international call)
Hey, Mr Tambourine man (ring tone)
Hellllooo (sleepy , waking up voice)
Hello, sorry, is it early? (read, the sleepy voice)
Yes (read , you're in Toronto..it's 10 pm...I'm in Bangalore ..it's 7 am)
Oh sorry , ok (read, I know you have busy mornings and I get that..so go back to sleeping)
Is it urgent? (read, ...all okay? If not, tell me...I can give up few winks to talk to you)
No, No..just our usual (read, you know how we live in separate continents, oceans apart, opposite time zones, yet we talk everyday filling in each other with the minutest details of our life)
I do know I have a best friend!
Beep beep beep beep beep beep (numbers being dailled)
Thank you for using Yak ( meaning it's an international call)
Hey, Mr Tambourine man (ring tone)
Hellllooo (sleepy , waking up voice)
Hello, sorry, is it early? (read, the sleepy voice)
Yes (read , you're in Toronto..it's 10 pm...I'm in Bangalore ..it's 7 am)
Oh sorry , ok (read, I know you have busy mornings and I get that..so go back to sleeping)
Is it urgent? (read, ...all okay? If not, tell me...I can give up few winks to talk to you)
No, No..just our usual (read, you know how we live in separate continents, oceans apart, opposite time zones, yet we talk everyday filling in each other with the minutest details of our life)
I do know I have a best friend!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Score Card
Blog: 1
Sleep: 0
Moral: If espresso has been had at an odd hour of the night leading to lack of sleep, out it to some good use- like, catching up on blogging.
Sleep: 0
Moral: If espresso has been had at an odd hour of the night leading to lack of sleep, out it to some good use- like, catching up on blogging.
Score card
Yet another series of very short posts to sum up some of the situations that occur.
For eg, at this moment:
Espresso at 11 pm: 1
Sleep: 0
Moral: Do not drink espresso at 11 pm if sleep is what's next on the agenda.
For eg, at this moment:
Espresso at 11 pm: 1
Sleep: 0
Moral: Do not drink espresso at 11 pm if sleep is what's next on the agenda.
Observations of the Why Why girl
Why is it that you will be one of the very lucky few who will find that one soul sister aka best friend aka besty aka go to person at all times....
and
she will live at the other end of the world from you, separated by some various oceans whose names you don't even remember, by a 27 hr long flight, by completely different time zones by which I mean, her night, your day kind of different time zones.
And if you're lucky you will see her for a what will seem like very short 15- 20 days every three years.
And you will constantly wait for her sun to rise while yours sets to be able to pour your heart out to her because she is your go to person. Living at the other end of the world?
Why?
and
she will live at the other end of the world from you, separated by some various oceans whose names you don't even remember, by a 27 hr long flight, by completely different time zones by which I mean, her night, your day kind of different time zones.
And if you're lucky you will see her for a what will seem like very short 15- 20 days every three years.
And you will constantly wait for her sun to rise while yours sets to be able to pour your heart out to her because she is your go to person. Living at the other end of the world?
Why?
Observations of the Why Why girl.
Why is it that you will have a month of absolute peace and stability , bordering even on the edge of boredom and you will begin to question the presence of excitement in your life.
And then within a week, A pipe will break in the washroom, flood the house, leading to inconvenient repairs in the house, you will suddenly be given a whole lot of work with the deadline being yesterday, your child will fall sick and be difficult, you will PMS and how, dandruff will surface, along with her friend, the pimple, bloating will happen and clothes will not fit. All at once.
And then within a week, A pipe will break in the washroom, flood the house, leading to inconvenient repairs in the house, you will suddenly be given a whole lot of work with the deadline being yesterday, your child will fall sick and be difficult, you will PMS and how, dandruff will surface, along with her friend, the pimple, bloating will happen and clothes will not fit. All at once.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I have a dark sinister secret
Caught your attention, didn't it? It did. That's what secrets do. They have an allure. A pull.
First the word. Secret. I like. It's one of those words that I think was well thought of. By whomsoever it was that thought of the words. Unlike table. For some reason, I think (and it is my own personal opinion) that a table could have been called something else. More thought and more editing might have gone into that.
But secret- that came out just right. The word to the meaning- it fit.
Secret has it's own distinct sound. In my mind, its a whisper.
Secret has a life span. And it varies. Short, long and eternal.
Secret definitely has a life. And a very exciting one at that.
Personality? Now we're talking. Dark, alluring, mystical, devious, happy, joyful.
And power. To make. To break. To resolve. To hurt. To elate. To banish. To reveal. To hide.
It can definitely be seductive. Or ugly. Dangerous. Sinister. Or beautiful.
Everyone has one. Or more. But, one, at the minimum.
And the coolest thing about a secret. It finds its space. A nook. A corner. A brain cell. A thought. In your system. Heart or mind. And stays there. Safe. As it should.
And it demands to be well kept. Because it knows that if it isn't, then it will cease to exist. It will no longer be that. A secret.
First the word. Secret. I like. It's one of those words that I think was well thought of. By whomsoever it was that thought of the words. Unlike table. For some reason, I think (and it is my own personal opinion) that a table could have been called something else. More thought and more editing might have gone into that.
But secret- that came out just right. The word to the meaning- it fit.
Secret has it's own distinct sound. In my mind, its a whisper.
Secret has a life span. And it varies. Short, long and eternal.
Secret definitely has a life. And a very exciting one at that.
Personality? Now we're talking. Dark, alluring, mystical, devious, happy, joyful.
And power. To make. To break. To resolve. To hurt. To elate. To banish. To reveal. To hide.
It can definitely be seductive. Or ugly. Dangerous. Sinister. Or beautiful.
Everyone has one. Or more. But, one, at the minimum.
And the coolest thing about a secret. It finds its space. A nook. A corner. A brain cell. A thought. In your system. Heart or mind. And stays there. Safe. As it should.
