P.S. Olive juice

Olive juice is the lip-read version of “I love you”.  And that’s what I always write, message and say to Abeer when it has a more than deeper and discreet message than the usual expression of my feelings.

This week I had to be in Bangalore. Yes I know it’s a week. Well to be honest not even a complete week. Just 5 working days. But the ‘just-5-freaking-days’ got to me – still getting to me. I did my routine “3 down 2 more to go baby” message to him. A tad extreme from an external point of view. But not me. Even at this age and otherwise mature outlook, I am a mere puddle of mush and homesick expression every lay moment. I distracted myself with a ton of work and rehearsals for the much anticipated and hyped annual day of my new organization. Apparently it’s the ONLY day they celebrate with much fanfare, hence, its doused with 100% participation, external resources and expenses. So despite my unwillingness to participate, it didn’t seem like I had a choice. It kept me busy but there wasn’t a moment in any day where I didn’t check my phone like a shameless puppy for messages or a call… or so much as a whimper from my beloved.

Before this trip, after almost a month and a half, we had some time to us. It was valentine’s weekend and I decided a decadent getaway was necessary if we wanted to steal moments from our busy schedules and respective families. It is amazing what a bottle of red, some conversation, some warmth and waking up together can do for the soul. Felt like I was in love for the 1^st time with him and a whole year having passed by didn’t seem to faze me. Neither did his lack of excellence in expression like me. I have grown to accept his language of love.

He is subtle, moody, selfish in expression, playful and wasn’t 1 to be coerced or cornered. But when he did… it brightened my day 5 notches higher and I smiled all through it… sometimes like an idiot. ;) Me… was always in his face, his phone, by his side etc… joking incessantly about a quip he made about ‘expiring my contract’ someday.  Truth is it scares me even to joke about it. Yet I was over the top about everything. I would be the equal of – there’s no such thing as too much chocolate, too much sweet, too much anything.
I marvel at some of my friends here at work with me. Many having left their husbands and/or wives back home in another city and week after week living working and taking more than 1 can handle flights back and forth. I KNOW I can’t do that. Long distance doesn’t work for me. I hope I never am able to handle it. For I shall probably turn nonchalant or numb and that would be bad news for me. Yet I’m perplexed at those who do this routine. Even in my time away, I just had to plan something for Abeer. And so I did before I left Mumbai – an old fashioned expression of love devoid of technology or present day delivery channels. A healthier alternative to the sugar overload I subjected him to the last time I was away.

It didn’t help when I watched Vicky Cristina Barcelona, went for a run through the traffucked and heavily polluted Bangalore roads, ate sullen meals, slept in cold sheets, commuted with strangers and shopped for stuff back home – all alone. Planned our trip down south together, researched it, or talked to the parents about mundane things. It’s a crippling handicap for me. Doing it alone. It’s not an incapability as much it is the distaste to do it alone. I had 1 glorious evening with the brother – showered him with shopping and much needed grub. Even then my conversation was majorly wrapped in life back home with work and well…. Abeer. Why, I do not gather, is there such preoccupation with such attachments. What is an inexplicable connect for me might be a conquest of sorts for him (I suppose). But that’s just men in general. To have a woman so consumed by their sheer existence, makes their egos swell to exponential levels. That swelling often blocks the view of what’s real and far deeper in what that woman feels for them or does for them.

After all of this, each time I sense a feeling of overwhelm, deprivation or neglect, I look closer. I sense harder and listen intently. I read emails and messages written in bursts over a period of time. I look at pictures, listen to podcasts, recall a special moment or expression… retrace steps to something special he did or said… Eat something we both savor. Workout. Share Elsa stories. Travel spaces in memory. Then I realize there is no dearth of it at all. Just enough to keep me going and remain appreciative of what I have. I just have to be alert to pick up every signal… Like when I say P.S. Olive juice but what I really mean is “Honey I love you!”

I do

Such powerful words, I do.

It’s a declaration, a promise, a solemnity, a commitment, a secret, a decision, a communication, a signature, a word (or 2)… Just 2 fragile yet very powerful words change your life. For the best or for something new and beautiful to start and experience; at your own discretion and your own judgement.

