It Starts With A Smile

If worded sermons were enough, all the world would have been a better place to live. If reading about values and then following them to the T was the most natural progression, then there would be no strife on this earth.

A child  never learns from what you tell them but only from how you act or react in real time situations. Sadly we live in times of distrust, arrogance and indifference. But I learnt that a simple smile with no strings attached can lift your spirit and create positive vibes.

In our recent trip to Germany, we were seated in front of an old German couple on the train. They had no reason to acknowledge our presence. But seeing that my tired younger daughter was sitting away from us they made space so she could sit with her mother. They smiled at us. The old gentleman tried to talk to us and we realised that we had no common language to communicate. He tried hard in German and we did our best in English. Then we all gave it up and just smiled at each other. The journey that would have otherwise been spent admiring the landscape, turned meaningful. We gradually learnt that they had grandchildren about my daughters' age through sign language. The lady showed me their pictures that she carried around in her bag. 

Long after they got off, the feel good warmth remained. My daughter said," Ma, it started with a smile."

Yes, so it did. I learnt that we may not be able to bring in great changes in a day. But we could make our environment healthy with just a smile. This could lead to tolerance, respect and acceptance of diversity. And from here, all the other values can be extended and emphasised. It leads to willingness to help each other, to follow civilized way of day to day living like waiting for your turn,  and not being rude. 

I do hope my daughters also learnt what I did from the old couple on the train. 

I am sharing what 'I Saw and I Learnt' at BlogAdda.com in association with DoRight.in.

From Western Ghats to the Nilgiris - The Perfect Road Trip

"Where are the water bottles?"
"Behind the seats. Did you check the room?"
"Hm... nothing left behind."
" Oh! Wait! What about the potty, bucket and the mug?"
" Safe in the boot...your potty and your bucket!"

     With the map on the dashboard, we drove off from Pune one early June morning. Our good old Maruti 800 was going to take us through the Western Ghats, along the Western Coast to Coonoor in the Nilgiris. Having started from Nasik two days back, we were leaving behind our first halt Pune and moving to  Belgaum, our next halt.

   This was a dream trip for many reasons. Husband was back after six months of keeping vigil on the border. It was a kind of family reunion after a couple of years of staying apart prior to this stint at the border. My daughter hardly knew him. And if she could talk, she would have probably addressed him as 'uncle'. Our final destination was Defence Services Staff College in Wellington, Coonoor, a milestone for any fauji worth his boots.
 Apart from being my husband he also happened to be an excellent driver knowing when to go easy on the accelerator, how to take the bends or drive up a hill. This was very important since although I love travelling, ironically I have this bouts of motion sickness. And there has been an instance when I've actually asked the driver of a cab taking us to Guwahati, to swap places with hubby since he was getting too fond of the clutch and the brake.
   But the most important part of this trip was our route, a dream stretch of the ghats, beaches and the hills. I had always thought of this trip in my dreams. Friends, if you ever plan a trip to the Western Ghats, Monsoon is the time. What lushness, what abundance! The dripping foliage, swayed throwing different shades of green! The dark, rain sloshed roads gleamed ahead.
    We rolled across Kolhapur with its undulating fields and dark clouds threatening to come down. With the kind of weather, pav-bhaji and batata vadas seemed perfect for the road. The best part of moving across different places is the variety of food the tummy is appeased with. So if it was pav bhaji here, it would be  fresh fish at the beach side shacks in Goa, the dosais in Udupi and soft fluffy appams and idiappams with ishtew in Kannur. I firmly believe that if you have had good satisfying food on a trip, it becomes all the more etched in your memory.

 After a night halt at Belgaum we moved on to Goa. As we climbed the last of the Ghats, suddenly  a wall of thick mist stoically greeted us...with a board beside it that hazily said "Welcome to Amboli". Visibility was barely one metre! We slowly rolled into the  mist, awed by its beauty. Objects on the roadside were  blurred outlines. There was a thunderous roar of a waterfall that kept getting closer. It was extremely tempting to stop but we had a schedule to adhere to.  Amboli is the last hill station as the Ghats meet the coastal plains.  We extricated ourselves reluctantly from its soft embrace and moved on with one last look. As we reached the plains the sun sparkled unveiling stretches of green fields. Amboli has remained an enigma for me to this day.

