Tell Me Your Story

Last week we had a friend stay with us. We left home pretty late to see him off and Secunderabad Station being so vast with ten platforms, the only access being via the over bridge, we were in a bit of a panic cos for some reason no one seemed to know the time of the train and there was quite a bit of unnecessary confusion. It was finally established that the train hadn't even arrived and was actually going to be late. We then settled down and I was quite distracted as I had had quite a few emotional upheavals this year and it was starting to take its toll on me. It wasn't PMS, if that's what you're thinking. I left my husband and his friend to chat and started to wander about, drawn to a noticeboard near the Railway Police Office.

It was a noticeboard for missing people. Faces of strangers in both colour and black & white stared back at me - strangers of all ages and circumstances, elderly and disabled. I had heard many stories of men who abandoned their elders in far off places where they could not even communicate to others and make their plight known. I was mostly moved by the images of the children for they outnumbered the rest, and many had been missing for years. I knew that if they were still on this noticeboard, they had not returned to their loved ones. What was their story, I wondered, as I searched their faces. Who were they, where were they, what had they become in the years that have passed them by? Did they wonder if their parents deliberately abandoned them? When we go some day, we will always have someone who knows us to tell our story. Who would tell theirs? Here's a story for you:

A young mother is off to join her husband who is settled in a foreign land. Apart from her three-year-old son placed comfortably on her hip and her six-year-old daughter who holds her grandfather's hand, she is armed with luggage which not only consists of their clothes and belongings, but kitchen ware such as idli paathrams and puttu kutti, for who knew if this foreign land had such things. She had just made an arduous train journey from Chennai to Mumbai and was on her way to a relative's house to spend the night as their flight was only the next day. These were hard times and Mumbai being as vast as it was, it seemed pointless to take a cab when the metro was right there. If you are clueless about the Mumbai metro, have a look at this amusing video ad on You Tube before you read on. In fact, any Indian metro is no different during rush hour. Amidst all the pushing and shoving, this young woman's father helped his granddaughter onto the train first and then turned to take the luggage. Before he could even turn around with the luggage, the train had started to move. The little girl, with innocent glee waved goodbye to her grandfather, mother and baby brother without a clue as to her destiny. She had no idea where this train was going - nor was she perturbed by her grandfather's shouts of panic. An adventure was what she was hoping for!

You may be wondering what happened to a six-year-old girl who goes missing in a metro station: that too of all cities, Mumbai. One often hears about the indomitable (I use this word today to honour Asterix, who has just turned 50) spirit of Mumbai on the news when a bomb blasts or when Mother Nature unleashes her fury with a flood. What ever the movies may depict to us about big cities being a bad world, this kind of spirit can only come from the goodness of one's heart and is not selective, based on caste or religion. What happened to this little girl? Did she wander around aimlessly, befriended by beggars who took her into their fold? Was she accosted by a by a pimp to live the rest of her days as a prostitute? She she grow up among eunuchs or get deposited at a convent to be raised by nuns? It all makes for a great movie doesn't it?

The little girl saw her family slowly become smaller and smaller as the train moved away at alarming speed, and then suddenly felt the warmth of a large hand grasp hers. As she looked up to see who it was, she saw a man who was waving and shouting to someone outside. When they came to the next stop, this man took her hand and led her out of the station where he stood in another queue. She had no idea who he was, nor did she protest his taking control of the situation. He then led her back to the platform, onto a train, which, while it slowly came to a stop, she saw the familiar face of her grandfather peering anxiously through every window. When they got out of the train she was engulfed in a hug, though all she was aware of was that the adventure had come to an end. The most clear image in her head is that of her grandfather hugging this stranger and thanking him profusely.

