Letters

Remember English class in school? Excerpts from famous books and plays served as lessons, the blue and red Wren and Martin tome taught complexities of grammar, poetry hardly made any sense and there was always the nagging urge to read all the stories in the textbook before the term started. The English test was always as predictable as a Karan Johar movie – Reading Comprehension, Grammar, Literature and Writing. Like many others in my class, I too composed dozens of letters to imaginary recipients and spewed hundreds of essays on timeworn subjects, hoping to score the most elusive cent percent in the Writing section. I remember those long gone English lessons, tests and the Writing section today by drafting the following missives:

A complaint to my high heeled shoes

Hello High heels,

I am sure you are warm and cozy in the pretty pink shoebox under my bed. Our last trip together was quite eventful but I must tell you that I am a little annoyed by your behavior. While it was somewhat vile on your part to lure me into dumping my faithful, feet-friendly flat pumps for your trendy Mt. Everest like elevated heels, what was even more exasperating was your attitude once I chose you. Just when I started feeling chic and in-style you tightened your death-vice, cutting all blood circulation below the ankles.

You squeezed my feet like lemons and I could barely feel my toes once you were done juicing them. You then clamped your jaws on them as if they weren't just feet but a couple of McDonald’s burgers. My feet have revolted against your tyranny by sprouting angry red welts all over and they have assured me that they will not get back to business if it meant having to cooperate with you! As if this wasn't enough, my calves are also supporting the feet-union and are gearing up by tightening their muscles and sending me signals in the form of sharp pain. I fear that it isn't long before my knees decide to join the rebellion.

I am terribly disappointed by your lack of concern and I am considering relegating you to the confines of your shoe box for eternity. Your smooth patent leather charm comes at a very high price which I do not wish to pay any more. I hope you find someone who can overlook the discomfort and appreciate your beauty nevertheless.

Regards,

-A disgruntled girl

A love letter to chocolate chunk cookie:

Dear Cookie,

I write to you today to express my deepest love for your sugary rich countenance. You have stood by me through many a rough patch and with this letter I wish to thank you for all your kindness.
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Your pretty brown face embellished with pieces of chocolate is a sight for sore eyes. With the right degree of crunch, your delectable flavor is just what I need when I am down the dumps. You are very dexterous too as you can be enjoyed with milk or tea, at breakfast, lunch or dinner, before a party or after one, to beat stress or to celebrate success and on many such contrasting moments. Pages and pages can be written in your praise and yet not suffice.

Even though I have been warned several times about your hidden evil persona – the one that ensures that each bite poisons me with infinite calories and sugar, making my heart let out a silent groan – I cannot imagine a life without you. How can someone so lovely have a malevolent side?

I hope you keep sweetening my life for many more years to come. I shall be your faithful patron for as long as I live.

Love,

-Me

Eviction notice to a pimple

Mr. Pimple,

You are hereby being notified to evacuate your current quarters i.e. my cheek within the next half an hour. As per the contract relevant to this premise, you were permitted to use my cheeks as a temporary dwelling during my teen years (from 1997 to 2003). However, you have been found prowling on the aforementioned location even today i.e. 10 years after your lease lapsed.

As a result of this breach of contract, my cheeks have filed a complaint against you and it has been decided that any further misdemeanor on your part would be treated as a serious offense leading to harsh punishment. I might consider subjecting you to a strong dose of clindamycin phosphate gel. Please be warned, your present good health and rosy-red, well fed appearance will get affected and you will experience lack of appetite, severe weight loss and even death as a consequence.

While I appreciate that with your presence you want me to believe that I have taken a dip in the fountain of youth and emerged frozen in teenage, I no longer wish to live this charade. I urge you to take this letter seriously and vacate the area which you have unlawfully occupied for over a decade now.

Your landlady,

-Me

A request to my curly hair

Hi Curlies,

I hope you are curling smoothly these days. You seemed pretty miffed the last time we spoke especially because you were down with the ‘frizz’. I know how terrible that can be especially with its signature symptoms like dryness and rough edges. Are you feeling better after applying the prescribed conditioner?

Well, let me get straight to the point. I was hoping you could do me a huge favour this week by behaving in an orderly fashion and not twisting and curling asymmetrically. I know you have a mind of your own and that you like to do as you please but I would be really obliged if you do as I tell you this time.

It is come to my notice that you do not like being tied in a tight pony-tail. Unfortunately I have to resort to doing so because letting you free is getting harder as you grow longer with each passing day. However, I am on the lookout for some good clips which would let me leave you free and at the same time maintain a semblance of order.

