Racing with the Storm

Returning Home

Flowers and Mist

Scars... and their Stories

I was sitting down and twaddling the other day and chanced to spot the scar on my knee and broke out smiling at the memory associated with it. On the way back home from school I was shoved by a bull from behind and fell flat onto my nose! I have since strongly believed bulls get enraged on seeing red, even though the only red on me that day was on my buckle - to represent my house colour.

I have a ton load of scars, some from before I could do harm to myself. Like my pierced ears. Apparently my brother threw a fit, scattered a bag of husk all around, and cried his eyes out when they were getting them pierced! Every scar has a story and however stupid the story, it is somehow a fond memory. Whats with scars and the pride associated with them? Like right now -- I love telling the stories about my scars :D Even though some of them are far from being battle scars - like the ones on my fingers from having cut myself while cooking. Or the one on my leg from when I was stupid enough to stand it right next to the muffler of a bike just after we got back from a ride on it. Is it pride or just fondness? for the memories associated with it. Whichever it is, the slightest thing seems to be getting me into flashback mode these days :D

So I'll sign off here, with a smile that's just that little bit straighter thanks to the knock I got on my head when I was tall enough for my front tooth to get chipped off and lose its crookedness on the wall around our home :)

The Enchantress

The night was dark as soot, save for the solitary candle burning inside the house. The balmy evening buzzing with night life. The kids looking for avenues to burn their last vestiges of energy. For mischief to brew before they tucked in for the night. They would gather around her like moths turning to light.

The roads were less traveled - outdoors were peaceful, private. The skies were clear and the stars could still be counted. Sitting in the verandah, the cool air lulling, her flowing words stilled young limbs and held them captive around her. Drawn into the intricacies being unraveled, they forgot all else. Caught up in the magic she wove.

The sudden glaring lights as the power came on were unwelcome and protests flew wild when the words stopped. But there were more nights to come. And a story to complete.

Down Memory Lane

Dawn, the birds shaking out of their stupor, ruffling their feathers before chirping away to let the new day in. The gate being rattled - the milk man was here. Impatient to show that his bowl was empty and to get on with milking. The brush of coconut leaf spines against the damp verandah - our maid getting along with her work, arguing with my mother about why she was late again.

The pressure cooker squealing to glory, grinning that we would be getting idlies for breakfast again! That's what we woke up to most days. Then would follow a medley of groans and dragging feet. A mild chaos ensued while seven kids got ready for school. Shuffling feet, running water, gurgling throats, suffering knocks on bathroom doors, pleading for just five more minutes of sleep. The fan whirring a steady rhythm. Timmy barking away to glory - it had to either be the gas cylinder guy rolling one in or the neighbouring kid. Wonder what the kid had done; Timmy was always especially expressive when he came around.

Scraping chairs as everyone settled down for breakfast. Hurrying patter of footsteps while everyone got their shoes/keds on. The lucky ones got keds - PT in the time-table for that day! The rickshaw wallah would call out, let known his presence and whisk away the little ones while the older ones trudged to the bus stop. The house would settle down. Suddenly deprived of activity. In waiting for the familiar sounds which would herald the return of the batallion.

Life is Heard.

A Wastrel I Shall Be

That I have decided is the direction for me this week!

Having somehow managed to catch up with work (I think), I've decided I shall squander away this break with nary a care. I'm one of those scant few in my company who are happy about the shut down. Yes, we have a shut down at work this week and I'm happy about it. Having taken a two month break end of last year, I had no hopes of getting time off anytime soon. So this is a fortunate landfall.

Florida here I come!

Just One of Those Things

I am thinking about - things to do
I said - to myself "get a life"
I want to - get to Florida sooooon!
I wish - I were at home
I miss - my extended family
I hear - music
I wonder - "But nothing ever happens and I wonder"I regret - blank
I am - wandering
I dance - in the rain (or want to)
I sing - besur
I cry - silently
I am not always - doing what I should
I make with my hands - nothing useful
I write - nonsense
I confuse - left and right
I need - sunshine
I should try - swimming
I finish -first :P

Mindless

As I sit in front of my computer slogging away, or making believe that I am slogging away, it struck me that I would be happier if I was working at something that requires physical labour versus what I do currently. At work, I have to really use my brains about less than half the time. The rest of the time I somehow end up wandering around - on the net or in my head. And you know what they say about empty vessels...

As kids, us siblings were expected to tend to the garden. Plough out all the weeds, air the soil, and generally get the garden ready for the new batch of plants/seeds my mom was interested in at the time. A spring cleaning of the grounds of sorts. It was such fun! And our parents used to actually treat us after, which totally added to the whole experience. That is probably the only significant experience I have with the all brawn and no brainer activities.

I'm sure I will not like labouring away for a profession, knowing it can get tiring and that the returns are not all that enticing. But the few times I did have to toil, I found it surprisingly very satisfying. Then again there is physical labour and domestic labour (the working around the home kinds). I know for a fact I definitely don't enjoy the latter; especially when I take a look around my place and realize all the work that needs to go into it.

Are sports my form of physical labour? Probably. There is something very satisfying in just sweating it out that is surprisingly missing in other experiences. The good sleep that follows definitely adds to the list of pros!

- From the Diaries of a Rested Being.

Unexpected Pleasures

She was jogging down the street. A slow cadence. Listening to the song playing in her ears.

