I am conflicted about writing, it requires focused soul searching, it leaves me out of breath, panting for air like immediately after a long intense run. Everything/everyone requires nurturing and affection - even your sub aspects - like your ability at sentence formation.
It's almost the end of another new year - moments get woven into hours that get twined into days that become yarn-ball of years in a mix of colors - red green yellow white grey blue - often blending into new colors when thought about retrospectively. Sometimes though, incidents are able to keep their original color even in the light of perceptions altered with the burden of life experiences.
It's almost the end of another new year - moments get woven into hours that get twined into days that become yarn-ball of years in a mix of colors - red green yellow white grey blue - often blending into new colors when thought about retrospectively. Sometimes though, incidents are able to keep their original color even in the light of perceptions altered with the burden of life experiences.
Someone observed (and was harmlessly envious) of my life-pattern having very few, if any, soft turns - mostly I am seen navigating around and about acute-angled maneuvers in the 3-dimensional space. Things are not offered the luxury to become comfortable before they are flipped over and you have to start from (0,0,0) again. It is unsurprising that the (0,0,0) point is also a variable. One can argue that it keeps one agile, nimble on the feet, like a ballet dancer forever posed for her next pirouette. And then, also, a sapling trying to bloom into a tree in trans-planting pots. Where next? What next?
I forget what I started to write - I find myself being extra-contemplative lately, perhaps as a foolish escape from the urgency of work that I am running behind with or that I feel ill equipped to handle.
We lived in a small snooty island of Type5 officer's flats in Gol Market in midst of Type2 flats. Apartment2 had an open door policy for students linked to an adult in the family for upto n-degrees of separation. There was lots of room and little furniture, and therefore plenty of space for people. If you needed to be in Delhi for any reason (education-related reasons were priority), for any length of time (days-weeks-years) you could find food and board here.Very few questions asked, and parental supervision provided without asking.
The bustle was often that of a railway platform moments after the arrival of a train. People getting in or getting out at the same time, frayed nerves and a strong smell of urgent hanging in the breathing air. Having temporary family members was the norm. Perhaps it is the reason why I have not had trouble trusting and liking strangers till faced with a compelling reason to not. My current physical setting is in such contrast to my positively skewed comprehension of life that it makes me quite uncomfortable when cornered into providing reasons for being trusted. I don't do well in those situations.
The household operated on a threadbare budget of an honest government employee salary supplemented with that of another working adult employed in a government-owned company. I was too young to calculate, comprehend or care about the economics of running a household. The mothers of our big family seamlessly led us from one financial year to next. This involved a weekly trip to the local vegetable wholesale market at daybreak, around the time when street dogs chose to huddle around rags to keep warm instead of investing energy to intimidate passers-by. The blue scooter would come home laden with sacs of fresh vegetables that would be washed, dried and put away for use during the week. There was also a time when none of us in the family were averse to eating meat - which was expensive and unaffordable, however. When Ma's younger brother worked in Delhi and was naturally living under the shade of freely provided parental supervision, and would sometimes happily splurge to pamper the collective palate of us kids.
For a few years, my school had a policy of sending report cards through postal mail prior to meeting with the parents. So the weeks between the end of exams and declaration of results were full of worry for us students. Unsurprisingly, my sixth grade results were stellar without a lot of hard work on my part as I had had the advantage of ICSE schooling up-until class 5th before being suddenly transported to Delhi over a weekend. That year, a local ice-cream parlor ran a promotion that entitled students to two scoops of ice-cream for good grades.
On the weekend just after having received my result, Papa took me to Cafe 100% in Connaught Place. I stood next to a very proud father and fished out my report card to show it to the person behind the counter for the (anticipated) yummy prize. As I write this, I can taste that particular bowl of vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce. It was my first time eating ice-cream with any topping and I remember how beautiful it looked to me. It was an experience of complete happiness and contentment. So real and so precious.
Thank you, universe.
I forget what I started to write - I find myself being extra-contemplative lately, perhaps as a foolish escape from the urgency of work that I am running behind with or that I feel ill equipped to handle.
We lived in a small snooty island of Type5 officer's flats in Gol Market in midst of Type2 flats. Apartment2 had an open door policy for students linked to an adult in the family for upto n-degrees of separation. There was lots of room and little furniture, and therefore plenty of space for people. If you needed to be in Delhi for any reason (education-related reasons were priority), for any length of time (days-weeks-years) you could find food and board here.Very few questions asked, and parental supervision provided without asking.
The bustle was often that of a railway platform moments after the arrival of a train. People getting in or getting out at the same time, frayed nerves and a strong smell of urgent hanging in the breathing air. Having temporary family members was the norm. Perhaps it is the reason why I have not had trouble trusting and liking strangers till faced with a compelling reason to not. My current physical setting is in such contrast to my positively skewed comprehension of life that it makes me quite uncomfortable when cornered into providing reasons for being trusted. I don't do well in those situations.
The household operated on a threadbare budget of an honest government employee salary supplemented with that of another working adult employed in a government-owned company. I was too young to calculate, comprehend or care about the economics of running a household. The mothers of our big family seamlessly led us from one financial year to next. This involved a weekly trip to the local vegetable wholesale market at daybreak, around the time when street dogs chose to huddle around rags to keep warm instead of investing energy to intimidate passers-by. The blue scooter would come home laden with sacs of fresh vegetables that would be washed, dried and put away for use during the week. There was also a time when none of us in the family were averse to eating meat - which was expensive and unaffordable, however. When Ma's younger brother worked in Delhi and was naturally living under the shade of freely provided parental supervision, and would sometimes happily splurge to pamper the collective palate of us kids.
For a few years, my school had a policy of sending report cards through postal mail prior to meeting with the parents. So the weeks between the end of exams and declaration of results were full of worry for us students. Unsurprisingly, my sixth grade results were stellar without a lot of hard work on my part as I had had the advantage of ICSE schooling up-until class 5th before being suddenly transported to Delhi over a weekend. That year, a local ice-cream parlor ran a promotion that entitled students to two scoops of ice-cream for good grades.
On the weekend just after having received my result, Papa took me to Cafe 100% in Connaught Place. I stood next to a very proud father and fished out my report card to show it to the person behind the counter for the (anticipated) yummy prize. As I write this, I can taste that particular bowl of vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce. It was my first time eating ice-cream with any topping and I remember how beautiful it looked to me. It was an experience of complete happiness and contentment. So real and so precious.
Thank you, universe.
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