CHANGES

Changes, even when planned, can be unexpected.

Take for instance, parenthood. Or rather, preparing for the l'il tyke to arrive, from the minute the line turns pink (yup, no blue here) until the baby's actually here.

And no, am not talking physical changes to the mommy-to-be (reams has been written on that, and this is definitely not the forum), but more of what happens inside the head: first, wrapping your head around the idea of having made a new little person, and then the fact that s/he will be here sooner than you know it. Nine months, forty weeks... call it as you will. Ultimately, it all boils down to a giant clock, counting down until THE day - but with anticipation that even the biggest and brightest New Year's Eve cannot hope to match. This feels like all festivals and celebrations in one.

It's not always anticipation, though, especially initially. There's also many more A-words: anxiety, apprehension, acute (insert word here - depression/ fear/ worry...), as well as good old mixed emotions. You don't need over-worked hormones to know that last one.  From happiness (or ecstasy even) one moment, to nail-biting anxiety the next, there's a gamut of expressions to run through.

What changes it all? Those first little kicks, the sheer acknowledgement of that tiny miracle inside of you - a rapidly beating heart, a small person fully formed and perfection itself... someone you can't wait to see, hold and cuddle. And shed a tear (or more) of gratitude for that snuffly little bundle in your arms.

Do you know, little one, that you already have Mommy and Daddy wrapped around that impossibly tiny finger? They don't have to meet you to know that you're what their world will revolve round. That while they're eagerly awaiting you, they're also sending up silent, anxious prayers that they should have the strength and ability to bring you up to being a good human being? That things such as gender, colour, whether the nose is too large or the hair too thin don't count? That to them, you'll always be their Perfect Little Miracle?

IF ONLY...

Relationships can be so fragile, she thought. One wrong move, and your world can come crashing down around you.

They were friends, having hit it off the moment they met. Rather, spoke over the phone for the first time. While the conversation couldn't have been described as sparkling in the social sense, it was laced with wit and a year's worth of humour tossed in. What she liked about him, she realised, was that he seemed to be unpretentious, not waxing eloquent on things he hadn't a clue about. A few more calls, a few more conversations, and meeting him became imperative. And so they did.

A few multiplied tenfold, and they were soon seeing each other. After having kissed quite a few frogs, she mused, this one was a keeper. And so their story unfolded.

If only, she later thought. If only she hadn't met Russell at work. If only they hadn't been thrown together on a few projects. If only that offsite at Goa hadn't happened. If only... all for that one impetuous, drunken night.

MUSH

It's official - love is in the air.

Thank you, Mumbai Monsoons, for this gorgeous weather, for the air heavy with rain. For these wonderful evenings filled with heavenly breeze and dark grey skies laden with promise.

Taken a walk by the sea lately? Or just sat there, either alone, or with somebody you care deeply about? Both are experiences in themselves, one not to be confused with the other, and both to have been had. There's something about the solitude that the darkening evenings provide, a velveteen shrug that envelopes you as you stare out at the water, contemplating nothing... something... everything. If with someone you care about, the experience is probably even more highly sensitised.

I have no idea what it is about the sea, but there it is. It's a reflection of myriad emotions, of who you are and what you can be. It's a reflection of your dreams, hopes and desires. It's this mirror, one that lets you see.

Go on, experience the magic.

GRIEF

Life is so uncertain. When you contemplated death, it was something distant, something that happened to other people and not you. It may have an impact on other peoples’ lives, granted, but never yours. Because, like with most things unpleasant, we turn into ostriches: bury our necks in the sand, and hope that all the unpleasantness will just pass us by, harming not a hair on our heads. Well, here’s the deal: that’s not how real life works. Unpleasantness is a certainty, so is death. Death, in all its gruesomeness and cold harsh reality. It’s a leveller like no other, right: millionaire or pauper, it is inevitable and catches up with us all someday. It’s only a matter of time.

Why the morbid thoughts?

Let me share this:

I lost a couple of friends to a tragic accident only recently. Brothers, both, whom I'd known since childhood. We grew up together, the elder of the two, being in the same grade at school. There would be times we'd walk home from school together. Evenings were spent together, playing, riding bicycles, and as we grew older, taking walks by the sea and settling down to catch up on the day's news. Burning the midnight oil, as we studied for exams together, calmed each other when the panic of not having studied enough would set in. Childhood crushes, dreams, hopes and plans for the future were shared. While we weren't in touch very regularly as the years passed by, I always knew that they were there, in the back of my mind. Always a part of my life, and undoubtedly a very essential part of my childhood memories. And now, they're both no longer here, victims of an air crash.

