In my ten days of motherhood, I have learnt:
1. A normal delivery is just a delivery with fewer complications but no less sweat.
2. Pain gets redefined once you go into labour.
3. The real work starts when the baby arrives.
4. Rest when you can because the rest can wait.
5. If you initially feel no love for the little being, it is alright. You are human and you need time to adjust to the big change.
6. The bonding will happen. It always does!
7. In the end you are on your own, so stop feeling sorry for yourself. But if you cannot, go ahead and cry, and then tighten your belt, and get some work done.
8. There is always a first time, so never shy from asking for help.
9. A lot of people will claim to be ready and to be in the process of doing a lot for you but when the time comes, it all goes poof!
10. Free advice should always be treated as free and readily dispensed with.
11. Some people get more credit than they deserve, and often, those who do the dirty work do not.
12. No one can be frailer and in need of more attention and love than women who have delivered a baby.
13. Expectations are a two-way street.
14. Time flies, so know what to do with it.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Sweet indulgences!
I have been shopping like there is no tomorrow – jewellery, sarees, suits, home stuff, utensils, baby clothes, gifts, make up. And, I am yet not quenched. I have always bought the essentials on my India trips, stocked up on what was not available; but with SG taking care of masalas, and other basic stuff needed in an Indian household, I am free to direct my energy and attention elsewhere. And what a ball it has been! Tough on the purse but energising for me and my frayed spirits!
I have not been able to venture far but been happy shopping in the little shops that dot the bazaar near my home. There is no fun like sitting in a shop, watching fabric after fabric falling in a heap in front of you. The variety available is a treat. Brocade and chanderi prints are the rage here, and just feasting on the blazing and antique finish colourful fabrics is enough to bring a smile on a woman’s face. Add to this, shopping for chikan suits and kurtis. There is something about this form of embroidery, full of nazaakat, that you can never have enough of it. The heavier and the brighter, the better!
I have walked down narrow lanes into dirt-wracked pooja bhandaars selling deepams and all stuff brass and its copy. It is not like walking into a fancy home store but the treasure hunt and prices are worth it. I visited a street market, going berserk buying spools of fancy lace at ludicrously cheap prices. They are bit shiny and gaudy, but then doesn't every thing find its place some day. Another great buy on this day out was a traditional wooden bangle stand. It has four horizontal wooden rods, with dome-shaped edges painted golden, balanced on roughly cut vertical, wooden blocks. It is not an excellent piece of artisanship but its crudity is what makes it pretty.
When I could and had the appetite, I jostled with crowds, with my pattal stretched, waiting for my turn for yummy golguppas. There is nothing like biting into a jalebi or samosa fresh out of the wok on a cold day.
Sadly, much of this has slowed down as the countdown to the d-day has officially begun. I am excited but slowly losing enthusiasm. The big day is no more months away and can no longer be postponed to the future. Bodily signs in preparation of the big day are slowly and silently making their appearance. It gets uncomfortable, not to mention the frequent mood swings, but the thought of all that I have bought and would buy in the future keeps me warm and happy. I may appear funny that way but that is how I am.
I have not been able to venture far but been happy shopping in the little shops that dot the bazaar near my home. There is no fun like sitting in a shop, watching fabric after fabric falling in a heap in front of you. The variety available is a treat. Brocade and chanderi prints are the rage here, and just feasting on the blazing and antique finish colourful fabrics is enough to bring a smile on a woman’s face. Add to this, shopping for chikan suits and kurtis. There is something about this form of embroidery, full of nazaakat, that you can never have enough of it. The heavier and the brighter, the better!
I have walked down narrow lanes into dirt-wracked pooja bhandaars selling deepams and all stuff brass and its copy. It is not like walking into a fancy home store but the treasure hunt and prices are worth it. I visited a street market, going berserk buying spools of fancy lace at ludicrously cheap prices. They are bit shiny and gaudy, but then doesn't every thing find its place some day. Another great buy on this day out was a traditional wooden bangle stand. It has four horizontal wooden rods, with dome-shaped edges painted golden, balanced on roughly cut vertical, wooden blocks. It is not an excellent piece of artisanship but its crudity is what makes it pretty.
When I could and had the appetite, I jostled with crowds, with my pattal stretched, waiting for my turn for yummy golguppas. There is nothing like biting into a jalebi or samosa fresh out of the wok on a cold day.
Sadly, much of this has slowed down as the countdown to the d-day has officially begun. I am excited but slowly losing enthusiasm. The big day is no more months away and can no longer be postponed to the future. Bodily signs in preparation of the big day are slowly and silently making their appearance. It gets uncomfortable, not to mention the frequent mood swings, but the thought of all that I have bought and would buy in the future keeps me warm and happy. I may appear funny that way but that is how I am.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Self gloating
Pregnancy has done wonders to my self image. I have never revelled in the sight of my cleavage, a bit of flesh on display and overall the way I look, as I have over the past months. Part of it could be a result of being unable to do much about the way I have begun to look. The baby needed my thighs to be sturdier, the waist to accumulate more layers of fat and my breasts to fill up. Side effects such as glowing skin and a healthier mane have been helpful in dealing with the not-so-welcome changes. Anyway, the point is that impending motherhood has brought out a new love in me for myself, warts and imperfections included. I feel good despite the toll being a human incubator has taken. I think I can handle myself better. I am more at peace with myself although this could be a smugness induced by the feeling that everything at this point is justified and excusable. Still, I am looking forward to get into shape, do yoga, run, cycle, dress up more, laugh more, and be more active, once my baby is here. Not for its sake but for mine.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
B-217
In this household, an alarm clock is not needed to usher in the day. The light streaming in from innumerable windows; the chatter of people out on morning walk; the sweeper ringing door bells, shaking housewives out of sweet dreams; and the stillness of foggy mornings broken by chiming temple bells, all mingle together to welcome you to yet another day.
I pull the blanket a little higher, hoping to block out the distractions. The fragrance of my parents' early morning tea tickles my drowsy mind but fails to rouse my body tired from endless tossing through the night. I take my time to begin my day. And by the time I have woken up, the wheels of my mother’s domestic routine are already turning full steam. It is a pleasure to wake up to a familiar world - the smell of spices, mom’s voice nearing a crescendo as our helper fails to understand the urgency in her voice and dad talking loudly on the cell phone. It means all is well with my world. It means I am safe. It means I am home.
