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.

DRIVER ASLEEP!

... And asleep he was!

REGRET

He was unsure about what he had done, whether leaving her was the only option he had. However, what could he do, in the face of threats from her family? Death threats, really, aimed at the both of them.

Was it wrong, he asked himself, to love someone? To be very sure about wanting to spend your life with someone? Was it equally wrong, he wondered, to give up so easily? Whether a little more persuasion, a little more time could have changed things.

Would rebelling have set a precedent in their community?

Now he would never know.

SINGAPURA!

Here's a few pictures from a recent holiday to gorgeous Singapore.

THE COLLECTIVE (NOUN)

Probably doesn't make too much sense as a blog post, but couldn't help smiling when I stumbled upon these collective nouns. (Gets even better in the head when you actually picture the said critters. Go on, try it!)

The Fun Loving Ones:

band of gorillas

cartload of chimpanzees (hee!)

parade of elephants

party of jays

The Meanies:

nuisance of (house) cats

rag of colts

unkindness of ravens

The Fancy Ones:

ascension of larks

exaltation of larks

culture of bacteria (ooh la la!)

kettle of hawks

storytelling of crows (as opposed to the more popular ‘murder’)

tidings of magpies

lounge of lizards (Don’t even want to go there – imagine a loungeful of them. Ick. Ick.)

clowder of cats

crèche of penguins

rumba of rattlesnakes

harem of seals

descent of woodpeckers (movie title-esque, eh?)

And here’s the more rowdy Downright Shady of the lot:

gang of elk

mob of emus/ kangaroos/ wallabies

murder of crows (moonlighting, for when they’re not ‘storytelling’)

skulk of foxes

deceit of lapwings

generation of vipers

sneak of weasels

And the Hardworking:

business of ferrets

memory of elephants

zeal of zebras

And the Structurally Sound:

tower of giraffes

tribe of goats

raft of otters

bed of oysters

parliament of owls (this one is so perfect!)

Those Aptly Described:

shrewdness of apes

glint of goldfish

prickle of hedgehogs

crash/ bloat of hippopotami

cry of hounds

charm of hummingbirds

paddling of ducks

congress of baboons (hahahahahaha!)

leap of leopards

mischief of mice

movement of moles

crash of rhinoceroses

ostentation of peacocks

scurry of squirrels

ambush of tigers

BARE IT ALL

On social networking sites, that is. Telling (virtually) the (entire) world where you are, what you are doing there, whom you are with and your feelings/ thoughts at that time is de rigeur. I confess, I've done that numerous times myself, having even mentioned the reason I was, say, at a fancy restaurant. And to take it a step further, adding pictures while there.

All the reports on safety aside, I'm now thinking this: is it really vital for all the people on my 'friend list' to know this? Or somewhere, deep down inside all of us, is an exhibitionist just waiting to get out? You'll notice that not-so-cool geo tags don't make their way out there - but what would be perceived as upmarket, or just plain 'with-it' very much are. It's almost as if we seek approval (and maybe even applause and admiration) for what we do.

And oh, just so you know, as do my friends on a popular social networking site, I was at California Pizza Kitchen last evening, with a friend, M. Bah.

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.

MY VANISHING ACT

While there have been stories to tell - and consequently loads to blog - I know I've not been doing the best job marrying the two recently. The thing is, the head's full of home renovation plans - paint, furniture, new windows, carpeting... and this is my cue to melt into one gasping puddle of ecstasy. =) Life. Just. Took. Such. A. Fun. Turn.

Will soon be back, with stories from the past few weeks, and from home renovation too. Pictures as well, of course. After all, what's life without a little loads of colour?

P.S.: Here's a quick dekko into the past few weeks, while I'm at it - Some lovely fabric (for clothes) shopping has been done! And a few fun crafts for a very close friend's son also worked upon (uh, okay, only in my head as of now). Books have been purchased! A couple of weekend getaways with the significant other have happened! Ah.

PINWHEELS!

Random picture from last week, taken outside my office building in the evening.  

ALL FOR A HAIRCUT

Have you ever been to a salon and felt inadequate? You know, the kind of salon (or maybe even a spa) that intimidates you to simply step in the door even? I confess I have this morbid fear of such places, wherein just behind the glass fronted door is seated the hostess? receptionist? some fancy name that I don't even pretend to know? with the perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect face... in short, pretty much Perfect Everything. Huh.

Even if you do - albeit hesitantly - step in, you're greeted by a whiff of perfume, dazzling teeth, and a casual toss of the perfectly coiffed mane, all the while enquiring in dulcet tones as to how-may-we-help-you. Swallowing over the lump in my throat (all the while pretending to ignore aforesaid perfect-ness), I struggle to croak out the word "haircut", all the while unsure whether 'haircut' is even accepted parlance. Should that have been "Oh, I need to see your stylist, please?", or, "Whom do I speak with for getting myself perfect hair that I didn't even know I had?". Anyway.