   Goa, needless to say, lived upto its name and let us revel in it. The beaches, cruise on the Mandovi river, the churches and its people left a warm fuzzy feeling. We moved on after a couple of days along the coastal Highway. There were stretches where the waves lapped against the boulders along the Highway. What a sight! The sea on one side and the fields on the other! From Goa it was to be one long drive to Kannur with Udupi in between for a lunch stop- over. We were geared for this marathon with food supplies (sandwiches and chips actually) in the car.

  When we reached Kannur, dusk had already set in. The home-going traffic jostled aorund with groceries to be carried home. We made our way into a hotel solely because it promised a hot breakfast of appams and ishtew. Making our way into the room we looked up at the hills nearby that beckoned us with twinkling lights. That was to be our last stretch to destination Coonoor.

  Early next morning saw us excited and all ready for the home-run. With a warm feeling of fulfillment mainly derived from the promised breakfast, we climbed the Nilgiris at a steady pace. We found ourselves in the middle of sloping tea gardens at times. Then there were times when we discovered coffee plantations, having never seen a coffee bean in our life. The only coffee I knew then, was the one in the Nescafe bottle. We crossed cashew and pepper plantations that left us in awe to see them in their native existence. "Oh! This is how they look actually!"

   Having made our little discoveries and rendezvous with realisations, the Highway took us into the intimidating Mudumalai  forest. Twelve years back it was advisable to cross this part during daylight and in convoys  since it was rumoured to be  the dreaded sandalwood smuggler Veerappan's territory. The forest lived upto its reputation by turning dark and foreboding when we went deep in, even as the sun was at its zenith. The only sounds were those of the birds and some monkeys. I kept my eyes peeled at the faraway dark bushes and branches waiting for someone to drop by la Tarzan style. Thankfully, we finally made our way out of its dark depths.

   I never realised at which juncture did this trip turn into a journey of discovery. The wonder at the changing landscapes, the surprises sprung around the corners or the languid motion leaving a sense of content...The 800 gradually wound down the slopes of Ooty to take us to Wellington, tucked away in the folds of Coonoor. There was a slight drizzle and the clouds kept crossing our path teasing us with views of our final destination.

   But that was not the end.  Hubby had to report his arrival where he was handed over the keys to our apartment that was to be our home for the next ten months. Along with the keys came the paraphernalia of two LPG cylinders, a packet of rice, dals, vegetables, six electric bulbs, a dozen eggs, butter, packets of milk and so on. We looked at each other and got down to work. The Maruti accommodated the  two LPG cylinders, a packet of rice, dals, vegetables, six electric bulbs, a dozen eggs, butter, packets of milk and so on in addition to two suitcases, a bag of footwear plus the odds and ends that appear just before leaving a place, the potty, the bucket, the mug and the makeshift bed, a child and two adults. It was literally an uphill task winding up Gorkha Hill that was to be our address.

  This journey ended in a typical dream like sequence when I opened the windows of the apartment to let in fresh air...little mists of wayward clouds wafted in as if to welcome us after a long drive...




This post was written for the Ambipure "The perfect road trip" contest.
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Living In Leh

                                 

In this blistering Delhi heat, when the mind flounders to find an oasis in the white fury, I indulge in some nostalgia – of a stay in Leh where the temperature plummeted to twenty degrees below zero. Over the years I’ve felt that a tourist’s perspective is transient, a sweet memory till the next trip. However, living in different places changes the way one looks at life – humbling, enlightening and teaching tolerance in many ways.

