I like writing these stuff, so I will do it again. Looking back at the year that escaped just few days ago and telling you guys, how it went for me...
The year began with my passport finally finding some meaning. It was thoroughly checked by immigration officials at both Delhi and Bangkok airports. So thrilled about it still, even after a year !
Oh, yes, I stepped into the warm mix of water and sand of the beach. Finally, i saw sea. It was overwhelming.
And I turned the big three zero this year and I receive three comments about my age every week, some come as advise and some as surprise.
We moved this year. We moved big. We changed cities. We traded loyalties and came to the other side of the dear old Bagmati River. We were not sure in the begining but we are begining to appreciate the lack of noise which was so readily available in the roadside home.
This year was the year of the babies. One of my best friends got all pregnant and pretty and had a baby boy so amazing that he hardly ever gives his mom any trouble at night. Why am I all excited about this baby? because she is the first among my close friends to be a mom and I absolutely love the fact that we still talk about life.
Loss is a big gaping hole. My grandfather was 96.
I disappointed books this year by not reading them much but I tried reading new writers. But this is the year I read cartoon strips. Calvin and Hobbes was my literature for 2009.
Saving went to a camera, which I stil have not bought.
I was all happy for my friends this year - for quiting the job she hated, for packing her bags for Europe, for embracing motherhood, for becoming a student again. New friends happened on the blog, on sharing wierdness and one while waiting for the bus to arrive.
Tough year at work. There were many times when I questioned myself about what I was doing but things are looking up now after I decided to become a buddhist at work.
I spend most of the year not talking much particularly at work but six month of that didn't do me any good so I am going back to what I used to be. I used to like her a lot.
Another hightlight of the year came in the form of an awakening. I decided to let me help me into understanding what was I so unhappy about (again at work). I now believe that the only thing I can change is myself.
I fell in love over ten seconds of darkness at the theatre, reading a story and writing 900 of them with the Sparrow.
I can't wait to recap the year 2010 !
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
As the year ends: the EVE
This year I was in a mood to celebrate the end of the year. I think the year deserved a good farewell but...
I woke up late in the morning, had to call in at work with a humongous (did i even spell that right) excuse, got in late but I smiled at everyone, just about everyone I met between the elevator and my work station, and started to work the last day of the not so great year at work.
And after many escapes from going to the hospital to get the regular check ups done, I had to go to the hospital or the human resources at work would not have been happy. The good news is my kidneys are fine, so are my lungs. But there is this thing about the nose. That's for the new year.
My dad's heart breaks if we do not do anything to celebrate the new years three times every year. Yes, we are the crazy kind who celebrates in Jan.April.October. A decade back, the only celebration we could cook up during new years was a packet of chips and a big bottle of fanta at midnight, for which me and my brother would stay awake till the clock strikes cinderella hours.
This year, we are in a new home, with our head chef holding fort againt H1N1 in a hospital in northern India, I was forced into the shoes of the cook. I served some strange toppings on bread, (which was pronounced a hit), fried some mashed potatoes, imitated my brother's recipe of pasta, cheese and olives, made some vegetable wraps despite the not so soft wrappers, everyone thought I had a future in the kitchen. By the time I served tea, it was midnight and I had ended the day, the year by cooking for some of my favourite people, my parents, my best friend, the sparrow, and his bestfriend.
If you are interested the health report did say I am "fit, fine and in love".
I woke up late in the morning, had to call in at work with a humongous (did i even spell that right) excuse, got in late but I smiled at everyone, just about everyone I met between the elevator and my work station, and started to work the last day of the not so great year at work.
And after many escapes from going to the hospital to get the regular check ups done, I had to go to the hospital or the human resources at work would not have been happy. The good news is my kidneys are fine, so are my lungs. But there is this thing about the nose. That's for the new year.
My dad's heart breaks if we do not do anything to celebrate the new years three times every year. Yes, we are the crazy kind who celebrates in Jan.April.October. A decade back, the only celebration we could cook up during new years was a packet of chips and a big bottle of fanta at midnight, for which me and my brother would stay awake till the clock strikes cinderella hours.
This year, we are in a new home, with our head chef holding fort againt H1N1 in a hospital in northern India, I was forced into the shoes of the cook. I served some strange toppings on bread, (which was pronounced a hit), fried some mashed potatoes, imitated my brother's recipe of pasta, cheese and olives, made some vegetable wraps despite the not so soft wrappers, everyone thought I had a future in the kitchen. By the time I served tea, it was midnight and I had ended the day, the year by cooking for some of my favourite people, my parents, my best friend, the sparrow, and his bestfriend.
If you are interested the health report did say I am "fit, fine and in love".
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A Story of Zen and Sparrow
You first heard about me here. Yes, I’m the one who serenaded Zinta with a song without words on the guitar. In the same platform where you first heard about me, you are going to hear something from me. Last night as I wafted off to sleep. Zinta asked me a favor. “Tell me a story,” she said.