That little girl was me. I don't remember this man's face at all. In fact, I didn't think about this episode till many, many years later. No one in our family would talk about it but parts of the memory kept coming back to me. These past ten years, especially after coming to India and becoming exposed to train travel, I began to think about this man again. I don't know his name, or if he was Hindu, Muslim or Christian. In 2006, I was in SA when the Mumbai train blasts happened and I prayed that he and his family were not on the train at the time. I thought about him during the floods and hoped he was safe. For all the little stories that make up my life, this one has been the most difficult to write about because it happened very early in my life (22 years ago) and had the possibility of having the deepest impact had my destiny been anything else. The entire course of my life would have changed, and without my family, I can only think of worst-case scenarios. In fact, my father recently over heard me telling this story to a friend and I saw he was extremely disturbed by it - more so because he was not there, and so I decided to not ask my mother about it because she WAS. Mumbai Metro is as crazy today as it was twenty years ago, and with all the current technology such as security TVs and camera phones, one wonders how it is possible for any person to completely disappear. And yet, they do. So many still go missing today. But I didn't. What if God was one of us? He most certainly was there in this man, who guided me back to my family. And though I may not have become someone famous or contributed something major to mankind, thanks to this man, I had the blessing of living a good life. I was loved, cherished, appreciated, educated, well fed and well dressed. If I ever had cause to doubt God's existence in my life BEFORE the age of six, I most certainly needn't doubt Him after.

Living Vicariously

Yes, the title says it all. I take great joy in living through others' experiences. This could have to do with the fact that I am totally jobless...but I would do this even if I was employed I am sure. Most of my present is entwined with aspects from the past - both positive and negative. I love listening to old songs, reading popular authors, taking paths already trodden. If I am to try anything new, it will only be because it came in search of me, not because I went in search of it. I am not even sure this is an accurate description of me, but hey, do we really know who we truly are, completely? A most positive influence in this regard is one of my college profs, Mr Jojan, who introduced us to Gabriel Garcia Marquez - I would go on and on about his books and my boyfriend (now my husband) gifted me Love in the Time of Cholera (it really is a lot more romantic than choleric) for my birthday. Today, anything written by Marquez is on my to-read list.

But it is not so much what a person has to say but the passion with which they convey it that intrigues me. For this reason, I am deeply in love with Susan Russo (okay, her talent, not HER) of Food Blogga. When she talks food, she talks not only method, but her Italian family's traditional influence, modern variations, combined with awesome photography that makes her food look as tasty as it sounds and an incredible sense of humour to match. I have been meaning to blog about her for months now but I am reading up many of her posts myself from when she first started blogging. Reading her stuff makes me wanna shift house immediately JUST so I can use my brand new microwave oven (bought in Feb '09) which is now collecting dust (our apartment isn't wired to support a microwave can you believe it???) or sand and paint a small coffee table that my in-laws got a carpenter to make from a bedroom door that my husband broke down when he got locked out of his room (his bus ticket was inside and he was coming to Chennai to see me :o). I have vowed never to get rid of that table, but our dog has already chewed off the corners so I might not have to get rid of it at all...he will reduce it to dust in a few months. Any how, Food Blogga is an inspiration and my poor husband prays that I will one day free him from the palak-dal and pumpkin variations I have been experimenting with.

My to-do list is a mile long...I have been living on lists all my life. Okay, well from high school any way. Flipping through old diaries one can tell I was a firm believer of the fact that if it's not written down and scanned through every day, it'll never get done. Right now, some of the things left to do are:

1. Find a tailor - I am desperate for a good tailor who is also reasonably priced. When I was in Blore for two years I would hoard my materials and run to my tailor in Chennai on the rare occasion that I visited. But being in Hyderabad that just won't do. I am so morbid about wasting good material on a lousy tailor. And if it is a sari blouse that gets screwed up then just imagine the nightmare I can become.

2. Get a check-up. Having looked out for myself these past 10 years, my health has always had the least priority. While I am physically active, it doesn't compensate for actual exercise (also on my list) and being bed-ridden is the most soul-crushing experience in the world. I never want to be that cinematic cliche who finds out she's been living with some strange disease for years and it chooses to reveal itself at an important life-changing phase (apart from the actual disease being life changing I mean).

