A Christmas start

Bright and early on crisp Christmas morning, I went out for a walk. Right outside our building, I passed the fruitman and his handcart stall. We'd been talking about him just the previous evening. Doobie and Bobbis had noticed that his stall was open even at 11 and 12 in the night, and we'd all been wondering at the long hours he kept. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to go over and ask him about it.
"Hello, Merry Christmas," I approached.
"Merry Christmas to you too!"
"Two apples, please." And as he was picking out the apples, I mentioned, "my friends and I were wondering about the long hours you keep. It seems like you're always open, from early in the morning to late at night."
"Oh, its not just me, there's my cousin too, so we take shifts."
"But till 11 at night?!! Does anyone even buy fruit at that time??"
"We're a very dedicated fruit stall here," he said solemnly.

I liked him instantly. There's a lot to be said for passion and dedication.

Having paid him for the apples, I trundled on down the road. A block along on my promenade, and my path crossed with an elderly blind man. "Hello? Hello?" he was saying to the world at large. Seeing as there was no one else on the road save him and me, I moseyed on over to him.
"Hello," I put forth gently so as not to startle him, "how can I help?"
"I'm looking for my fruitman," he said, "is he around here somewhere?"
"There's a fruitman about a block down the road, sir," I said, glancing unconsciously at my apples.
"Can you lead me to him please?"
"Of course," so I tucked my arm through his and started guiding him back to the fruit stall.
"It's Christmas morning, you see," he told me as we picked our way slowly down the road together. "I always buy myself a basket of fruit on Christmas morning."
I liked the fact that he had a little tradition for himself. Goes without saying that I'm a fool for such quirks and idiosyncracies. I left him in the caring hands of the fruitman (Passionate and Dedicated), and continued on my way.

I felt lucky to have this asked of me first thing on Christmas morning. It felt auspicious, somehow, to be approaching the new year doing something good.

A new nest to roost and rest

After much ado (now it seems, in retrospect, about nothing), we have finally moved into our new home. There was a stage of packing, throwing, selling, and re-discovering the under-bed mysteries. And - oh my! - there were countless countless countless brown cartons (labelled with cryptic illogicisms like 'Ficali pillows & kitchen items' or 'Dining chairs & Doobie shoes'). But finally, after a seeming eternity, everything was at last in boxes. And then there was a stage of dealing with the movers. ("Play hardball and remember to haggle over the tip," Delta had advised. When tipping time came the movers told me, "tip what you like, but $40 a head would be nice." Like Delta had advised, I played hardball. I said, "Erm, ah, uh, okay $40 it is then.")

And now, at long last, we're all in the new apartment. Bobbis, Doobie, Ilajna and I earning frequent flyer status at all the home decor stores in the city. ("Help me put my new curtains up!" asked Ilajna. "Check out my new shelf decoration!" squealed Bobbis.)

A few months ago, a pair of birds had built a nest in the plants on my parents terrace. When they stumbled upon it and peered in for a closer look, they noticed that the nest had been built not just of twigs and straw, but also interwoven with a variety of brightly coloured strings and yarns (can birds see in colour??). "They'd made it so pretty!" my mum had exclaimed.

And now, in the throes of pulling our home together, its our turn to be just like the birds. As each of us brings home the coloured yarns and strings to tie our home together.

Instant retribution

The other day, I played with an ant and made it crawl up and down my arm unnecessarily (see below). I realised now I shouldn't have interfered with Gawd's creatures.

Yesterday, I was sitting in Bombay Gym's outdoor lounge, entirely at peace with myself and the world at large. The Buddha of my inner sanctum.

And then an ant crawled up my leg and bit me on my bottom.

GAH.

Glimpses from Bombay

I breathe in deeply as I step out of the airport. The air is tinged with the mingled scents of dust and dirt and heat and crowd. There's a general noise and bustle which smacks of utter disorder, to me having just stepped of the plane, but having been a part of the crowd before, I know there is an order to the madness. I can't describe the initial scene in terms which might be pleasant to the random visitor, but to me, this is a sensation of homecoming, of comfort in familiarity, of return to childhood.

I feel a tickly sensation and look down at my arm. A tiny black ant, of the adventurous Christopher Columbus sort, is feeling its way up my arm. Assiduously. Diligently. Tentatively. Feelers extended forthwith like ardent sabers. I watch it persevere upwards till it reaches my wrist, and then I extend my elbow downwards, so that it suddenly finds itself at the bottom rather than the top of my arm. Without complaint, the ant turns around and starts its uphill climb all over again. I let it climb up for a while, and then start to feel guilty about the futility I am creating in its efforts; there is enough futility in life without me actively perpetuating more. I extend my arm to a plant and nudge it gently back onto a leaf.

