Aquamarine

 A long time ago when we lived in Ranigunj, we had a neighbour, Pishima. We never really knew her name. Only that she lived alone in the mansion at the end of the road. She was some sort of an invalid, and we had never seen her step out of the house. But she was very kind to us children. Not like the batty old people who would bark at us if our ball entered their yard. She would enjoy our company, often encouraging us to come play in her garden. We liked sitting with her in the soft winter sun. She would sometimes have sherbet made for us. 

She also let us play with her cat. It was more like a stray cat, but she liked Pishima’s house much like the rest of us urchins. The cat had the most alert and mischievous eyes I had ever seen, they were green and blue, something Pishima described as aquamarine. It was a color I had never heard of, much like the many other things she spoke of. It was from her that we first heard of Marie Curie and Shakespeare, we heard about what Niel Armstrong had done, we first saw a globe. She spoke about museums and sculptures. She introduced us to Da Vinci and Michelangelo. We enjoyed our summer vacations sitting and getting regaled by tales of such faraway lands, stories which our families wouldn’t tell us and our schools would never teach. 

Every evening after an afternoon of laborious playing, we would flock around her table as she sat for her tea. She would have her dutiful servant always bring some sort of sweet or savory snack for us. The cat would also sit among us, comfortably curled up on someone’s lap. One of us, I can’t remember who, had named her Neeli. 

That summer break, just when the mangoes had started ripening my aunt came to spend the vacation with my cousin, that bratty Raju. He was always up to something or the other. Either tearing my books, or putting salt in father’s tea or some other mischief. My father who is a very genial man, would never scold anyone, but with Raju he would always lose his cool. But he was the apple of my mother’s eye. My father even gave him his prized silver paper knife with his name engraved because Raju like it so much. 

Since I was the closest to him in age, it came upon me to keep him entertained in those months. He would accompany me and my friends to Pishima’s house too. Her house was full of curios and one day Raju took something from her house, but just as he was putting it in his pocket Neeli had jumped on him and scratched his hand. He pushed her away and started shouting, “What a wild animal!” 

Pishima quickly came and put some mercurochrome on his injury. But she also knew Neeli would not attack someone just like that. So when she saw a missing miniature canon on her shelf, she quickly took Raju to task. Within a few minutes, he was on the brink of tears and ran back home after replacing the item that he had stolen. 

Needless to say I was very embarrassed and avoided going out to play for the next few days. What would my friends say? My brother is a thief, they must be thinking the same of me. I was surprised how Raju, who was the culprit, strutted around the house like a prized peacock, as if nothing had happened. I knew what a bully he was and was honestly scared to confront him or tell the truth to the parents. I later learnt that he had convinced his mother that Pishima was in fact a strange old crone. Her house full of strangeness was surely not normal, and the mercurochrome she rubbed on him was surely some menacing potion. I eavesdropped my aunt telling the ladies of the neighbourhood about her conviction that Pishima was into black magic. I was furious to know this and went straight to my mother who laughed and took me in her embrace, rubbing my eyes with her saree. She asked me not to worry so much as my aunt would be gone in a few days. She was terribly blind when it came to her son. Also, my mother assured me that everyone knew Pishima all too well to buy into such  tall tales. Who would believe the notion that Pishima was dabbling in occult? I went to Pishima’s the next day and apologized. She and my friends laughed and we played around like nothing had happened. 

With no one believing in his cock and bull story, Raju kept aloof from us and ventured about alone. I was relieved he had found something to do on his own and wasn’t tagging along with me or my friends. He would be roaming all around and return late into the evening. 

I just wished for Raju and my aunt to go away. One day my friends came to call me to go kite flying. I quietly sneaked out of the house before Raju found out. He would surely have come and showed off his skills, which none of us were interested in. As we were out on the streets rushing after our kites, we came upon Pishima’s house. Reeti was the first one who spotted Neeli, or whatever remained of her. There by the gate lay the mangled body, beheaded with a cruelty we could not imagine. We gasped, some of us started crying. We were after all just a group of eight or nine year olds, still untouched by the viciousness of life. A few of us ventured closer, just to check if there was any chance to revive her. Suddenly I noticed a gleaming silver paper knife, with my father’s name engraved on it. I picked it up and ran back to my father, sobbing. Raju and his mother left the very same evening. 