As the winter stealthily swept in freezing everything in its path, I realized what it was like to live in barren and cold lands – stoic and dignified in their acceptance of the elements and yet unrelenting in submission. The green patches of summers with traipsing streams and gurgling waters of the Indus and Zanskar turned silent, quietly biding their time. Even this silence threw up some beauties like the quaint tinkling music of the Indus as the many ice pieces clinked against each other. The fading prayer flags over the narrow bridge brought in some colour relief. This was a great place to sit down with a book or simply with your thoughts.

The many Ladakhi homes that edged the road were layered with hay on the roof to insulate against the cold. Smoke twirled over as the women got busy cooking hot meals with sun-dried vegetables stocked for the winters. I learnt the thriftiness of “thukpa”when vegetables became scarce. A simple wholesome meal in a dish with some vegetables, pieces of meat and strands of noodles served with a fiery chilly garlic chutney that kept the stomach full and the body warm. For someone like me used to the abundance of assorted greens and vegetables of winters like lai xaak, spinach, carrots, green peas, babori  from Beltola bazaar, it was quite a revelation and a new found reverence for the produce of the earth. I now considered myself blessed if I could find a frozen cabbage from the corner shop. I learnt to respect the dehydrated onions and bitter gourds that we got as a part of our ration and coax some flavor out of them.

In the darkness before day-break, I often heard the porters talking and stamping their feet as they broke the ice in the Syntex outside our tin sheds,  to melt into water for our needs. Doing the laundry was in stages. Sitting near the bukhari , a kerosene contraption, with buckets of water fetched in by the Tashi, as the porters were called, clothes were scrubbed and rinsed from one bucket to the other. I’d seen many Ladakhi women washing their household clothes, utensils, vehicles down to their carpets by the river. Water from the taps was a luxury for most of us whether civilian or in uniform . Although the sun was out, the drippings from the washed clothes froze into icicles at the hem. These then were snapped off and the clothes brought in and dried around the bukhari . I realized the importance of the stove and how the lives of a family revolved around it. It brought to mind the many Russian tales I read as a child and how the stove was a permanent fixture in them. Even curd was set near it by my North Indian friends with the utensil snugly wrapped in a muffler! 

But what took the cake was managing the loo at night. We may wrinkle up our nose at such unmentionable bodily functions but it was a routine that ensured a smooth function for morning ablutions. However tired we were, late night parties or whatever, one chore none of us ever forgot was to pour some kerosene into the pot at night to prevent the water in it from freezing. Amnesia in this case would result in grim faces of the shed occupants in the morning. The only remedy was firing up the respective crude sewer pits behind our sheds to melt away the ice inside. So that’s one chore none of us forgot. Ever.

                                           

As  I learnt to adapt myself to this exotic land the more I fell in love with its nuances and its people. They were warm and friendly, wrinkling up the corners of their eyes when they smiled with a cheery “Juley”. The sky over Leh was the bluest I’d ever seen. The mountains changed colours as the sun travelled across the day. Climbing up the hill to nearby Spituk Gompa, on one of my long walks mandatory for acclimatization, I found some interesting offerings to Lord Buddha. A “half” bottle of Old Monk, a packet of Maggi, some glucose biscuits and assorted dry fruits. In a land that does not yield much especially in the winters, even the Gods are not demanding. It reminded me of the myth of Shiva devotee Kannapan who offered meat and water from his mouth in his innocence.



                   

                           

Serene Gompas abound in the Ladakh region, each with its own aura and veil of mysticism. But the one that intrigued me was the Hemis Gompa which according to local belief, was never plundered by looters from across the mountains. While all the other Gompas lost their riches, Hemis was spared the ignominy since it was well hidden within a mountain. I actually never realized it till we literally reached its doorstep. One of the oldest in the region, it is famed for its architectural uniqueness of the monastic complex. The colourful murals and the courtyard where the mask dance during the Hemis festival takes place, only added to the charm of this shrine.

Walking down the road I heard at a distance the lilting notes of some melody. On the far side of a field was a group of men and women, singing the notes of their land as they went about their work in the benumbing cold. Strangely it reminded me of the ice tinkling on the Indus river and the poignancy of Wordsworth’s “Solitary Reaper”…     

Please Note :- This write-up was published in the Melange supplement of The Sentinel dated 16th         June 2013.