And it demands to be well kept. Because it knows that if it isn't, then it will cease to exist. It will no longer be that. A secret.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Observations of the Why Why girl.
Why is it that when a mother changes the millionth (or at least what it feels like) diaper, she's only just being a mom?
But let the dad get his hands on one and the whole room gushes what an absolutely amazing dad he is?
Why?
But let the dad get his hands on one and the whole room gushes what an absolutely amazing dad he is?
Why?
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The thoughts that are thought
Think of all the thoughts we think.
Good thoughts. Bad thoughts. Nice thoughts. And naughty thoughts.
Happy thoughts. That make us smile. Sad thoughts. That rather not
be thought.
A thought that's private. A thought that is shared.
Crazy, insane thoughts. Rational, sensible thoughts. Calm, peaceful thoughts. Anxious thoughts.
Thoughts that are born. Thoughts that are inspired. Borrowed thoughts.
Fleeting thoughts that come and go. Thoughts that linger. And breed more thoughts.
A single thought. A chain of thoughts.
Clear thoughts, of a sound mind. Confused thoughts of an irrational one.
Thoughts of love. Thoughts of family. And friends. Thoughts of strangers.
Remnant thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the here and now. Thought that think into the future.
Thoughts that turn into dreams. And fantasies. Thoughts that turn into a creation. Or thoughts that destruct.
Thoughts of great minds. Of artists on canvases. Of poets in poetry. Thoughts through films. Orations and books that translate thoughts.
And then the everyday thoughts of the ordinary man. And woman. And child.
The thought that are thought.
Like this one. A thought about thought.
Good thoughts. Bad thoughts. Nice thoughts. And naughty thoughts.
Happy thoughts. That make us smile. Sad thoughts. That rather not
be thought.
A thought that's private. A thought that is shared.
Crazy, insane thoughts. Rational, sensible thoughts. Calm, peaceful thoughts. Anxious thoughts.
Thoughts that are born. Thoughts that are inspired. Borrowed thoughts.
Fleeting thoughts that come and go. Thoughts that linger. And breed more thoughts.
A single thought. A chain of thoughts.
Clear thoughts, of a sound mind. Confused thoughts of an irrational one.
Thoughts of love. Thoughts of family. And friends. Thoughts of strangers.
Remnant thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the here and now. Thought that think into the future.
Thoughts that turn into dreams. And fantasies. Thoughts that turn into a creation. Or thoughts that destruct.
Thoughts of great minds. Of artists on canvases. Of poets in poetry. Thoughts through films. Orations and books that translate thoughts.
And then the everyday thoughts of the ordinary man. And woman. And child.
The thought that are thought.
Like this one. A thought about thought.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
kookie mookie shookie koo
Mama ka koochie poochie. Goo goo gaa gaa shee. Bad googy hup. soni moni. Alle alle baby choochie choo. Cutie patootie too. alle alle sonie monie tootie pootise poo. poo poo. No poo poo. baby did pee. sona mona baby. doodlie doo. such a sonie monie. chotru potru .
There's English. and Spanish. Mandarin. Russian. Canotnese. french.
And then there's baby talk.
No grammar. No rules. Phonetics, bah. It just comes naturally when you're talking to a baby who has not yet been inroduced to the complicated rules of language. It comes freely. And well understood and recieved in spasms of delight by recipient.
And I if it inspired doo doo doo, da da da, is all I want to say to you.
There's English. and Spanish. Mandarin. Russian. Canotnese. french.
And then there's baby talk.
No grammar. No rules. Phonetics, bah. It just comes naturally when you're talking to a baby who has not yet been inroduced to the complicated rules of language. It comes freely. And well understood and recieved in spasms of delight by recipient.
And I if it inspired doo doo doo, da da da, is all I want to say to you.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Uncleji that sold bras
Flash back to school days. When mothers always took it upon themselves, at least mine did, to make an expedition out of buying bras for her daughter. And my mother believed that the best kind of bras were the the functional, sturdy, white cotton bras. And that the best place to buy these best bras was Indraprastha lingerie store at CP.
In- dra- prastha. Indraprastha. Indra- prastha. No matter how you say it, Indraprastha does not invoke lingerie. Nor sexy, nor lacy.
Say Indra- prastha. Now say, Victoria's secrets. Or La Senza. Now say Indraprastha again. You get the drift.
And the icing on the cake that was Indraprastha, was the bra selling Uncleji in Indraprastha.
Rotund, bald, pant suit wearing Uncleji. The undisputed king of the bra counter. No pantie or sock selling for this Uncleji. Nooooo, let the ladies handle that counter. This gent handles the bras.
Uncleji- the star salesman. With years of expertise in selling bras. Uncleji with the balding head, which he frequently rubbed. And a beer belly which he rubbed on occasion.
Uncleji with a very loud voice. The very loud voice with which he which he announced to everyone in the store and outside- haanji madam, bitiya ke liye brassiers?
And then in that loud voice, he yelled to mysterious man in a mysterious loft in the ceiling of the store that stored all the white cotton sturdy functional bras " Oye Chotu, ek 34 B dena."
Mysterious chotu in the mysterious loft would then throw down various boxes of bras in 34 B.
Cut to Uncleji. Who would then then with a swoop of his head and belly caressing hands, take the bras out of those boxes and hold them up for everyone to see. And for some strange reason , once again announce your bra size for everyone in the store and outside the store. 34 B.
And because that was not excruciating enough, Uncleji would procees to loudly announce the benefits of the above mentioned bra. Very strong, madam. Comfortable. Very beautiful. yeh detail dekhiye madam.
Acha, biitiya, abhi try kar ke aao. ....