Our parents did not stop us from visiting Pishima anymore. As if a spell had been cast upon them and with them gone, they had snapped back to reality. Next morning as we went into Pishima’s yard and sat beside her, she did not look at us or speak to us, her gaze glassy and transfixed on something far away, we were not sure what exactly. In the morning sun, her eyes shone a tricky shade in between green and blue, almost aquamarine, just like Neeli’s.

Defining “hujug”

 Us Bengalis are a curious and brave race. Me included. Our one extraordinary and defining feature is so extraordinary indeed that it does not even have an equivalent word in English. The Bangla word for it is “hujug”.

Let me try to explain it. We love our people, our friends, our adda, and so many other things which are distinctly ours. Pujo is just one of those things. We are very touchy about the subject and extremely possessive about the details. It really does not matter if you have never been to Calcutta, we assume you would know the difference between Ashtami and Dashami. And hell hath no fury as a Bengali declined a leave request the week of Pujo. 

Once said leave is secured, we begin with our shenanigans which include pandal hopping, egg roll eating, balloon bursting, bhenpu blowing amidst other unmentionables like Tangra sojourns eat al.

But I digress, for I was defining hujug. Digression is also a key tenet of this precious feature. Hujug is the excitable and adventurous part of our collective psyche, which makes us as a people do tremendously stupid things like go out in hordes during an ongoing pandemic, without masks, flouting social distancing  to catch a glimpse of a goddess who we will pray to later on, once we get sick. 

Example Gracias of just some things which instigate, nay nurture our latent hujug:

There is a pandal like Burj Khalifa, certain celebrity will be at certain pandal for the grand opening, this pandal has the grandest chandelier, that pandal has an idol with two lions etc. etc.

Wise men say about Bengalis - The hujug is strong with this one.

Face In the Crowd

It was quite late. As she gathered her purse, her backpack and her tote bag containing the empty lunch boxes, she wondered how long it would take to reach home. It’s not like she enjoyed working late. She did not like her work or her co-workers, but no one really does a day job to enjoy themselves. Sometimes you had to work late, else they would take her to be too casual or worse still, insincere. Tara was anything but insincere. In fact she was quite diligent, so much so, that she would finish all her tasks within the stipulated office hours. But alas, such is the way of the world, the real work in any office only begins after the evening tea and smoke break. That’s the time when the networking happens, key projects are allocated and decisions are made as to who would really make it. Tara did not want to fall back, that’s all. She was young and she had dreams of making it big. If staying back for a few extra hours hobnobbing with her self-important superiors was going to get her that, she was ready to do so.

As she stood waiting for the elevator to come, she flicked through her phone doing a reconnaissance of her social media profile. Her cousin was vacationing in Greece. Her best friend just got engaged. Everyone she knew seemed to be having a blast. Such happy faces, and such perfect make up. The ding from the waiting elevator echoed through the empty lobby. When do these people have the time Tara wondered. She could hardly get herself breakfast in the morning before rushing to work. The rest of the day is a blur. She comes back to herself only now when she is heading back to her studio flat where a sitcom and reheated food await her.

The traffic is relatively sparse today. The rains have something to do with it of course. She tried to hail a cab but wouldn’t get any. A dimly lit bus floated towards the kerb and she decided to take it. At this hour, she often took this bus, it was familiar and it was the only option. There was no point waiting any longer. She could take this bus and get off at the Post Office. From there her house was a ten minute walk. The weather was beautiful, with the rain washed winds bringing quite the chill. She wondered if she could take a pretty selfie of herself with the moon and caption it something clever, declaring to the world that she too had a life. The bus was relatively empty, but she didn’t have much choice of seating from the half damaged and half musty seats. She selected one by the window near the exit door, which overlooked the rest of the bus. Sitting in a seat which was against the motion made her a little dizzy, but she didn’t want to walk further down the dark aisle. There were a couple of figures silhouetted in the black and white insides of this moving metal vehicle. She looked out at the moon which was peeping out of the clouds just now. How pretty it looked tonight!

