Friday, November 25, 2011

The Blues they're alright

I finally got a chance to see my long-time beloved band Soulmate perform live in Mumbai. A friend at work had got me a pass and I made my way excitedly to Bandra Fort  amphitheatre (a little early) after having played my guitar for an hour at Chico's house before the gig, just to get into the zone. Full zonage happened and I was ready.

As I entered the temperature dropped, what with all the trees cocooning the stage and stairs where the audience sat. Not many people had come by then so I found myself a spot somewhere int he middle (not too far from the stage). There were all sorts of people there. It was very relaxing, watching people meet eachother, share jokes and laugh, find a spot to sit with their families, chatter about the day and the night to come... I find it peaceful to blend into a crowd, into scrambled frequencies and ride different sound waves. I prefer sitting alone at places like this for that reason; I get to absorb all the energies without distraction. 

A couple of my friends had come by then so I met them and decided to join one at the foot of the stage, right up front. And I'm SO happy I made that choice. There they were: Tipriti 'Tips' Kharbangar, Rudy Wallang and the rest of the band, SOULMATE. The compere said a few words, and these guys started right away.

It was nothing short of magical, electrifrying, goosebumps-for-3-hours, heart-thumping, emotion-inducing. I can't think of more adjectives to do sufficient justice to the experience. It's this intangible energy (for lack of a better word) that I saw that totally blew me away. And I don't mean super-enthusiasm or perkiness. I mean when you can that the artists are in love with their art, and when they perform or show it, it's like making love to that art. I see that and I love that. And I saw it that night. I felt it.

This was my first time watching Soulmate live. And it was moving. I loved every moment and I sat there in the front row riveted. From Rudy's push-it-to-the-hilt solos, to Tips tearing the sky apart with her incredible voice, to the bassist, drummer and keyboardist all adding that extra flavour, to the audience clapping and singing along (myself included). The Blues are alright...Yeah Yeah.

The song where she sang about her home, man, that brought me to tears. I had a lump in my throat, probably cause she had it too. I love her voice and their music, because they aren't just playing at a show,  they're emoting. They're feeling what they're playing... and vice versa. And I can see those feelings come out and it's so overwhelming that it's been 3 days since and I'm still in that universe, in those 3 hours at Bandra Fort and I have their songs playing in my head. I catch myself everyday trying to find their music to listen to. I don't want to download their music, I want to buy it. Till then, I'll make to with their MySpace page and YouTube. 

I hope someday I can tear the sky apart too.

Check them out at

SIDE NOTE: Yesterday's band practice was great. Although I started out reluctantly, what with being in complete awe of Tips' voice and trying to figure out how in everything-sacred's name I could even attempt an iota of that voice, Ralphie helped me out. And a leetal puff of the ol' harmonica. And the words just flowed. We wrote about 3 songs together and jammed up a storm (well, as stormy as the room could contain, I suppose). I guess I must find my own voice, no? 

Monday, October 31, 2011

Fried Noodle Teardrops

September 8, 2009

I must have been between 5 and 11 years of age. Those were the days when our family frequently visited our favourite neighboorhood posh Chinese restaurant. The owner new us personally, and we were hardly ever presented with a menu. The owner or his son would personally take down the order from my grandfather, if they didn't know already. Impeccable service, our specially reserved round table at a cosy nook of the restaurant, the same background Chinese music every time, the horoscope laden table tops and the shiny, heavy cutlery. It was like going from one room in my house to the other. The children (four squeaky little mice) always invariably were bunched together, sometimes shuffled and placed near our grandparents. Parents were neatly placed around the table.

It was one such evening that I recall. I had a plate of fried noodles (a standard requisite for commencing my meal) which I was happily playing with and munching on. My cousin sister sat to my left, enjoying her plate fried noodles. My grandmother was on my right. There was endless banter waltzing around me. High pitched laughs, excited tones, serious murmurs-- the lot. After a while they had blended with the Chinese music to form a soothing double malt of scrambled frequencies. I looked up from my busy plate and caught my grandfather staring at me. He had been doing so for a while, I imagined from the steady gaze that didn't flinch at my sudden attention. At that moment, everything around me dulled. All I saw were his eyes, moist with tears, a small smile and a look of ... a feeling that I seldom see him express now. All I heard was the song that he was ever-so-softly humming, which he would do on rare occasions-- possibly when he was by himself, even though physically in a crowd. The song, I cannot remember, but I distinctly remember the sound of his voice behind his closed lips. The humming at the base of his wrinkled throat. The look that created a lump in mine and made me freeze with an emotion my mind had not learned as of yet.