Meanwhile, Bitiya (me) was pretending to not hear him. In fact , pretending that he does not exist. In fact, pretending that she did not exist. And that she was not currently engaged in a discussion about a bra with a rotund, beer belly rubbing Uncleji who was explaining to her that this bra is very strong.
And if that is not excruciating enough, Uncleji sizes me up. Take note now, that I am not buying shoes here. So when Uncleji sizes me up, yup, he sizes me up. One thing I'll grant him , he does it professionally. Not seedy, not cheesy. "Bitiya, aap yeh 36 C bhi try kar lo."
And then proceeds to loudly announce to mysterious man in loft and all bystanders in CP that I might , in his opinion be a 36 C. Oye chotu, ek 36 C dena.
So then I proceed to the fitting room. I can still hear Uncleji having a conversation with my mom about the benefits of the bra. I stay in the fitting room for a very long time. If I could have styed there forever, I would have.
But I couldn't have so, I walk out and Uncleji asks me if the bra fit well. And really if there was a moment when the earth should have opened up and swallowed me, that was it. Because then I would not have had to have a conversation with my eager mom and eager Unlceji about how the bra fit and how I was indeed a 34 B and Uncleji responded to say he was surprised because his assessment was still that I was a 36 C. I pretty much blanked out after that.
Next thing I remember was my mom was happy.Our bra buying expedition had been successful. Uncleji was happy. He was indeed the superstar salesman. I am sure mysterious Chotu in the loft was happy. Another random Uncleji in one corner of the store seemed happy. I have no idea why.
Me, I had added two more white, cotton, strong, sturdy bras to my bra collection. My bra collection from Indraprastha.
And I was pretty much contemplating joining the burn the bra movement.
In- dra- prastha. Indraprastha. Indra- prastha. No matter how you say it, Indraprastha does not invoke lingerie. Nor sexy, nor lacy.
Say Indra- prastha. Now say, Victoria's secrets. Or La Senza. Now say Indraprastha again. You get the drift.
And the icing on the cake that was Indraprastha, was the bra selling Uncleji in Indraprastha.
Rotund, bald, pant suit wearing Uncleji. The undisputed king of the bra counter. No pantie or sock selling for this Uncleji. Nooooo, let the ladies handle that counter. This gent handles the bras.
Uncleji- the star salesman. With years of expertise in selling bras. Uncleji with the balding head, which he frequently rubbed. And a beer belly which he rubbed on occasion.
Uncleji with a very loud voice. The very loud voice with which he which he announced to everyone in the store and outside- haanji madam, bitiya ke liye brassiers?
And then in that loud voice, he yelled to mysterious man in a mysterious loft in the ceiling of the store that stored all the white cotton sturdy functional bras " Oye Chotu, ek 34 B dena."
Mysterious chotu in the mysterious loft would then throw down various boxes of bras in 34 B.
Cut to Uncleji. Who would then then with a swoop of his head and belly caressing hands, take the bras out of those boxes and hold them up for everyone to see. And for some strange reason , once again announce your bra size for everyone in the store and outside the store. 34 B.
And because that was not excruciating enough, Uncleji would procees to loudly announce the benefits of the above mentioned bra. Very strong, madam. Comfortable. Very beautiful. yeh detail dekhiye madam.
Acha, biitiya, abhi try kar ke aao. ....
Meanwhile, Bitiya (me) was pretending to not hear him. In fact , pretending that he does not exist. In fact, pretending that she did not exist. And that she was not currently engaged in a discussion about a bra with a rotund, beer belly rubbing Uncleji who was explaining to her that this bra is very strong.
And if that is not excruciating enough, Uncleji sizes me up. Take note now, that I am not buying shoes here. So when Uncleji sizes me up, yup, he sizes me up. One thing I'll grant him , he does it professionally. Not seedy, not cheesy. "Bitiya, aap yeh 36 C bhi try kar lo."
And then proceeds to loudly announce to mysterious man in loft and all bystanders in CP that I might , in his opinion be a 36 C. Oye chotu, ek 36 C dena.
So then I proceed to the fitting room. I can still hear Uncleji having a conversation with my mom about the benefits of the bra. I stay in the fitting room for a very long time. If I could have styed there forever, I would have.
But I couldn't have so, I walk out and Uncleji asks me if the bra fit well. And really if there was a moment when the earth should have opened up and swallowed me, that was it. Because then I would not have had to have a conversation with my eager mom and eager Unlceji about how the bra fit and how I was indeed a 34 B and Uncleji responded to say he was surprised because his assessment was still that I was a 36 C. I pretty much blanked out after that.
Next thing I remember was my mom was happy.Our bra buying expedition had been successful. Uncleji was happy. He was indeed the superstar salesman. I am sure mysterious Chotu in the loft was happy. Another random Uncleji in one corner of the store seemed happy. I have no idea why.
Me, I had added two more white, cotton, strong, sturdy bras to my bra collection. My bra collection from Indraprastha.
And I was pretty much contemplating joining the burn the bra movement.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Sun
Total sun person. Not a doubt about that. Give me some sunshine and I'm happy.
Something about the warmth on the skin, the burn, even. Something , then, about sun kissed skin. The deep golden olive tan.
Something about the sun creeping in through the windows of the house. Patches of sunshine on the kitchen floor. Streaming in through the white cotton curtains.
Something about tying the hair up to feel the sweat on the nape of the neck. And earthy summer dresses. With big sunglasses and silver flip flops. Glistening sun screen.
Walking through fountains to cool down. Then laying on the grass to warm up. Cold, cold, nimbu pani. Make that two. Icecream. Popsicles. Sprinklers in the garden. And running through them. Now, cool, then hot.
Something and everything about the sun. Glorious.
Something about the warmth on the skin, the burn, even. Something , then, about sun kissed skin. The deep golden olive tan.
Something about the sun creeping in through the windows of the house. Patches of sunshine on the kitchen floor. Streaming in through the white cotton curtains.