All she wanted to do was get back home and get some sleep. Tomorrow promised to be a long day. The month end days were always like this, the crazy hours, the stress, the coffee, the missed emails, the last minute reports - the rush, and then inevitably the crash. Such is life for Tara, and she enjoyed it. As she looked across the several figures hunched here and there, she recognised a few regulars. There was the old lady who always occupied the seat reserved for the conductor. Tara has watch her do it time and again. She always imagined the lady to be some sour librarian. There was of course the man who loved his crossword. No matter when Tara saw him, he would always have the day’s newspaper folded to the size of the crossword as of that’s the only reason he purchased the newspaper. He was always intent, his pen poised on the edge of an important breakthrough. There was also the man with his headphones. Tara was very amused by his affection for music. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him without his headphones, lost in his own world, drumming his fingers on the seat in front of him. Then there was the man in the pinstripes. He was a slight man, with an intelligent nose and a veritable frown always affixed upon his forehead, as if he was bearing the burden of many. Not to forget the cap, the lone one who sat on the last seat. She had never seen him get up or get off the bus. He was always just a presence at the back, brooding and looking intently, from u der the frayed white cap. Her eyes had met his gaze once or twice before and she had been baffled at how unabashedly he stared at her. So when she saw him there today, Tara avoided looking into his face. But she could feel his eyes on her, studying her very move. 

The bus meandered lazily and Tara almost dozed off to sleep when suddenly her phone rang. Her mother had been calling her incessantly to check whether she had reached home. The spate of assault news had set her colorful imagination in motion. Tara called her back and let her know she will be back home in a couple of minutes. Her mother had just started on how she had read something ugly about a single girl returning home late just in the morning news, when her phone’s battery died. These newspapers will be her death! She silently sighed a sigh of relief when her eyes suddenly caught Mr. White Capstaring at her. She immediately looked down, following years of subconscious training to avoid eye contact with any stranger. But just as suddenly as she had diverted her gaze, something in her pulled her back and looked back at him. He was still looking at her. Or was he looking into nothing? She didn’t think much of it and waited for her stop to come. 

The rains had hit this part of the town quite harshly. Some of the bylanes were waterlogged and the drizzling continued. The pace at which the bus was going, she made a rough calculation in her head about how long it would take her to get home and the answer didn’t please her. She fished inside her purse to search for her umbrella. She always kept a small one in there just in case. Tara’s brother often teased her about the amount of things she had in that purse of hers which she actually used and the amount of them under the ‘just in case’ label. There were snack bars, if she got hungry. A small bottle of water, which she always forgot to refill. Once when she was very thirsty and she took a swig, she could swear she saw some algae floating about it. Then there were pens whose caps would invariably come off and poke her like harpoons when she put her unsuspecting hand in, and bills, hundreds of bills and receipts from shopping. Presently she found her small white umbrella with a pink floral motif. She really liked the print and purchased it from an urchin on the pavement outside her office. She held the umbrella with both her hands as a weapon and waited for the bus ride to end.

About half an hour later, her stop arrived and she hurriedly got off without looking back. She clutched her purse and wore the backpack cautiously. She did not want her laptop to soaked in this rain. As the bus rolled away a wave of water splashed on to the pavement ahead of her. The monsoons were particularly harsh to the pedestrians. She started walking, cautiously stepping over bricks which some Good Samaritan had placed so that one doesn’t spoil their shoes. While navigating the treacherous terrain with full concentration, she suddenly saw the bus screech to a halt just a little farther on and a figure leap out of it. Tara had almost reached the fork on the road where she would have to enter her lane, when she unconsciously looked at the figure up ahead on the road approaching her rapidly. The silhouette was wearing a cap. Suddenly Tara felt a knot in her stomach. Why was White Cap here and why was he racing to her? This was not his usual stop. Was he one of those perverted types who chase you down a lonely road and slit your throat? These quiet people can be quite the sociopaths. While her brain wracked with these questions, her body had taken flight. She had forgotten about her laptop getting wet or her shoes getting spoilt. She just had to run to the end of the lane, unlock the gate and enter. The lane was empty like it always was. Even the chai shop was closed because of the rains. On other days there are at least a couple of people there, smoking and making jokes. Even those lewd uncles were welcome today. As she splashed across the street, the muddy water rising up to her shirt, she suddenly realised she would have to stop and hunt for the keys in her massive purse again. If she survived this, Tara promised to switch to a smaller purse and smaller heels.

‘Ma’m’ she could hear a voice behind her steadily gaining on the distance. 

‘Ma’m, please wait’
 
She pretended not to hear and sprinted in full force. Her heel got stuck in a muddy puddle and she fell face first on the concrete road. This is it, she thought. She could have moved to Australia, but she didn’t, she wanted to stay at home. She could have gone bungee jumping with her friends next weekend but she didn’t, because she had to finish a report at work. She could have gone out on a date when Vikrant asked, but she didn’t because there is so much to achieve before getting entangled in romance. She didn’t even speak to her mother properly when she called. She will never speak to her again. May be her mother will just read about her in the papers.