3. Slowly ease my self of the addiction to Facebook (long-term goal) and make it a weekly experience than a secondly one. Facebook is another way in which I live vicariously. While I thrive on seeing people I know visit my dream places, my husband refuses to even glance at them saying that it is more important that we try and make our dreams a reality too. While I know he is right, I am unable to take any positive action towards that goal. It's just SO much easier to flip through the pics.

4. Yoga. Outside of the exercise factor, I am convinced this method will work wonders both mentally and physically if one is committed to it. Or, may be I just say that cos my purple yoga mat is collecting dust and I have to convince my mother that it was worth the Rs.800 that I paid for it. She laughed when I told her I bought a yoga mat. Her response, laced with sarcasm of course, was "Oh my God, HOW did people EVER do yoga for centuries without their very own synthetic, purple yoga mat!?!"

5. I HAVE to get over my addiction to movies and TV series (I can't get enough of House, Grey's, CSI or Boston Legal). If I don't indulge in a little bit every day I feel as if my life just isn't worth living. I kid you not. I have this (false) notion that such episodes actually add value to my life...when in fact, nothing in my life changes. Nothing. Cinema has always been a part of our family routine from childhood and I do admit a lot of my thoughts and values are imbibed from it - but to completely give up living for it is absurd! I hope my folks don't ever read my blog.

It looks like this list could go on forever...it is slowly starting to resemble my "25 Things About Me" saga (yet to be published and available at a pirated books roadside vendor near you). I hope I can work on these 5 things for now and see where it takes me. Wish me luck!

Lend Me Your Year

The year 2009 has not been good to my father: in January he lost his daughter to marriage (yes, that's me), then in July he lost his mother to the circle of life, and now his only big sister to complications from a badly done surgery just yesterday. My aunt played a huge role in my life from the day I was born: she was the one who named me (a huge fan of Jane Eyre)...and when my folks left me in India 10 years ago, she was the one who looked out for me like a mother hen - always fiercely protective and concerned for my well-being. There are not enough words to describe the love and care she has showered upon me, not to mention being a huge source of advice and counsel, a pillar of emotional support during my wedding (we're cut from the same cloth) and the one unlimited source of memories and information to my father's past which I could listen to for hours on end without ever getting bored. She was the one who introduced to me homemade delights such as kalakala and rose milk when I first came to India. When ever I eat these, I will be reminded of her. Apart from our mutual Piscean traits, people would say I have more in common with her than with my own Mum. All that goes on in my head now is why she had to go so young - she was only in her late 50s. As usual, I am trying to ease my guilt. When ever I visited Salem I always dropped by her place but never stayed the night even though she begged me to. I barely came for a weekend and always gave my grandma priority, telling myself that she would always be around but grandma wouldn't. Now I am just so angry with myself for taking her for granted.

We had pretty much lost her about two weeks ago - she was in a deep coma and didn't look like she would recover. Even the doctors wrote her off. But we had family and friends praying for her recovery even as we brought her home from the ICU to die. She miraculously regained consciousness, started eating, gained strength and was actively communicating with people. It was a ten day gap that God gave her to see her children and have them look after her, show her how much they loved her. I feel at peace knowing that I too was there seeing this recovery even though we were all convinced she was over the worst. I came back home with the feeling that all is right with the world. That's what makes this sudden turn so hard to take. Everyone has to go some time...but it is those who are left behind that can't accept this truth. Even one who has completed a circle of life (child-parent-grandparent) leaves a gaping hole in our lives when they go...an emptiness that never leaves you. People come into our lives and occupy spaces in our heart - this space is unlimited. That limit becomes defined when they leave. A new person can come along, but they'd occupy a new space, not fill an old one. The closer this person was to you, the harder it is to not disappear with them. It is at times like these that I thank God for my family, not just the close ones but the extended ones as well. Funerals and weddings are the one place we can piece together the missing puzzles of our loved ones. You'll always meet someone who has a fond memory of them that no one has heard of. It is through these memories that we keep them alive. I for one have a million memories of my aunt from my father. While in SA, all he did was talk about her and the things they got up to together, and what a wonderful example she set as a big sister (this talk usually happened right after my brother and I fought). What ever it is that God had planned for her, I know she left knowing that she was loved deeply. We will miss her.