Something about tying the hair up to feel the sweat on the nape of the neck. And earthy summer dresses. With big sunglasses and silver flip flops. Glistening sun screen.
Walking through fountains to cool down. Then laying on the grass to warm up. Cold, cold, nimbu pani. Make that two. Icecream. Popsicles. Sprinklers in the garden. And running through them. Now, cool, then hot.
Something and everything about the sun. Glorious.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
NO, you may not feel me up
And no, you PUNK, you may not rub your thigh against mine, Or try and slide your hand up my arm or waist or any other part of me. This is public transportation and I am as much entitled to a decent ride home as you.
And yes, the wind is blowing. And yes, the T-shirt is clinging to my breasts. And no, that does mean that you should stare at them. And that cheap, annoying lip smacking sound you are making and that funny action with your mouth you are doing at me from way over there across the street, seriously stop it , you retard.
And, no, 55 year old Uncle ji, just because you keep driving up to my autorickshaw, rolling down the window of your fancy car , raising your eyebrows at me and smiling, does not mean that I will hop off the auto and into your car and where ever else you desire me to hop into. You might have a fancy car but it's definitely not working for your delusional 55 year old sorry self. Uncleji, go home to your family. And no, you two SRK wannabes who never will be, I will not hop off my auto onto your bike too. So you might as well stop or else you will also end up as delusional as delusional Uncleji.
And no please do not $%^&* break into some choli song when I walk by, or maro some sleazy comment, or smack your lips or scratch your crotch or your bum or breathe heavy or smile or leer or or make any other kind of obscene #@%&*( gesture that only a sleazy Ahole like you can think of.
Because honestly, while you might think that by doing so, you are sending out some sexy vibe to me which shall make me feel this desire for you or whatever else it is that you think I am thinking, all I am thinking is how someone should grab you by the balls and expel you into the horrors of hell so that you rot there and die and never plague thi world again.
There, that's what I am thinking, you retarded, delusional, wannabe sleazoids. So stop.
Just some rants over the "eve teasing" (oh, so understated) scenarios in Delhi.
And yes, the wind is blowing. And yes, the T-shirt is clinging to my breasts. And no, that does mean that you should stare at them. And that cheap, annoying lip smacking sound you are making and that funny action with your mouth you are doing at me from way over there across the street, seriously stop it , you retard.
And, no, 55 year old Uncle ji, just because you keep driving up to my autorickshaw, rolling down the window of your fancy car , raising your eyebrows at me and smiling, does not mean that I will hop off the auto and into your car and where ever else you desire me to hop into. You might have a fancy car but it's definitely not working for your delusional 55 year old sorry self. Uncleji, go home to your family. And no, you two SRK wannabes who never will be, I will not hop off my auto onto your bike too. So you might as well stop or else you will also end up as delusional as delusional Uncleji.
And no please do not $%^&* break into some choli song when I walk by, or maro some sleazy comment, or smack your lips or scratch your crotch or your bum or breathe heavy or smile or leer or or make any other kind of obscene #@%&*( gesture that only a sleazy Ahole like you can think of.
Because honestly, while you might think that by doing so, you are sending out some sexy vibe to me which shall make me feel this desire for you or whatever else it is that you think I am thinking, all I am thinking is how someone should grab you by the balls and expel you into the horrors of hell so that you rot there and die and never plague thi world again.
There, that's what I am thinking, you retarded, delusional, wannabe sleazoids. So stop.
Just some rants over the "eve teasing" (oh, so understated) scenarios in Delhi.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Hop on the sidewalk and tip toe past the pigeons
It is windy as hell. I complain. It's what grown up's do when it's windy as hell. And you are on your way to a 9:45 am appointment for your 6 year old's routine eye check up at the optometrist. And then you have to drop him back home, and then get to work, and then work later to make up for the morning hours.....
'Hold my hand"..he says, "And hop."
"Hop?" Here...on the street, with so many people walking by, watching?. "Hop??", I say
Ya, mom...like, take really giant steps, and hop..that way, you won't feel the wind so much and you won't mind it and we will get to the subway fast. It's fun,"
Okaaaaayyyyy....I say, as he begins to hop.
And so I begin to hop. Hesitatingly at first. Then, with gusto. Because, really , it works. I don't feel the biting wind anymore. And I'm having fun.
And so there we are. A 6 year old boy in his spiderman snow shoes and a woman in her corporate attire, Hopping and skipping on the sidewalk, at 9 am in the morning.
"Now tiptoe", he says. "Be quiet. See the pigeons there. We can't disturb them eating otherwise they won't find their food."
And just like that, we switch. From hopping loudly to tiptpeing silently. On our tippy toes. We do the last stretch that way. So the pigeons can continue eating. Undisturbed.
"The train, the train, the train.....it's like a rocket ship. Let's pretend it is a rocket ship. Cone on, otherwise we'll be left behind. You know what I don't like. Being alone on the station. It's scary. Are we there yet? Is the next one our station. Is our station college? College Park. Why is this station called Museum. Oh, because we can walk to the museum from here. Mommmy, can we go the museum after. Why is this one called St. Patrick? You don;t know? Oh, I know like St. Patrick's day. See, I know. Is it St. Patrick's day today? Are we there yet? Is the next our station? What will the eye doctor do? Do you have cookies? I'm hungry? I want apple juice. Are we there yet.'
Spadina to College Park. 9 subway stops. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.
We now sit in the lobby of the optometrist's office.
"Why doesn't the doctor see us now? IS it going to be longer? I remember this place. I came when I was little. Was I four years old? Was I in your tummy? I remember that machine. The lady asked to me focus with my eyes and look for a house. The eye doctors asked me to read things. That time I could not read very well. Where is the eye doctor. Mommmmmy, I'm bored. Why is that lady here? Do I eat my carrot? I'm super excited. Mommmy, I am bored. "
Lobby to Optometrist's room. 17 minutes. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.