I pull the blanket a little higher, hoping to block out the distractions. The fragrance of my parents' early morning tea tickles my drowsy mind but fails to rouse my body tired from endless tossing through the night. I take my time to begin my day. And by the time I have woken up, the wheels of my mother’s domestic routine are already turning full steam. It is a pleasure to wake up to a familiar world - the smell of spices, mom’s voice nearing a crescendo as our helper fails to understand the urgency in her voice and dad talking loudly on the cell phone. It means all is well with my world. It means I am safe. It means I am home.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thoughts on house hunting
House hunting in SG has been a pain but a pleasure for the vouyerismist (of course the type that loves to see how people have done up their houses) in me. With the idea of living in a perfectly square and big house stuck in our minds, P and I have been unimpressed by well-done interiors, new and therefore spic buildings with jazzy facilities and even by sea views.
All this time, I have been looking for a house with character but alas, the search seems to be in vain. Condos are unfortunately not the places to go to if it is a piece of personality and character you are after. We did come close to our vision in the shape of a standalone house with two floors, a backyard, lots of sun, a hint of colonial influence in its kitchen and a bit of a green patch. It was perfect except it was more than we needed and the climbing would drive away our parents. And so the hunt continues.
The fruitless search, however, has had its benefits. In SG once a tenant serves a notice to the landlord, the latter has the right to get in prospective tenants to view the apartment, even though the previous tenant is still there. As a result, we have visited still occupied condos and embarrassedly stepped into bedrooms, opened wardrobes and kitchen cabinets and peeped in every corner in the presence or absence of the occupants.
While few have been a revelation into how dirty people could be, some have been a visual feast. And few of these happened to belong to Indian families. With space, the imagination gets a chance to run loose. And what a run it could be. Every space has been a window into how diverse and unique the imagination of two people could be but still have the undercurrent of shared cultures and backgrounds.
While earthy shades, dark-stained Indonesian teak furniture, mirrors, Fab India furnishings, bells, Ganeshas and urulis were ubiquitous, there were a few delightful aberrations. An Indian bachelor’s apartment we saw was largely done up in black and white modern furniture with clean lines and a masculine feel. The theme and feel extended to the eclectic set of paintings dotting the apartment without cluttering it and broken once in a while with a splash of colour. One would never have been able to gauge the occupant’s style looking at the main door painted a bright yellow on the outside like the rest of the apartment doors, which gave a sunny, Mediterranean touch to the pristine white walls of the building.
While painful with my swollen feet and protruding belly, the apartment hunt has given me a chance to think more seriously about my own likings and design sensibilities and sometimes pause and think about what would I do with a certain space. While the tight space supply and the matchbox layout of my Hong Kong apartment forced me to be frugal and hold the reins of my imagination tight, the promise of more space in SG has made me think and daydream more. In the future my hands and days would be full with the baby, but I am looking forward to casting my magic (I am that confident) over the place we will call home.
All this time, I have been looking for a house with character but alas, the search seems to be in vain. Condos are unfortunately not the places to go to if it is a piece of personality and character you are after. We did come close to our vision in the shape of a standalone house with two floors, a backyard, lots of sun, a hint of colonial influence in its kitchen and a bit of a green patch. It was perfect except it was more than we needed and the climbing would drive away our parents. And so the hunt continues.
The fruitless search, however, has had its benefits. In SG once a tenant serves a notice to the landlord, the latter has the right to get in prospective tenants to view the apartment, even though the previous tenant is still there. As a result, we have visited still occupied condos and embarrassedly stepped into bedrooms, opened wardrobes and kitchen cabinets and peeped in every corner in the presence or absence of the occupants.
While few have been a revelation into how dirty people could be, some have been a visual feast. And few of these happened to belong to Indian families. With space, the imagination gets a chance to run loose. And what a run it could be. Every space has been a window into how diverse and unique the imagination of two people could be but still have the undercurrent of shared cultures and backgrounds.
While earthy shades, dark-stained Indonesian teak furniture, mirrors, Fab India furnishings, bells, Ganeshas and urulis were ubiquitous, there were a few delightful aberrations. An Indian bachelor’s apartment we saw was largely done up in black and white modern furniture with clean lines and a masculine feel. The theme and feel extended to the eclectic set of paintings dotting the apartment without cluttering it and broken once in a while with a splash of colour. One would never have been able to gauge the occupant’s style looking at the main door painted a bright yellow on the outside like the rest of the apartment doors, which gave a sunny, Mediterranean touch to the pristine white walls of the building.
While painful with my swollen feet and protruding belly, the apartment hunt has given me a chance to think more seriously about my own likings and design sensibilities and sometimes pause and think about what would I do with a certain space. While the tight space supply and the matchbox layout of my Hong Kong apartment forced me to be frugal and hold the reins of my imagination tight, the promise of more space in SG has made me think and daydream more. In the future my hands and days would be full with the baby, but I am looking forward to casting my magic (I am that confident) over the place we will call home.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
So how is it going, you ask?