A Loan Repaid

    I first met Zaheer at Motiram's garage where he often whiled away his time. He was unemployed like many other youths then. He helped me to get a chicken that I was desperately looking for, as we were expecting guests for lunch.

           Nazira, a sleepy nook in the late seventies, was grappling with the requirements of the oil personnel who were posted here from diverse Indian regions. Earlier it was a content little town evolving from the many tea gardens that surrounded it. With the discovery of  oil-fields around it, it was only natural for the ONGC to set up a colony here. 
          The means of meeting the household needs were the  co-operative store just outside the colony gates and other small kiosks. In the evenings, a “haat” sprung up selling local produce of vegetables, fruits, fish, poultry and eggs. The vendors’ cries mingled with the smell of kerosene flames as the people peered at the wares and poked the fish to check for freshness. This was the only time and place to stock up. That should explain my desperation when I met Zaheer. For it is sacrilegious to offer a meal to guests without the fish and the meat in any self respecting Assamese household.

 

            Assam  was in a turmoil with discontent brewing like a bubbling cauldron. The Student’s Agitation was gaining momentum. The youth across the state were swept away in its currents like the Brahmaputra ruthlessly eroded chunks of land when in spate.  To them the out-siders were exploiters looting away the resources of the place while the locals were left penniless.

     I met him outside  our colony gate one evening.

“Hello Zaheer! How’s everything? ”

He came up to me with an embarrassed look and gazed straight at me, “Can you help me to get a job, dada?” I was taken aback.

“Why a job? Why don’t you do something on your own?”

“Dada, I don’t have the money to start on my own and I cannot ask abba."

        I discussed Zaheer with my wife Moni. He seemed a nice lad to me. There was something latent in him, restless with caged energy.

“Why don’t we help him?” said Moni quietly, “ I've some savings, you know.”  I called him the next day.

“My wife and I thought about it, Zaheer. If you are serious about it, we will give you a loan of fifteen hundred rupees which is my wife’s savings actually. You can repay us once you make headway.”

    He was speechless. “You could start with a bakery since there isn't one here. Things like bread, cakes, biscuits…There would be a demand for them in the colony” said I.

Zaheer’s face lighted up as he saw the idea taking shape.

“ I've a friend who has a bakery in Sibsagar. You could begin by sourcing  the products from there” I said.

“Yes, I can tie up to get the stuff by the early morning State Transport bus,” said Zaheer his eyes shining.

    And so began Zaheer’s shop T-fin. Every morning his wares would arrive in a black tin box by the first bus from Sibsagar. Initially these barely managed to cover the shelves that his carpenter friend made. Breads, biscuits, puffs were suddenly available in Nazira. People started trickling in, first out of curiosity and then out of habit.

   

  After a long tenure at Nazira  I was posted to Madras, now renamed Chennai.   

   The next time I met him was during our home town visit when he came to take us to Nazira. 
    "Zaheer, you have done well for yourself" I said.
"Allah has been kind, dada!" said he.
 I saw a T-fin, all spruced up and swanky being handled by Bulbul, his brother.  Next to it was an electronics showroom flaunting gadgets from small transistors to televisions. 

"But I have had my moments of doubts as well" said he with a smile. 
"I took up a job with the Accounts department in ONGC for a couple of years leaving the bakery with a manager, thinking of a secured future."
This was news to me. 
"And now you are back to business again. Why?"
" You know I had five sisters to be educated and married off. I needed money fast and the salary was not enough for this. When I finally decided to leave the job everyone thought I was mad. They dissuaded me, counselled me...But I knew what I wanted and how to get it. No, the salary was not going to tide me over. " Zaheer laughed. We were sitting in his office room catching up after a long time.  
  