I was blessed to attend 3 weddings in 2 months (would’ve been 5 if not for a folly). Usually a recluse from such events, I decided to stop avoiding them and go to celebrate my friends and their newfound love path. I attended my 1^st north Indian (UP) style wedding, my 1^st Goan AND Catholic ceremony and then a South Indian Shetty wedding. All were beautiful, very different and I was glad I made the trip to them all. First was an impromptu drop and must-visit to a UP style wedding. It was a dear friend’s sister’s nuptials. Very grand and in true north style spared no expense and glory in celebrating it. Well… at least someone was celebrating the girl child and her heart's desires. I wasn’t able to stay long but the friend ensured I didn’t miss a glimpse of the bride and her husband as they walked from the dressing room to the grand display that awaited them. Then came the Goan catholic wedding for a friend (no longer just so-n-so’s brother). We shared a special unlikely friendship and I decided to take the odd hour flights and do the dance and song solo. It was worth it except I missed my man a lot. The whole ceremony and celebration was traditional yet with a modern kick to it. I enjoyed every bit of it. The last 1 was another very dear friend whom I have managed to keep in touch with over 4yrs since I met him in Capoeira class. Ours was and remains and unlikely friendship that has an annual meeting or 2 (if he flies down) and we share all our updates over 1 meal. This time he dropped the bomb that he was getting married. A mirror image in life and thinking to my Abeer; this guy was extremely stand up and a thorough gentleman. I was happy for him and incidentally managed to make it to his wedding and reception.

The 1s I missed and really wished to have attended in person were my friends (1 former boss) Reny and Vanessa. The latter’s was a plan that went kaput and I am still seething with rage over the 1s responsible. Anyways… The common thread that tied all of these was unlike the general image of Indian weddings: loud and coerced. All my friends married their sweethearts of their choices (nothing arranged). All had traditional weddings keeping their communities and rituals in mind but nothing was over the top. If anything, they were grand in their celebration of the couple rather than the money spent on everything. I love that. Where the couple is and remains in focus for good reason. At the church, I expected a long sermon of extracts of the bible. What I witnessed was a priest who knew the couple as young babies and now grown graceful adults, who knew their inherent natures and who pointed this out aptly at the ceremony. This was refreshingly beautiful and I listened intently to how a tailor made ceremony for the duo was conducted. At the Shetty wedding, the ceremony lasted for but an hour and it was full of humor and smiles. The groom’s parents took a backseat while his older married sister and her husband aided the ceremony and ensured all went well. And even though I did not attend Reny and Vanessa’s weddings, from the pictures and the people I know I can closely imagine their nuptials and the what it must have meant to them and their families.

These restore my faith in the institution itself. I never shied away from it even though my parent’s didn't set an ideal example. But then again they did separate and find peace for themselves – a painful decision they made. There are marriages where a couple may live till death did them apart but as a relief – sad. My personal thoughts have been more to build a life with someone, make it complete, a home, maybe pets, maybe children. The pets and children are HUGE life churners and it’s something I would do only in partnership with my better half and not alone. Hence, the ‘maybes’. But I never lost hope in the institution of marriage. It’s but a ceremony to celebrate and solemnize your love. I think of it as very unique and individualistic. One is free to make a marriage of their own barred by society standards (unless you are a slave to societal standards).  The truth is on the surface everyone pretends to live by the ‘blind’ rules. If you peek inside there are secrets to families and wedded bliss that you weren't aware of.

This I cannot share with my cynical beau. He is convinced that the way to a good life is a bachelor’s life. Which is neither wrong nor right. But just like media and society flame stories of the evil mother-in-law vs. daughter-in-law, boss vs. reportees there are the equally gregarious gags and quips on the husband-wife relationship. Where the husband is the emotional fool who fell into a trap that expires at the end of his natural life. I laugh too. But I also find it ridiculous when a wife is the poster-child for ‘entrapment’. Any life decision is purely your own or with the 1s you love. If you suffer, you suffer together, if you’re happy… well the general outcome is happiness together. Even though my witty half periodically announces his allergy to this phase of life, I turn away for not wanting to be influenced by it. I am not a cynic in love and enjoy a comfortable hopeless romantic tag. Just last month I went about planning a 1yr anniversary like it was 25yrs together. I knew it was over the top but in mind it was what I wanted to share with Abeer and there was no rule defining what was too much or too less. I know that for the rest of my life I will celebrate love with grandeur and gratitude because it’s the 1 thing we take for granted in its presence and then pine for it in its absence. This worries some of my friends who think I will burn badly (irreparably) if things were to fall kaput. I think that if I am with a man whose lack of belief in the institution of marriage hasn't phased me then surely I am in love enough to have faith that what lies ahead will also be good. I really wonder how I would celebrate 25yrs of togetherness. Hmmm!