Frankly, the lack of people, or maybe the hugeness of space in Singapore that consumes people,is unnerving. I have lived compact most of my life. There was no dearth of space when I was growing up but I lived on a street that was consumed by the adjacent marketplace every festival big or small. If your watch ran out on you, be ensured that the mandir aartis and bhajan times would every quarter or so of the day let you know how much time you have to or have killed. Delhi was no different, with my university being an anthill of youngsters amidst a lush forest patch that boasted of neelgais, jackals and peacocks. Hong Kong was the zenith of living a pigeonholed life, city rat style. For a person with such baggage of experience and past, Singapore is a shock. Most of the time I am telling P how so and so street reminds me of so and so part of Lucknow. There are wide, near deserted streets; trees and more trees; scope to go for an evening jog or a stroll down a rain-washed road with the wind messing your hair; home with balconies; duplex houses; and lots of indian restaurants. Not that these make me miss Hong Kong any less. I miss it with every breath I take. Cheesy, yes, but exactly the way I feel. I miss its ability to squeeze life out of you but charm you with its myriad surprises. Right, in real life it is not so romantic a place but it is the laddu that you anyway want to savor. Trust me! House hunt has been pretty interesting. Our hopes for a big place have bloated beyond realistic expectations and that has seen us sport a disappointed face and tick off the agent despite being shown condos with good fixtures and decent space. We are yet not down to earth and by the way it is going, it seems unlikely. Amidst all these events, lil baby has begun making its presence felt. And the more it kicks and jiggles, the more I worry about it having enough brain matter and looks. The rest is uneventful and not worth talking about. I am jobless, purposeless, with plenty of time in hand and swollen feet. But I am good :-)
Friday, August 26, 2011
New horizon and new blues
I am not only about to begin a new phase of life but all set to usher it in a new city. Emotionally, it has been taxing. For once, my heart, soul and feet are not ready to comply with my Gemini spirit and embrace the new and unknown. It is really difficult when you walk ten steps and begin panting, feel the lil being inside is hating it and it is time to hail a cab. It is even worse when for once in your life you want to follow a discipline, clean up your act and be a golden woman, but you can no way do it. How do you do it when you are packing up a house, keeping unearthly hours, moving into hotels and service apartments and gorging on everything that is not really healthy?
This is not exactly how a post from a new city should sound like. But I needed to get it out of my system before I could move on to anything else. I am not drowning into self pity but I am struggling to keep afloat until there is a semblance of the ordinary and mundane in my life again. In the meantime, I am happy to report that the one mall I explored on Orchard Road yesterday seemed promising shopping wise. Singapore is definitely expensive compared to Hong Kong and the feeling of awe that hits you as you make your way through Hong Kong's narrow and people-ridden streets is absent here. So is its chicness and glamour. But it is too soon to sign off my new home.
This is not exactly how a post from a new city should sound like. But I needed to get it out of my system before I could move on to anything else. I am not drowning into self pity but I am struggling to keep afloat until there is a semblance of the ordinary and mundane in my life again. In the meantime, I am happy to report that the one mall I explored on Orchard Road yesterday seemed promising shopping wise. Singapore is definitely expensive compared to Hong Kong and the feeling of awe that hits you as you make your way through Hong Kong's narrow and people-ridden streets is absent here. So is its chicness and glamour. But it is too soon to sign off my new home.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
How you got your name
I like poetry straight, stark but sensuously fulsome, and carrying a hint of tragedy, romance and earthiness. That is how I discovered Neruda and why I fell in love with him. In the mushy throes of my teen years, struggling for a poetic equivalent of that moment when eyes meet, the heart skips a beat and unknown stirrings besot you, my lifelong love for Neruda was ignited.
It is strange that when I could not afford to buy his volumes, I coveted them and when I can, I no more wish to possess them. For me, he makes sense when I touch the creased and severely underlined printouts I took of his poems. That’s how I like him and will always cherish him and that’s how this blog got its name.
(I just found the above bit in my drafts and I loved it. It might not make much sense but then what does on this blog )
It is strange that when I could not afford to buy his volumes, I coveted them and when I can, I no more wish to possess them. For me, he makes sense when I touch the creased and severely underlined printouts I took of his poems. That’s how I like him and will always cherish him and that’s how this blog got its name.
(I just found the above bit in my drafts and I loved it. It might not make much sense but then what does on this blog )
Adding some colour
The general lack of colour in Hong Kong is in some measure compensated by the brightly painted feeder ships, ferries and sampans cruising along the harbour. The bright orange, yellow, green and red reminds you instantly of Indian kitsch. Once I have more time, I am going to add here some more and better pictures to illustrate my point.
While there could be no hidden meaning behind the bright colours, apart from the instant attention they draw, I would like to believe they are somewhat symbolic of the hope and optimism that drove the fishing community, one of the earliest dwellers of Hong Kong. If you walk along the seafront in Shau Kei Wan, Aberdeen and I am sure many other areas, you can still see people living on boats. It must be a hard life for sure and would need lots of brightness and cheerfulness to survive (although I would not describe their dwellings, especially the ones I see in Shau Kei Wan, as colourful by any means). That spirit, I suppose, has somehow (maybe or maybe not) spread over to the maritime business as a whole.
My work desk next to a window gives me ample time to look at the sea all day. Since the office building is close to ship-repair yards and the typhoon shelter, I see all kinds of boats all day long. I especially look forward to catching the sight of Dung Ling or the dragon boat with red masts (I think that’s what they are called).
While there could be no hidden meaning behind the bright colours, apart from the instant attention they draw, I would like to believe they are somewhat symbolic of the hope and optimism that drove the fishing community, one of the earliest dwellers of Hong Kong. If you walk along the seafront in Shau Kei Wan, Aberdeen and I am sure many other areas, you can still see people living on boats. It must be a hard life for sure and would need lots of brightness and cheerfulness to survive (although I would not describe their dwellings, especially the ones I see in Shau Kei Wan, as colourful by any means). That spirit, I suppose, has somehow (maybe or maybe not) spread over to the maritime business as a whole.
My work desk next to a window gives me ample time to look at the sea all day. Since the office building is close to ship-repair yards and the typhoon shelter, I see all kinds of boats all day long. I especially look forward to catching the sight of Dung Ling or the dragon boat with red masts (I think that’s what they are called).
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Another Pablo ki pankhi
It hits you and drenches you at the most unlikeliest of times and manifests in the most unlikeliest of people. Someone I never expected to be a Neruda fan (pablo ki pankhi), turned out to be one. A colleague at work gave me her visiting card recently. On its backside I discovered a beautiful extract from Neruda’s poem, Your Feet. And it seems just apt to write the lines here and for all of you who stumble upon my blog…
...But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
...But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Au revoir!
When you leave, what do you say to the city that embraced you unconditionally and let you have what all you could reach out for and grasp. I am leaving Hong Kong in less than a month. I am going to a better place, so everyone says. But what is better when you have no complaints and no grudges against the place you live in. I miss India, I miss its colours, I miss its ability to be all that I am and want but it is Hong Kong that let me pause, look inward, reach out to my husband, treat three years as one long holiday and rejuvenate, heal , grow and bloom. I am not a new person. I am the same old person but more at peace, more calm, more courageous and stiller.