White Cap was here. He looked down at Tara and said, ‘are you alright?’

 Tara pushed herself up and could feel the bruises on her knees and hands.  

“Here let me help yo” he said extending his hand. In his other hand dangled Tara’s tote bag with the empty lunch boxes.

The dreaded cycle

 Every month, there is a particular date which scares me. Around a couple of day ahead of it, I start planning, frequently checking my phone messages and bank account. It’s the day my credit card bill gets generated. I wait for it like a student who has appeared for a test and knows how awfully they have done, they are also very sure which questions they got wrong, so they are almost certain what the ballpark result would be. Yet. 

The morning the bill hits my inbox I am a veritable skunk, spewing stink all over. Why did I have to buy this, or that or the other are the top guilt ridden questions. Let’s face it, I am hopeless at financial planning.  Generally when people make blanket stereotypical statements like women are bad at driving, my voice is the loudest to protest. But when it comes to the stereotype of finances I have to quieter down. I just don’t know where the months keep slipping and so does my money. 

I make plans to keep a check and not make huge purchases or come such. But every now and then something comes up and I am back to square one. When will I learn?

I have tried it all - apps which track your financial pattern, making lists in notebooks, planning out minute expenditures. I start off strong but some day, I slip. Maybe it is that discount on pretty dresses, or the visit to the mall, or that must-get iPad. :(

We’ll, here’s another month almost to the end, I am having that funny feeling in my stomach again. Let’s hope I am better next month. Fingers crossed

Weightless

 I am often writing poems and stories and random sentences which I find pretty and loquacious, but I mostly lose them to some unsaved drafts or old newspapers. So I have decided to bring wha I could salvage here. Here is the first among them. This was a short story I wrote some moths back.

As she stood at the precipice of time and the terrace, for the first time in a very long time, she was overcome by a calmness. All she needed to do was take a step and all will be well, There was of course the weightlessness. Suddenly, all the burdens were lifted magically - she would not have to worry anymore, she would not have to work herself to the bone, she would not have to listen to the constant barrage of others. There for a moment and several moments afterwards she flew, fluttered like a feather blown away by wind. That’s when she realised - she was the feather, going where the wind was taking her, with no agency of her own. All she needed to do was spread her wings. So she took a step back and almost hit the cross-crossing clothes lines, and went down the stairs where real life awaited her.

How do you go on when everything seems to have come to a standstill? Nobody said this will be simple, nobody said it will be easy. As she took each step through the dampened stairwell, she wondered how life brought her to this juncture. Starting over at fifty was difficult , and if that starting over was a matter of heart it was even more so. But love is love after all, it doesn’t know age. Madhura had loved when she was young. It was the love of youth, full of promises and whispers, but it was not to be. The young man who had charmed her off her feet with his witticism and poetry was an intellectual whose politics brought about his downfall. He was one of those many unnamed numbers who lost their lives in some bylane somewhere, gunned down probably. He just stopped coming to college one day and no one knew of his whereabouts. She knew what happened to him, everyone knew but were too scared to say it out aloud. They said he was missing, and from that day she lost her love. She made a silent vow to remain bethrothed to him for this lifetime and that was the road she took. In a family of seven siblings no one really bothered her to get married. The family was happy with her handling the finances. 

Only now, when suddenly life threw a fresh breath of air her way that her otherwise disinterested family suddenly woke up. Rahul was so far away from the young poet who had stolen her young heart. Maybe if he lived, he would be somewhere close to this man? Rahul held her hand and promised a life of comfort and dignity. No more of living in a room which was getting crowded and then over crowded by the hoard of increasing nephews and nieces. As the spinster aunt it was her job to be the babysitter, the caretaker of the parents and the owner of every other odd job that her married and hence otherwise occupied siblings could not take up. Somewhere between feeling sorry for her when grief first struck her and leading their own lives, everyone forgot about the girl and eventually the woman who was tending to a wound. Rahul was perhaps the first to understand and love her more for it. She was never considered a grown up who would have any opinions even though she would be financing things from painting the house to renovating the kitchen. It was only now, in the last couple of weeks, when Madhura told them that she was planning to get married that everyone suddenly woke up. 

‘Getting married! At this age?’

‘ what will people say?’

‘It’s your age to retire and you want to go for your honeymoon?’

‘Have you lost your mind?’