Recently Abeer and I ‘lived’ together for 2 months. It gave me a whole new perspective to living with him. We did stay like it was make shift for 2 mnths and there were days where admittedly I wanted to bash him up or I felt hurt badly. There were some serious ups and downs, yet most days made me realize that on a bigger scale he was the 1 for me and I pined for him to walk in through the main door and go to bed at night with me… and yes the furball Elsa. I loved it. I’m addicted to it and now I ‘pine for it’. Here’s congratulations to all my friends who found and celebrated their love with a ceremonial union, to those looking – it’s out there… and to my cynical oh-so-funny beau Abeer… I love you more each day and that puzzles me <3

I’m in shape. ROUND is a shape! (A fat post)

Said the glorious (read Gloria) Queen Latifa in an interview to someone few years ago (I swear I Googled it but couldn’t find it). I don’t quite care for the quote as much as I do about Ms. Latifah or her character Gloria from Madagascar series of movies. Both depicting round, glorious, wholesome girls with a kick ass sense of humor.

All of my friends who are on the curvy side incidentally also carry the better part of the humor bandwagon. Probably cuz the thin 1s have no ‘juice’ left in them (that’s me being mean). I’ve been on both sides of the latitude and longitude of the 1 battle we are constantly fighting since puberty – weight. At least the vast majority of us. There is not 1 person I’ve met who hasn’t made a quip or some sorry excuse about control, diet, workout etc. None of it coming from the will to do so but rather the need for it.

I was a scrawny thin kid. Growing up I gradually become a plumpy gal. 1 push and sure enough I would bruise you. Kids are mean. They are always mean and aren’t equipped to handle sensitivity issues or factors. A random few (if you’re lucky) grace that list. I was the kind and sensitive 1. But I was also the angry 1 if someone so much as teased me or any of my circle of friends. Infant crawling-punching years were spent with rowdy boys in a co-ed. All of us were spoilt lil brats and we knew the language of the fist before we knew the ABCs. Mum dad and the teachers would never whimper in my direction cuz I was the ace student who got ace grades. I was special *blush blush*. What annoyed other kids was that I didn’t study or put in the effort either. It was ‘au naturale’ to me. And after having probably had a muddy tussle with me in the playground graced with a few unsavory exchanges, they were dragged up to my doorstep by their mommies to apologize to me and either borrow my HW or get tutored by me.

Once in boarding school, I continued being the same. Except this time we were all GIRLS. My bonding vs exceptional despise for having gal-pals came from boarding school. Too much budding estrogen under 1 roof is a formula for bloodshed, tears and disaster. It was simply our matron (long past the cramps and pads) and the convent-ish rules that kept us unscathed and alive. There were beauty experiments, weight issues (dear lord to the roof), comments (read taunts), fairness ads bombarding us, magazines of the then waif-thin super models, misconceptions from misguided thoughts plagued by confinement in a fortress-like setup followed by impressionable and excessive bombardment of media and the days of MTV grind and newly launched FTv. It was in those formidable years that I was made aware of my plumpiness. 1 will be surprised how much can happen under a boarding school roof and the people it shapes us to become. I was supremely active (hyper). I played competitive basketball for the team, I swam, I dabbled in hockey and finally even joined karate. I did it all and I could do them back-to-back without burning out. Much of it was genuine interest. A small yet significant portion of it came from the meanness I had to deal with from the very gals I lived with day in and day out.

Restricted diet became secret dieting, which is worse when the prefects and matrons check to see every morsel has been wiped from your plate. Uniform pockets were suddenly impossible to launder due to all food groups being hidden in them and then discarded to the garden dogs. Clothes became tighter cutting blood supply but giving the illusion that they fit vs they actually fitting us. Black was an all season color – the slimming color. Most of us looked goth and lost. We drank ridiculous concoctions and devised our own theories and recipes for eternal beauty – boy were we convinced or what. I recall a time when we had returned from a vacation break and sure enough had new clothes and shoes. We decided to set up our own fashion ramp and ‘model’ them clothes. What started out as a weekend time-killer turned into a massive routine production. We borrowed and got ready and fussed over ourselves and each other. Since makeup was a no-no; we used rough towels to rub our cheeks till they turned rouge pink. The end result was a few of us landed up with abrasion burns, which the matron caught and aptly punished us for. Boy did we have a laugh over it.

In all of this and through college, fat-jokes were a routine with me. I was never fat; just plump. I despised shopping and even worse, being photographed. Hence, I wondered what it must be like for the really obese and fat 1s. I am of the theory that much of it is self-brought on while a few genuine cases are genetic or health related history. Sadly, friends and foes aren’t built to think so. If you had money and/or were popular, you were left unscathed. Else, you had to develop a hyde of good humor and sportiness to succumb to all that was thrown at you. I never flinched except 1ce when a boy made especially mean comments about dating me despite my appearance. I still don’t know why THAT particular comment got me but it did – it didn’t dawn on me that the boy himself wasn’t a vision of fitness. What followed was a very dangerous and obsessive need to lose the pounds. I ignored the fact that even though I did yoga, gym, dance and sports, it was my thyroid that held me back. I was convinced that adding few hours to ALL the activities and really altering my diet was the key. It worked. I dropped a whopping 16+ kilos. The bonus was bad skin for the 1^st time in my life, some serious deficiency issues which I refused to acknowledge and going underweight – which btw I celebrated. I was perennially disturbed if asked to eat something or miss a workout – it was not part of my mental plan. My body and health were taking a beating for a lousy comment that had triggered a spark in my head and, at the time, my heart. 