I have often rued about feeling rootless among the sea of faces that look different and speak a strange language. I am still different than them but as I look out of the cab at the HK skyline, skyscrapers, mountains in the distance, and clouds teasing the sun, I realise that roots I have developed. The bond is definitely there. Love does not need proof to prove itself. The pain you feel is proof enough. The tinge of regret you feel at having to go explains it all. I have had a wonderful time in Hong Kong. When I came, I was a 27-year-old woman, still unsure of her place in the world. I am still unsure of myself but my feet are firmly on the ground and I know that uncertainty is what fuels the journey. The enlightenment would not have happened if I had not been here. I fell in love with myself among all the consumerist pagans that walk around. I did crib about it but in trying to carve a place among them and in defiance to not be like them, I found myself, my likings and my tastes. While overall, everyone I met was and has been good to me, and left me alone, the few who did make me uncomfortable or seemed to be biased against me, helped me to stand against the odds, prove myself and give back in an equal measure. And while I cribbed, felt like having run out of patience, the city never gave up on me. Hong Kong will always hold a special place in my heart and wherever I go, I will carry a bit of it with myself.
I have often rued about feeling rootless among the sea of faces that look different and speak a strange language. I am still different than them but as I look out of the cab at the HK skyline, skyscrapers, mountains in the distance, and clouds teasing the sun, I realise that roots I have developed. The bond is definitely there. Love does not need proof to prove itself. The pain you feel is proof enough. The tinge of regret you feel at having to go explains it all. I have had a wonderful time in Hong Kong. When I came, I was a 27-year-old woman, still unsure of her place in the world. I am still unsure of myself but my feet are firmly on the ground and I know that uncertainty is what fuels the journey. The enlightenment would not have happened if I had not been here. I fell in love with myself among all the consumerist pagans that walk around. I did crib about it but in trying to carve a place among them and in defiance to not be like them, I found myself, my likings and my tastes. While overall, everyone I met was and has been good to me, and left me alone, the few who did make me uncomfortable or seemed to be biased against me, helped me to stand against the odds, prove myself and give back in an equal measure. And while I cribbed, felt like having run out of patience, the city never gave up on me. Hong Kong will always hold a special place in my heart and wherever I go, I will carry a bit of it with myself.
A girl or boy?
I don’t know yet and I do not care. Whether a boy or girl, it will be loved and pampered the same; taught the same lessons; and be told to be a good human being before aspiring to be anything else. Because religion, upbringing, values, status, achievement, bank balance, etc, they all pale if one fails to be a good human being. `
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Mug woes
I love collecting mugs. My helper on the other hand loves breaking them. Perhaps her clumsiness is nature’s way of ensuring that my kabootarkhaana of a kitchen is never overrun by mugs. I tried saving my beauties by starting to wash them myself. But whenever I err, my helper delivers the fatal blow. Since the time I used quickfix to glue together a mug I have had since college, she makes it a point to collect all broken pieces of the mugs she breaks, so I can glue them later. I am now the proud owner of mugs that are chipped or have some part missing. I am so scarred by the experience that I haven’t bought anything in the past few months. Every time I look for a ‘mug of the day’ for my weekend chai, my no-so-perfect mugs make me sigh. But the hoarder in me refuses to part with them. I am saving them to use as planters some day.
Friday, July 22, 2011
If only I had...
Some decor sense!Everyone wants to have a beautiful home. But working towards a well-done home is one of the most difficult tasks for people who lack the creative bone. I love all things beautiful. I love browsing through décor magazines and blogs. In an alternate life I would had loved to be a purchaser for a home store. But that’s it. My love of knick knacks, curios and interesting stuff has never translated into an interesting concept or eclectic mishmash that defines an individual’s style and home. However hard I try, I cannot say what wall colours will look good, what kind of furniture would suit a corner or how an empty space could be transformed using simple pieces. Now that I will soon be unemployed and have an empty house to cast my magic on, the lack of one talent I would have loved to be blessed with is bothering me big time.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A flame is extinguished
When a person is gone you are only left with regrets – about not seeing them often, not doing more for them, doing something to bring a smile on their face and taking away a bit of their loneliness. My maternal grandfather died last night. When I called my mother in the middle of the night, it was impossible to speak to her through her sobbing and pain. My Nanaji’s death does not hurt me the way it hurts mom. She once said she will be truly orphaned once he is gone. I cannot even dare to imagine what life would be without my mom’s comforting voice a phone call away. My mom and Nanaji were not exactly close. It is impossible to be close when you are the seventh of eleven kids. But mom says Nanaji was all that a good father could be in small town India almost 35-40 years ago.
When my Nani was alive, their home was like a refuge; a place where each of their kids and their families fled to round the year to seek love and comfort that only comes from a warm heart and not a big house. After Nani’s death things changed quite a bit. Sadly, Nanaji was around to see it all. I suppose nothing could be more tragic for a man than to see the values he brought up his family on crumble before his eyes. Old age and its infirmities make the experience even more difficult.
I never spent a lot of time with Nanaji but as a kid I spent a lot of time under the same roof with him. My favourite memory of him forever will be watching him take off his false teeth and handing them to one of my cousins for washing. I was fascinated and repelled at the same time. My love for sattu (gram flour) also comes from having watched him have a big glassful of sattu mixed with water and some salt every day. As a teenager, when I spoke to him sometimes, I was astonished to see how well read he was. It has always been my regret of not knowing him better and talking to him more.
Three years ago when I was moving to Hong Kong, I went to visit him. I knew in my heart it was probably the last time I was seeing him. I wanted to visit him when I went to India earlier this year but it could not happen because of lack of planning, limited time and laziness. It will always be my regret that I did not go back to meet him. Wherever you are, be happy Nanaji.
When my Nani was alive, their home was like a refuge; a place where each of their kids and their families fled to round the year to seek love and comfort that only comes from a warm heart and not a big house. After Nani’s death things changed quite a bit. Sadly, Nanaji was around to see it all. I suppose nothing could be more tragic for a man than to see the values he brought up his family on crumble before his eyes. Old age and its infirmities make the experience even more difficult.