My mind fought the feeling, angry with me for having caused it. Why is he looking at me like that, I asked ashamed. Why is he singing to me, with tears in his eyes? Why am I causing tears to fill them? What have I done? Why can't anyone else see this? I felt hot tear drops flow down my little cheek, joining the entangled sea of noodles. It could not be hate, I knew, that poured from his eyes. It wasn't jubilation either. It was a strange happy sadness that he expressed. But I wasn't ready to accept tears of happiness then.

My grandmother noticed our silent connection and smiled at me as I cried softly, frozen but warm and raw with unbelievable emotion. Putting her warm fat arm around me she told me he is singing to me. Because he loves me and thinks I am beautiful. He isn't crying because he is sad. He is crying because of the love he has for me.

This explanation didn't settle the erect hairs at the back of my neck. I did not understand the concept of loving someone so much that it made you cry. Possibly because I had not loved as much then. Perhaps I didn't know what love was, only felt it. It was like a wild horse that needs to be broken in, otherwise it would be an uncontrollable ride.

I remember this night so well even now, more than that I still remember that feeling in my throat, the hot sensation that ran through my little body. The feeling of shame skyrocketing blood to my cheeks and teardrops forming tiny rivulets to my sea of fried noodles. I know now what I felt then because I have felt it again, and this time I can make sense of it.

I had felt love for the first time. His and my own.

(My grandfather passed away this year in August. I'm glad he got to read this in time.)

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


Yesterday I saw a film we had once seen together. It's a Wonderful Life. With James Stewart, my favourite. I remember every minute watching it with you. Every time you sighed or exclaimed at some dialogue or nuance.

And yesterday when I saw it, relived that happy warm memory, I wanted to message you and tell you I was watching it, like I have done so many times before. But I can't anymore. And it still feels strange, thinking about you.

You are not 'you' anymore. You are nothing and no more. But yet you exist, in my thoughts and memories. In my mind. You are a registered being and while I cannot prove your physical existence, you definitely are alive in my mind. But what are you now? A figment of my imagination with whom I can speak only in my dreams? For when I urge to speak to you now, nothing emerges out of my lips, and even if there is something said, it's met with silence or the thousand-and-one replies my own brain conjures up to fill the blanks. I took for granted these spaces, but now they are big, in my face, staring endlessly without blinking.

I think of you now as my 'secret' person. It hurts me to think of you, but I want to feel this pain. I don't want to hide it or bury it. I want to keep feeling for you, and not forget. I don't want to lose all sensation of you. I keep going back to what it felt like to touch your face, play with your hands, press your feet, feed you dinner. What it felt like when you looked straight into my eyes and touched the deepest darkest recesses of my soul. What joy erupted within at the sight of your smile. That look of yours which you gave me, when you knew. When you knew  about me what nobody else knew. But you were gentlemanly enough not to say. Only look.

I love you. You are my first identification of 'love'. And I love you not like a lover, neither like a relative. You, my love, and I share a bond that is eternal. And even now, when I can no longer touch you or hear your laughter in reality, I feel good to know what I have with you will always remain and can be touched by no one.

I miss you. I miss the originality of you. My mind will make up innumerable replies to my questions and thoughts, things that I think you might say. But they still are not your thoughts, they are mine. I miss your thoughts. I miss your words. I miss your thinking between sentences and constructing a reply I will understand and appreciate. I miss our debates. I miss your tears. I miss everything so so much, it aches me all over. I remember you told me what it felt like, to be dying. That you had been there twice and back. That you could feel your life being sucked out of you. I remember holding you tight, while you saw that darkness in front of you. Now you are in the dark, or somewhere else, I do not know. I know you're there somewhere. I felt you around. I know we will meet again. Will you remember me? I hope so. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2011


I just started my new job at an early childhood development enrichment centre (the first of its kind in the country). And I find it's always refreshing, exciting and a little scary when you start off at a new workplace. There's the training period, getting-to-know-everyone, new desks and phone extension and the community lunching. But the most unnerving of all is when your boss tells you, "You need to unlearn EVERYTHING you've learnt so far".