Now with age and maturity and an art form that celebrates curves, strength, agility and a lot more about just being fit than a prototype image, I find myself so much more comfortable. Of course, the evolution involved behaving like a girl and investing the time and fusses to be like 1 too. This I say thanks to self-confidence and a lil indulgence of praises and flattery. Boys will be boys. But they sure know how to make a woman feel more like so. If I look around I see factory manufactured products. All that is missing is a barcode (which I think tattoos make up for). The boys and girls talk the same, have the same lazy walk, identical looks and have the same IQ. Boys look like Johnny Bravo and clean shaven less than equal to their female counterparts. The girls are essentially toothpicks or some blessed with the antique curves of a lamppost. Same long hair flicked, burned and straightened by salons they shouldn’t be heading to at their age. Pre-pubescent know how to put makeup long before I learned what an eye-liner was. Their exposure and attitude baffles me. I was thrown at a website which offers fat reduction packages to age as young as *drumroll* 12yrs. And more so recently by the ‘kids’ fashion senses at a concert. Sure it was fun and helped Abeer and me kill time, but it left me perplexed that the only way to look good was to have bare minimum covering your body.

I’m glad that at no point I felt the need or insecurity to take extreme (dangerous) measures. There are far too many vulnerable minds and bodies being tortured. I need a healthy point of view rather than a stressed point of view. There is nothing worse than embracing a bag of bones when you need to hold on to someone you love. And yes…. I love love love my food too… There I said it. Hence, round it is for me… *Busy workin it!*

Kapitaan Abduwali Muse...

“Yo Irish!”, perfectly executed dialogue by the very talented Abduwali Muse played by Barkhad Abdi. Barkhad is a Somali-born American national. Ironic, as the movie plays on those lines as well.

It was date night mid-week and a rarity with Abeer in his rare generous mood. I mean the kind that takes me by surprise with thoughtful little gifts and an impromptu dinner to follow. Divided treats where we tried to outdo each other to do something for one another. Off late everything seemed a bit flat with even plans being cancelled last minute. I had internalized the lividness brought on by a recent evening where I looked forward to going south side with him; which was planned and conveniently ditched for a cold beer and prawns to follow. The lividness was considered made-up for (in my mental check book)!

That’s ok. Life’s such anyways. Even a beer and signature Jai-Jawan prawns were a far cry from my days spent staring at a feeble father and catering to his recovery 24x7, always waiting for that lil spark. THIS particular evening goes in my catalogue of memories to save. We indulged. No caviar or champagne. Just a good ol’ movie, flowing food, funny conversations and a bit of naughtiness.

Captain Phillips had been on our agenda. I love Tom Hanks and had unintentionally caught nearly every flick he had worked in. There is a mundane genius to him. I am drawn to people who are walking geniuses in plain clothes and maybe a little gruffness to them. In that rough no-fuss exterior lies a bunch of molecules all similar to mine but aligned in a peculiarly brilliant manner. Nothing flashy about his role or get up and yet I was easily taken in. I guess his real skills poured in at the final minutes of the movie where a shocked and shaken Capt. Phillips is rescued, medically examined and reassured that he was safe. He stammered and struggled to express himself both physically and verbally – much like my daddy in his bedridden ICCU state. The medic comforted and interacted with him – much like the doctors and I did on a daily basis with dad. The likeness hit me hard and I tried not to let the tear glands win.

Coming to Barkhad who played the genius Somali pirate captain. I think this guy is a find. Held his own in a cast of veterans and had tremendous screen presence. He took me back to Nigeria and Benin and the surrounding African past that I had the rich privilege of experiencing and sadly leaving behind. He reminded me of the countless stories and sordid living that the ‘blacks’ were subjected to everywhere. In my explicit opinion, color is the single biggest racial discrimination and struggle that has dogged this earth since early man. And not because I am biased, but from the very beginning my kiddie eyes couldn’t escape how absolutely stunning Africans were. They just are and there is such sheen and glow in black. Which no one really sees.