This post will have no title. Why? Because I say too much. Really. This has to stop...my NEED to say it ALL, the unabashed truth spewing forth only to destroy fragile egos. My life is a constant battle where I should always win the war of words. If someone asks you if you like a gift, fully comprehending your tastes and KNOWING this very taste is the EXACT opposite of the gift received, isn't it awkward of them to ask you, "Do you like it?" What are my options here? To tell the truth, or blatantly lie.

If it were a stranger I would not think twice - I would lie very badly. But how am I supposed to lie to someone who is supposed to know me, if not completely, at least more than any one else? In a relationship I give complete honesty because I expect it in return. If you think you know the answer, it is better to not ask at all. How I lasted this long in a relationship is truly beyond my comprehension. He has gone to bed pouting (not in a sexy Jolie sort of way, but more like a recalcitrant five-year-old - if he stomps his feet and air boxes I might just be tempted to sing Little Drummer Boy "pa rum pa pum pum") and I am left with facing tomorrow morning's grouch.

Yes yes I am an awful person...blah blah blah...tell me something I dunno.

I have no idea how to deal with such ego issues. Saying too much is bad, but to not say anything at ALL is worse...and I am mentally imbalanced to get a fine balance between these two. Marriages are made in heaven because only saints can live up to such expectations. Don't get me wrong, I am loving every moment of this. But surely there MUST be a way to communicate without saying ALL the wrong things? Else, I have to become an expert in white lies. My only fear is, in learning to master such a trick, will I ever know when a fast one is being pulled on me by anyone, and how far does one take these so-called white lies? Where do you draw the line? I obviously have some major trust issues.

"Ooohhh hon I LOVE it!" = This gift sucks but I love you too much to care.

Five years later...

"Sorry I'm late hon, got stuck in traffic." = The guys and I went out for a drink, which I would TELL you if I didn't have to deal with all your questions.

I suddenly have no clue about the point of this post. It could be that I am so sleepy, I am blabbering. I live life in the "what if" lane. What if I die? What if I live, after a close encounter with death? What if I have cancer - will I need radiation? What if I slip down the steps, fall and chip my teeth - I will never smile again. What if my dog starves if I go out to work? Yes, I know I am not alone but I also know us what-ifs are a sore bunch of losers. Often the ominous what-ifs never materialize and we end up regretting missed opportunities. It is based on these ridiculous what-ifs that I speak my mind. I fear more NOT knowing. The truth that is supposed to set us free often gets so tangled up that we choke on it. I feel a wave of poetic gibberish coming on so before I drag you all down with me, let me say goodnight. Goodnight.

Showers of Blessings

There are many things in life for which I feel grateful and blessed, but last month I got 3 important ones all at once:

1. I completed my MBA dissertation and so can pursue life with all joy and enthusiasm and never ever again consider taking up academics ever AGAIN (until next time of course).
2. My in-laws have finally accepted our marriage and have come to Hyderabad to live with us.
3. My paternal grandmother passed away.

The first blessing has been talked about so much that even I am bored with it, on the second one I have TOO much to say and so have chosen to remain silent (but happy), so it'll have to be the third one that I talk about today - it's a goodbye I should have said in person.

If you've read one of my previous posts about my grandmother, you'll know that she wasn't one to give up on life, or to let life give up on HER that easily. It's so easy to talk good of those who are already gone, but like most Scorpio women I know, you gotta love em like hell in order to survive their stings. If you don't love them, you just can't be bothered to put up with them. There are two things that I genuinely regret when it comes to my grandma, and neither of them have to do with the fact that I didn't go to see her even once after I got married.