Now while that may sound like a big task. It isn't. It's GARGANTUOUS. And while she may have referred to just the work skills required, it translates to other areas of one's life too. With the passage of time and many jobs, I have been conditioned into believing in certain behavioural patterns that people have. And most are not so favourable. As a result, I'm hesitant to open up with my colleagues, but slowly am beginning to. Politics follows us everywhere. But we have the power to choose whether we want it to take over our professional lives or not. And I think my current team has chosen not to let it conquer us. I'm happy to say I'm getting comfortable in this environment, but the unlearning is still under process and I'm still a bit wary. 

I suppose if you want to work with little children, you have to go back to being a little child -- when everything is simple, innocent and full of colour, music and laughter. 

Monday, September 5, 2011

Happy birthday buddy

There was once a stringy lad,
An intellectual air he had,
Spoke out of his hat,
Hit his head with a bat
I would've, if the chance I had.

But this lad, Pariket, we see,
Grew up to the handsome he be,
With a swagger and smile
Charming all with his style
Formed a brotherhood with the boys and me

From then on our bond was strong
With our ups and downs along,
Laughter and tears
Kicks in our rears
We carried on in dance and song

From GJ coffees to now
Past jaundices and fractures, and how
We travel the world
With our heads in a whirl
As much as our pockets allow

Now this lad has joined our kind
Of the quarter-century grind
But I must add here
To your heart do hold dear
That 'ageing' is only in the mind.

So to the next quarter I toast,
Many a party may you host
Success in your life
Perhaps a loving wife
And little minions of your own to roast.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Ding-dong Knell

Slow and steady, slow and steady; The end is near, but I'm not ready.

In and out, in and out; Ignored, ignored, till I shout.

Goodbye goodbye, Hello hello; When did I come here, where did you go?

I sleep I wake I sleep I wake; How much more of this I take?

I miss you, I miss you; Will you all miss me too?

Hold me close, but careful touch; I want your love so very much.

Old is new and news is old; I don't believe what I am told.

Slow and steady, slow and steady; The end is near, but I'm not ready.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Aroma Therapy

There is nothing like the delicious aroma of home-cooked food wafting through the rooms of my house. And two days in a row too! (That may sound surprising to many, but I live alone, folks, so getting a cook is a big deal for me!)

Yesterday I was delighted that she came in the morning and cooked my favourite - Bhindi and roti (with ghee, of course). When she left and I went to check what she had made, I was ecstatic and did a leetal jig in the kitchen! The smell of the familiar spices was too good. What a wonderful way to start the day!

Today she's made aloo ki sabzi with tomato and leftover veggies in the house (I didn't get time to go to the market yesterday). And of course, roti (with ghee). I'm in heaven.

Who moved my *cheeeeeeeeese*?

Ever notice how we are torn into minuscule shreds by our guilty consciences for being unable to choose between two equally important priorities that require our attention at the same time?

For example, the other night I was torn between spending time with my ailing boyfriend and also relaxing at home in general, and meeting my cousin sister for a drink to celebrate her passing her exams. Both were equally important, and they tore me apart. My insides exploded and all I could feel in my body was a blank hum (if you could picture that, it would be great). I had a million thoughts buzzing through my head about both situations and how picking one would affect the other. Of course, what with my hyper imagination, I created several hypothetical conflicts, conversation and outcomes - most of which were negative - and began to react emotionally as though these possibilities were actually happening. Not that my sister, in reality, would have reacted as negatively as I had imagined, and neither did my boyfriend (when I told him of my conflict and asked for his help).

Long story short, all ended well - I visited my sister AND got to spend time with me boy. And I realised all the tension I had taken upon my head a few hours before were unnecessary and a frightful waste of a very good guitar class.

Looking back, I realise that I have set certain high standards of 'being' for myself, with relation to others. Now I never thought I would, but, hey, I'm human. And so is everybody else. And I feel like I have to hit a certain high bar of performance in order to gain acceptance from people important to me. But performing is never really 'being'. Performance is something I do. 'Being' is something I am. So performing to make somebody important to me happy isn't really me 'being' me. It's me being the appropriate me.

But how can that make anybody happy? Especially when deep inside, I am not? It's practically impossible to tell what another person is thinking or feeling at any given time. Everybody thinks different, feels different, opines different, based on their experiences and learnages. So how can I decide what makes them happy makes me happy? How can I be so sure that a particular kind of behaviour will truly work and make that person happy?

When did I decide that my happiness lies in somebody else's mind?