"Hi, Rohan", pleasant looking optometrist lady aka eye doctor.
"Hi", eager to begin 6 year old.
Wow, super coool", 6 year old checking out optometry type equipment in pleasant looking optometrist lady's office.
E, R, L, Y
H, G. T. U
H, t, w, R
The check up fares well. The 6 year old is asked to do some super cool stuff like look here, look there, follow the light , read these letters, hold this against the left eye, and so on and so forth. The chair he sits on can go up and won. Super cool. Him and the optometrist chat away. He tells her stuff. She tries telling him stuff but doesn't really stand a chance. except to slip a few words in now and then. The eyes are declared healthy. The 6 year old is happy. He gets stickers. Two of them. He declares the eye doctor trip way better then the dentist trip.
We're back in the train.
'Are we there yet. My eyes are strong. That's what the doctor said. I could read all the letters. Did I get any wrong. I don't need glasses. Because I eat my carrots. I'm thirsty. why is it called St. Patrick station. Is it Christmas yet?"
I drop him home. I head back to work.
And as I walk back the same route to the subway station, things just feel a little different. Fro one, I'm not thinking of the biting cold. In fact, when no one's looking, I do a few hops. I even remember to tiptoe past the pigeons. I don't pretend the train is a rocket ship. But I do make a note to myself to find out why St. Patrick station is called St. Patrick.
And as I sit in the train, listening to Mayer crooning through my headphones, I smile a little smile. It's just so super cool seeing the world the eyes of a 6 year old.
'Hold my hand"..he says, "And hop."
"Hop?" Here...on the street, with so many people walking by, watching?. "Hop??", I say
Ya, mom...like, take really giant steps, and hop..that way, you won't feel the wind so much and you won't mind it and we will get to the subway fast. It's fun,"
Okaaaaayyyyy....I say, as he begins to hop.
And so I begin to hop. Hesitatingly at first. Then, with gusto. Because, really , it works. I don't feel the biting wind anymore. And I'm having fun.
And so there we are. A 6 year old boy in his spiderman snow shoes and a woman in her corporate attire, Hopping and skipping on the sidewalk, at 9 am in the morning.
"Now tiptoe", he says. "Be quiet. See the pigeons there. We can't disturb them eating otherwise they won't find their food."
And just like that, we switch. From hopping loudly to tiptpeing silently. On our tippy toes. We do the last stretch that way. So the pigeons can continue eating. Undisturbed.
"The train, the train, the train.....it's like a rocket ship. Let's pretend it is a rocket ship. Cone on, otherwise we'll be left behind. You know what I don't like. Being alone on the station. It's scary. Are we there yet? Is the next one our station. Is our station college? College Park. Why is this station called Museum. Oh, because we can walk to the museum from here. Mommmy, can we go the museum after. Why is this one called St. Patrick? You don;t know? Oh, I know like St. Patrick's day. See, I know. Is it St. Patrick's day today? Are we there yet? Is the next our station? What will the eye doctor do? Do you have cookies? I'm hungry? I want apple juice. Are we there yet.'
Spadina to College Park. 9 subway stops. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.
We now sit in the lobby of the optometrist's office.
"Why doesn't the doctor see us now? IS it going to be longer? I remember this place. I came when I was little. Was I four years old? Was I in your tummy? I remember that machine. The lady asked to me focus with my eyes and look for a house. The eye doctors asked me to read things. That time I could not read very well. Where is the eye doctor. Mommmmmy, I'm bored. Why is that lady here? Do I eat my carrot? I'm super excited. Mommmy, I am bored. "
Lobby to Optometrist's room. 17 minutes. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.
"Hi, Rohan", pleasant looking optometrist lady aka eye doctor.
"Hi", eager to begin 6 year old.
Wow, super coool", 6 year old checking out optometry type equipment in pleasant looking optometrist lady's office.
E, R, L, Y
H, G. T. U
H, t, w, R
The check up fares well. The 6 year old is asked to do some super cool stuff like look here, look there, follow the light , read these letters, hold this against the left eye, and so on and so forth. The chair he sits on can go up and won. Super cool. Him and the optometrist chat away. He tells her stuff. She tries telling him stuff but doesn't really stand a chance. except to slip a few words in now and then. The eyes are declared healthy. The 6 year old is happy. He gets stickers. Two of them. He declares the eye doctor trip way better then the dentist trip.
We're back in the train.
'Are we there yet. My eyes are strong. That's what the doctor said. I could read all the letters. Did I get any wrong. I don't need glasses. Because I eat my carrots. I'm thirsty. why is it called St. Patrick station. Is it Christmas yet?"
I drop him home. I head back to work.
And as I walk back the same route to the subway station, things just feel a little different. Fro one, I'm not thinking of the biting cold. In fact, when no one's looking, I do a few hops. I even remember to tiptoe past the pigeons. I don't pretend the train is a rocket ship. But I do make a note to myself to find out why St. Patrick station is called St. Patrick.
And as I sit in the train, listening to Mayer crooning through my headphones, I smile a little smile. It's just so super cool seeing the world the eyes of a 6 year old.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Immigrant Tales- II
Adapt. If there's one thing immigrants too, willingly or unwillingly, is that they adapt. To a new culture, to new people ,to a new climate, to new professions, to new languages, to a completely new world. A world so different from what they have known. A world so away from the one they come from. A world so new it has to be discovered.
But adapt they do,and how. I got yet another glimpse of it today.
I watched her as she spoke to him. "You must oil your hair. See, back home, we are oiling our hair. Which is why it is not turning white. See, your hair, too white. And you are not old. Still young. And here, in the apartment buildings, you live in an apartment building , ya? the water is too hard. That is it. That is the trouble. All hairs going white."