Taunts came thick and plenty from every quarter. Even the young children sniggered behind her back. As Madhura walked down, she thought to herself, all of them were so comfortable till I was paying the bills and behaving like a furniture. This real person with a heart and mind of her own had no place here. She stepped into her room where the nephews and nieces were scampering for space. They fell into a silence as she walked in. Madhura looked at the little faces, all rife with judgement and admonition. She got together a couple of things and started to leave when someone called her, ‘Are you going to that Rahul?’

Madhura looked back and smiled, ‘Maybe. For now I am going away from you.’

And just like that, she flew, not weightless, but soaring.

True Cringe

 When I wake up in the morning and the sunlight first hits my shut eyes, the first thing I want to open my eyes are to my phone screen. After checking if something earth shattering has happened over the night on social media I scourge for news on Google. Every now and then something interesting or outrageous catches my eye. Today was not a disappointing day either. 

After India’s recent win in the Olympics, everyone is a sports guru in this country. Which is a great thing for sports and sportsmen all around, if it was limited only to sports. Our media has gone bonkers - digging up histories of all medal winners, their humble beginnings and love life are the top of mind these days. So it was sort of obvious that our gold winner Neeraj Chopra who is also called “easy on the eyes” (insert eye roll) would not be spared. But a recent post of Red FM really baffled me. 

There are a bunch of RJ’s singing “Ude jab jab Zulfe teri” to a visibly uncomfortable Neeraj Chopra on Zoom call. Thank God he was not in the studio. I shudder at the thought of what the gyrating ladies would do if they met him in person. So we have a world class sportsperson, who won an Olympic gold for the country and we call him on a show and “tease” him? The video ends with the RJ saying “zyada cheda to nahi humne?” What if a couple of male RJ’s had done this with PV Sindhu? Umm, no comments. Rant over.

Annoying WhatsApp Forwards

 We are all part of some or the other WhatsApp group out of the sake of social courtesy. Generally the silly jokes shared or totally sexist and overall wrong remarks being made are ignored by me. But as the volatile situation in Afghanistan is unfurling a whole new arena of horrors await us very close home. 

I generally do not write about politics, or opinions that people express in these groups - these could be memes, jokes, videos or even news (fake news). If grown up people have decided to feel in a certain way they will. You can take a certain line of argument, but that is about all. But I am going to break this rule today. I am appalled at the way that people have reacted to the crisis a nation is facing. It’s closer home than we realise. 

Forget the political bigots and the uneducated. When I see absolutely/apparently educated and accomplished citizens be insensitive it boils my blood. Over the last two days, I saw so many posts all over social media which parade as jokes but are downright disgusting. They are to the tune of “they had it coming” right to being insensitive at a whole new level. People who speak out asking for solidarity of the world (read celebs) are trolled as to why they were quiet on other issues. how does it matter if they were quiet on another issue. Right now - this is the burning issue, do you have anything meaningful to contribute? If not, kindly shut up. 

If you feel forwarding jokes about cheaply available real estate in Kabul is witty, I really can’t even begin to list the number of things wrong about it. Forget the Islamophobia latent in it, this is a slap on the face of humanity. There are people dying, families being torn apart, I cannot bring myself to believe I actually saw a video of people falling from the sky. What kind of apocalyptic helplessness must he have felt, that he chose to tie himself to an aircraft rather than stay on the ground? Yet, we sitting in our comfortable homes, watching our plush TV sets can’t spare an ounce of humanity, we senselessly forward sick jokes. Jokes which come at the expense of dead children and a very very scared country. And all this from us, Indians who know what the pain of being uprooted is. Some of us have families which know how moving everything you called your own overnight feels like - are we dead inside?

Have some shame. If you do not have an opinion, keep quiet. If you do not know what to do, don’t do anything. Don’t spew hate. 

Jeans

 I cannot recall the last time I wore jeans for more than two hours, and that is kind of the top limit. The only way I wear jeans nowadays is to cover the shorts which I sleep in and walk out of the doors to fetch something like groceries. 

A baggy T-shirt and shorts or pajamas are my second skin now - I have made Jockey or nothing a reality. I mean I live in my house, I work in my bed (this is for dramatic interlude only, of course I sit at a table, I don’t want to get spondylitis) - why o why should I dress up? Now when someone thinks wearing jeans is dressing up that’s another problem, but we’ll tackle that some other day. My honest opinion is that the skinny jeans is dead. Why would you stuff yourself into those oh-so-tight denims when you have it’s more aesthetic and super body-friendly sister -read yoga pants - available?