     After leaving the job he plunged into business building up from what he had. Zaheer, I learnt, had forayed into construction business soon after.  He built a reputation for himself for his quality of work and soon it was flourishing. 
Assam in 1990s had a parallel murky goings-on with the surrendered militants of ULFA demanding a fees for applying for tenders. And once you got the tender they were expected to be given a commission. This was eating into the business man's profit. 

"In such a situation, the quality of work would have to be compromised for I couldn't work on a loss. I spent many sleepless nights. My reputation was at stake. That was when I decided to give it up. I gave up my flourishing business of construction. It was tough but there was no other way" said Zaheer with a grimace. Just then the phone rang. Zaheer excused himself to attend it.
   
    Right from the beginning it has been a constant struggle. But Zaheer was a fighter.
I looked out of his office at the showroom. He had a couple of more branches. It was bristling with customers and salesmen.
"Your showrooms are also doing well" I said when he looked around from his call.
" Dada, I've realised that it is better to change route once you hit a dead end. So when I see a particular venture not doing well or not giving the expected returns, I start something different" said Zaheer, "something that I believe I can give my best to. Come dada, lets go for lunch. Manju is waiting for us."

      A young lad who was once scouring for employment now fed many homes. A reputed businessman, Zaheer never forgot his own humble beginnings. At a time when his contemporaries were fumbling to find their bearings, Zaheer realised his calling.  

      Every time I went back to Nazira, I saw him grow. He had long paid me back the loan. What I witnessed now was the interest.  I couldn’t have asked for a better repayment.




I wish to get my story published in Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul in association with BlogAdda.com

          

Changing Course

"I think it's time to change course."

The room went quiet with the weight of uncertainty bearing down heavily on the two people present - the husband and the wife.

 "We cannot continue with our dream if we always have to wait for others to provide us with the means", said Manoj quietly.

"That needs money...We will spend our entire life paying off the loan," reasoned Sabina.

"At least we will have something to work on. All those with whom we have liaised so far, are getting their own boats for the surveys. Very soon we will be left high and dry."

   Guwahati was warm and humid with sudden downpours of the monsoon rains. I sipped the glass of chilled drink sitting on the deck of Alfresco. The wide Brahmaputra, swollen with the waters fed from the hills, lapped against the hull of the boat. Today is the inaugural of Alfresco, Sabina and Manoj's first baby, taking the plunge into tourism. Sabina and I sat a little away from the invited guests, trying to catch a quiet moment. In the last ten years that I've known her, she’s always been chirpy and full of sunshine.  

    “Here, by the river every problem is dwarfed. I feel there is nothing that we cannot take on. These last few months that we spent over hauling the boat, I've been intrigued by it. The amount of trash that it tolerates, our efforts to tame it and yet it moves on" she said trying to tuck in her windswept hair 

    As the boat glided over the brown waters, all the guests soaked in the moment. Gradually the chatter died down and the only sounds were the drone of the engine and the whistling wind.

     Months rolled by. I got married and moved out with my husband. I was sporadically in touch with Sabina. From friends back home, I knew that Alfresco was doing well.

    The next time I went to Guwahati for a vacation, I got a call from Momy, " Lets meet at Alfresco this evening." I loved the idea but wasn't too sure, "You know Ma, Momy. We are here just for a week and she's very possessive about the time spent with her."

 ”I’ll speak to Aunty. As it is we don't get to meet you every day" Mommy insisted. Fortunately my mother agreed and I was excited at the thought of meeting my friends. Secretly I wished to flaunt the Alfresco and the enterprising duo in front of my husband.

  We reached the site where the Alfresco was anchored, well in time for the sun-set cruise. We were delighted meeting after such a long time.

   "How did you manage to get her out Momy?" laughed Sabina. You won't believe the promises I made to aunty!" said Momy rolling her eyes, "I promised to call her up every weekend, visit her once at least every two months and she promised me two bottles of her pickles".

      Our chatter seemed a series of disjointed observations, and memories while our husbands endured patiently with sheepish grins.  And all this while, Sabina left us at intervals- sometimes to check on the operations, at times to inquire after the other guests on the cruise. I watched her slip into her many roles seamlessly - the mistress of the ship, the host, the friend... The hour long cruise ended too soon for my liking. We stayed on as the other guests trickled out reluctantly.