The above question was asked to me by a friend. And to me, it's a very powerful one. I needn't have answered it, because it already resolved so many issues and pent-up tensions I had. If I am looking for happiness, then the most dangerous place to find it is in another person's mind, embedded in his/her opinions. And this realisation has released me. In fact, now when I am faced with similar conflicts, the tension is lesser (not completely eradicated yet) and I'm much more rational and objective. And I look at the situation from a distance and am quite calm when doing so. I am hopeful that it will resolve itself and that it will not be the end of me.

Noted Austrian psychiatrist Viktor Frankl once said, "The ultimate freedom lies in the ability to choose one’s attitude in a given set of circumstances."

I'm beginning to understand that now.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

'The Day the Music Died' By Me

Seven days, twenty four hours,
He suffocated me with smelly flowers,
I withered, no matter how much he tried,
The day the music died.

When I think about what I love most,
I think beyond my honey, cheese and toast,
But it all became unbearably fried,
The day the music died.

The crows, they caw, the cars they horn,
The bloody rose has its silver thorn,
A nun she was, but then she lied,
The day the music died.

A rose will always be a rose,
But a coloured man can have no woes,
These shades, they all fled with the tide,
The day the music died.

Dark clouds thundered and lashed with rain,
The weather fought in bloody pain,
The sun conceded and began to hide,
The day the music died.

Braggarts 'joiced' in the name of their 'chords,
She screamed as much as she could afford,
But 'twas all for nothing, and they all sighed,
The day the music died.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Luxury, my friends, is a 'relative' term

A week ago there was much activity in the city. For me, the week began last Sunday, when my friend  was admitted at the Bombay Hospital for a knee surgery and subsequent recovery through the coming week. I kept a check on her throughout. There was a burst of compassion within me and I found myself being a girl friend... to a girl, for a change, like the rest of my kind. It felt great.

[She was in a lot of pain, and at first tried to hide the tears and whines, but eventually let go. I was relieved that she was comfortable enough to do so. I pampered her with chocolate, soft toys and jokes - not usual for me, but it was growing on me, her smile.]

That Monday, I planned to visit her after Bainganwadi. That morning, I touched base with my grandmother and found that my grandfather (who is quite old and long-time ailing) had had a rough night and wasn't too well. So I decided that post my friend's visit I would drop by home and surprise them for dinner. By the time I reached Bombay Hospital, my grandmother messaged saying my grandfather had been admitted that afternoon to the hospital due to breathing problems. I felt terrible, and right after visiting my friend went over to Breach Candy to meet him.

And two days later - there were bomb blasts in three separate areas of South Mumbai. Bodies strewn across the road, blood and limbs scattered. Surviving injured stuffed in cabs and hurried away to neighbouring hospitals. And the rest is... on the news.

So now that you have the background of the week that past, I'll zoom in on a specific part that I want to talk about.

My friend was admitted in a room-sharing facility. That meant that she would share her hospital room with four other women - the room was divided into 4 wards, separated by curtains. It wasn't flashy, but it wasn't too bad either. It was manageable initially. But the service was far from preferable. The nurses were rough, rude and less concerned about the patient's personal needs. I guess they were doing their jobs - which they did efficiently - but at this level, they needn't be extra caring or attentive - which they also made apparent enough for my friend to feel quite miserable. The room became hot and stuffy after a while - what with the fan fanning all the patients and little ventilation. The toilet facilities (a bedpan with the nurse helping my post-op bedridden friend) were not so sanitary. The IV was painful for her ( I went through the same pain, too) and the nurse wasn't too sensitive about it - she was a bit rough when giving her the drip. I remembered my time in the hospital and how the nurse was patiently giving me meds through my drip slowly so I could bear the pain. The doctor visits were scarce and the physiotherapy a nightmare. She couldn't afford to shift to a private room. There was no special treatment here. She was literally asked to stop fussing around or go home. In all of this, she had her old-fashioned father (inept at public displays of affection), who had to sleep on the ground next to her bed at nights, because he couldn't bear to leave her alone and her younger angry-young-man brother (who was around as much as his job permitted but tried his level best to be around her) [both are quite hilarious and fun when you get to know them better]. Her mother (and this is quite rich, really) who is a Parsi (divorced and remarried), couldn't make it for her daughter's surgery and post-op recovery period at the hospital, because she had to fly urgently to Delhi during the same week for... ahem... Guru Poornima. Butshefeltterribleleavingherchildforunavoidableengagementandprayedforherdaily. Of course. Sometimes I just don't get how religion helps. I'm glad I was around.