I never spent a lot of time with Nanaji but as a kid I spent a lot of time under the same roof with him. My favourite memory of him forever will be watching him take off his false teeth and handing them to one of my cousins for washing. I was fascinated and repelled at the same time. My love for sattu (gram flour) also comes from having watched him have a big glassful of sattu mixed with water and some salt every day. As a teenager, when I spoke to him sometimes, I was astonished to see how well read he was. It has always been my regret of not knowing him better and talking to him more.
Three years ago when I was moving to Hong Kong, I went to visit him. I knew in my heart it was probably the last time I was seeing him. I wanted to visit him when I went to India earlier this year but it could not happen because of lack of planning, limited time and laziness. It will always be my regret that I did not go back to meet him. Wherever you are, be happy Nanaji.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
孕产 (Yùn chan)
When my mom says she can never stop worrying about me and my sister, I cannot understand why she is so clingy. Three months into my pregnancy and I am getting to see things as she does – as a mother although I am not there yet.
Since the day I saw that faint second line on the home pregnancy kit, I have been nervous and scared. I am not tearing my hair apart neither have I turned obsessive. But below the careless façade that is not a façade but my true, genuine self, I am totally terrified – of doing something that might hurt the baby.
When the doctor said after looking at kiddo at two months that it was not growing and the amniotic sac was flat instead of being round, the first crease of worry crept on my forehead. Till the time I did not have my second ultrasound, I could not help imagining and living through the worst of possibilities. There was a whoop of joy and lots of relief when the doctor pronounced the little one as active and healthy. But if you think the joy of that 30 seconds of information that cost 800 dollars lasted for long, then you are wrong.
The next challenge is the Down syndrome’s test, which happens next week. It does not seem to be a big deal but every night when I go to sleep, I wonder what if my baby is one of the thousands who end up with it. Believe me, deciding whether you want to let your kid come into the world with that kind of disability or relieve them of a challenging life is the most difficult decision you could ever be forced to make as a parent that has just had a look at the tiny blob that took just a fortnight to grow hands and feet.
I am all optimistic and have left everything in God’s hand. We will have to wait for almost two to three weeks to know the test’s results. It will be a real long and painful wait. And I already know that would not be the end of it.
As I said to P the other day, we will never be relaxed now. Throughout our lives we will be worrying about the little one. One hurdle crossed would just be one hurdle down and nothing more. This is what I suppose my clingy mother lives with everyday.
PS: All is well and we have successfully cleared the Down syndrome’s test. The lil one is yet to make its presence felt and I am patiently waiting to feel that first kick.
Since the day I saw that faint second line on the home pregnancy kit, I have been nervous and scared. I am not tearing my hair apart neither have I turned obsessive. But below the careless façade that is not a façade but my true, genuine self, I am totally terrified – of doing something that might hurt the baby.
When the doctor said after looking at kiddo at two months that it was not growing and the amniotic sac was flat instead of being round, the first crease of worry crept on my forehead. Till the time I did not have my second ultrasound, I could not help imagining and living through the worst of possibilities. There was a whoop of joy and lots of relief when the doctor pronounced the little one as active and healthy. But if you think the joy of that 30 seconds of information that cost 800 dollars lasted for long, then you are wrong.
The next challenge is the Down syndrome’s test, which happens next week. It does not seem to be a big deal but every night when I go to sleep, I wonder what if my baby is one of the thousands who end up with it. Believe me, deciding whether you want to let your kid come into the world with that kind of disability or relieve them of a challenging life is the most difficult decision you could ever be forced to make as a parent that has just had a look at the tiny blob that took just a fortnight to grow hands and feet.
I am all optimistic and have left everything in God’s hand. We will have to wait for almost two to three weeks to know the test’s results. It will be a real long and painful wait. And I already know that would not be the end of it.
As I said to P the other day, we will never be relaxed now. Throughout our lives we will be worrying about the little one. One hurdle crossed would just be one hurdle down and nothing more. This is what I suppose my clingy mother lives with everyday.
PS: All is well and we have successfully cleared the Down syndrome’s test. The lil one is yet to make its presence felt and I am patiently waiting to feel that first kick.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Venting some steam!
I have never been a people’s person and I have never been good at faking goodness and friendliness. When I am friends with someone, I am a good friend with all genuineness and when I withdraw, I do it completely. Quite a few friendships have gone kaput in the past few years. Some fizzled out naturally, some because they were forged for convenience and out of need and others because the wavelengths stopped matching somewhere along the way. Every time I have seen a relationship lose steam, I have wondered whether ego, expectations and lack of communication were its undoing. I have probed myself, my actions, my thoughts and why I felt in a certain manner. I am not without fault. I cannot be because sometimes I fail to see where I went wrong. But in many cases I have seen the other person turn into something I never thought they could be. Worst is when you know them a bit more than they think you know them and you can see them through the faked niceties, hollow words and the strained conversation. They conveniently forget what they did wrong or rather cannot realise it because they do not think they did anything wrong. Worst is when they feed lies about you to other people and you can see some people withdraw without any reason. And you can understand it all because you have been there, you have heard about someone too – but then you were too deep into the throes of a friendship to not believe it.
Monday, July 4, 2011
To do or not to do
I am a no-nonsense person. Rather I am a person who gets so worked up over nonsensical stuff that I prefer to not even test the nonsense potential of a situation. More simply, I hate complications. I am willing to put up with a bit of inconvenience and extra work if I can avoid getting entangled in all the nonsensical anxiety that complications bring along. But today, a dear friend of mine has put me back into the throes of thinking, that I usually manage to ignore, by pointing out how fresh food is worth a bit of trouble. I cannot turn a blind eye to the matter anymore, especially now. And the timing of the thinking assault is perfect.
My boss has already been forcing me to think by expecting me to unravel and simplify the meaning behind various paradoxes for junior school kids. I wanted to tell him, if I could have cracked logic and reasoning then I would have been punching numbers and figures in a crisp business suit in some hotshot corporation.
So in this very delicate state of mind, when my guard is down, there comes a problem that I would normally label nonsensical. But you see it is not nonsensical. At the same time it is because I can solve it by either doing the needful or blocking it out. But I can’t because I like drama and some theatrics. And I definitely suffer from the dominoes effect.