 "Come here I want to show you something," said Sabina with a toss of her head. She led us down the stairs to the other side of the boat.

 "What do you think of our new addition!" she asked with a smile. Another boat lay bobbing. The three of us trooped into Agam, treading over the gangway that was thrown across. The interiors were warm with cane furniture adding to the rustic beauty. The canopied upper deck was done up to accommodate parties and events. As we wandered around, Pradip, an old hand with Alfresco came in to announce dinner.

    "So, how is your family Pradip?" I asked him ambling as Sabina hurried off.

   "They are both doing well, baidew”smiled Pradip and followed Sabina. Momy let me into an incident.

 “His wife was due for delivery. It was late at night when she developed a sudden pain. You know how difficult it is to get a transport in Guwahati after eight in the evening. Manoj was not around, Sabina somehow managed to get an auto and took them to the hospital just in time. She managed to find a doctor also. Their baby was saved.”
" You know, I've noticed they are good with their employees and they in turn understand this" continued Momy.

   The river flowed on relentlessly in every season. In the monsoons, it gushed recklessly threatening to breach embankments, slashing away huge chunks of land and was always in  spate. During this time Sabina and Manoj  conducted local hour long cruises. When the fury died down  after a couple of months, they had  long distance cruises to Kaziranga National Park and Majuli, the river island and the Assamese spiritual hub, giving a glimpse of tea gardens and villages on the way. This was their elixir - navigating with a crew that knew the river like the back of their hands; respecting the river's ways and blending with it. During the winters when the water is low exposing sandbars, day long picnics or over- night outings are arranged under the starry sky.

   

   Once when I was in Delhi, Momy called up to say Manoj had to undergo a kidney transplant at Coimbatore. I spoke to Sabina, “Have you found a donor?"

   "No, it’s been three months but the doctors are hopeful" she sounded worried.

    "Don't lose heart. It'll work out just fine."

  "I can only hope for the best. I don't want to leave Manoj alone but our work is suffering back there."

  "So, what have you thought of?"

  "Manoj wants me to go back. I'll have to send someone to be with him. It’s going to be difficult but we have no choice." I agreed. Tough times called for difficult choices.

  Later I learnt that Sabina made several trips to Coimbatore till the transplant took place successfully. She trudged on, looking after her home and the ship operations with her family of staff. Manoj was finally back after many months but still weak. He couldn't stay for long hours at work. One evening he was home early taking rest, and Sabina was working from home. The ship was out on a local cruise with a party on-board in full swing.  They got a call late in the evening.
" Dada, there is an emergency! The ship with the Railways party is stuck in the sand in the middle of the river. It cannot move and there is a thick fog around it." 
 Manoj and Sabina immediately rushed to the river bank which was a little distance away. When they reached, they found the passengers already  safe on the shore and the ship being towed in by the rescue team of Inland Water Transport. Harilal, one of their  staff, had already swung into action sending SOS calls to IWT and river police.  Knowing his employer's condition, Harilal went ahead with the rescue operation keeping the passengers' safety and the organisation's reputation  in mind. 
    
      It was with the same sense of belonging and identity that some of Manoj and Sabina's employees refused to join the National Waterways Authority of India when it opened up lucrative opportunities. Although the couple sent many of their boys to join the organisation citing future prospects and job security, some of them refused. Harilal was one of them.
" This is my company also. How can I leave it and join someone else?" said Harilal when Sabina tried reasoning him.

     Two years back I came across some photographs uploaded on the Facebook.  Sabina was seen receiving an award in Bengaluru for a hospitality category. It set me thinking as I was myself staring at a crossroad then. When you truly set your heart and soul on your dream and follow it with a passion, it reveals a treasure at every bend.

