Coming of age

In spite of the heavy competition for the things that manage to tip off the daughter’s balance, the winner for years has consistently been the sight of her mother’s kitchen. The pattern broke this time during her last visit to her parents when the daughter ventured into the prohibited area, that of her mother’s bedroom. It was an act of bravery indeed but armed with a moist cloth and a sense of detachment the daughter waded through the chaos and tried to get just one shelf in order. It wasn’t easy to not fly off the handle looking at what all was stored but then it wasn’t as difficult as she had always imagined it to be. Some time passed, the arranging continued and her parents and husband waited for the meltdown to begin any moment. The daughter didn’t let anything distract her until the shelf was done, a pebble in the rocky mountain, but the pebble was in its place now. Smiling she turned and her eyes fell on a small dusty cover less book lying under the bed. Pygmalion. On the yellowing page in blotted hand was written: To DB, the best student of class IX for her excellent academic performance. The daughter, just like the time, stood still. In her mind the images went by: a small kid in a half sweater wearing cute little boots, big eyes and lot of kajal, hair in a complete mess, startled. Click. Two plaits turned and tied, midi dress, standing tall next to her brothers, squinting to avoid the bright sun. Click. In salwar kameez, dupatta tied near the waist, on a crooked podium, position first, representing gargi house in some athletic event, head held high. Click. Grandfather talking about his brightest child: her mother, who could do everything so well. Click.

The daughter tried to think of her mother when she received that book as a prize. Would that girl be able to imagine that she would have children and amongst them a daughter who will take the longest of times to see her as a person to be valued and appreciated. Shamefully long time of thirty six years.

Are you listening?

During the summer vacation, happened to meet one of my father's colleagues who has known me since I was a child.
"So what is his name?" looking at RRJ who was upto some mischief at a distance.
"R" and as is usual, trying to fill the gap in the conversation, I added, "he is very naughty. Doesn't really listen to me at all".
"Haha ho ho, funny that you say so. I mean, do you remember any day, when you listened to what your parents had to say?"

It seems like I am paying back for my misdeeds from then on. In fact somedays I wonder if anyone actually pays heed to what I say. Forget about others, do I listen to myself? You needn't have the sharpest of brain to know that the answer is a resounding no. It is too hard to follow all those detailed instructions and let oneself be managed at the sub-micron-scale. Haah, but no getting away from me you see, now I have got the phone setup so that it rings every now and then reminding me of my own instructions. In the middle of a conversation over coffee, I check my ringing phone and it asks me, "blabbering?".

Getting mushy over BB

Another smashing weekend full of sports. Love the intensity of the basketball game we have these days on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings: it is as serious as it gets. Being a team sport we are lucky to have a great bunch of people to play with. People who can’t be bothered about the dark clouds ready to pour down any minute, people who have to appease a bunch of crazy kids with candies to get a chance to play, people who cancel their plans for a relaxing getaway and then there are some who drive back long distances to be just in time for the game. To one and all…..hip hip hooray!