However, I saw them always in tatters, wild colors, tribal surroundings and garb, destitute most times, a rare escape of laughter and that tubelight like smile – as if they would be killed if they let a grin escape. Their disheveled look never bothered me, pale nails and barely there footwear (mostly never there) also didn’t let me judge them. They were just beautiful people: misused, mistrusted, misjudged and misspoken about. They were exploited and robbed, beaten and trampled upon, screamed at and rarely ever heard. Their version of luxury was to be recognized as an individual and enjoy civil and basic rights. It never happened and most 3^rd world countries will not let that happen.

The movie depiction of a remote fishing village full of fishermen (read pirates for hire) was a near accurate 1 – dry, destitute village mostly filled with men high on amphetamine addictive khat leaves and ready to blaze and gun down anything and anyone. Desperation drives these skeletal mortals to punish, however brutally, whoever irked them at anytime. And this when they lacked clean water and food – worse still the scarcity of khat. This takes me back to Lagos, Nigeria. Sure I didn’t live with pirate-like people but I sure did witness and hear their mistreatment. Another ironically common factor being that all of them screamed, fought and shed blood and flesh (literally) for causes and people which gave them and their families no security or returns in any shape or form. No money, no food, no safety, no respite.

Then what drives them? Anger and an agenda for vengeance running in their blood stream from the moment they touched down on the red African soil? I think that being 1. That beautiful earthy and rich as hell soil and ground. So many treasures. So many pirates. So little hope. I hope I’m wrong.

Eu amo a África!

The (I)ntensely (C)rushing (U)nvironment!

"Aapke saath amboolans ke paise ki baat hui!?!" (Has anyone spoken to you about the ambulance charges?), asked the driver to my hapless mother.

Money – I was stunned. Actually disgusted was more like it. Barely had they strapped in my dad's skeletal frail frame in the bed, key in ignition, pat came the demand for money. I wonder if he would have driven us at all had we (God forbid) fumbled and expressed inability to pay. It was INR 2k to drive my ICCU-ridden father to and fro from a specialized diagnostic for MRI and scans that was 2mins by Mumbai traffic stds. Monetary demands had been the top and most consistent priority in the last few days. True it was the same during my hospitalization but there was better management and 15% good faith. Here, while my father battled to stay alive, his investigation costs came before his prognosis and next vital steps. I felt sorry for the scores who waited, wondering where to produce money from their measly income and no insurance. The hand-to-mouth population. The 90% population. And even though I could produce the money on demand, I felt attacked even slightly blackmailed at the thought of care and basic treatment being pulled if I couldn't produce. Every step spewed money. I think I will be charged even for the air I breathe in the waiting area. Money 1^st; care and vital steps later. Period.

Waiting – Day 5. So far the multitude of docs including passing 2nd opinions couldn't put a finger on it. All I could do was talk, speculate, question, meet dad, comfort him and wait. That wait. The painfully long question-mark accompanied by traffic and yapping people. 6hrs in a row. And the most irritating part was the ladies who attempted to start a conversation with me about my dad's health and then suddenly turning a sharp curve into their family members and details and gross issues. Being nosy and then unloading it on me. I wasn't insensitive. If anything I listened quietly. I was mentally exhausted processing my dad and didn't need to hear everyone's issues. Its exhaustion really that makes us all quiet. My parents were too when I was operated upon. Sitting around or lying around for hours is far more daunting than actual activity. The smell, the cries, the laughter, the running around, the silence. The brain is a powerful ALL-organ. It controls what your body does and reacts to. Keeping it well oiled and running in such situations is a challenge and 1 that teaches us tremendous lessons in courage and patience.

Patience – such an underrated word. I had 3 layers of patience to deal with. Having just completed my stint of hospitalization and an attempt to piece back all elements of normalcy including fitness, I had to pause everything. The 2^nd was dealing with a hysterical and high-octane-tensed and wired mom. The last was the main 1 – dad, his illness, his diagnosis, the reports, the tests and what not. Everything cannot be speeded up just cuz your heart wishes so. Nada. Even if you live in Mumbai. Instead, Indian mentality slows down the most mundane activities or wastes time on stuff that is red-taped high priority. Nurses and on-call doctors would much rather chit chat and complete their packet of noisy wafers than cater to the patient. Any patient. I saw it myself. They get ‘bothered’ if someone were to beckon them once they just sat down for their cuppa chai with a side of toasty gossip. Too bad. Leave the profession if you can’t handle the pressure and the duties it demands. Worse if you don’t have patience with delicate, ailing bodies and minds.