I also understand your aversion to these newfangled dryers for curly hair. It must be very difficult to have hot air blow right into your face after a shower. This is why I have decided not to invest in these machines and instead implore your good sense to help me look neat and tidy and not like a total hippy.

Consider this as an honest appeal to make life easier for the both of us. I hope to hear a positive response from you.

Thank You!

-Me

Knowing me, Knowing you...

A little over a year back my life gave way to an alteration of gargantuan proportions which left me a little out of breath. As I spun headlong into the complex yet intriguing world of the ‘married people’, I worried about my ability to identify and be a part of this tight knit clique. In addition, I was petrified at the mere thought of leaving the oddly comforting humdrum of life as I knew it. However, as much as I would have loved to sit around and mope about my soon-to-be-extinct, unattached, unrestrained existence, I had to forego that luxury and pull up my socks to brave an exceptionally chaotic year (what with a crazy project at work, the engagement, six glorious months in Europe and finally the colossal wedding). And before I knew it, just like that, doomsday was upon me. Needless to say, I was swept away like a single boat bouncing off un-tethered on the soaring waves of a flooded river.

When one is married to someone like Arjun Sharma, life instantly transmutes into an exhilarating Ferris wheel ride – all fears melt away as you step into a brightly coloured capsule, soaring and plummeting through time. On the outside he resembles one of those serious, bespectacled, gibberish speaking scientists, we often read about in sci-fi stories but scratch the surface and you will unearth an absolutely delightful and hilarious person - a fantastic mind, a closeted funny-man and a total madcap. Having said that, I can assure you that his infinite love for physics is no façade either. Let me elucidate. For one, there is no one else I can think of who would carry a book called ‘Introduction to Automobile Engines’ on a vacation to the gorgeous beaches of Goa. Imagine us stretched out on the soft sands of a beach in Mandrem, listening to the hypnotic music of crashing waves – Me, sipping the customary pretty cocktail (with a lemon wedge and a twirly straw) and Arjun, reading a menacingly thick book, from the deceptive bright green jacket of which stares an evil looking metallic contraption. Most people would find this image rather unnerving but strangely it amuses me each time I think about it.

We are no peas in a pod but there are some attributes we do share. To begin with, both of us sport a set of rather large ears, which jut out like levers waiting to be grabbed and twisted. Another trait that glues us firmly together is our supreme devotion to food. It is with him that I gallivant around town sampling every restaurant, bistro and bakery that we chance upon. Singing in loud, tone-deaf, unbridled notes gives us a bizarre kick and much to the consternation of our neighbors we indulge in it with the gusto of seasoned musicians. Arjun’s forte is an uncanny ability to make me laugh so hard that my stomach, lungs, kidneys and pretty much all other internal organs feel slightly askew for a few moments after the bout. This typically happens when he is either impersonating someone we know or imitating ludicrous dance steps from old music videos. Neither of us is a morning person. It takes numerous wake-up buzzers for us to accept the harsh reality of a weekday morning. The multiple alarms that we diligently set on our phones each night, blare shrilly at the crack of dawn and a ritualistic tug of war ensues resulting mostly in me being kicked out of bed. A never subsiding craving for jalebis and similar deep fried delicacies, a fascination with the delicious idea of idling in bed - watching the morning sun filter in through the window while sipping coffee and listening to old Hindi, ‘Chitrahaar’-type songs, a chronic addiction to movies from around the world as long as there are sub-titles to compensate, a wanderlust beyond belief and an urge to read and remember every tiny detail of world history are some of the common threads that weave us together in a vibrant fabric of camaraderie.

And then there are the dissimilarities. My constant chatter is usually met with an inscrutable far away gaze. On more than one occasion I have to repeat myself several times in varying decibels to yank Arjun out of his mysterious silent world only to realize that he has still not understood what I was saying. The organized world that I covet does not figure even at number 200 on his list of priorities. Not too long back, I remember walking into our tiny studio apartment in Palo Alto for the very first time to be greeted by a food processor perched on the coffee table and a heap of clothes, right out of the dryer, sitting pretty on the couch. Sheaves of paper, groaning under the weight of Arjun’s characteristic scrawl, littered the place. They were omnipresent – snuggled under the bed, lazing around on the floor, loafing on the kitchen counters as if waiting for a quick snack… It was an ‘Obsessed Organizer’s’ worst nightmare. What was even more perplexing was the fact that lines and lines of neat digits and symbols which marked these sheets made them look like letters from outer space – ‘Does he communicate with aliens’, I mused. While it took me some time to get used to the technical mumbo-jumbo that he spouts ever so often, I have now learnt to live with it. Shopping is another concept which we are divided on. I can spend hours in any retail outlet – a grocery store, a fancy mall or even a pet store but Arjun is one of those make-a-list-before-you-go-shopping-and-buy-only-what you-have-got-on-your-list kind of person. ‘How would you ever get to know what all is available if you keep buying the same things over and over again’, I argue, but then this is one of the times he pulls off his glassy eyed gaze which makes me throw my hands in the air and give up.