One very big regret is that I feel I did not try hard enough to get her to my wedding from Salem to Trivandrum. The reason why it was held in Trivandrum was so that my mother's parents could be there. The journey was too long and arduous for her to take. She was very weak and fragile and no one was willing to risk it. That was 6 months ago and on hindsight I feel it would have been worth the risk if she could have seen her first grand child get married. Because of the complications of our wedding at the time, I had gone to see her and received her blessings the week before the wedding. Then for 6 months we promised her we'd visit but it never happened. The reasons as to WHY we didn't seemed very important at the time but now they seem quite irrelevant. I wanted to go see her with my husband for the first time, and foolishly, I assumed she'd be around forever. We then decided to see her on the Independence Day weekend but on 27th July my aunt called and told me to not wait any longer as she's quite serious and was asking to see me. We took that news serious enough to immediately book a flight from Hyderabad to Coimbatore and then catch a bus to Salem from there, but not serious enough to feel any worry. Baby had done this before - and for this same reason my aunt didn't even bother to tell my Dad or his siblings because every time she did, the sons came running, Baby miraculously recovered, and random people would pass a comment that there was no need to make such a fuss and make others come from so far. So my better half and I jumped on our flight the very next day (I had only just met my in-laws 2 days before) and we were pretty excited - this was our first trip after our wedding. We laughed and acted silly and took goofy pics on the plane. We landed in Coimbatore and my phone started buzzing like crazy with msgs pouring in. I called my cousin and was told that Baby was gone. We had missed her by 3.5 hours. And so I say again, I wouldn't have minded if God had spared her 6 months of suffering and I had just some how taken her to be at my wedding. I know she wanted to be there badly. And I say this because I sure as hell wouldn't want to prolong my life if I cannot partake in the simple pleasures and if I am not in a position to make such a decision I am counting on my loved ones to do it for me, even with death as a possible risk. That's what living is all about. We cling to people and are scared to lose them but they might have the quality of life equivalent to that of a zombie! We cling to them for our own selfish purposes. Not because living a little longer does anything for them. Perhaps anger is a better word - regret doesn't quite cover it.

The church where my grandparents married in Vypeen, Cochin

My second deep regret is one that I have no control over - I wish I had been with her in my teen years so I could have learned cooking from her. I don't know if I WOULD have at that age. It's highly unlikely as we would have clashed. We're both very spirited and bossy in nature. When my parents left me under her guardianship ten years ago, I never quite felt I could even have a relationship with her. Perhaps I should be grateful for what I did have - had I continued my studies in South Africa our relationship would have been superficial and meaningless. But when I hear my father and my uncles talk about her cooking, I feel like I lost out on something that was my right. A lesson she should have passed on to me. One that is now lost as she has taken that talent with her. There's no recipe written down but many of the dishes are traditional Kerala cuisine that people do not even make in their homes today.

It broke my heart to see my uncle, aunt and their two children trying to contain their sorrow - they were the ones who looked after her these past 14 years - their lives have known nothing more than the simple act of coming home after work or school and going straight to her room to talk to her. When Baby died, her dog Jack (a Spitz mix) didn't eat for days and then ended up with severe vomitting and dehydration. After her funeral we let him into the house and the normally spirited creature walked in somberly and went straight to her room, sniffing her pillows, bed, the bathroom. His loss was the most visible. We held onto her for 2 days so Dad could reach from SA and see her one last time and then we sent her off in grand style. Right when we were about to start the funeral the heavens opened and the there was the greatest storm I had seen in ages. Yes, one may wonder isn't it to be expected during the monsoon season. But it was only cloudy days before and after her death. It was only during the funeral that the downpour began. I took that to be a very good sign. Though I know deep down she doesn't hold it against me, I can still hear her voice clearly in my head asking me why I have not yet come to visit her. And while family members continuously recounted her last moments to mourners, I was constantly reminded that it was me she asked to see - some looked at me reproachfully, others looked with pity. I feel the loss but not the sorrow - I know she's up there with my grandfather, which is where she's always wanted to be. In my darkest moments, I console myself with the fact that I was there with her celebrating her life and if I didn't get to say goodbye it is because I believe that she has not quite left me...