Empathy and Etiquette – or the lack of it. I have been routinely thrown out and ordered into the ICCU for dad over the last 5 days. I have jumped up at prompt and performed like a trained bomb-squad dog. Except, my actions came from the fact that he’s my dad and I will wag a tail if I had 1. I would do that for any member of my family and that includes Abeer and Elsa. But, the officers of the healthcare profession who take the oath upon graduation and get in knowing fully well what the profession demands, shun it. I don’t pass this verdict for all. Actually, the lowest in the hierarchy (the maids and bais) are the most compassionate and kind. Feed them a few Gandhijis and they care for you and your loved ones like you were their progeny. The most distressing part of hospital stay is the bedpan and loo usage. If you are bedridden and have to entirely depend on others for your basic bodily functions, no matter how many times you may have lectured others, you are going to cringe and worry. I did. Twice. But the Tai makes all the difference. The guards ask if you are ok, need some water, comfort, need a fan etc. Nurses are the worst. They carry the expression of corpses; sometimes taking extra effort to hiss at you without actually doing it. The tone, the attitude, the malice is ridiculous. Some don’t make eye contact. Maybe they fear it may humanize them to look at the patient or the relative. I was ‘warned’ not to create trouble the 1^st night I was admitted 2 yrs ago for arthroscopic ACL surgery. Here, after asking me not to disturb dad, I was disturbed by their chit chat and their chiding of a poor lady clearly in end-stage renal failure and another who’s heart had but a few beats left. They fought with colleagues who didn’t turn up for shifts on time etc. All this in few view and audible range of patients and their near burned out families. Empathy is a crucial chapter missing in the fat pages of the medical bible.

In India, the doctor is God and those associated with him in the slightest… his disciples and messengers. Such blindness. Doctors change their tone and language with me when they know they can’t play paddle-ball with a para-medical professional. What about the scores less fortunate (read educated)? Despite dad’s status right now, we are far better treated (by 70% I reckon) than the rest of the populace. They just want someone to talk to. Someone to tell them it will all be alright. Someone to tell them that they figured it out and that its fixable. Things and people break every day. People just want to know “can this be fixed?”. I too am asking the same. I had an unfortunate incident today where an annoyed lady found it too taxing to wait in line for her mother’s MRI cuz my dad’s was taking too long. Rudely (after blasting the diagnostic center receptionist) she asks my doctor in front of me and scores of waiting people, “a thigh MRI is not so important then why is it taking so long?” Before he could answer, I gave a fat piece of my mind. 1 of the rarest times I didn’t care for being judged or considered a noisy nuisance. No one stopped me or dared come my way. Shockingly she turned out to be a doc herself and realized she had cut the wrong wire when she took me on, proceeding to profusely apologize. I would’ve relented except my heavy heart had found the perfect outlet and opportunity to let the screaming banshee out. Then I went back in the dark ambulance and shed whatever tears had surfaced. Wiped ‘em. Even like a fool, used sanitizer on my own hands and walked back in.

I had never seen a loved 1 with 8 tubes piercing a frail body and another 15 tubes running out of each 1. So many monitors all beeping at once, bandages, raw flesh, blankets, catheters and 2 simultaneous saline drips. I had 1/4^th of these but ACTUALLY seeing it is a whole new life lesson. Watching them go through a non-stop cycle of progress and regress. I learnt about my own patience and my own vulnerability. How much is too much for me? I think I have held on long enough and am gonna hold on more. Even candles give that last lil strong bright flicker before they completely burn out. I’m not ready yet to burn out. Still have to burn my brightest best yet!

The "Must haves"

That’s right. There are something’s in life like a wardrobe must-have or a societal must-do that need to happen to all beings. Without them there is just no appreciation for the rules that are broken and triumphed over and nor is there is any lessons-learnt. Here are a random not-so-preferred few.