My boss has already been forcing me to think by expecting me to unravel and simplify the meaning behind various paradoxes for junior school kids. I wanted to tell him, if I could have cracked logic and reasoning then I would have been punching numbers and figures in a crisp business suit in some hotshot corporation.
So in this very delicate state of mind, when my guard is down, there comes a problem that I would normally label nonsensical. But you see it is not nonsensical. At the same time it is because I can solve it by either doing the needful or blocking it out. But I can’t because I like drama and some theatrics. And I definitely suffer from the dominoes effect.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
This one is bitchy!
Alternate title: Blowing my own trumpet
When I meet someone, I never feel the need to give them a re-run of my educational and professional qualifications. I prefer checking out what they are wearing, what unexciting stuff is happening in their lives and maybe how much they pay their maids (yeah, a sign of domesticity fully setting in).
I understand when people have nothing more to say once the weather and pollution stock has been exhausted, they ask you which city you are from and what you do. Since I am not a MBA(which a lot of people in Hong Kong are)and few from outside the cow belt and even within it show a flicker of understanding when I tell them where I studied and what I studied, I just let it go.
But it is not just my own laurels that are inquired about. I have met women who (without saying so) want to know which MBA institute my husband went to, and have even proceeded to tell me or him with some degree of incredulity they did not know he was from IIM A. Consider the following nuggets:
Women A & B: Within the first minutes of our conversations they let me know their better and trophy halves are from an IIM and an IIT respectively.
Woman C: Once the niceties are over, she asks me if my husband is from any of the IITs or IIMs.
Woman D: Looks at my husband and tells him with a smile, she did not know he was from IIM A. She has a trophy husband too.
Woman E: Tells me she did not know that P was from the IIM of A.
Yeah, P happens to be from IIM A and of course I am proud of myself for having snapped a sone ka murga. But that is between him and me. His qualification is not an achievement that either he or I, and especially me, carry like a plaque around our necks. I am not sure about the tone of my rant if he was not from an IIM, but women and the kind of criteria they choose to judge could be painful. I do not claim to be above the many failings of my gender, but I do not approve of such parameters of either conversation or comparison.
But men are not far behind when it comes to such vanity. We meet random people who unfailingly, casually drop the IIM or IIT word.
Probably this whole rant is pointless and there is nothing wrong with this type of behaviour. But frankly, it does not interest me and it is rankling. When I meet someone, it is their honesty, their nature, how they talk and how easy they make me feel is what is important. There is no doubt that qualifications and what you studied make a big difference to what you do, but please do not make it the yardstick for who you or the others are. And remember, there will always be someone who is one step ahead of you.
When I meet someone, I never feel the need to give them a re-run of my educational and professional qualifications. I prefer checking out what they are wearing, what unexciting stuff is happening in their lives and maybe how much they pay their maids (yeah, a sign of domesticity fully setting in).
I understand when people have nothing more to say once the weather and pollution stock has been exhausted, they ask you which city you are from and what you do. Since I am not a MBA(which a lot of people in Hong Kong are)and few from outside the cow belt and even within it show a flicker of understanding when I tell them where I studied and what I studied, I just let it go.
But it is not just my own laurels that are inquired about. I have met women who (without saying so) want to know which MBA institute my husband went to, and have even proceeded to tell me or him with some degree of incredulity they did not know he was from IIM A. Consider the following nuggets:
Women A & B: Within the first minutes of our conversations they let me know their better and trophy halves are from an IIM and an IIT respectively.
Woman C: Once the niceties are over, she asks me if my husband is from any of the IITs or IIMs.
Woman D: Looks at my husband and tells him with a smile, she did not know he was from IIM A. She has a trophy husband too.
Woman E: Tells me she did not know that P was from the IIM of A.
Yeah, P happens to be from IIM A and of course I am proud of myself for having snapped a sone ka murga. But that is between him and me. His qualification is not an achievement that either he or I, and especially me, carry like a plaque around our necks. I am not sure about the tone of my rant if he was not from an IIM, but women and the kind of criteria they choose to judge could be painful. I do not claim to be above the many failings of my gender, but I do not approve of such parameters of either conversation or comparison.
But men are not far behind when it comes to such vanity. We meet random people who unfailingly, casually drop the IIM or IIT word.
Probably this whole rant is pointless and there is nothing wrong with this type of behaviour. But frankly, it does not interest me and it is rankling. When I meet someone, it is their honesty, their nature, how they talk and how easy they make me feel is what is important. There is no doubt that qualifications and what you studied make a big difference to what you do, but please do not make it the yardstick for who you or the others are. And remember, there will always be someone who is one step ahead of you.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Happy 31!
They say men never grow. You are proof they do. I have seen you grow from a stubborn, headstrong 26-year old into a caring, thoughtful man. But those boyish giggles and the child-like delight at Jackie Chan’s ridiculous antics make me wonder at times if the soberness is just a mask. Let me not mention the mourning and sulking that happens every time Arsenal loses. So you see, despite all the sensitivity you can still be a pain in the ass. But what the hell! I still love you and will have it no other way.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Indian Ocean and I
I clearly remember my first Indian Ocean concert. One because it was the first concert I attended. And when it is a guy like Asheem singing the lead vocals, you feel your heart come in your mouth, ready to jump out and take off. Ok I am not much of a music buff or writer to describe what Indian Ocean can do to you but they are special to me. As I sat sprawled on the grass at Qutub lawns I think, I got a call from my mother. I was supposed to be at home in a few weeks because the wedding circus had finally started. I would be meeting the first of the guys I met before P happened. My feelings were mixed as Kya Maloom reached a tempo. The crowd was getting on its feet, but I was lost in my thoughts pulsating to the thaaps of the tabla, bracing for the days ahead.
Rant all the way
Once upon a time, I thought I am on my way to becoming a hotshot academician. I no longer harbour those illusions. Probably it is the fickleness of my Gemini nature that nothing interests me for long. But fickle or not, regret never leaves me. The grass is of course greener on the other side as few of my earlier batchmates never forget to remind me. But you see when you decide to bury the prime of your life in books, pouring over antiquated and still relevant theories and thinkers, you know you would never be making big bucks, never jet set on holidays every few months and will have to work hard to put together a really luxurious life. But forget that all. Like a treasure hunter on quest, an academician, especially one for whom the career is not a third or fourth choice, knows it all and gives up all of it for the pure joy of knowledge and its quest. I remember being the happiest during a simulation exercise our professor had asked us to do. I was a US diplomat and I never felt so happy imagining what diplomatic tactics I needed to exercise.