Waist Not, Want Not

I am the type of person that can completely self-destruct if I put my mind to it. The irony is that I come across as one who is completely sane, mature and often a preachy know-it-all. Well that last bit is true actually. I had a wonderful childhood, I felt so as a child and I feel so now. There were one or two bad experiences that have scarred me, but I managed to lock them away in the dark recesses of my mind when I heard the stories of others. When put in perspective, what glorious, blessed lives we lead! In fact, the only thing that truly troubled me during my teen years was my parents' constant fighting and bickering. There have been times when I would pray for them to get divorced - such was my distress. I would have to say that it was this one incident that lead to my various actions, influenced my decisions, paved my way. I do not regret any of my actions as it has made me what I am today. If I did not do so badly academically I would have never been sent to India. I would have missed out on my friends, the experiences, the "Indian-ness of me" and most importantly, I would not have met the love of my life. How ever, my actions have hurt others and I constantly berate myself for it. My better half says I have yet to forgive myself and learn to let go. I LOVE wallowing in self-pity, and reflecting on what made me the way I am. So before I let such negativity take over my world, I feel it is necessary that I share and record the good times.

In my worst moments, and in my best, it was the world of books that I retreated into and for that I have to thank my father. My earliest memory is at age 6. I am not sure if Dad's intention was inculcate the habit of reading in us at such an early age - but he was stuck with us after school and he loved his books, so off to the library we went. In our small town we had only two public libraries and we had membership in both. Of course I had access to my school library as well. Thus began a love affair with Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Beatrix Potter, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and later in high school it was Judy Blume, Sweet Valley High, Danielle Steele, Mills & Boon, Jeffery Archer, Sidney Sheldon, Frederick Forsyth, the list is endless really - so I won't even venture into the comic books! Let's just say - it was Betty's Diary (Archie Comics) that inspired me to be a writer - perhaps one of the many inspirations. My Dad's voracious appetite for books had some how passed on to me (my brother was completely unaffected much to their dismay but he wrote some brilliant poetry lemme tell you) and he would often say with deep regret, "Even if we read one book a day, and lived to be a 100 years old, we can ONLY read 36500 books in our life time."





My obsession with books, according to my folks, was the reason I was failing academically in all the IMPORTANT subjects (maths and science mainly). Thus, books were banned. They stopped my dance classes as well for the same reason. The things I loved most were taken away and I rebelled (very silently). I had a complete mental block in all my subjects with the exception of English and Afrikaans. The fact that I was doing really well in English didn't seem to make any difference and the constant pressure to win a Nobel Prize for Science or at the very least become an Engineer took its toll. It came to a point where it was doubtful that I would even pass high school. My poor folks finally succumbed to the fact that I had had a mental breakdown and begged me to see a psychiatrist. Keep in mind I wasn't a raving lunatic. I was merely withdrawing deeper within myself. And my only consolation had to be indulged in secretly. I would keep my Science textbook in front of me and my novel inside it. Then Dad caught me because he said he was surprised to see my intense concentration. I would read novels by torchlight under thick woolen blankets, in the loo, any where! I even told them I had extra classes and stayed back in the school library till the school gates were about to shut. I used to keep some novels in the washing machine under all the dirty clothes and move them on laundry day. But I was caught there as well. Dad, whilst shaving, made a passing comment as I walked by, "You know, girls who read Mills & Boon and Barbara Cartland turn out to be very stupid girls." I knew then that my Message from Nam (Danielle Steele) had been discovered. I didn't agree with him then and I certainly don't agree with him now. I definitely enjoy the older M&Bs when compared to the modern ones. Even the cover images having changed from paintings to photographs have put me off completely - killed the fantasy. The ones I used to enjoy often had adventure, culture, the dashing hero and a very spirited heroine. Most importantly, it exposed me to a world unknown to me. Today, I can probably recognise a person's country of origin simply by hearing their name - be it Greek or Japanese - all thanks to M&B. That kind of awareness and knowledge doesn't come easily you know? A child's concept of love and romance is mostly grasped from what they see in their parents - reading a million Mills & Boon will never change that.