I wake up, bleary eyed, from an afternoon nap. The fan is whirring lazily aloft, creating a languid breeze in which the entire room seems to recede into a drowsy stupor. Still struggling through a thick somnambulistic haze, I stumble to my parents' room, where my mum is sprawled on the bed watching telly. I'm seeing her now after one and a half years, and she doesn't seem like she's aged a day. Neither of my parents, come to think of it. I hope that rate of aging is a hereditary characteristic. I snuggle up next to my mum on the bed, basking in a warm sense of homecoming. "So tell me everything about your past year," she says smilingly, and we start our hearty mother-daughter catch-up sesh.

What with Rox and Tosh finally deciding, after nigh on ten years together, to join the ranks of the betrothed, a large part of the crew is down in Bombay this month. So it's dinners and drinks and weddings and dances. Rox and Tosh have been together more than ten years now. I remember when they first got together in highschool, when Tosh was so nervous to ask Rox to the tenth grade Formal. "She'll never agree to go with me!" he'd agonised. And that was just to a dance. And now here they are, more than ten years later, on the eve of their wedding night. Telling me anecdotes about their problematic kitchen furniture. I'm thrilled by the intimacy of it all.

Winding my way down Baker Street

This time, much to my delight, Delta managed to accompany me on my brief jaunt to London. It ended up being a flurried last minute plan - some time to catch up with a few friends, and some time to ourselves showing him my old haunts in the city.

There was Macklaine and crew at Nando's. The entire crew had pitched up, as they always did, and I was touched to tears. (This is the restaurant you keep raving about?! said Delta, when he realised it was just chicken and chips.) In my normal exuberance, I suppose I might have over-hyped the restaurant just a little bit. Still, he couldn't taste in the food the sentimentalism of years and friendships and shared confidences gone by. I guess to him, it really was just chicken and chips.

And then there was Brr at the Borough Market. Brr who I hadn't met in nigh on two years, probably the longest period I'd been apart from her since we'd first met when we were twelve. And after our respectively dramatic past years, there was so much to catch up on. So much that after our bout 0f unceasing chatter (during which Delta politely ceased trying to even get a word in edgewise and simply succumbed to the listening role), there was still an air of unfinishedness.

After which there was Kostka, down at Baker street (Winding My Way down Baker Street hummed Delta as we trudged down there. Perfectly chosen song, although the tune was somewhat dubious; and while he'll undoubtedly blame this on his sore throat, I'd might prefer to postulate otherwise.) And there was the Bart and Nish, and copious amounts of dimsum. Finally, after waiting all this time, I could burst forth with all my questions about Bart's wedding. And about how they were all doing. And their jobs. And their PhDs. And their boyfriends and girlfriends and fiances and husbands. It was a hand-rubbing, smile-winning, heart-warming true girly catch-up sesh, and made me realise how much I'd missed them!

But all too soon, as is always the case, it was time to leave. There's never enough time in London. Not to meet everyone I want to. Not to absorb the familiar sights, smells and sounds of the city. Not to sink in and revel in the comfort and security of the place I still sometimes think of as home.

But of course, inevitably, I'll be back soon. Perhaps this summer. There. Feeling better already.

A brief history of events

The expansive hiatus from the writing desk over the last few weeks was not so much for dearth of subject matter, but rather an accute absence of time. Today finds me all huddles and snuggled and, if truth be told, rather grumpy.

Mostly because of the weather's rather inconsiderate return to winter norm. I'm embarrassed to say I'd grown rather fond of the spell of global warming which was keeping temperatures in the city up in the balmy 20s (C). The warmth had lulled me into a false sense of security so that when I woke up this morning to a frosty chill, I felt somewhat the jilted lover.

But then on the other hand, what better day to stay in, hide from the world, and update ye ol' blog, eh.

A surprising amount of activity snowballed into us (me 'n' mah hood, ya know) during the last few weeks.

First, there was Doobie's surprise birthday bash. A nice intimate dinner, friends gathering at a nearby bar, an exclaiming and squealing Doobie - safe to say, it turned out exactly as planned. As all our friends gathered together at the bar, the realisation hit both Doobie and me at the same time: These were our new friends we had met over the past year. This was the life we had built for ourselves. New York really had grown into our new home. It was an overwhelming, heart-swelling, tear-welling kind of moment. If it hadn't seemed too dorky (given that it was, after all, Doobie's birthday not mine), I might have dappled in a bit of misty-eyed sentimentalism of my own.



And then, there was Thanksgiving weekend in Vermont. A perfect little chalet, a spot of winter skiing, an immaculate Thanksgiving meal (courtesy of Jenn and Sarah, I must concede), a ten-hour prolonged bout of Trivial Pursuit (never let it be said that I'm not tenacious).