We laugh, bicker, talk, share silences, travel, stand still, grieve, rejoice and share many moments that crystallize into splendid memories. This is a tribute of sorts to all the fun times that we have had so far and a build-up to all the awesome times yet to come….

An Obsessed Organizer

My name is Preeti Sharma and I am an Obsessed Organizer. There, I have said it! I can almost hear a collective sigh emanating from harried souls around the world – half a dozen ex room-mates who sacrificed many a weekends to the crack of my cleaning/dusting/arranging whip, a bunch of friends murmuring ‘we always knew’ under their breath, a set of parents who cannot stop blaming each other for passing on the ‘hyper-organized' gene to me and finally one poor husband who has to deal with it for the rest of his life.

At first my symptoms mushroomed as seemingly innocent quirks. Arranging my dolls in a perfect straight line so that they sat in ascending order of their heights on top of the olive green cupboard in my room gave me immense satisfaction. Inside this cupboard was a treasure cove of books which also adhered to one of my many patterns of organization-alphabetical, author-based, subject- based……..What passed off as adorable nuttiness should have set a hundred alarm bells ringing and perhaps the condition would have been nipped in the bud.

As I left the pristine boundaries of home to hunt for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I found myself staring at a big, bad, MESSY world which lay like a repugnant pool of spilt tea on a marble floor, waiting for me to wipe clean. I began yearning fervently for a world where pairs of shoes were organized in neat stacks on shelves instead of lying asymmetrically crooked on the floor, a world where coats and shirts were hung separately instead of mixed together, a world devoid of specks of dust enveloping all exposed surfaces, a world where dishes were done immediately after a meal and dabbed dry before being replaced in designated spots inside cabinets, a world where clothes always smelled laundry-fresh and tidily occupied allotted slots…my wish list went on.

I walked a tightrope for many years, trying to balance work, friends, hobbies and my unrelenting fetish for patterned harmony in spaces I called my own. Truth be told, I was always happiest when I was engaging in some good old fashioned housekeeping. An ensemble comprising a pair of comfy pyjamas circa 1998, an over sized tee from the same era and a head scarf to keep the powdery dust off my crown of curls easily kicked the rear end of pretty dresses and dainty heels. And eventually I started trading in parties for spending time dolling up my house. Since my most favourite section at the super market has always been the one which stores all sorts of cleaning products, I invariably possessed a plethora of objects to help achieve my standards of perfection in the task at hand.

State of the art mops and brushes, surface cleaners which promise a spotless clean house - fragrant like flowers in spring, glass cleaners to scrub window panes so perfectly that for a minute one would wonder if there was any glass at all, thick blue toilet bowl cleaners and a multitude of detergents (one for keeping my woollens supple, one specializing in retaining colours, a fabric conditioner to pamper my favourites, starch for my cotton 'kurtis', a stain remover for times when clumsy people subjected me to the horrors of their gaucherie…..) - This was my ammunition to wage a personal jihad against the forces of filth. When I was done banishing trash to the confines of a trash bag, I focused on arranging furniture, books, clothes, accessories and other things in exact locations and positions, just as my heart desired.

They say ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. My private version is: ‘Hell hath no fury as when you spoileth what Preeti arrangeth’. Loved ones understood and resorted to rolling their eyes and toeing the invisible line I drew. In return I sometimes offered to do up their rooms for them. Like a whimsical artist I admired my handiwork every few hours for the next couple of days till my almost satanic arch nemesis - dust and grime - found its way through cracks and fissures and lay dirty, mangled, gaunt fingers on my spick-and-span dwelling. And then the entire cycle repeated itself.

After years of filth-fuelled crankiness and working myself to death, I have finally realized that sometimes it is all right to coexist with a tiny modicum of clutter instead of driving everyone, including myself, insane. To be honest, despite this epiphany, I still jolt out of deep sleep once in a while to stow away a pair of errant socks which somehow found their way on the living room couch or to wipe off ring-shaped coffee stains left behind as a stubborn mark of defiance by coaster-less mugs. I suppose the journey to a neurosis free life is long and difficult. But I am determined to reach my destination and am slowly inching forward.