My most favourite memories are that of the Saturday morning library sessions. Dad would take me and my friends Priya and Deepa - and between us we had 6 library cards. That's 6 books every week! When I was banned from reading, I used to borrow from them secretly. Being close family friends were were always at each other's house. This one time I wanted to borrow two M&Bs and had no idea how to take them without arousing suspicion. It was Priya's idea (I think) that I keep them in the elastic waistband of my skirt and zip up my jacket. This was a brilliant idea as the jacket would cover any bulge. I could place them side by side on my abdomen secured by the waistband, zip up my jacket and keep my hands in my jacket pockets "to keep warm" but also hold the books in place. Then I just have to sit in the car and when we reach home, rush to my room and throw them under my bed. The brilliance of this idea dazzled us so that we had no idea my folks were taking us to church right from their house!!! I was sitting in church and sweating in fear, scared that the books would fall out under my skirt, that too an M&B in the most sacred of places! I don't know how many confessions I would need to get out of that one! Then when it was time for communion Mum started glaring at me to get up and go. I accepted the Body and Blood of Christ whilst having my hands clasped together in prayer over my ABDOMEN - you can guess what I was praying about.

It is these memories that makes a song in my heart. When I meet my good friends even today, all we do is talk of our childhood days - our bond is entwined with memories such as these. With time and experience, I have come to realise that my parents' fighting is no indication of their love, or lack of love for each other. My better half and I are EXACTLY the same. Perhaps what I experienced with my folks will help me to control my tongue in the presence of my children. I have an acid tongue, especially when I have PMS. I really don't know if this post is about my love for books or about parenting. I DO know that I have grown enough to question my folks about their prejudices, as well as to be more open to their wisdom. When I was young I questioned NOTHING, and rebelled against their well-intentioned advice. I know that parenting is probably the HARDEST job in the world - but I am told it is also the most rewarding. Most importantly, I dedicate this post to my Dad - for instilling in me a love of knowledge. I do realise that reading doesn't always make a person right in their judgements or their understanding of the world, but it does give you perspective, the ability to see another point of view, one different from what you have been conditioned to believe. Look out for more outpourings of my childhood and my tormented teen soul :O)

*The images were taken on a visit to my old primary school in 2006 and are of the books in our school library. Some of them, especially The World Atlas, The Wind in the Willows, Hardy Boys and Paddington Bear, are the SAME copies we read almost 20 years ago.

Eat, Pray, Love

Hello dear mad people :O)

Just wanted to say I got back home this morning from Bangalore after having completed AND submitted my MBA dissertation. In the almost 2 months I was away I wanted to write about a million things that ran through my head, actually wrote two and now they lie in my draft folder, their fire diminished.

When I was chatting to my good friend one day about blogging, I remember telling her that I am not ready to share my blog with the world...yet (I started in 2006 by the way). By "the world" I mean my family members. I am terrified of what they will think...even more terrified that my fear of what they will think of my writing will limit me, thereby resulting in me stopping writing all together (Oh poor world!) or conjuring an illusion of who I think they want me to be - which I just cannot do. My aunt tells me "people pleasing" is a genetic defect that runs on my mother's side and to never succumb to it. Sigh...if only it were that easy. My husband knows about my blog because, well, he is me...so he knows. But my folks, my brother, and the rest of the clan minus two cousins who I trust completely, have no idea about this random lunacy that I unleash onto unsuspecting readers such as yourself. How ever, this writing is my only release. And your much-valued comments do one of two things: if you agree with what I write then there's that "oh-so-glorious" self-righteous feeling, and if you don't agree...well, I get to see another point of view, possibly one that has not even occured to me. Either way, I feel acknowledged as a writer and I thank you.

Actually I logged in because I wanted to share with you this link which I know ALL of you, being writers, will enjoy reading.

I'll be back as soon as I get my house in order :O)
Gosh I am so happy and relieved about my dissertation. Will probably have that mild uneasy feeling die down after MJ is laid to rest. I hope so anyway... Got lots of blog reading to catch up on. Yay!!! Ciao for now!!!