Would it have been worse had we stayed more in touch? Would it hurt as much as it does now, to think of the waste of two young lives, and to realise that part of your own childhood has been erased, just like that, only to be charred beyond recognition? We'll never have them back again - that's when it sinks in, that death hits, and hits hard. Maybe it gets better over time, doesn't hurt as much - but who's to be the judge of that?

LIFE IS TOO SHORT

for what-ifs
for regrets.
for enmity
for feuds.
for anger
for hate.

It's also too short for not
telling someone how much you care about them
telling someone how much you appreciate them, and all that they do for you
nurturing and cherishing relationships
doing that one thing so close to your heart, but you are so scared to venture into

Make every moment count. You never know when it'll be too late.

FOR HIS MOTHER

He wore his whites for his mother.

Arms akimbo, cheeks flushed, he stood his ground to tremendous applause. The cricketing whites: a snug jersey - number 07 - pulled taut over his tightly muscled torso, pads, gloves. The helmet snapped firmly on to his head, he bent slightly at the knees, stomping the ground with his right leg, bat in hand, slowly swinging it, testing, as if poised for flight.

The applause rent the air, as his bat connected with the hapless ball for his maiden six runs.

His mother, watching from the heavens, would be proud.

MOVING ON

They had decided to move on, they had their reasons. But wasn't there a reason they'd gotten together in the first place?

Meeting at work. Playing footsie under the table, making those otherwise intolerable meetings fun. Snatched moments over sweet vending machine coffee. Late-night movies, snuggling together with a tub of fragrant hot butter popcorn (caramel for her). Tears and laughter. Birthday surprises and anniversary celebrations. Almost a decade of togetherness, almost a decade of memories created together.

They had decided to move on, they had their reasons. But wasn't there a reason they'd gotten together in the first place?

HO-HUM

It's just one of those lazy, dull days that follows a holiday. More specifically, a mid-week holiday.

Drat.

YOUR FIGHT IS MY FIGHT

It's pretty amazing how some people can turn others' fights into their own. If I remember correctly - albeit vaguely - from Psychology class back in college - there is a term for this. Anyway.

I was at the passport office, having to wait in line for my turn at the counter, when there was a commotion at the doorway. Guy In Green muscled his way in, not-so-gently elbowing the security guy at the entrance, and shouted about having to make a complaint. When ushered in to meet with the official manning the grievance cell, his (the guy's) voice got louder, the argument uglier - and generally caused a commotion big enough to constitute a war in a small nation. To make it worse, Guy In Green was ably (a matter of perspective) supported by his better half, Lady With The Shrill Voice. Aargh. To cut a long story short, the fault lay with Guy In Green and Lady With The Shrill Voice. However, verbal abuses rent the air as they accused the passport officials of insensitivity (ha!), rude behaviour (double ha!) and of having committed an error (ha again!) which in fact, was their own. They were eventually escorted out by cops, but not before having made a very ugly scene in an otherwise calm office on an even calmer morning.

Just as they left, Auntie Dripping Diamonds (waiting in a queue from where she had an unobstructed view of the grievance cell), dialled a number on her cell phone (when a signboard very close to where she was seated clearly banned the use of said instrument) and started to rant and rave about what had just transpired in the office seconds earlier, presumably to her better half. I mean, who else would tolerate such a vile tirade? She had a field day as she invoked the entire pantheon of Indian Gods and Goddesses, the political system, government officials... you get the drift. Inaccurate, of course, and definitely unjustified.

All. For. A. Fight. That. Wasn't. Even. Hers.

FEAR

And you thought nightmares = fear. So did I.

Until January 01, 2012.

Here's the lowdown: On holiday, the significant other and I are happily last-minute shopping at a prominent mall on one of (let's call it) City B's busiest streets, when we decide to head back to our hotel and check-out, in preparation for our flight home. It's around 03:30 on a bright and sunny afternoon, when we hail a cab, one of those regular meter cabs that are available for hire. About five minutes into the drive hotelwards, the cabbie gets abusive, drives off the main road onto a freeway, then off the freeway into a rather seedy area, and holds us to ransom, at gunpoint. No, I don't know whether the gun was indeed real, and no, I don't know whether we were merely being small-time conned, but when faced with a gun - you don't really want to find out, do you?

The city in question is very, very touristy; you have about a gazillion people hopping into these cabs all the time. So did we, for a full three days prior to this. And then we landed up with this cabbie. That done, we were about USD 70 lighter, dropped off onto a deserted freeway outside of city limits - forced to find our way back to the hotel in a foreign country, wherein even the street signs were not in English, or any language that we understood.

What did we do wrong? Nothing, apart from the fact that we were sheer unlucky, to be in the wrong cab at the wrong time. Did we argue with the cabbie? No. Did we fight? No. Were we abusive? No. Guess we were just destined to be one of those 'we-have-been-mugged' statistics.