• Lose your wallet. Maybe more than once.
• Lose money. It pinches and pains and all those times we stole, begged, borrowed, whined and blackmailed our parents for comes flashing by.
• Have someone lie to u and find out about it.
• Have an ugly confrontation or an uncomfortable conversation.
• Fail to read the rules and regulations or that almost invisible *conditions apply. Get fleeced or stuck cuz of your failure to do so.
• Get caught and have that horrible twisty knot like feeling in your stomach. The 1 that makes you lose appetite, squeezes your heart and basically makes you feel like your life is flashing by.
• Exhale and feel immense relief when that twisty knot is untied (usually by someone’s generosity or kindness). Have new found respect for that person who 90% of the times maybe someone who doted on you in the past.
• Get suspended, punished, black listed. Makes for a great story when you grow up. Especially when you wanna prove what a badass you were amidst the journey of nerd-dom.
• Get drunk and make a fool of yourself. Throw up and just pass out being aware that you are gonna have a lot to explain and face when the hangover wears out
• Sneak in and look sheepish.
• Be consumed by love or hatred. Be consumed by some emotion so much that it eats up all of you and you are momentarily blinded.
• Make bad decision. Despite the told-you-so’s. Remember this is YOUR decision and YOURS alone.
• Put on weight. Be in denial. Then try on an outfit that you were eyeing and can’t fit in. Get a reality check and go into major fitness mode. Wow yourself and people around you. Reward yourself. Think you all that and what not. Put on weight…. Repeat cycle.
• Loose or break your fone. Stay a day or… hell even a week without a new 1. Pretend you are in zen mode without being in eSocial mode. It is quite amazing frankly. Get a new phone and get all stupid and spondilitisii like again.
• Write a blog. Pour your heart out. Wake up the day after and read again and go WTF! The same can apply to an sms, chat message or even a voice message.
• Have a wardrobe malfunction and find ways to tide over it. Have a fashion faux pas or a beauty disaster. Lock yourself in till it’s fixed.
• Loose someone you love. Maybe to someone else you cared about or trusted. Live and function around 1 or both everyday.
• Have an injury or an illness. Changes you sometimes. Drastically.
• Be ignored and forgotten. There is redemption at the end of this tunnel. Everyone needs everyone at sometime. Sure you too will ignore, forget and re-need someone too.
• Have your parents not ‘appreciate or understand’ you. Whine about how they don’t get you. Then triumph over how you overcame that ‘challenge’.
• Buy something super cheap. Showoff. Have it perish/broken in a blink. Sulk.
• Buy something super expensive. Showoff. Have it perish/broken in a blink. Sulk x 3.
• Loose internet connection when you NEED IT MOST.
• Have your phone battery die when you NEED IT MOST.
• Fall asleep. Have a bad stomach. Have a bad day of personal hygiene. Look unkempt. Feel tragic. Have someone really hot* point it out to you. *a potential crush maybe.
• Regret something. Anything. Then go all Miss/Mr. World and say, “I have no regrets. All my experiences made me who I am” *wave* (yawn).
• Own a pet. Go all ooh and aah until their 1^st medical and food bill hits you. Now multiply that by their expected lifetime… Congrats you are a parent now.
• Rave about some movie, place, event, person etc. Then have it fail miserably and you hide face.
• Get stuck somewhere. And remain stuck.
• Lie, cheat on a test, blame someone else. Smoke something funny. Drink something weird. Do it all. Cuz even though you were told not to. You still did. Feel guilty thereafter.
• Have a kid ask you a question you can’t answer. Better yet let them begin the question with ‘Aunty/Uncle’ and come to terms with it.
• Cut yourself. Bleed. Get scratched, scraped, jabbed. Bang a joint or sprain a muscle. Nothing hurts worse and nothing teaches you to repair it better.
• Say the wrong thing at the worst time to the wrong person. Try to take it back. Although…. Never works!
• Ache for something or someone. Drown in it till you learn to swim out of it.
• Starve. Run out of cash. Thirst for something. Be parched. Look around and wonder… what now.
• Indulge in stalking. Online ‘perfectly sane and legal’ predation. What he said. She posted. He updated. She erased. He signed up. She signed out. Pictures. Comments. Accounts. Emails. Messages. Drive yourself deliberately nuts interpreting the psychology behind it all. Worse still… call your friends for coffee and drown them in your pool of self-pity (hate these). Pine and muddle over it. A while later let it tide over. Even better, feel stupid for having to realize you got it ALL WRONG! Pause. Repeat. Rewind. Forward and on….
• Be part of a disaster or its aftermath. Feel like a loser or a schmuck for the times you thought your life was a wreck. Come back renewed. Yap about it. *Blink* turn back into that whiny creation called human AGAIN.  
• Hit rock bottom. Rise up. Dust yourself. Leave a lil dust behind. Have a yahoo moment and rise higher. Then have a reminder of the disaster and fall in the pit again. A lil deeper this time. Be aware of the depth. Decide when you wanna stop falling and get back up at all. Or not.

Then sit and write this blog. Think about why and how and when you decided to write this blog. Post it. Go 'dayumm' cuz you missed a thing or 2 to add your post like it was gonna make a world of difference. Wonder if anyone even bothered reading it till the end. Go ‘whatever’… Move on. 

Retro DateNight

The weekend was just like many in the last 2 months. Dreamy and beautiful. Perfect even sometimes. Not always but sometimes near perfection. This Saturday in particular felt retro to me. Old fashioned. Simple. Simpler. Relaxed and didn’t have many quips from my otherwise quick witted other half.