Over at the Breach Candy Hospital, the scene was quite different. As I entered the fourth floor lobby, there was air-conditioned silence and only whispering and murmuring between floor nurses. There was a set of crisp flower bouquets in the waiting area by the lift, and spotless floors. I went to my grandfather's private room, where I found him lying on his bed, surrounded by his I-Phone, I-Pad, I-Pod and his Blackberry. I bet if there was any other gadget with an 'I' prefixing it, it was on that table by his bedside. And the remote(s) to the flat-screen TV facing him. My grandmother was sitting with my mother on the couch, reading a magazine, I think. My mother was playing the Angry Bird game on the other I-Pad. His Private Nurse was by his side, making him comfortable by adjusting one of his many pillows or dabbing the ice pack on his blood-clotted arm. Other nurses came in periodically and politely asked about his daily progress and prescriptions. The male nurse politely entered and with impeccable Hindi and dentist-approved perfect-teeth smile asked when my grandfather would like to have his dinner, which arrived neatly at sharp 9:00 p.m. and was fed to him by my grandmother. My father and aunt joined later and there was a jolly group of family members chattering amongst each other about old songs, gossip and other mindless randomage. I was with my grandfather the whole time, making him laugh, sharing silent moments with him, even if it meant our fingertips touching or fingers twined within one another. And while the rest were babbling away, he sang to me and pulled my heartstrings so close to him that the world around me dulled and the only sounds that left me were the small cry from my heart and the trickle of tears behind my thick brown glasses.

One day, he was excessively grumpy and agitated. Also, in general, his breathing had improved with the meds, so he could talk more. And while he did, whenever my grandmother interjected or talked to me or anyone else, he kept shutting her up or making snide remarks about her constantly interrupting him and making him lose his train of thought. It was the last straw when he did it to her in front of the nurse. So when the nurse left, my grandmother asked him to refrain from doing so, especially in front of the nurse. He was angry because she didn't understand him and couldn't take his humour. She held her ground and after much shouting they decided to not talk to one another. The cold war remained for a while, until dinner time when she eventually came around and fed him some of his dinner. I fed him the rest. She left but they made up before she said bye. It was amazing to see how fast they became friends again. I stayed till later.

We talked about what had happened. I wanted him to understand that she was doing her best. He barked, why is she here? I said, because she cares and loves him. I told him the scene at my friend's side of the world. I told him he should be thankful he has so many more facilities at his beck-and-call and so many more people caring for him. What care? he asked. I said, look at how many people visit you. To which he replied, 'They don't come for me, all they do is talk to each other. I go to sleep listening to my wife and daughter chatter away, and five hours later, when I wake, they're still talking!' Then he compared them to me. He asked me why I come and talk to him? How we sit and have long conversations and have a good time together. I said, because that's how I do it. I came here for him, so I will be with him. To which he said, 'If they are coming for me, then talk to me! I'm a lonely man. Be with me. I also want someone to talk to.'

I realised something here. It didn't matter making that comparison between hospital facilities and service from the staff. It didn't matter having more money to spend on I-Pads and whatnot for occupation. At the end of the day, at two very different hospitals, two very different wards, two individuals with a common fiery spirit for life were hurting. And they were both lonely and aching for love and caring attention. They both wanted someone to share that experience with. And not play host to a bunch of chattering ninnies who come for the sake of visiting. Many people knew my friend was in hospital and having surgery. Some messaged to check on her. Barely anyone came all the way to see her. Her own mother felt a pooja in another city was more important than being by her daughter's side when she needed it the most. And being the formal and put-on-a-brave-front type that she is, my friend didn't complain even once. But she was ecstatic that I came almost everyday, with one small thing or the other to cheer her up with. Her face lit up at the sight of any one who would spend some time with her, put all their attention on her and distract her from her pain. And on this side, I suppose my family has been through the rigmarole of hospital visits since forever, given my grandfather's track record. But to him, each time is painful and worse than the previous one. While we have resigned ourselves to the reality that this is how it will be and fit it into a routine, we never took into account how it actually will be for the person experiencing it. To him, this is far from a routine. To him, this is not living. This is dying. And he's scared out of his wits. The gadgets are a fake blanket. The real blankets are tucked away in couches, behind magazines and games.

And when I saw this, I realised why my friend and my grandfather both thoroughly enjoyed my company. They drew energy, spirit, happiness and hope from me. From my words, from my outrageous stories and silliness. They drew comfort from my pampering them, whether it was buying Tom and Jerry presents for my friend to make her laugh, or tenderly feed my grandfather dinner such that he ate more than he ever has in the past few weeks. They had a window to the outside world - the same world the other people lived in and talked about, but only with each other. I shared my world with them both, and that made their stay in their respective hospital hells somewhat bearable.