Now that I have written this cathartic article and the weight is off my chest, I want to get back to what I was doing earlier – polishing the kitchen counters till I can see my reflection smiling back at me, giving me the thumbs-up... Satanic grime, here I come!

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?

A San Francisco Affair

The heart at Union Square

The seeds of my love affair with San Francisco were sown the very day we were acquainted. What started out as a mere check mark on the to-do list of a travel aficionado, culminated into a full blown obsession which grew exponentially with each passing day. This is the story of my bitter sweet romance with a city which has a little bit of old, a little bit of new, a touch of grey, a splash of colour, a mean streak, a kind vein and many such contrasting characteristics that I fell in love with.

It all began on a beautiful summer day in June of 2012 when I made my maiden trip to San Francisco. Like a seasoned suitor, the city began wooing me instantly and flaunted its most attractive feature – the architectural splendor- to sweep me off my feet. To this effect, its first offering was the tall and handsome Golden Gate Bridge, standing strong with feet planted firmly in the Pacific bed. From atop a hill, the shiny red structure looked grander with sparkling white cotton-ball clouds bobbing in the powder blue sky above and colorful sailboats floating in the crystal water below. As I felt my heart stir and my knees go weak, I realized that I stood very little chance of not succumbing to my wooer’s charms.

Each aspect of the city’s architecture hit me like an arrow from Cupid’s bow. For instance, the rollercoaster like roads and alleys which were unknowing purveyors of breathtaking views knocked the breath out of me. Just when I was at my wits end, having huffed and puffed up one such alley, it suddenly dropped downhill at a steep angle leaving me standing at a peak with a beautiful view of the sun melting into an infinite ocean. As soon as the sun set, darkness metamorphosed the soft blue ocean into a sinister grey monster which appeared to be guarding its glimmering bridges.

I was further smitten by the fact that the intolerance endemic to human beings which causes the young and the old to drift apart, did not affect the city. Old and new landscapes coexisted in perfect harmony. The ill-famed ‘Generation Gap syndrome’ did not ail them and as a result there was no awkwardness. Victorian structures comfortably shared space with modern skyscrapers. A 114 year old statue of Victory on a Corinthian column did not appear out of place in the middle of contemporary buildings housing trendy stores like Saks 5th Avenue and Macy’s in Union Square. Pale yellow cable cars of yore still plied on roads alongside fancy automobiles.

Appealing to the shopaholic in me were miles and miles of retail nirvana in the form of Lombard Street and Union Square. Unfortunately the day drew to an end as quickly as it tends to when one is lost in fantasy and I was left yearning for more. The city grew cold and unforgiving as we painfully parted. Even though it was the peak of summer, a frosty draft seeped in through the layers I was clad in and froze me to my bones. This was soon to become a norm as each time I bid farewell to my beloved, I had to suffer it’s bitter wrath in the form of gusts of cold wind which made my teeth chatter and my brain go numb.

Little did I know that the city was not going to give up easily and I was going to return soon. 4th of July celebrations at Ghirardelli square brought me to San Francisco yet again. This time the city baited me with my love for chocolates. It lay in front of me what can only be described as a chocolate lover’s ultimate fantasy. I stood agog as I took in a view of a different kind. Mountainous stacks of rich chocolate squares with unimaginable fillings like – pumpkin spiced caramel, vanilla bean, pecan pie, salted almonds, egg nog and peppermint bark towered in front of me. Pictures of humungous ice cream sundaes dripping with chocolate fudge and caramel sauce stared at me teasingly from the menu. And yet again I yielded to the city’s love. Savouring the velvety smoothness of chocolate and enraptured by the dazzle of the firecrackers which lit up the sky, I finally accepted that I had fallen head over heels in love with San Francisco.

Hippies engulfed in marijuana smoke at Fisheman’s Wharf, homosexuals publicly proclaiming gay-pride, bizarre performances by street performers, the seal family at Pier 39, large tufts of fluffy pink cotton candy on sticks…my courtship with San Francisco had it all. It was an honest relationship too as the city shared all its facets with me - good, bad and ugly. Today as I pack my bags to move several miles away from San Francisco, I have a feeling of loss deep down. The city, or rather, my city continues to tug at my heartstrings even though I have said my final goodbye and urges me to visit again and again and again. Well, who knows, perhaps I will….