So spoke the Pakistani beautician to the white Canadian man, while she cut his hair. And he listened, and nodded and consented as she explained why he was turning white and made references to back home where people's hair did not turn white because they oiled their hair and so on and so forth.
Meet N. Talkative N. Always doling out advice, N. Spirited N. N, in her black T-shirt and blue denims, N. With flat soled black shoes. Short hair. Maroon lip gloss.Still talking incessantly to the Canadian man, N.
"How old you must be? Not too much. Ya? See, that's what I am saying. You have to be careful. See, here, no one looking really after their hair. Just shampoo and condition, what is that? See,back home, we are oiling. And putting egg. All natural thins. No chemicals. Oil is good. And what you must do is putting some egg...not whole egg, just white part..okay, now it's done...you do, hahn, you do all I am saying and see, all white hair is gone. All the girls are thinking who is this nice young man"
Ok, bye now, you have a good day"
"Yeh gore log na, bahut inko samjhana padta hai..bilkul kuch oil nahin, kuch nahi. Abhi dekho hamare wahan, to hum log bilkul time lekar yeh sab karte hain. Chalo, threading hai? Ek minute, thoda hindi music laga leti hoon. Abhi pata nahi na doosre yeh gore clients ko pasand nahi hai to. hamare log to acha lagta hi hai, na, hindi music. '
And switching to the vernacular, and humming the bollywood tune, she turns to me. And transforms into the N I know.
To the N that has spoken to me if who she is. And the life she lived back in Pakistan. Where she lived for 35 years. Of which ten were spent being the eldest bahu in a joint family of 13. Doing what is expected a eldest bahu of a joint, typically conservative family. A simple, domesticated life of meals to be cooked, children to be tended, in laws to be looked after, marriages to be attended or arranged, festivals to be celebrated. A busy house of 13 people, N in the thick of it all.
Then, the move to Canada. For a better future and a University education for the kids. From the three storey full house to a one bedroom apartment with 4 people. From the salwar kameez donning bahu to the jeans donning beautician. From elaborate meals being cooked for a family to sandwiches packed at 6am and lunches on the go. From conversing in the vernacular to conversing in English with the Candian 'Eh's" thrown in for good measure. From "khuda haafis" to "Have a good day".
"Acha, abhi yeh shape eyebrows ka maintain karna hai..next week aa jana......
The door opens and her next client walks in "Hi Cindy, very chilly outside, eh? What your skin looking so dry? See, I am always saying to use herbal facial. Back home...
N switches. I smile.
She has adpated. And how.
But adapt they do,and how. I got yet another glimpse of it today.
I watched her as she spoke to him. "You must oil your hair. See, back home, we are oiling our hair. Which is why it is not turning white. See, your hair, too white. And you are not old. Still young. And here, in the apartment buildings, you live in an apartment building , ya? the water is too hard. That is it. That is the trouble. All hairs going white."
So spoke the Pakistani beautician to the white Canadian man, while she cut his hair. And he listened, and nodded and consented as she explained why he was turning white and made references to back home where people's hair did not turn white because they oiled their hair and so on and so forth.
Meet N. Talkative N. Always doling out advice, N. Spirited N. N, in her black T-shirt and blue denims, N. With flat soled black shoes. Short hair. Maroon lip gloss.Still talking incessantly to the Canadian man, N.
"How old you must be? Not too much. Ya? See, that's what I am saying. You have to be careful. See, here, no one looking really after their hair. Just shampoo and condition, what is that? See,back home, we are oiling. And putting egg. All natural thins. No chemicals. Oil is good. And what you must do is putting some egg...not whole egg, just white part..okay, now it's done...you do, hahn, you do all I am saying and see, all white hair is gone. All the girls are thinking who is this nice young man"
Ok, bye now, you have a good day"
"Yeh gore log na, bahut inko samjhana padta hai..bilkul kuch oil nahin, kuch nahi. Abhi dekho hamare wahan, to hum log bilkul time lekar yeh sab karte hain. Chalo, threading hai? Ek minute, thoda hindi music laga leti hoon. Abhi pata nahi na doosre yeh gore clients ko pasand nahi hai to. hamare log to acha lagta hi hai, na, hindi music. '
And switching to the vernacular, and humming the bollywood tune, she turns to me. And transforms into the N I know.
To the N that has spoken to me if who she is. And the life she lived back in Pakistan. Where she lived for 35 years. Of which ten were spent being the eldest bahu in a joint family of 13. Doing what is expected a eldest bahu of a joint, typically conservative family. A simple, domesticated life of meals to be cooked, children to be tended, in laws to be looked after, marriages to be attended or arranged, festivals to be celebrated. A busy house of 13 people, N in the thick of it all.
Then, the move to Canada. For a better future and a University education for the kids. From the three storey full house to a one bedroom apartment with 4 people. From the salwar kameez donning bahu to the jeans donning beautician. From elaborate meals being cooked for a family to sandwiches packed at 6am and lunches on the go. From conversing in the vernacular to conversing in English with the Candian 'Eh's" thrown in for good measure. From "khuda haafis" to "Have a good day".
"Acha, abhi yeh shape eyebrows ka maintain karna hai..next week aa jana......
The door opens and her next client walks in "Hi Cindy, very chilly outside, eh? What your skin looking so dry? See, I am always saying to use herbal facial. Back home...
N switches. I smile.
She has adpated. And how.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Been there, seen it, loved it- Part I
The masala shop at the wholesale market in Ulsoor. Gunny bags laden with spices. Laid out in no particular. Mighty mustard, the turmeric. Feiry red, chilli powder. The darker brown of the garam masala. The lighter shade of the coriander . Salt. White and pure. Pepper. Strong black.