So my 8-10 year old jeans which are exactly the Mom jeans/Girlfriend jeans which are in vogue now could have been really the rage now, but I say chuck it. I’m good with my pajamas or shorts. And the dresses, I can’t have enough of the dresses. This staying at home has definitely developed a condition in me where I cannot stand super skinny fabric (read jeans) on my legs any more. So, bye bye jeans, maybe we’ll meet again some time.

Shershaah

What is an Independence Day if you don’t watch one patriotic movie? Now I have grown up watching Roja, Gandhi, Gadar- Ek Prem katha, LOC, Border et al. Except for Gandhi all are Bollywood products and hence have their fair share of jingoism, songs, inspiring speeches, heroic feats and not to forget some kind of a prem katha. So when I started watching Shershaah, I had similar expectation if not more. After all it was coming from the production house known for it’s hyperbole. Karan Johar cannot make realistic films, that’s what I started out with. 

Happy to say I was proved wrong on many accounts. The writers have not taken much liberty in trying to make the story of this hero into something larger than life. The dialogs are realistic, the merging of the true heroes and their casting at the end is a very nice and professional touch - almost gave a feel of global cinema. also, the casting was really awesome, everyone stood out in the roles they played. Really happy to  see Bollywood come of age, trying to keep up with the standards of OTT production qualities. 

NB: This is not a film review, this is what I expected and what I found.

Navarasa

Since we are confined just to our home, we watch a lot of TV. Recently came across this Tamil Netflix original Navarasa. I have not completed watching it yet, but the first few. I am watching something in a regional language after a really long time honestly, so following the language only by the subtitles took a little more effort from me than the mindless sitcom watching I generally indulge in. Following subtitles while feeding a child is even more difficult, but I accomplished it, so yay me. Spoilers ahead.

Sometimes you watch some things in cinema and you laugh at it. The episode, or volume as they call it, on “Hasya” (laughter) was just that. A very cute little story involving a dog which falls into a shit hole, and then the shit hits the fan, literally. Then I was ambling through the rest of the episodes. The episode on wonder, was a brave attempt at sci if, but mostly was me reconciling with the fact that Arvind Swamy has become old AF. Then I found myself applauding the fact that they first pick up lines from Nolan unabashedly and then actually talk about how Nolanesque the idea is, I mean, the gall!

But what really hit home, and perhaps I can’t go on watching now is the episode on “Shanthih” (Peace), where the episode ends with a question mark at the end of the word. A man goes over beyond enemy lines in a war zone to rescue a puppy but gets killed. I mean, as if the premise was not gut wrenching enough, they had to keep a baby, a puppy, a dead brother story line and a guy who believed true compassion exists in every human - made the audience hope for a moment there and BAM! I knew all along it was coming, but pretty cruel, that ending. 

So I made a humdrum about so many chores to complete because that’s how I channel my frustration and went to sleep. I don’t think I can watch the rest. Though I hear the next one on anger is great. Let’s see, may be I will watch it today (but I have to sneak some time away from the kid).

The Return of the Prodigal

 Oh my God! It is not like I had forgotten that I had a befittingly named blog existing somewhere on the web, but just life happened - grey hairs happened, marriage, moving cities, horrible bosses and a child later I returned to a time when I used to actually write down the random thoughts that I keep having. At any given time, my head is like a browser on my computer with at least fifty open tabs - what to cook for dinner, what to order in groceries, I must remember to get tooth paste and soap for the guest bathroom, did the maid say she needs dish washing liquid - wait what to cook for dinner? Tonight, sitting in the mellow light of my iPad while the husband and child gently snore away in the background I discovered/unearthed/chanced upon a bygone time. This was literally a blast from the past!

As I went through the posts (a veritable rabbit hole that) written till date, I cringed at some, laughed at others, could not recall having such emotions at a movie the last time, was overwhelmed to find that some friends just stick and some just don’t, judged myself for some sentiments expressed, but largely understood that I have not changed much. Well, yes, expect for the grey hairs and motherhood apart. The dream of becoming a novelist is still dormant somewhere I guess. For now let me write here? I still get kind of antsy around my birthday. I am still undecided about my hairstyle. I literally discussed getting a new haircut with my husband this evening! I still have major FOMO about work. 

But I think (and may be I will laugh at this one night thirty years from now) I have become a little more compassionate, a little more ready to let go and a little more forgiving. Also, I don’t have a terrible boss anymore. More importantly, you could get a haircut for sixty bucks in 2010.