Here it goes.
It so happened on a fine day… a mother was teaching her son how to write…
“Huh? What’s this?” asked a curious face, on whose hand was a slender, pipe like thing. It was sleek, smooth to touch, coated in brilliant yellow stripes and had a shiny crown on top. “Umm, where does this go?”
“Hey, hey,” someone bellowed with a start. “It’s not supposed to …”
Too late.
“…to go…”
“Ouch! That hurt!”
“Now, don’t go looking at me like that. You should know better than to insert a pencil up your nose,” a warm voice said. She then reached out her hands to a toddler, who curiously looked exactly like a kid with a pencil stuck up his nose.
She pulled out the pencil, gently, yet firmly, in a ways that you attribute a mother with. Yes, she was suppressing her laugh all the while too. A few turn of the kutter (pencil sharpener, before we were accused of dating a thesaurus) and a shiny tip emerged.
“Whoa! Aaba k garne?
“Now,” said my mother, “I’ll teach you to write.”
“Yay! Can I draw then? Can I? Can I?”
It must been a fine day when my mother first sharpened a pencil for me, not a Robin Hood tip, a little bit blunt, the ones that artists use to do the shadows in. The right shade of the ‘lead’, which I found out later, is not lead after all, it’s granite re. I regret that I do not remember the warmth of her hands, her frustration of her son not getting the hang of her elegant hand, the smoothness with which he rounded her o’s with and a dash of blob rushing out to freedom when she dotted her i’s. Her hand was something that could break a calligrapher’s heart: perfectly aligned within the confines of the lines that came imprinted in the Rs 5 copies she got for us to practice.
I still remember her stories, though. The stories with which she serenaded me with. Every night, she chose one from her endless repertoire. One of my absolute favorite one was that of the boy who gave his all to learn to a play a magical musical instrument. His teacher had said that until the boy found his true calling, the notes it’d produced would be too bland for anyone to bear. Dejected he sat on the river bed, chucking stones to see the ripples on the surface. Plonk, it went. He threw another stone, it went down making a wonderful ruckus: plink, plonk, plink. In an inspired fit, he opened his leather pouch, took out his musical instrument and struck a note. It hummed, making a sweet melody he’d never heard before. He twirled the notes around, which reverberated with the hint of magic in it. He plucked few strings, it twanged with a sense of rhythm, a purpose he had never felt before. He smiled to himself as he played. Just as was about to wrap up for the day, smiling away to glory on finding his muse, his music, the most beautiful lady he had ever seen in his life appeared before him. She was, all the while, hiding in the bush, listening to the wonderful music being played by her side. “Can you play me that song again?” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
"It's beautiful," Zinta had said so too.
Here it goes.
It so happened on a fine day… a mother was teaching her son how to write…
“Huh? What’s this?” asked a curious face, on whose hand was a slender, pipe like thing. It was sleek, smooth to touch, coated in brilliant yellow stripes and had a shiny crown on top. “Umm, where does this go?”
“Hey, hey,” someone bellowed with a start. “It’s not supposed to …”
Too late.
“…to go…”
“Ouch! That hurt!”
“Now, don’t go looking at me like that. You should know better than to insert a pencil up your nose,” a warm voice said. She then reached out her hands to a toddler, who curiously looked exactly like a kid with a pencil stuck up his nose.
She pulled out the pencil, gently, yet firmly, in a ways that you attribute a mother with. Yes, she was suppressing her laugh all the while too. A few turn of the kutter (pencil sharpener, before we were accused of dating a thesaurus) and a shiny tip emerged.
“Whoa! Aaba k garne?
“Now,” said my mother, “I’ll teach you to write.”
“Yay! Can I draw then? Can I? Can I?”
It must been a fine day when my mother first sharpened a pencil for me, not a Robin Hood tip, a little bit blunt, the ones that artists use to do the shadows in. The right shade of the ‘lead’, which I found out later, is not lead after all, it’s granite re. I regret that I do not remember the warmth of her hands, her frustration of her son not getting the hang of her elegant hand, the smoothness with which he rounded her o’s with and a dash of blob rushing out to freedom when she dotted her i’s. Her hand was something that could break a calligrapher’s heart: perfectly aligned within the confines of the lines that came imprinted in the Rs 5 copies she got for us to practice.