The first snowfall of the Canadian winter. Tiny , white flakes. Blanketing everything, as if taking over. Announcing winter's arrival. Falling on the ground. Collecting. Falling some more. Soft white snow. Clean, white snow. Rooftops, streets, cars, coats- all shrouded in the white.
The bangle market in Delhi. Surrounding Hanuman Mandir. Glass, metal, colour, pattern, shimmery, matte, orange, lime green, blue, more blue, then red. The buyers and the sellers. Thin wrists, fat wrists, dark wrists, fair wrists. The bangles being tried on. One by one and then by the dozens. . The choori wallis. Spirited women. With their incessant banter. Making their sales. Almost always, you'll spot a bride to be. Looking for her choora. The choori walli will give her a dozen bangles. Shagun hai. Not a sale. A gesture. A tradition.
The flower market in Amsterdam. A narrow street lined with flowers. A riot of color. Of roses and zerberas. And tulips. Oh, the tulips. The purples and the reds and the oranges and the pinks. Flower power in Amsterdam. No pun intended.
Gay pride parade in Toronto. Along six blocks of Church street. Blocked off for a party that lasts all day and most of the night. Drag queens. Nudity. Techno. Dancing. Partying. And then some more. Gays and Lesbians. Or not. The young. The old. The restless. The party makers. The bystanders The Toronto crowd. The tourists. Wild is the mood. Costumes. Feathers. Masks. Floats. Everything exaggerated. Nothing understated. A celebration. A party.
The first snowfall of the Canadian winter. Tiny , white flakes. Blanketing everything, as if taking over. Announcing winter's arrival. Falling on the ground. Collecting. Falling some more. Soft white snow. Clean, white snow. Rooftops, streets, cars, coats- all shrouded in the white.
The bangle market in Delhi. Surrounding Hanuman Mandir. Glass, metal, colour, pattern, shimmery, matte, orange, lime green, blue, more blue, then red. The buyers and the sellers. Thin wrists, fat wrists, dark wrists, fair wrists. The bangles being tried on. One by one and then by the dozens. . The choori wallis. Spirited women. With their incessant banter. Making their sales. Almost always, you'll spot a bride to be. Looking for her choora. The choori walli will give her a dozen bangles. Shagun hai. Not a sale. A gesture. A tradition.
The flower market in Amsterdam. A narrow street lined with flowers. A riot of color. Of roses and zerberas. And tulips. Oh, the tulips. The purples and the reds and the oranges and the pinks. Flower power in Amsterdam. No pun intended.
Gay pride parade in Toronto. Along six blocks of Church street. Blocked off for a party that lasts all day and most of the night. Drag queens. Nudity. Techno. Dancing. Partying. And then some more. Gays and Lesbians. Or not. The young. The old. The restless. The party makers. The bystanders The Toronto crowd. The tourists. Wild is the mood. Costumes. Feathers. Masks. Floats. Everything exaggerated. Nothing understated. A celebration. A party.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
..........I wish I may, I wish I might, I wish my wish
Wish this , wish that
Wish it could have been
Wish it should have been
Wish it wasn't
Wish it were,
Wish this, wish that.
Wish on an eyelash
Or a mail van
Wish on the first star
Or a shooting one
Wish this wish that
Wish you hadn't
Wish he had
Wish this was that
Or then
Wish this, wish that
Wish fairy
Grant a wish
Wish lists
Wishful thinking,
Wish this, wish that
Cross,
your fingers
Find,
a four leaf clover
Throw,
A coin into a wishing well
Make a wish.
Wish this, wish that.
Wish it away,
Wish it true
Wish it were
Wish it could be
Wish this,
Wish that.
Oh, the wishes we wish
Wish it could have been
Wish it should have been
Wish it wasn't
Wish it were,
Wish this, wish that.
Wish on an eyelash
Or a mail van
Wish on the first star
Or a shooting one
Wish this wish that
Wish you hadn't
Wish he had
Wish this was that
Or then
Wish this, wish that
Wish fairy
Grant a wish
Wish lists
Wishful thinking,
Wish this, wish that
Cross,
your fingers
Find,
a four leaf clover
Throw,
A coin into a wishing well
Make a wish.
Wish this, wish that.
Wish it away,
Wish it true
Wish it were
Wish it could be
Wish this,
Wish that.
Oh, the wishes we wish
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Self, meet self.
Hi you
Me?
Yes, you
And You?
Me?
I am you.
Me?
Yes, you.
I know you?
Sure , you do.
You are?
You.
You are..
me?
I am you,
From, back then
when...
There was fire..
And passion
and desire
and dreams.
Really, Me?
Yes, you.
Back when..
Nothing was,
Not to be achieved.
Mediocrity, not an option
Compromises, not to be made.
This life
truly live it.
Back then...when
The world was for the taking..
The universe was to be unraveled,
Paths to discover
Journeys to be made
Words to be read
The hunger
To know it all
See it all
Do it all
Achieve it all
Overcome it
Fight it
Stand up for it
Be vocal
be strong
proud
Even, vain
never one among the crowd
Always ahead. or above. or away.
To meet, to love,
to learn, to grow
To talk and listen
And then some more.
To live,
And not just.
But , to live
it up....
and large.
A life. One life. This life. Lived.
Me?
Yes, you
That was me?
That was you.
So, hello, me
Hello, you.
What gives?
What's up with you?
Me?
Yes, you
From back then.. when
This is me
It's just not, back then...when.
But, hello you
And hello me
Nice to have met you
Or, really, me.
From back then....when
Stick with me
You,
Well, me.
From back then, when.
I like you.
I like me.
From back then.
I'd like to be you.
I'd like to be me.
From back then when.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Notes to a new mother
"She's only two weeks old and she's constipated"
"I had to hold her legs up, and rub her tummy. She pooped. But it was hard. Shouldn't it be a softer consistency?"
