A Perfect Afternoon to Reminisce

Shimmering shadows of leaves rustling in a light afternoon breeze have cast a mystical spell over my living room today. Pale yellow streaks of sunlight creep in through the open blinds carrying these shadows on their back. With fragile yet warm fingers, an ever elusive sun lightly caresses my cheek and urges me to slip into a wonderland of memories and tales. Soaked in words, these memories seek to make eternal marks on the pages of this blog.

I reel back to a time when winter vacations meant spending an extra hour in bed under my thick patchwork blanket, tucking into fluffy cheese omelets served with paranthas while warming my toes in front of the heater, devouring Enid Blyton's books by the dozen, waiting for Ma to come back from work so that we could play board games, sipping the customary after-dinner hot chocolate while watching Doogie Howser M.D and finally calling it a day, peacefully snuggled between Papa and Ma.

The second half of the year was always more special. It brought along festivities, lights, mithai, presents and general merriment. The holiday-season kicked off in style with Dusshera. Diwali too closely followed at its heels. My exceptional vacation privileges were revoked on these special days and Ma would badger me into rising early and showering. With the ease of a skillful storyteller, within seconds she would make me believe that if I did not, God would morph me into a donkey.

Each of these events was an experience in itself. Dusshera would begin with a grand pooja at the Army parade ground, conducted usually by the Gorkha regiment. The celebration typically ended on a gory note with the sacrifice of an animal to appease the goddess. Evenings were reserved for witnessing the colossal statues of Ravana, Kumbhkarana and Meghanada being gobbled up by angry flames and finally reduced to ashes.

A few weeks later Diwali would knock at our doors. The tedious process of making gujiyas and laddoos commenced well in advance. Tiny clay lamps with cotton wicks would find their place in front of the household temple. Crackers also shared space with the lamps and were gleefully gawked at by Pranay every single day till Diwali. Come evening and the glimmer of stringed lights on each house alchemized the cantonment into a fairyland. The aroma of fresh gujiyas mingled with the pungent odour of smoke from the firecrackers made for a signature Diwali memory.

On one of my trips home, I came across a letter supposedly written to me by Santa Claus although the handwriting suspiciously resembled Ma’s. It brought back a flood of reminiscences. The socks I would hang on our clothesline on Christmas Eve and the excitement I fought the whole night long were almost always amply rewarded the next morning. This was one day other than my birthday when I needed no coaxing or cajoling to get out of bed. The chocolates stuffed in my old socks and the toys and books littered on the floor bolstered my belief in magical creatures like elves, gnomes, pixies and of course Santa Claus. And every year with my bundle of gifts I got a letter from Santa telling me how much I was loved.

Finally the year would bid adieu with a flourish as we ushered in the New Year with friends and family at the Officers’ Institute. The quintessential elements of a party – loud music, dancing, copious amounts of food and happy people in pretty clothes – made for a pleasant picture. A patina of jollity hung over the crowd as tired but eager voices bellowed the countdown to a brand new year. In a shower of colourful ribbons and glitter the much awaited year would arrive donning new hopes, experiences and resolutions.

For most people the festivities of the year drew to an end here but for us there was one more eagerly awaited event – the Raising Day and Paagal Gymkhana – an occasion commemorating the day when the Armed Medical Corps - the establishment to which Papa belonged - was formed. Paagal Gymkhana – a fair of sorts – included all sorts of unheard of games like the ‘Jalebi race’, ‘Sack Race’, the ‘Three legged race’ followed by a ‘Badakhaana’- a large community meal. All the unspoken barriers between officers, soldiers and their respective families were lifted as the entire regiment participated as one big happy family. Binging on the excessively oily yet lip smacking delicious food was a norm to which I most enthusiastically conformed.

My first holiday-season away from India has made me believe that festivities all over the globe are just as exciting and elevating. The gaiety, the lights, the food and the merry-making are intrinsically the same though they may differ in form and fashion. Candy and costumes on Halloween and Christmas trees, lights and gifts on Christmas are as much fun as the crackers and mithai on Diwali. I am finally ready to open my heart and generously allot space to these new entrants right next to my traditional Indian ones. Three cheers to making fresh memories and writing about them on future cozy winter afternoons.

Conversations with a cabbie

Yet another week in Michigan and I find myself staring at an even more dismal sight than what I beheld the last time I was here. The weather app on my phone shows a tiny grey cloud showering drops of water over the city and sure enough, the view outside is a real life, zoomed-in replica. I walk out of the airport lugging my satchel and trolley bag, engulfed in a mighty overcoat, the tag on which assures me that it is lined with the finest quality felt to keep me warm. I am still shivering despite these assurances. The makers perhaps didn’t comprehend how cold a girl from India can get.