Spent the day at home trying to avoid getting baked in the October humidity and sweltering heat. A plan to go shopping with a friend went expectedly kaput; I had my contingency ready – I was gonna go by myself. Abeer had drunk himself a bar the night before and getting any response from him was like asking a semi-conscious person their entire biodata. I informed him duly like I always do and set out. I was content but frankly not ideal. You see I get excited about anything that works my senses and that moment I feel like I need to share it with someone. Not just anyone – that someone. And his absence only either overworks my memory or I go into a ‘never mind’ mode.

So I picked him up from his abode and we waded through Navaratri traffic and chaos to the station. Train rides had become our thing – only this day we broke protocol from the usual meeting point (keeping it fresh). A short ride to Khar and we hit my favorite stores there. I shopped 80’s disco clothes (short tank with skull designs to go over black jeggings and a tunic or vest). All I was missing was a dirty blonde crop and some Madonna makeup and headgear. Ballet flats were at home. Abeer had a brief stint of sky blue shorts under Fanta orange t-shirt. We all exclaimed how ‘pretty’ he looked following which he promptly dumped it all and stepped outside the store like the ‘complete man’.

We decided to treat ourselves to some old-fashioned apple pie, some good ‘ol coffee and topped it up with a cab ride to town. That’s right a cab ride for us was a big deal. Abeer is big on saving and economical spending. Me – I’m just officially poor who likes to spoil her boyfriend silly. For us the cab ride was the fancy thing just like our parents thought cabs were a treat. We whizzed through the Bandra-Worli Sealink alongside Mercs, Audis, BMWs and what not. Enter. Finally. Heera Panna shopping arcade. A 1-stop-shop for many things fancy and ‘export-worthy’. The fancier chorr bazaar I call it. 1^st copies of nearly all products to near perfection that you could fool a few untrained naked eyes. I loved walking through the arcade that had me lost so many times in the past. But I gripped on Abeer like I did mom when I was younger. He was my bargaining chip and my ‘NO’ sign when it really was a ‘No’. I needed his fashionista-le-French opinion on my new retro frames and cell phone accessories. We did the rounds and the ho-hums and left.

In the middle of it all, his appetite changed from mmmm to “I wanna be light and healthy” and finally resting on the real thing, “I feel like Chinese”. His thought process was like the roulette wheel. It keeps bouncing off ideas until it rests finally on something steady and real. I wait patiently. We went to Kamling Restaurant at Churchgate. Abeer had asked me a few times in the past when we passed it after a meal at some obnoxiously pricey place. As I entered, a strong sterile almost phenyl scent hit us. Ok very very clean. I get it. But what hit harder was the team of really old, cute, ever-smiling, North Eastern staff waiting on us. I felt almost ashamed being waited on by someone so much older than me rather than offering them a seat and a warm broth. I smiled. It felt like home. Then a strong hit of flowery air freshner. Yes… very old school solution to the phenylish scent. We ordered light servings of noodles and a Chinese beef stew. BEST ever. The food was light, fragrant, so very simple and just perfect. It didn’t feel heavy or Indian-Chinese like. The plates had scratches on them and the cutlery was well maintained but well on its way out. This was like the old Chinese restaurants where our parents would take us out for ‘fancy’ dinner nights and birthdays. Nothing was over the top but it still held special place for us. It did for Abeer with old memories that brought him back here. And now me.

We ate quickly and made it to Eros. Abeer’s idea for a faaltu Hindi movie at a single-screen theatre. For both of us it meant a bratty useless evening where we decided at the time to leave our brains behind. It had been years since someone asked me ‘balcony or stall’ and that I had to pay by cash only. Old-school. I chose balcony. We were hustled in to loud, eardrum shattering introductory number accompanied by major pelvic-thrusting visuals from Besharam. Again incidentally the movie took digs at old school romance, dialogues, loud costumes and cheesy lines that had been there done that written all over them. Before interval we both laughed ourselves silly. Only cuz we knew we were there to be stupid with Besharam. But after interval and a sealed tub of pretty decent caramel popcorn, it became unbearable for Abeer to fake-laugh anymore. I didn’t regret leaving 75% into the movie either. For both of us the experience had satiated our need for silliness and now it was time to get back to reality.

Whenever possible through the day we walked. It’s what he and I did best. I always loved to walk. Still do. No matter how tired or in pain I am… I can walk. The motion of walking soothes me. Add to that a partner who does the same – sweet sublime love. We took a late Bhayander train back (the only uncomfortable part of the night for me) and made it in 1 piece to Malad.

Here was the bitter-sweet part of a retro night. Even though I would usually submit to shameless love and passion and probably kiss him anywhere anytime, he was more old-school and preferred a safe peck on the cheek in front of a plethora of rickwalas – 1 who was expected to drop me safely home at 12am. I hated when I had to make do with just that peck and then go home, alone with just a sigh and some smiles to remember the love that seeped through the evening!