"She doesn't sleep much. I finally had her down at 3 am!!"
" She likes the bottle. It's easier on me too."
"She won't stop crying. I can't figure out why"
"will it be better, in a month or two"
"I miss my old life"
"I feel, kind of sad. And overwhelmed. Is that ok?"
- Of course, it is. Yes of course, it is.
And yes, she will cry, for no reason. And you won't figure it out. And when you don;t it'll get to you. Both, the crying and not being able to figure it out.
And yes , you will feel sad, and tired and overwhelmed.
And yes, it is ok to miss your old life. When you could sleep in. Or not have to wake up in the middle of the night.
And yes, it easier when someone else can feed her with the bottle because you're just tired. And want to lay on the couch and watch mindless TV. And not have to think about the consistency of poo.
And no, you're not being incompetent. Or a bad mother.
You're just being someone who just spent the last nine months being pregnant. Getting bigger. Straining your back. Throwing up. That, and the hormones gone crazy.
Come D-day. 16 hrs of labour. The exhausted pushing, the tear, the baby, the nursing, the sleep deprivation. That, and the hormones gone crazy.
So yes, as happy as you are, that your baby's here and she's healthy and beautiful,and everyone around you is over the moon, you are also tired, sleep deprived, in pain and nursing. With a new baby to take care of. Whose poop doesn't seem right. So, yes, it is ok for you to feel a bit sad and very overwhelmed.
And, no, my dear, you didn't just overnight turn into that super woman who can miraculously sing a baby to sleep. Or calm her down when she's crying. Or know what to do when she's constipated. Or be sunshine mommy all day long.
You didn't turn into all that. You just turned into a mom. Of this little delicate baby, that arrived without a manual. Or a "sleep" button. Or a "stop screaming" one . Or an exchange or return policy!
So yes, it will take time to figure her out. And figure it out. And figure out a whole bunch of other stuff, that, right now you don't feel like you will figure out.
But you will. Because I did. And She did. Because we all did.
Because we do.
"I had to hold her legs up, and rub her tummy. She pooped. But it was hard. Shouldn't it be a softer consistency?"
"She doesn't sleep much. I finally had her down at 3 am!!"
" She likes the bottle. It's easier on me too."
"She won't stop crying. I can't figure out why"
"will it be better, in a month or two"
"I miss my old life"
"I feel, kind of sad. And overwhelmed. Is that ok?"
- Of course, it is. Yes of course, it is.
And yes, she will cry, for no reason. And you won't figure it out. And when you don;t it'll get to you. Both, the crying and not being able to figure it out.
And yes , you will feel sad, and tired and overwhelmed.
And yes, it is ok to miss your old life. When you could sleep in. Or not have to wake up in the middle of the night.
And yes, it easier when someone else can feed her with the bottle because you're just tired. And want to lay on the couch and watch mindless TV. And not have to think about the consistency of poo.
And no, you're not being incompetent. Or a bad mother.
You're just being someone who just spent the last nine months being pregnant. Getting bigger. Straining your back. Throwing up. That, and the hormones gone crazy.
Come D-day. 16 hrs of labour. The exhausted pushing, the tear, the baby, the nursing, the sleep deprivation. That, and the hormones gone crazy.
So yes, as happy as you are, that your baby's here and she's healthy and beautiful,and everyone around you is over the moon, you are also tired, sleep deprived, in pain and nursing. With a new baby to take care of. Whose poop doesn't seem right. So, yes, it is ok for you to feel a bit sad and very overwhelmed.
And, no, my dear, you didn't just overnight turn into that super woman who can miraculously sing a baby to sleep. Or calm her down when she's crying. Or know what to do when she's constipated. Or be sunshine mommy all day long.
You didn't turn into all that. You just turned into a mom. Of this little delicate baby, that arrived without a manual. Or a "sleep" button. Or a "stop screaming" one . Or an exchange or return policy!
So yes, it will take time to figure her out. And figure it out. And figure out a whole bunch of other stuff, that, right now you don't feel like you will figure out.
But you will. Because I did. And She did. Because we all did.
Because we do.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tick tock tick tock
It's been a while since I've been here! There's been no time or hardly any !
Tick tock tick tock. So much to do..so litle time.Cliched, yet true.
Between the kids and the house and the career and the desire to do so much, read so much, watch so much, meet so many, talk about so much....tick tock tick tock.
Between knowing that to do it all, is to live my life within a completely organized, planned to the tee timetable, which then the bohemian part of me completly disagrees to as being so robotic.
SO I make these little arrangements. The morning rush is the morning rush , yet I sit down with that first cup of tea. Light the incense. Gather my thoughts.
Sit on the red bench at the subway station and read. Let a few trains come and go.
Lunch hour equals an hour at the gym.
A little less cleaning on the weekends. A few extra calls to some friends.
Laundry can wait an extra day. A good film beckons.
And while there's all those bills to be sorted, right now it was just time to sit down and write.
Tick tock tick tock. Now, how do I fit the yoga in?
Tick tock tick tock. So much to do..so litle time.Cliched, yet true.
Between the kids and the house and the career and the desire to do so much, read so much, watch so much, meet so many, talk about so much....tick tock tick tock.
Between knowing that to do it all, is to live my life within a completely organized, planned to the tee timetable, which then the bohemian part of me completly disagrees to as being so robotic.
SO I make these little arrangements. The morning rush is the morning rush , yet I sit down with that first cup of tea. Light the incense. Gather my thoughts.
Sit on the red bench at the subway station and read. Let a few trains come and go.
Lunch hour equals an hour at the gym.
A little less cleaning on the weekends. A few extra calls to some friends.
Laundry can wait an extra day. A good film beckons.
And while there's all those bills to be sorted, right now it was just time to sit down and write.
Tick tock tick tock. Now, how do I fit the yoga in?
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