I still remember her stories, though. The stories with which she serenaded me with. Every night, she chose one from her endless repertoire. One of my absolute favorite one was that of the boy who gave his all to learn to a play a magical musical instrument. His teacher had said that until the boy found his true calling, the notes it’d produced would be too bland for anyone to bear. Dejected he sat on the river bed, chucking stones to see the ripples on the surface. Plonk, it went. He threw another stone, it went down making a wonderful ruckus: plink, plonk, plink. In an inspired fit, he opened his leather pouch, took out his musical instrument and struck a note. It hummed, making a sweet melody he’d never heard before. He twirled the notes around, which reverberated with the hint of magic in it. He plucked few strings, it twanged with a sense of rhythm, a purpose he had never felt before. He smiled to himself as he played. Just as was about to wrap up for the day, smiling away to glory on finding his muse, his music, the most beautiful lady he had ever seen in his life appeared before him. She was, all the while, hiding in the bush, listening to the wonderful music being played by her side. “Can you play me that song again?” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
"It's beautiful," Zinta had said so too.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Lost in numbers
A whole set of festival is over and no one really missed my two cousins. Year after year, festival season comes and then goes and no one really remembers them. One of them dared to marry a guy from a different religion and she was never spoken of in the family. This was probably twenty years ago. I do not remember her face but I know her name. When a ten year old me asked my uncles and aunts about Sabina, everyone dismissed the question with a matter of fact 'no'. Then almost twelve years ago, another cousin decided eloping was a good idea and no one welcomed her back in the family. She was considered the prettiest among us grand daughters so she was talked about for a while by the neighbourhood and anyone who knew her but within a year she was also forgotten.
Every festival season, newars have a tradition of inviting their daughters a few days after the festival to acknowledge that they exist and they were missed. They cook up a feast but every feast, my two cousins are never invited or talked about or missed. This year around Dashain, I asked my mom if there was a possibility of them being invited ever again. My mom answered with a silent "don't know".
I wonder what happened to them, if their hubands love them more since they lost one whole family, if they work, if they have children now and since all the girls in our family resemble our late grandmother, if their daughters look a little like her. This festival season, as I saw my married cousins- sisters clad in red, pass by my grandfather, who at 96 only remembers only few of us, receiving blessings, I realize we have been punished for being too many. We are among 23 grand children. Even if two eggs in the basket turn out rotten, there are still 21 to go and some of us will be - lost in numbers.
Every festival season, newars have a tradition of inviting their daughters a few days after the festival to acknowledge that they exist and they were missed. They cook up a feast but every feast, my two cousins are never invited or talked about or missed. This year around Dashain, I asked my mom if there was a possibility of them being invited ever again. My mom answered with a silent "don't know".
I wonder what happened to them, if their hubands love them more since they lost one whole family, if they work, if they have children now and since all the girls in our family resemble our late grandmother, if their daughters look a little like her. This festival season, as I saw my married cousins- sisters clad in red, pass by my grandfather, who at 96 only remembers only few of us, receiving blessings, I realize we have been punished for being too many. We are among 23 grand children. Even if two eggs in the basket turn out rotten, there are still 21 to go and some of us will be - lost in numbers.
Monday, November 2, 2009
I have not written in a while
It all came crashing down on me at the end of October. Fine month I should say. I always thought October was such an uneventful month, not counting the days of festivals. The story took a turn without me even noticing it this year.
I try not to talk about work because I tend to vent and venting about work never gets one anywhere. At least not for me. At the end of the day, whatever it is that makes me want to throw things five stories down, must be accomplished at any cost and that too by me. Its called 'stepping up' the new word in my work vocabulary. So, past few weeks, I have been stepping up which came in the form of a 'big project' which i was asked to coordinate. not head. not manage. not lead. but just coordinate. I did just that without disturbing the sanctity of my ever so glorious job description. The project was supposed to take off on 1 November and it never did. It all came crashing down on the eve of the big day and there was hardly anything I could do but go back to sleep and plan a trip around art exhibits in town. But what came crashing down was a tiny realization that grew big and fat over the weekend...that i was so head over knees in preparation for it that I hardly managed to get five hours of sleep everyday, meeting deadlines, meeting people, hardly seeing my brother who was home after almost two years. When the project burst mid air on Saturday morning, I realized that my brother left on the first flight on Friday and my friend was on first flight on Thursday.
I try not to talk about work because I tend to vent and venting about work never gets one anywhere. At least not for me. At the end of the day, whatever it is that makes me want to throw things five stories down, must be accomplished at any cost and that too by me. Its called 'stepping up' the new word in my work vocabulary. So, past few weeks, I have been stepping up which came in the form of a 'big project' which i was asked to coordinate. not head. not manage. not lead. but just coordinate. I did just that without disturbing the sanctity of my ever so glorious job description. The project was supposed to take off on 1 November and it never did. It all came crashing down on the eve of the big day and there was hardly anything I could do but go back to sleep and plan a trip around art exhibits in town. But what came crashing down was a tiny realization that grew big and fat over the weekend...that i was so head over knees in preparation for it that I hardly managed to get five hours of sleep everyday, meeting deadlines, meeting people, hardly seeing my brother who was home after almost two years. When the project burst mid air on Saturday morning, I realized that my brother left on the first flight on Friday and my friend was on first flight on Thursday.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
on feeling loved
flood,
soggy floor,
delayed flight,
delayed landing,
turbulence mid-air,
a day goes by without food,
feel loved because I have a raincoat!
and a song without words on guitar!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