I feel I have so much more to say about this - my heart is heavy with emotion as I relive the past week and try to put it in words. But I can't.

Money buys us many luxuries. A comfortable bed. Weather we can control to our liking. Better food, service and entertainment. And possibly good medical care for a speedy recovery.

I send a prayer and all the goodness in my heart to all those people who don't have the luxury of company.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

What's in a name?

Two nights ago, I told my boyfriend that I don't want to be his girlfriend anymore. Not going into too much detail, there were some things that I could not wrap my head around and tolerate about him. And it bothered me a lot.

I was very upset and it took a lot of crying and thinking to say those words out loud to him. And it upset him a lot too.

But here's the thing. Once I moved past that moment of removing the term 'girlfriend' off my head and the 'relationship' being over, I didn't really feel any different. I still love him, irrespective of the parts I am unable to tolerate right now. I still want to spend the rest of my life with him. I still want to move in with him and make hundreds of his babies. And once the initial anger and stress of that night reduced to a calm nil, all I was left with was love.

It was strange at first - I was awkward because now I'm not the 'girlfriend', so there are 'boundaries' and 'ways of behaving' and 'distance' and stuff. He was supportive and loving all the same. I realised something here - something I knew all along, which was the first thing that brought us together.

The word 'relationship' is just that. A word. Girlfriend, boyfriend, going out, going around - and any other name you can think of - they're all words. And I've always maintained that I do not like them. I do not depend on them to define how I feel and for whom. But slowly they began to grow on me, and became part of the 'couples' herd. I never wanted to be anyone's girlfriend ever since I was a kid. Not because I didn't want someone to love me and vice versa. But it was the system of nameage that put restrictions on our behaviour. I mean, so are you telling me that once a 'relationship' is 'over', we are supposed to automatically 'hate' each other and not touch one another again? How does that work? How can a word faciliate or terminate an emotion? And why is it that once, you know, two people are certain they love eachother and spend more time together - it becomes a 'relationship'? Don't you have a relationship with your grandmother, your teacher, you dog and perhaps your personal laptop? Aren't they all relationships? Then how is this 'relationship' any different? Why must it be named? And why 'girlfriend' and 'boyfriend'? Can't we all just be friends without specifying gender? I am aware of my sexuality and I'm sure my significant other is, too.

My point is that when I pushed this system out of the way two nights ago, I felt free. I was free, again, to love him as I please and be loved in return. That was how it all began two years ago, on that beach, where we decided we didn't want a 'relationship' and we would just go with the flow and see where things go. And I feel alive and giddy with excitement at that thought. It releases me from so many conventional pressures like marriage, baby-makeage, moving-innage and everything else. Sure, we aren't perfect and there are things that'll drive us nuts about each other. That's a given. But what's also very much real is that we love each other. There is no logic or reason. It just is. I can't tell the future, and I'm happy with my present - with him.

So for all practical purposes, this 'relationship' name game is over for me. I'm just going to go back to loving him as I please.

And if we must put a label on eachother, then can I pick my own name please? Not girlfriend. Trombone, perhaps? Good, sturdy sound to it, no?

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Two Guys and a Girl

Moving Out:
It's that time of the year, again, folks! Yes, you guessed it right - it's time for HOUSE-SHIFTAGE, yet again! Although I get the feeling that this time will be closer to a more permanent destination. Or atleast something you can call home for more than 3 years and perhaps for the rest of your life, without someone taking it away from you.

Figuring out how to pack all my belongings, fitting them all into the cartons I had saved from my last shift, and lodging them in my new home-to-be, which is a 1 room-kitchen (with terrace above) shared with 2 boys. There are a lot of factors in the statement above, which indicate that my shift will take time to get used to. But then all shifts take time to adapt to, isn't it? Each time, different flavour, eh?

We Are Family:
A friend of mine who grew up without a family has adopted my boyfriend and me as his family. It's quite an interesting and somewhat endearing situation I find myself in. He treats us like his parents (or maybe older siblings) who take care of him, feed him, medicate him, clothe him and also take him around with us, and spend time with him, advise him for his studies, guide him through his relationships; the list goes on. It takes a little getting used to, since he is a grown adult, but has overnight turned into a leetal boy who wants to be nurtured. He had already decided for me way before I did that I would be living with them. It just felt right.