There she was just walkin down the street
Singing "Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do"

Her pace picked up. Enjoying the music. Taking in the sights. The fading day blanketing around. The moon and stars fighting the stronghold of the Sun and shining brighter. The bicyclists plodding home. The lady all dressed up, her partner holding a sunny bunch of daisies in his hand. The ending of the day. The beginning of the evening.

She never expected to like jogging when she first took it up. It wasn't a group activity. And connecting with people was what she liked best. But it was growing on her. She started missing it on those long weeks when inertia kept her from stretching her legs. The time spent jogging was all hers. To contemplate or to just enjoy the outdoors. To listen to her favourite songs or to sweat out the cares. It kept her feeling alive.

And taught her to enjoy solitude.

Just Another Day

She was gazing at her screen. Her thoughts drifting in the hiatus from chatting. Not really seeing what her eyes were looking at. Instead picturing with her minds eye a replay of the night her thoughts were sauntering through. Reliving the moment.

They were all happy to have their friend amongst them. Happy that the fates had spared him. He looked drawn. The events of the day taking a toll on him. No one wanted to think beyond the moment. Think of the others who were suffering right now. Of the senseless happenings. Of the gruesome sights.
They ordered a round of drinks. Toasting to his health and long life. It was her first drink. Ever. She didn't know him well. But was happy nevertheless that he was safe. The images from TV reports still resonating in her head. The drink was helping. Helping dull her mind and keep the thoughts at bay. A day of firsts. And lasts for many. She sent out a silent prayer for them.

A ping from her friend recalled her to the present. The mundane. The everyday. The dullness. To the lack of events. And she sent out a silent thanks for the routine-ness of the day.

The Journey

The self made farmer. Toiling away on his piece of earth, his fields everyday. Never knowing weekend from a weekday. Festivals probably being the only deviants forced on him by his wife. He granted his selfless companion that much indulgence. Never knew any vagaries of life. Born without privileges, living for a better future for his children. They never wanted for anything. Though his kids, especially his daughter could have done with more variety in life. In her daily garb which tended almost to be a uniform. In the plain food they ate everyday. They never complained. They appreciated what they had. There were days when in frustration the wife vented and silently cried herself alright. But they had a good life. A happy life. Fates had been kind to them. Their children grew to have more experiences, opportunities than they had ever dreamed of. They were alright.

The privileged wanderer. Born with all the comforts one could want. Or learn to want. Never spoiled but never checked either. The fancy schools and foreign experiences. The far off lands; the run of home. The finer things of life. Arts, theater, love. He indulged. Almost content. Till the emptiness hit him again. Till the tendrils of happiness slipped past him. The electronic waste lands at his disposal never satisfying. Searching. Maybe he was missing out on something? Maybe he hadn't found his true calling yet? Guided by his fancy. He was forever thirsty. For the liquid that would quench his soul. Root his soul. What had his grandfather found that was eluding him?

Outside the Self

A little girl in her pretty pretty frock. Cheeks glowing, epitome of health. Sharing the bag of goodies she just got with her friends. Before indulging herself. Mmm, she loved sugar candy.

The kid toddled upto her. He had been busy in some corner of the room earlier. He looked at her candy coated fingers and cheeks and held out his hand. Never for a moment doubting. Her bag of candy was empty. She didn't hesitate before plucking out the candy from between her teeth and plopping it down on his chubby little outstretched palm.

To think, I'd assumed the story of the hare on the moon was made up.

The Bucket List

"I wish I had hugged her"
"I wish I had held onto her hand a little longer"
"I wish we had shared one more of those ice creams she loves"
"I wish I had talked with her some more"
"I wish I had visited her on the way back"
"I wish...."

****

Why do people have a list of things they would like to do before dying? I mean who would regret it if that list didn't get done?
Isn't it better to have a list of things to do for anyday; not for the days before death...
I have decided to re-evaluate and form a list of things I would do by people I care for, a list which would ensure I have no regrets at any point of time. And hope I get through that list.

Numb

People were moving. Chaos everywhere. Sounds all around. Days filled with activities. It was the season for changes. Of new experiences. Of beginnings. Endings.
She was in the midst of it all. She was detached from it all. Nothing touched her heart. The smallest tug got her tearing.
The phone was ringing. Again. Why did it always have to be the phone? There was a time when she dreaded calls.
She should be devastated. But could hardly react. Cursed herself for her clinical thoughts. Why was she thinking and not feeling?? The cold fingers of her thoughts reached out for the answers... The answers she wasn't sure she would get.
Was this all that it came down to? All those years; all those moments, memories...

Days of "No" s

Trying to stand. One klutzy step at a time. She falls. There she goes at it again. Try try till..
Swishing down the white slopes, without a care. She takes a tumble? She rises like a spring. The lesson not learnt. She does it right away. Again.
Zooming past on her bike. Her brakes don't work properly. No matter - she can always get off the bike on the run. Scraped knee? It'll mend soon enough.
Her first crush. Shes ecstatic. Her face an open book. Heartbreak? That hurts.. not for long. The young heart.
The work just got monotonous. Time to move companies. Opportunities abound..
She's actually dabbling in trading. There goes that stock price, trickling like grain from a sack with a hole! Better luck next time. Its just numbers moving around anyway..
Sky diving! Here's her chance. Mmm, maybe next time... She had other plans this weekend?
Streaking past on her car. Takes that turn as fast as she can. The car goes into a spin. Whoa! Slow down girl.. Never again.
Bored at work? Better keep at it though.. Not the time to go about risking your job!