as i climb the insurmountable three flight of stairs leading to my flat (yes ! they do seem insurmountable after a blase day with the thought of having a lonely dinner) i see her ascending one step at a time. i wonder whats there in her polybags (i thought they had been long banned in Delhi). some curd and gourd to make her husband's favourite raita? she once told me during a casual chat , i learned , especially on holidays.
and that makes me think what makes her tick even at 65 or is it 75 ? can't make up my mind , her face is all wrinkles and a smile. her hair honey colored from henna.
as i look at her , i search for that light she still sees at the journeys conclusion.
and i not even begun one has already started losing the faith , the hope to look ahead. mind you, im not dejected , not depressed. just that i look around and fail to see the wonders I always felt was right round the corner waiting to be discovered.
now it seems like the same morn even on a sufficiently satisfying day.
and these people who have been there, seen it all. had so many of there dreams thrashed , suffered the uncertainties of life and know that nothing out of the bolt ever happened still seem to lay some importance to cooking that favourite dish for a person as many times old as themselves. They still seem to find happiness in the frugal time their children spare them hardly conversing or hearing. even when they do , its talking , asking or just being there.
my grand parents whom ive seen at closer quarters add to the bane of my confusion. I know she had a single sari when she was married, when her womanly desires must have been most abundant. Not does it help to know that at the age I was being offered all the candies of my choice , she rummaged through rotten potatoes which came cheap, to cook the best of the worst for the family.
And still she finds life more alluring than me. she still finds pleasure in indulging once in a while in chaat - pakoras even if it gives her stomach ache and loose stools. She is ascetic enough not to need it. She wont have it all on her own but that wouldn't deter her from being an indulgent fun- loving granny for us to keep company in our pleasure pursuits.
I dont seem to mind the cataract which forbids me from seeing the bounty of life. I dont mind the melting away of my oh so healthy muscles. I dont seem to mind my atrophic tastebuds not just pertaining to gastronomics. I , who, has hardly had even a remotely hard life.
That doesn't mean I must go all bonkers for once.
but an admiration for that unfurling bud at the entrance wouldnt be bad for starters.

a long awaited long weekend,
at last.

had been waiting for it.
that makes me ruminate for all the ends and more importantly the beginnings Ive been waiting for.
I don't know that makes me patient , procrastinating or plain simple lazy.
I ll choose the epithet probably someone cheering me up would use.
yes, the guess is all too right.

how long do we have the patience to be patient. we wait and wait that finally the responsible person will read through the lines and know now the time is all too right to straighten things up.
before we tidy up the clutter , we wait maybe the other person sharing the table he comes to work at , unable to locate his stuff will shift the stuff.
and sometimes , in order to teach others lessons , we forget our own to stick to.
again , have made a long to do list which looks quite promising.
and all the same predisposed to being left unfulfilled.

whats so great about a holiday that makes me plan to spoil it,
isny it quite ironical that si many of the times i wait for it so that i can work,
whats wrong ?
either the notion , the perception of it all is botched up.
or I m a workaholic.
however much i would like to ascribe it to the latter one , the vague lessons of honesty I recollect from my childhood & its necessicity while dealing with oneself (as has one too many times been stressed by modern gurus as well) leaves me with only single explanation.
as an afterthought, I think it is the botched up work schedule that puts me in such a frame of mind.


I have become so used to the concept of worrying that a relaxing evening seems weird / awkward.
something just so right that its not that right.

anyways, Ive at least begun something I started long back.