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.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
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.
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