By now, I'm ushered to a seat (accompanied by another whiff of perfume, after The Perfect Nails have clacked their way across a keyboard to see whether I could be "fit in") and offered "something cool to drink, perhaps?". Almost scared to speak, I nod, and struggle to get upright in the soft, squishy sofa that has had my self-esteem sink low into its plush depths by this time. A tall glass of something later, Perfect Perfume has asked me to follow her high heels to where "Sandra, our senior stylist" is waiting, plastic smile in place and plastic cape in hand.

With a flourish worthy of the best superheroes, I'm now cape-clad, and wait with bated breath for Sandra to speak. Enquiring just how I would want my hair cut (Now if I knew that, would I honestly sell my kidney to be there? Really, now.), she picks up a few limp (thanks to being generously doused with water) strands of hair, pores over it (presumably she has to get her PhD degree in the Deplorable Condition of My Hair) and exclaims - softly, but loudly enough for the guy in the next suburb to hear, I'm sure - oh, but your hair is so weak! your scalp is so dry! And there goes whatever little self-esteem I had managed to salvage from the sofa depths. Bah.

I make a few weak protests, offer garbled explanations when she solicitously asks me what shampoo do I use? do I even condition?, and come off sounding as someone who has just recently been introduced to the chemical joy that is the aforesaid cleaning agent. Could've just as well told her I use dish washing liquid on my hair; her facial expression wouldn't have changed an iota. I swear. Of course, the brand I use is (obviously) inadequate, quite incorrect for my hair type, and don't I know about the glorious product that is This One? Obviously sold exclusively at said salon. Another weak smile, while I sit through the process.

That done, hair coiffed to perfection, cape whisked off, I'm muttering profuse thanks, and am waved towards the billing counter. I fork out my credit card, watch fascinated as The Nails work their magic, hand me the charge slip (together with my bill, in a lovely handmade paper folder) and the little paper bag which contains The Products.

Definitely can't quit the job just yet; the card statement hasn't come in yet.

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?

FUNNY, I KNOW, BUT LET'S TALK ABOUT FONTS

Okay, bizarre for a post, I agree. But really, does age have anything to do with one's liking for specific fonts? Random thought that just struck me, really.

If I quickly look back a few some years, back in school, Comic Sans MS was my Absolutely Favourite Font. And how. Everything just had to be typed out in Comic. A few years later, in Junior College (grades XI and XII), Comic Sans MS had still not lost its sheen. Much. However, Comic shared space with Garamond. And also that kinda twirly Monotype Corsiva. And then came handwriting, in the form of Lucida Handwriting. Ironic, seeing that by this time, I'd all but forgotten how to actually hand write even a letter for the most part.

And then I grew up, out of college and into Business School. Among the many things that a management education taught us, it also introduced us to the - gasp! - plainer, sober Ariel and Times New Roman. Buh-bye, Twirly; see-you-almost-never-again, Comic.

Observation: Either (a) I am getting old *shudder*, (b) I clearly have more time on my hands than I should - and in which case I should go sort out my wardrobe that's been (ineffectively) hollering for attention these past few months weeks, or (c) I need a rest, seeing that my brain is obviously over-wired.

Hmm.

So do you have a uhh, font fetish? (Yes, yes, we're still a 'U' rated blog.)

DRIVING MISS DAISY

And Agnes. And Tina. And Mansi. And Me.

Yesssssssss!!!!!!!! Jubilation, folks - just got done with a 225 km drive from Mumbai to Lavasa, on the Lavasa Women's Drive 2012.

More details (and pics) later - am about to drop dead with exhaustion and cantreallythinkanymoreeeeeeeee.........

BY THE SEA

The rocks and Tetrapods together somehow seem to make a harmonious whole...

MY FASCINATION WITH RAAVAN

... just doesn't end.

Hence even though completely out of season (Dusshera comes up in the months of October/ November), here's a picture of one I spotted on Mumbai's streets last year *cough* year before last.

See his overlarge head? And nose, and hands, and feet, and fuchsia-and-blue tunic? They're all stuffed silly with firecrackers, which will light up the night sky a little after twilight, when all such effigies are burnt. The significance? Good v/s evil, and here's a link for more information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ravana.

I can meander on about Indian mythology, and my fascination with it, but maybe this isn't the post. So let's just leave you with this little slice - and maybe you could do your own exploring! Enjoy!

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

While on a visit to one of the more rural locations in the country.

Notice the amalgamation of modes of transport: bicycles, auto rickshaws, motorbikes, other four-wheel drives... and cows!

ETERNAL LOVE

This has to do with my long-standing romance with baked good(ies), and bread (and its variants thereof) in particular. Have raved about bread - and baking - on this blog before, I know. So no half-baked (pun intended, hee hee!), recipe this time but just a picture of Sheer Unadulterated Bliss.

Fresh out of the oven, and eaten up quick!

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.