Displaced And Out of Step . . .
The lilting music tumbles and washes over me. Is it Beethoven or Bach? I wouldn’t know, even if I tried. I’ve never been a classical music type of person. Give me Frank Sinatra or the young musician my daughter’s crazy about—Billie Ellish, I think her name is.
They play these kinds of calm, soulful tunes in these high-end spas, all soft voices and padded steps. It’s all a facade really. Just like Biden’s unexpected but salient victory in the polls last week. I voted for Bernie Sanders, but if Joe Biden gets the nomination, I’ll cast an unwilling vote for him. Not that it matters. Trump is expected to sail into office for a second term. Darn those blue-collar states again—the middle-class belt fighting against the jobs going abroad.
Going Away
All the arrangements have been made. The suitcases are stowed in the trunk of the limousine that’s come to whisk me and Daddy away for ten days. I perch on the edge of my seat, my legs pressed neatly together as I mentally scroll through my checklist.
Did you remember to pack the canary yellow outfit for the mehndi, the fuchsia lehenga for the sangeet, the organza red sari for the wedding, the gold Kanjeevaram sari for the reception?
Check.
Self Love
She peers down with squinty eyes at her weighing scale. She adjusts her pre-breakfast body—she tilts her love handles to the left, then to the right, so that the weight displayed in numbers that appears on the electronic screen will put her in a good mood. The magical number that will let her cook, clean, and teach math to her kindergarten class while floating on a fluffy, white cloud all day.
She grimaces and steps down, arms crossed across her chest, shoulders hunched. Four pounds above her normal weight since the holiday season ended. She groans as she thinks of all the celebrations still to come. Valentine’s Day, Holi, St. Patrick’s Day, Baisakhi, school graduations. At this rate, she won’t be able to fit into her size eight dresses this season or the next.
Something inherited I will not pass on . . .
This love of clothes, it’s a cursed thing. Everywhere I look there are cabinet drawers, boxes, plastic bags, canvas sacks, more cardboard boxes, and sundry junk drawers overflowing with outfits for every season and every reason—pastels, brights, neutrals, whites, blacks, reds, and every color in between.
Take, for example, my decades-long obsession with animal print. I have animal print in every style—in a flowy maxi dress, a knee-length dress, a jumpsuit, a romper, a Manish Malhotra gown; even a bikini or two in ubiquitous animal print.
Visiting Vietnam: 10 Reasons Why?
Why Vietnam? Hanoi’s bustling old quarter; historically rich Hoi An’s lantern ceremony and the dramatic scenery of Ha Long Bay: it is small wonder that Vietnam was named the World’s Leading Heritage Destination in 2019. Vietnam’s growing popularity as a travel destination has been confirmed by Trip Advisor’s ranking of it as one of the 10 best places to visit in the world. If you need persuading, here are 10 reasons to fall head over heels in love with Vietnam:
Motorbike Capital of the World:
A young woman on a motorbike brakes sharply to avoid a collision and her conical leaf hat flies off her head and lands on the sidewalk. That’s Vietnam for you.
Cheers to 2020 and another chance for us to get it right!
”For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” – T.S. Eliot
A New Year brings infinite new possibilities. A clean slate. A reason to erase past mistakes and start afresh. We all know that resolutions don\’t always stick. But for a shot at real happiness, try penning a set of personal commandments (an idea borrowed from best-selling author Gretchen Rubin.)
I would suggest writing them down and keeping them handy. This may make you laugh, but I have mine scribbled on a post-it note stuck to a long-expired Bed & Bath coupon. Anytime I\’m stuck in traffic, listening to Zayn’s \’Trampoline’ repeat itself for the fourth time in a sixty-minute window, I find myself pulling out my handy-dandy list and ruminating on what\’s important.
Here\’s my list . . . to help you get started on your own:
If I could I would . . .
She squeezes her eyes tightly shut not to let the tears fall. “That day, that moment, if I could have that time back.”
The morning of September 22 had started out innocuously enough. Yes, Javed was crying at the top of his newborn lungs, wanting his early feeding. But that was normal for a two-month baby. She’d fed him, then walked him up and down the tiny apartment, rubbing his back so he’d burp, all the while practicing aloud the words of the scene for the movie she was auditioning for later in the day. She’d been so excited when her agent had called with the opportunity—so few and far between these days ever since she’d had baby Javed. Ninety seconds was all it took to make him, and it was going to take a lifetime to raise him.
Now Nominated for The Pushcart Prize . . .
I don’t know whether to cry or sing for joy!!
The following short story excerpted from the novel I have been working on for the past three years and, recently published in the annual 2019 issue of Green Hills Literary Lantern, has now been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
When the lights went out . . .
“Let’s play Dark Room, “ the cousin I’ve never met until today suggests with a wink. He’s fifteen, going on fifty—his greasy hair falling in untidy spirals over his glistening forehead, the sweat stains under his armpits visible under his cream polyester shirt, his fingernails colored yellow from the chicken curry he consumed at lunch.
I shudder delicately, turning away so that no one notices how I clench my palms together. How long are these relatives from Kanpur going to stay?
Nostalgia about a power cut . . .
I’m from a place in India where power outages were frequent and familiar. The lights would go off just as we were about to sit down for a meal of chicken curry, spiced okra, and hot rotis with a side of homemade yogurt. Someone would whoop on the road outside, and the power cut would fall like a blanket of silence. There would be a mad scramble for candles with my mom yelling to the maid-servant in the kitchen, “Meena, where did we keep the candles I bought from Modern Bazaar last week?”
There would be a minute or two of deepening silence, finally broken by our landlord Dr. Gupta\’s reedy voice floating up from the ground floor level.