     It was last winter, waiting to meet her; I gazed at the bend in the river. How amiably the river accommodated the turns and the twists, the little ferries and the launches on its back. Sabina and Manoj's indigenous Manasputra was homing in. This ship was the biggest and the most suave of them all. With decks on two levels, a restaurant and neatly tucked cabins, it was bustling with guests and smart uniformed crew.

     The last rays of the sun etched the silhouette of the ship. The somber river rocked it playfully. Sabina stood at the far end of the deck looking out at the river… for tomorrow was another journey ...for her and her crew.

    

I wish to get my story published in Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul in association with BlogAdda.com

No Repetition!

"Excess of anything is bad for health", was my parents' favourite refrain in the growing years. So, if I was glued to the TV for long hours; reading incessantly at various angles on the bed or the sofa; gossiping over the phone as my father paced across the room with furrowed brows as a sign of his disapproval; or crammed in potato wafers everyday, they threw down this line at me to take hint and curb the excesses.

And they couldn't have been further from the truth. Everything has its charm for a certain time. In the 80s, we lapped up serials like "Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi", "Hum Log", "Kathasagar", "Buniyaad" and waited patiently for the "Chitrahaar"s. They still manage to evoke fond memories. There was a time when newsreaders were stars in their own right. The list is endless.Compare that with today and it is very likely that you will find only the inane and a never ending thirst for something new every minute with 24x7 media and the social media. The result would be a sore thumb from channel flicking. 

So if I had a chance to repeat a day over and over , I'ld rather say "No ,Thank you". In the repetitions would creep in complacency and a false ego. There wouldn't be anymore frontiers to discover. Every day brings with it new hopes and opportunities to find new horizons. If I fall on a particular day, at least I'ld have got up with a new lesson learnt. And that would be far more enriching than watching a repeat telecast of a glorious day. 

If Sergei Bubka was happy the first time around he broke the record for pole vaulting and contended himself watching it repeatedly , he would have never pushed himself to his limits and realised his true potential. 

Note This is a post for Blogadda's WOW initiative.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Top Spin

As the weekend approaches, with much trepidation I await a bombshell to drop, wondering which ''avataar'' is it going to take. Have you ever seen a top spin? I never knew, I would relate to it or empathise with it in my mid-life, having never fancied it much in my childhood. The last three weeks I have felt like a top spinning and spinning, until something comes along and drives me into a tizzy again.

    And then I chance upon this  phrase, "...an excuse for not working today". They asked for one! I could give them a list! First it was my daughters who wanted to participate in a Bihu function at Talkatora Stadium. This translated into diligently ferrying them across the city for the rehearsals. If only it was so simple. Simultaneously the older girl had her dance class Annual Day coming up. So ferrying trips had to be rescheduled and the timings tweaked to accommodate both the rehearsals. Then came a bombshell that she was to represent school for an inter-school Debate competition. She looked at me with hopeful eyes that I write the script and coach her. Well I succumbed to that saucer- wide, doleful look. God knows why I agreed or even looked into those eyes! So there I was managing time.  Discussions with the speaker (my daughter) while negotiating the evening Delhi traffic, writing draft after draft, figuring the best way to put the thoughts across while waiting for their rehearsals to end. And just when I thought we were finally slowing down, came the viral infection that is doing the rounds in Delhi. So now we were doing the rounds of ORS at intervals, throwing-up sessions, home-made remedies and the lot. There were three patients in the house. Two below 12 years of age, my girls, and the third bordering on thirty years of age, my brother.  

   Insanity was threatening to raise it's sly head. And then there was a breather. We got two respites in the name of Ram Navami and Mahavir Jayanti. Thank God for our secularism endorsing Constitution!!! I leaned on these holidays like a tired woman resting on milestones in her journey ahead. The difference being that I was going round in circles trying to catch my own tail...err...metaphorically. 

   As I type this post, my maid drops in to announce that she is taking the Sunday off ! So do I need any more excuses for not working today!!! I pledge that I shall not budge from my side of the bed and not look into any eyes, husband's included.

Note:- This post was written for Blogadda's WOW initiative. 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

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