But why I am harking back to what has been put away in the trunk forever? Because P thinks I still have that scholar left in me and I should go back to doing a PhD. Believe me nothing gives me a high as the idea of the Doctor’s title. But I am not sure and yet I am so tempted. The biggest impediment I think is my own uncertainty and lack of belief in my abilities. If possible, I would like to be a China scholar though nothing I have done except living in Hong Kong (which too is courtesy of P) smacks even a tinge of any such latent love. My problem is I do not know if I have it in me anymore. Blame it on hormones but I am really getting worked up thinking for the last few days what I have done with my life. I want to start writing more serious stuff. Probably to see if I still have what it takes to be a good academician. Ok I was never good at studies to start with. I managed. I was more into dreaming, wanting to be an actor and have fun. But I did get into academics and I have never regretted it except for the two years I spent doing M.Phil, which I feel was the most unfruitful part of my university life. Enough of cribbing for a day I suppose.
But why I am harking back to what has been put away in the trunk forever? Because P thinks I still have that scholar left in me and I should go back to doing a PhD. Believe me nothing gives me a high as the idea of the Doctor’s title. But I am not sure and yet I am so tempted. The biggest impediment I think is my own uncertainty and lack of belief in my abilities. If possible, I would like to be a China scholar though nothing I have done except living in Hong Kong (which too is courtesy of P) smacks even a tinge of any such latent love. My problem is I do not know if I have it in me anymore. Blame it on hormones but I am really getting worked up thinking for the last few days what I have done with my life. I want to start writing more serious stuff. Probably to see if I still have what it takes to be a good academician. Ok I was never good at studies to start with. I managed. I was more into dreaming, wanting to be an actor and have fun. But I did get into academics and I have never regretted it except for the two years I spent doing M.Phil, which I feel was the most unfruitful part of my university life. Enough of cribbing for a day I suppose.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
You were ok, I would be ok too
Imitation, getting inspired and learning from others is good but it is nice if you acknowledge it at times. So S, thanks for getting me hooked on kajal; A thanks for inspiring me to rebel; A thanks for goading me and criticising everything I wrote; P thanks for setting an example that it is ok to make mistakes and move on.
Every one who has helped me to grow was never insecure in letting me imbibe the best of them. I hope I can inspire someone too. It would be nice to see a bit of me in others. I might get insecure but it is ok I suppose.
Every one who has helped me to grow was never insecure in letting me imbibe the best of them. I hope I can inspire someone too. It would be nice to see a bit of me in others. I might get insecure but it is ok I suppose.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Across space
(Extracts from The Blessed Damozel by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.
It lies in Heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night
With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge ….
…..From the fixed place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.
The sun was gone now; the curled moon
Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather…..
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)
I thought of this poem as I watched the movie Thor today. Only it was not a damsel watching for her lover on earth from the parapet of Heaven, but the hammer wielding Thor standing at the edge of the destroyed Bifrost Bridge, the only connection of the people of Asgard to other worlds. As Thor looks into the abyss below, he asks Heimdall, the bridge’s gatekeeper who can see all and hear all, that what is Jane (the woman Thor falls in love with during his exile on Earth) doing. Heimdall says she is looking for you.
It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.
It lies in Heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night
With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge ….
…..From the fixed place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.
The sun was gone now; the curled moon
Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather…..
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)
I thought of this poem as I watched the movie Thor today. Only it was not a damsel watching for her lover on earth from the parapet of Heaven, but the hammer wielding Thor standing at the edge of the destroyed Bifrost Bridge, the only connection of the people of Asgard to other worlds. As Thor looks into the abyss below, he asks Heimdall, the bridge’s gatekeeper who can see all and hear all, that what is Jane (the woman Thor falls in love with during his exile on Earth) doing. Heimdall says she is looking for you.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Spare me the trash!
For the last one hour I have been tearing address tags off the numerous spam mails we receive in the post every week. Promotional discounts for new start-ups, festive offers, reminder mails from magazines whose subscriptions are about to end, the trash is endless. This is when the pamphlets in Cantonese are discarded as soon as they are fished out of the mailbox. Most of it is unwanted. When I signed a one-year subscription for a magazine, I never expected to be bombarded weekly with subscription offers for one of the local English dailies. And it was not just a sheet of paper stating the deal. The spoilt-for-choice consumers we Hongkongers have become, an application form is usually included in any such promotional offer. A magazine that my husband never subscribed to has been sending him subscription offers with his name already printed on the form. I guess since a lot of magazines are marketed by the same company, when you sign in for one, you end up automatically giving the go ahead to be bombard with offers you never asked for. It is all about being spoon fed the want rather than having the want.
Lot of promotional pamphlets are sent en masse to every home in a block. But what the hell! I never asked for it. I appreciate the efforts companies make to let me know how they could help me lighten my bank account but they never asked me for my permission to flood my mailbox. My home address is no more a piece of information I choose to hand out to whom I want. Just because I fail to read the caveat hidden in the small font of the terms and conditions on any form I grace with my signatures, does not mean my privacy can be invaded.
Now that I have wasted almost an hour peeling off my address from envelopes and another one cribbing about it, I have decided to find out if there is anything I can do about it. Spam mail is not like e-mail spam that you can get rid of with a click. It takes many trees, even the specially farmed ones to produce all that trash mail. None of us want them. The flyers distributed on pavements and walk over bridges are binned as soon as they are handed out. Then why give them out? Ok, the marketing sense of it fails to enlighten me at the moment. And maybe they are a kind of marketing tool that cannot be dispensed with, especially by small companies. But part of it can be done away with right?
Most people in Hong Kong use the internet and have an email-id. A lot of bulky promotional that come in the mail could be sent via email. I like the idea of companies setting up stalls just outside MTR stations. When you are walking out or in you immediately notice the stalls. That is how a lot of us sign our newspapers and magazine combo subscriptions. Another novel advertising idea that I regularly see in Hong Kong is of people standing at the side of pavements with huge placards advertising a product. I am sure there are more of such interesting ways to advertise. We just need to find them.