I approach the Metro Cabs booth and shudder at the thought of eliciting services from a cab driver after my past experience. This time though, I am in store for a pleasant surprise. My cabbie – Mahmoud – looks nothing like the surly brute I encountered last week. On the contrary, he has clear blue eyes which never stop dancing and an almost musical Middle Eastern lilt. His cheeriness feels as comforting as a cup of hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day. With my luggage safely tucked in the boot and the heat turned up I feel my good humour rise from the dead.

As we cruise past familiar landmarks, Mahmoud informs me about the Tsunami that has recently hit Japan. His depth of information on the subject startles and embarrasses me all at once. With a hint of scepticism, I surreptitiously cross check the news on the internet and am surprised by the accuracy of his knowledge. I realize that in the routine chaos of my day, I haven’t had the time to browse the headlines of a newspaper or pay attention to the newsreader’s monologue on TV. In short, I am clueless about what is happening in the world around me. In addition, his succinct description of the topography of Japan leads me to conclude that he can easily give Geography teachers around the world a run for their money.

Now I am all ears, eagerly waiting for Mahmoud’s next flurry of wisdom. This time I get a brief but power packed lesson in History. He talks about varied subjects like the British colonization of America and the American Civil War. It isn't just facts that he is rattling off; he has his own perspective about everything he speaks. Mesmerized, I sit upright and absorb everything he has to say. Somewhere in between,the conversation turns philosophical and we discuss the futility of being one in a million rats in the rat race of life. ‘Life is meant to be enjoyed, not frittered away, consumed in jealousy and greed’ he says. I couldn't agree more.

A few more nuggets of wisdom about propane laws and traffic rules in the state are thrown my way before Mahmoud promptly pulls up in front of my hotel. For the first time I am feeling sorry about having covered the distance so quickly. Before I know it, Mahmoud is gone and I am left standing on the curb, a lot more enlightened than I was thirty minutes ago. In a world teeming with over ambitious, over stressed and over cranky people, Mahmoud and the likes of him who are knowledgeable, hard working yet cheerful form a fast diminishing breed. The world would certainly be a more interesting and happy place if there were more of his kind.

Up, Up and Away

Painful skeletal remains of once lush green trees stand braving an ice cold draft. The sky is overcast and gloomy as if mourning their demise. Even though the heater in my room is working overtime to keep me warm and toasty, I find it difficult to crawl out of my quilt. With promises of a hot water shower and a fresh cup of coffee, I finally convince myself to leave the warmth of my bed. The aroma of coffee emanating from the coffee pot is comforting but the aforementioned view from my window isn’t.

It is my first day at work in a new city after a blissful six-month vacation. The butterflies in my stomach haven’t allowed me much sleep last night. Michigan – my current abode – has been a strange experience so far. After the pleasant cheerfulness of southern folk in Texas and the well bred mannerisms of the affluent populace in California, the grumpiness of ‘Michiganites’ is a rude shock. Of course, one cannot generalize and as always there is a mixed bag – a foul mouthed cab driver, a polite security guard, a bunch of courteous strangers at a restaurant and a surly front desk staff at the hotel.

Bundled in layers of woolly nirvana, I step out hoping to walk the less than half a mile distance to work. A bitter winter draft slaps me hard across the only portion of my body which is exposed – my face. It jerks me right out of my dreamland and shakes out all dregs of drowsiness left. I scramble as quickly as possible towards my destination, silently cursing the celestial movements which cause seasons to change. A wrong turn and a near death experience with a speeding vehicle later, I manage to walk into my office in one piece. My nose is red and numb and my fingertips, even though encased in fleece lined gloves, are frozen. I soak in the delicious cozy interiors of the office and my Rudolph-like nose slowly returns to its original colour.

It is going to be a hard day at work as the rusty gears of my brain slowly creak into action. I have tried to keep them oiled during my sabbatical but I am sure they are still going to oppose working ceaselessly towards achieving our unrealistic project deadlines. Was I happier doing my own thing at home at a relaxed pace or will I be happier working under pressure on a difficult project? I don’t know the answer to that yet but I do know that the solace I get in peacefully writing or reading at home cannot be replaced by the adrenaline rush that is associated with being able to hand over quality work against all odds and vice versa. Till I find an answer, I shall dabble in both with the hope that I will find my true calling one day.

With these thoughts I head in trying to work out a game plan for the day. Walking past the cafeteria on my way to my desk, my now near normal nose is further placated by a whiff of oven fresh muffins. I resist only because I have been warned about winter binges and the kilos they add. However, it is just a matter of time that I succumb. After all I deserve a tasty treat for valiantly fighting the vile Queen of Winter, don’t I?