Speechless

From an episode in NPR via Justaroundme :

REEVES: The Hindu temples along the banks begin their evening ceremonies. Watching all this on the water’s edge are Chasfort Chukla(ph), who’s 20, and his 19-year-old sister Somia(ph). They look out of place, modern city folk in a timeless landscape.  Chasfort’s studying for entrance exams for an Indian institute of management.

REEVES: His sister, Somia, says she’s thinking of going into fashion design or maybe the media. These two seem set to seize the chances offered by the new India. Then I ask Somia about how free she feels. Could she, as a single woman, have a romance with a man, for example?

Ms. SOMIA CHUKLA: No, no, no, no. That’s not the case. If my father comes to know, my brothers comes to know that, they’re going to kill me.

REEVES: Your brothers as well?

Ms. CHUKLA: Yeah.

(Soundbite of laughter)

Ms. CHUKLA: So, I’m not having a free and that kind of relationship.

REEVES: And are you cool with that? Is that all right with you?

Ms. CHUKLA: No, I’m not cool with that. Even I wanted a freedom situation, but I can’t.

REEVES: Her brother, Chasfort, chips in.

Mr. CHUKLA: You know, it is in India, and I like this thing, that girls should be in their limits only. They should, you know, it shouldn’t exceed their limits. If you ask me now, my sister dating a guy, I’m going to punch that guy, you know, I’m going to just smack him away. Yes, I have girlfriends but I don’t like my sister to be any girlfriend to any other boy.

REEVES: That’s a bit unfair, though, isn’t it?

Mr. CHUKLA: It is, but still, you know, my sister, she is my sister. She’s my baby doll. Nobody can touch her.

miss my baby.

a lot

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Why is it so difficult not to miss you?

Why do egg parottas and fruit and nut chocolates make me teary? Why do I miss hearing that voice? The little finger that reached out from the gear shift. How wassup and nothing much became the standard opening lines of conversation. Watching you sleep, head buried in the pillow.

I’ll find the strength to get over this. Slowly and gradually. Till the memories are gone and love cannot hurt anymore.

 

a week from now i’ll be a missus

but right now i’m content pondering over less cheerful matters like can i have a smaller wedding, will i look hideous with the make up, why are my relatives so obnoxious that it’s funny, why can i not wear heels and do i shave my legs.

i wish my munchkins would call and we could talk about chapatis that look like monaco.

 

 

 

in the month of june

between visits to the tailor, trousseau shopping, temple visits, unpacking, packing, rediscovering grandmother’s love for re-gifting and her pack rat ways, making guest lists, revising them, make up rehearsals, some precious hours with the niece, faint wedding jitters and phone conversations with the fiance who is becoming increasing adorable with each new day…

a moment of quiet.

Red Earth and Pouring Rain

World, I’m getting married.

In some  weeks to someone who is absolutely wonderful. He makes my knees go weak and my world go round.

Please read this poem for me while I’m letting it all sink in.

Red Earth and Pouring Rain

What could my mother be

to yours? What kin is my father

to yours anyway? And how

did you and I meet ever?

But in love our hearts are as red

earth and pouring rain:

mingled

beyond parting.

- Sembula Peyaneerar

(Kuruntokai – 40; Translated by A.K.Ramanujam)

Today would have been Dad’s 56th birthday had he been alive. Somehow I feel his presence now strongly than ever before.

Daddy, thank you for everything – I hope you are watching over us.

people

i’m alive. and well. i have little access to the internet outside of work – so there’s my bad blogger excuse.

mumbai is being good to me and i’m discovering new things about it everyday like how everyone here has black snot.

i lost a waterbottle. and a debit card. my mother freaked out. about the latter. i have a new water bottle now. it’s pink. i miss my orange one.

yesterday, i was at a pani puri stall, with my bottle on a table beside me. there was a man next to me eating dahi puri. i don’t mind dahi puris. i don’t mind men eating dahi puris either. so life was good. or so i thought until the man polished off his puris, let out a loud burp and proceeded to drink water….from my *pink* bottle.

i came back to the hostel and gave my pink bottle a scrub.

i miss someone. please excuse the ramble.

 

 

 

 

Day 8

Slept. End of story.

 

Day 7

Byculla. Word games and Sudoku with the kids at Asha Dan.  Introduced Virginia to the crispy wonder called Dosa.  More sweet lassi.  M the interesting Parisian lady had us riveted with her Vipassana retreat experience. Green capris from Colaba Causeway.

Day 6

Body Shop. Disappointing Salsa India. Apple pie from a wood fired oven. Masala Dosa. N and I walked around the impressive lobby level of The Taj and felt too unposh, underdressed and wretchedly poor. Oh well..