Lot of promotional pamphlets are sent en masse to every home in a block. But what the hell! I never asked for it. I appreciate the efforts companies make to let me know how they could help me lighten my bank account but they never asked me for my permission to flood my mailbox. My home address is no more a piece of information I choose to hand out to whom I want. Just because I fail to read the caveat hidden in the small font of the terms and conditions on any form I grace with my signatures, does not mean my privacy can be invaded.
Now that I have wasted almost an hour peeling off my address from envelopes and another one cribbing about it, I have decided to find out if there is anything I can do about it. Spam mail is not like e-mail spam that you can get rid of with a click. It takes many trees, even the specially farmed ones to produce all that trash mail. None of us want them. The flyers distributed on pavements and walk over bridges are binned as soon as they are handed out. Then why give them out? Ok, the marketing sense of it fails to enlighten me at the moment. And maybe they are a kind of marketing tool that cannot be dispensed with, especially by small companies. But part of it can be done away with right?
Most people in Hong Kong use the internet and have an email-id. A lot of bulky promotional that come in the mail could be sent via email. I like the idea of companies setting up stalls just outside MTR stations. When you are walking out or in you immediately notice the stalls. That is how a lot of us sign our newspapers and magazine combo subscriptions. Another novel advertising idea that I regularly see in Hong Kong is of people standing at the side of pavements with huge placards advertising a product. I am sure there are more of such interesting ways to advertise. We just need to find them.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Post-dinner thoughts
The downside of expat life is that you never manage to have a permanent group of friends who grow old with you, get to know your quirks and accept you the way you are. You meet a wonderful set of people and by the time you are ready to do away with formalities and let the walls down, it is time for someone to move on. You see the potential of a friendship blooming and then sacrificed at the altar of the need to earn bread and butter. But so is life and so it will always be!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Connecting the dots
OLD or second-hand books are a window into the lives of their previous owners. Their pages are not only soiled with time but with the touch of unknown hands. The brittle, yellowing pages speak of adventurous journeys. There could be tidbits scribbled all over – names, odd numbers, dates and addresses – in ink or in pencil. Turning the pages, you may chance upon a scrap of paper, a dry flower, a book mark or even a photo!
Many years ago on a train in India I found a brown packet. Giving in to curiosity I opened it. I found inside a dog-eared copy of Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge and several greeting cards full of mushy verses written in a flowing handwriting by a woman. In one card, a quotation from The Great Gatsby said: “It is Gatsby who endows her [Daisy] with a meaning that she could in no way embody.” The cards seemed addressed to a boy, possibly the owner of the packet.
There were some photographs taken with friends and family. I wondered which one of them had forgotten behind a bit of their life. I wondered about the kind of person the owner would be and the life he led. I imagined meeting him and handing him back his treasure. The thought of writing on the address printed neatly on the envelopes of the cards often crossed my mind later. Sadly, fantasies die a quick death. I never got around to writing the letter. The cards and photos were misplaced over the years but I still have the book.
You may be wondering why am I telling you all this. A few days ago, I came across a website that carries photos “lost, forgotten or thrown away”. There were black and white, sepia and coloured photographs taken as early as the twenties. Without names and connections the life stories of the people in the photos have been lost forever. All one can do is imagine the lives they led. The pictures brought back the memory of the packet I discovered years ago on the train.
Often a well written book, a touching poem or an interesting picture makes us want to know more details connected to them. But what if you come across a photo that has nothing to enable you to know more about the people in it? There are no dots to connect. All you have are your thoughts to weave a tale around the nameless faces.
Many years ago on a train in India I found a brown packet. Giving in to curiosity I opened it. I found inside a dog-eared copy of Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge and several greeting cards full of mushy verses written in a flowing handwriting by a woman. In one card, a quotation from The Great Gatsby said: “It is Gatsby who endows her [Daisy] with a meaning that she could in no way embody.” The cards seemed addressed to a boy, possibly the owner of the packet.
There were some photographs taken with friends and family. I wondered which one of them had forgotten behind a bit of their life. I wondered about the kind of person the owner would be and the life he led. I imagined meeting him and handing him back his treasure. The thought of writing on the address printed neatly on the envelopes of the cards often crossed my mind later. Sadly, fantasies die a quick death. I never got around to writing the letter. The cards and photos were misplaced over the years but I still have the book.
You may be wondering why am I telling you all this. A few days ago, I came across a website that carries photos “lost, forgotten or thrown away”. There were black and white, sepia and coloured photographs taken as early as the twenties. Without names and connections the life stories of the people in the photos have been lost forever. All one can do is imagine the lives they led. The pictures brought back the memory of the packet I discovered years ago on the train.
Often a well written book, a touching poem or an interesting picture makes us want to know more details connected to them. But what if you come across a photo that has nothing to enable you to know more about the people in it? There are no dots to connect. All you have are your thoughts to weave a tale around the nameless faces.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Lumos!
I feel no less scared and in awe than Harry Potter did when he got on that train to Hogwarts. My Ollivander helped me to choose my wand and now begins the long and exhausting journey to forge a friendship and mastery of my new weapon – my camera. Together we will conquer and capture the world. Wizards are not made but born; if I have an eye for pictures and photography, I will make magic some day. Here is to an exciting and beautiful journey!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
New and old
I have no resolutions for this year except to be happy and do my best to take on the challenges hurled at me. Last year was one of the best years of my life. The way I connected with myself, learnt to accept my limitations and that others can be better than me, helped me to be less severe on myself and see and accept others for what they are. I am still far away from being a saint but that is a path I was not meant to tread. Hope I do not have to chew my words because who knows what saint would mean to me in another decade or even a year.
The future is always tantalising and at the moment I am all charged up to lend as much drama and verve to my ordinary life as possible. I spent the last few moments of last year roaming on the streets. Watching the revelry and stupor, I felt glad that no matter how insignificant the change in day or a number on the calendar is people refuse to be burdened by its knowledge and continue to live their big fat or not so fat lives.
Remember to be humble despite what you have and be happy about what you have in spite of what you lost.
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