In hindsight, it could've been a lot worse - our passports were on us, we were alone in a strange land. Guess we got off lightly. A week after, we're glad to be alive, and whole.

What a start to the new year.

Nightmares are made of this.

On the bright side, there evidently is a God, isn't there?

THE FRAGRANCE LINGERS ON

He would stand patiently on the corner of the pavement, under the shade of a tall old Ashoka tree, the wisdom of his years showing on his weather beaten face, browned with the sun, a slight smile playing about his lips. Calm, always unruffled, his arm stretched out, laden with fragrant garlands of delicate brown blooms, those of the bakul flower. Dressed in a white shirt, always clean and pressed, but one that had obviously seen better days, together with a pair of brown trousers, carefully preserved and crisply ironed on the crease. His feet ensconced in brown Kolhapuri chappals, and a Gandhi topi on his near-bald head.

This is how I remember him.

Every summer and winter break (and some weekends in between),  Mum would whisk my sister and me off to Pune, to her parental home, where our grandparents lived. Having to keep us entertained (and thereby alleviate boredom and crankiness), she would take us out for a walk every evening. It was on one of many such strolls that I first saw him, standing facing Kaka Halwai, a sweetmeat store, under the Ashoka. Mum did too, and exclaiming at the exquisite beauty of the bakul flowers, purchased a garland for her hair. This was only the beginning of our association with him. Every day, every holiday - I had got accustomed to walking down that busy, bustling street - and seeing him stand, alone, almost unmoving, hand stretched out to display his fragrant wares better. A slight smile, a confirmation of the price, and subtly shifting a garland from one hand to the other, to be placed in a waiting soft, velvet-like green leaf, deftly folded over and tied loosely with string - all then handed over to Mum, the smile in place. The pattern of years.

Today, whenever I pass by that street, I still slow down that corner, almost expecting to see him standing there, flower garlands on his arm, never once calling out to passers-by, in a bid to sell his wares. The tiny, delicate beige-brown blossoms, those that would continue to give out their exotic fragrance even when dried. Those tiny flowers that helped him eke out his living, for so many years. The dignity they offered him, his humility and gentle nature shining forth. Simple and unobtrusive, similar to the blooms he held.

Of course, he no longer is there... physically.

The fragrance, however, continues to linger.

KIARA

Meet Kiara.

She's the building dog. Now what's a 'building dog'? Simple - when you live in an apartment complex in Mumbai where space is a luxury and hence can't have a pet (other than goldfish or hamsters or such maybe) at home, you have what is called a building dog. What this means is that a random stray walks in; the NGOs come in and volunteer, vaccinate, spay, feed - not necessarily in that order - the said stray (and subsequent puppies, if the spaying was a little too late) which is collectively adopted by the kids in the apartment complex and becomes the building dog. Of course, said four-legged furry friend gets a name, gets food (it's now upped to Pedigree) and above all gets loads of love, cuddles and play dates with the same kids. Works well for all.

Kiara entered our lives roughly around seven-odd years ago, and has been the darling of all since. Of course, she's now getting along in doggy years (fifty plus, eh) and sadly, as with humans, age does tell on her. (She isn't acquainted with Botox, you see.) However, the pup she was seven years ago is more or less how she is even today: playful, frisky, loving, sweet... and always, always makes you feel special. It's amazing how she can chase away your tiredness as you park the car at the end of a long work day and crawl home with a wag of her tail, one tiny whimper and a soft nose gently nudged against the back of your palm. The only treat she looks out for is a head rub, a few words cooed to her and a pat or two. Rinse, repeat.

FOR DAD

Remember the time Dad played chauffeur? All those play dates, rides to school, dance class, art class, Math lessons... Or days when it'd pour the proverbial cats and dogs, and Dad would drive you out in near zero visibility conditions just to have a hot corn-on-the-cob by the sea? How you'd feel its tangy lemony flavour hit your tastebuds even as you watched the rain safely ensconsed in the car, Dad by your side? How Dad could be counted upon to drive you anywhere, anytime, all you had to do was ask? Or sometimes, not even that - he'd just know, and you'd see him waiting patiently by the car, keys in hand.

Cut to the present, a rainy day in June 2011. Dad needs to get to work, and his car is at the service station. Solution? It's now *my* turn to drive in the pouring rain, drop Dad to work and then head on to office myself.

For Dad - for all those times he's been there, unconditionally.

HEY BABY!

Flashback to the time back in school, when we’d sit at your kitchen window, sampling yummy stuff courtesy your mum’s culinary skills… To the time when we’d swap books to read, and discuss the characters like they were friends… And also to the time when we figured babies were not our most favourite topic of discussion!!

Cut to the present. Clichéd but true – how I’d love to be there at this special time in your life, when you’re probably still sitting at a kitchen window (this time, your own), maybe reading a book…. A baby book. (So how many people have had you read ‘What to expect when you’re expecting’?) Now, when a baby is so eagerly awaited, a precious l’il gift already so wanted and loved!

Wish you loads and loads of fun times with Baby! May each day bring with it wonderful moments that you’ll forever cherish.
Here’s to you, Mommy!
Hugs,
Vaijxxxxxxx

P.S: So do you regret not having figured out how to knit from back in high school?

GOODBYE, GRANDPA

It's been five years now; but still just doesn't feel like it.

Seems like I've just spent a holiday with you and am heading back home, only to see you soon. Every visit, when I'd walk out your door, after that one last hug, I'd look back, wishing time would stop still. I'd wish that it were time for the next vacation already.

That last time we met, that last hug we exchanged. Even though it took all your strength, all you could do was wish us well, thinking about us, that 'God bless' was the last thing I heard you say to me. And that we shouldn't worry about you. Didn't know it would be the very last hug you'd give me, or that it would be the last time I'd see you.

Memories are all I'm left with. The pain just doesn't go away.

MEN!

Had men been intelligent, they'd've been women. I'm all for men bashing right now, such is my frame of mind.
Always wonder why men have to have things their way, why they're such mamma's boys, why they can't think for themselves, and why they can't understand that TLC is a good thing - and to love and respect somebody means to given them your support when it's required.
Why can't they see right from wrong, differentiate between facts and exaggerated tales that do nothing but make someone (read: the significant other's) life miserable?
Why any attempt to talk things out after a tiff is always met by a cold response, ears shut out to any reason, logic, sense or good old listening while the other person speaks?
Why when it comes to the crunch, the woman has to spend half her waking hours (the other half are spent at work) in the kitchen, making endless rounds of tea/ coffee and whipping up a meal and supervising the house help and cleaning up after the man and organizing the home and smiling prettily at the world when her back's killing her and she can't wait to put her feet up...
...Maybe someday I might see the pros. Some distant day...

IT'S ALWAYS YOU!

SHE: "I'm talking to you."
HE (randomly flipping TV channels): "No, that's more like arguing."
SHE (patiently): "Trying to get my point across here."
HE (displaying a total lack of interest): "Yeah, it's always about you, and your viewpoint."
SHE: "Will you ever listen to me! Just this once?"
HE (looking up): "See? Now you dominate too!"
SHE (exasperated, frustrated): "Can I say something???"
HE (dripping sarcasm): "Don't you always?"

Whatever you say or do, it can never be right.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

So I met the significant other four years ago today. In another lifetime (read: up until a couple of years ago), I'd've even remembered the date. Today, I had to be reminded. (Of course, I did pretend that I had so remembered, how can you think I'd even forget? Hee hee.) How times change. Or waitaminute, is it people that do?

Flashback to college, when some batch mates would celebrate the anniversary of the first time they smiled (coyly) at their partners, the anniversary of their first date, the anniversary of when they first held hands, the anniversary of when they first kissed… and let's not get any more graphic here at the peril of sounding risqué!

Well, so ultimately is it about an occasion, a reason to remember an event (then so significant and now pale in comparison to others more so), or to simply celebrate being together? I'd like to believe the latter, and justify not having swiped my card at the nearest Hallmark store!

BEING ALIVE

Some days were just so perfect. They'd lie together contentedly under the shade of the ancient apple tree growing in the garden, lazily sunning themselves like crabs on the beach. Chewing on a blade of grass, he'd suddenly turn to her, demanding to know whether she loved him. Yes, she'd assure him, a smile in her voice. How much?, he'd persist. This much, she'd respond, stretching her arms wide. They'd collapse together onto the grass, giggling like schoolchildren.

On others, they'd sit together enveloped in a comfortable silence born of years of bonding. She'd take up her crotchet, while he'd read the dailies, skimming the finely typed pages. Sometimes he'd read aloud an interesting snippet or two.

Reminiscing - it could be therapeutic. Or traumatic even, depending which side of the scales you were tipping.

The mug slipped from her now cold hands, hot coffee splashing onto the ivory walls, leaving a mud coloured trail behind. She didn't feel the searing heat when a few drops scalded the delicate skin at her wrist. Why did he have to die? Of all the people milling around campus that bleak winter morning, why was it him, caught in the shootout at the school? He, who'd normally never venture out on one of the season's coldest days unless it was absolutely vital. What made him take that step, one move in the wrong direction?

She'd never know. Just as she'd never feel warm again.

WINTER

Winter.
The cold, drab season
Of the heart
the mind and
the body.

Colours.
Nowhere to be seen
except for
Black
White and
Gray.

The Wind.
Chills to the bone and
the warmth seeps out
little
by little
by little

You can never get warm again.