First Impressions: The Wallcreeper by Nell Zink

 

The reading dry spell broke with this novel, 'The Wallcreeper'. It is unfair to review a book that I have read in fits and starts over the year. But then, this section is not really a review. It's a first, quick reaction to what I thought of the book. 

The word that comes to mind when I think of this novel is 'desultory' but in a strangely charming way. 

The book begins with a couple Stephen and Tiff out on a drive. A bird, a wallcreeper, crashes into the car, Stephen swerves, and Tiff suffers a miscarriage. But Stephen is a bird fiend so they take in the injured wallcreeper, name him Rudi, and go on about their lives. A major portion of their own lives seems to be living through a frayed marriage and rather hollowed out individual experiences. Just how dysfunctional this marriage is, s evidenced by the fact that Stephen chaperones Tiff on her date with some migrant in Berne. (The novel begins there.) At some point later, Stephen sleeps with Constance, Tiff's sister. One morning Tiff returns home after spending the night with a tortured soul she is so attracted to. Stephen knows this. And he is attracted to her even more. 

Their marriage then unravels and comes together briefly in quite a tedious manner against larger themes like environmental conservatism, rich and abundant ornithological references, and weird analogies with birding and feeding. At one point, these characters seem to be architected out of wispy paper to seem to cool for school. Bendy ethics, fragile scruples, quick repartees, the works.

Rudy, their pet wallcreeper, dies quite suddenly at one point. And then later, Stephen dies just as suddenly too. This happens towards the end of the story. It is only after that that Tiff, a pretty woman who has spent her lifetime avoiding labour by getting entangled with men so they could take care of her - in exchange for whatever she offered, sex or distraction or both - it is only after Stephen's death that she comes into her own.

As staccato and brittle as the plot felt, I never had a problem getting back to the book. Well, there wasn't much to get back to, in terms of plot. But the language and insights were beautiful. Nell has a way of distilling loads of information and emotions into moving and evocative sentences. My favorite portions are when she describes the various cities she lives in - Berne, Berlin, Breitenhagen.

'The river enfolded the city like a uterine wall.'

'Everything in Berne had a delicious texture advertising a rich interior. Nothing was facade. It was clean all the way down forever and forever, like the earth in Whitman's "This Compost."

Somewhere else she is appreciating the ecosystem of a meadow. She writes, "Continuity of an aesthetic that had become an aesthetic of continuity."

Or how she describes a lake as being silvery and smooth as mercury in a teaspoon. 

My absolute favorite is how she describes Breitenhagen. 

'The village sits on a knoll above a narrow bit of floodplain. Huge oaks shade the wetlands. The sun sets when it sets and not a minute sooner. That is, the same sun that slips behind mountains in Berne still white, and behind buildings in Berlin while fading to yellow, there rages orange and pink through the trees and melts to the horizon like a sun going down over the sea. The mist rises off the river, the already silvery willows and poplars go into silver overdrive, the wall of leaves shimmer, and the magenta sun proclaims, LSD Is A Crutch.'

For passages like this, the book is good. You live somewhere. You leave that place. Hopefully, some sweetness will linger.

Year. One more and new. One more and same. One more for the rules. One more for the game.

 I have lived many, many years now. At some point, the turn of the year, the turn of the century, the shift of time, the onset of apocalypse, the coming of Eden...all of these seem to have lost their novelty. They still remain causes of celebration. Maybe some oblique segments of introspection, a hurried scribble in a diary, an urgent blog post...but that's all. 

Actually I want to know where my mother is. It seems funny that she, who had such a solid presence - her clothes are here, her cookbooks, her jewelry, her house, her husband, her son...but I want to know how she hasn't been even a little bit curious to want to check up on anything. Until she passed away, I used to think that I knew the answers to everything, including and especially death. We all had a soul and we reincarnated until we exhausted our karmas and then we had great coffee and omelette and merged with the sky. But now I don't think that's the case. In fact, I think that nothing has any meaning. All those details about ascribing meaning to life, that's beautiful imaginative contract clauses ..like the proposal or concept note you give to a prospect to get business. You don't need to show the actual thing. You just need to convince them of the potential. 

So maybe that's what enamored me and I signed up for life on this earth. And then I met my mom...much as one might meet someone if you lived inside them for a bit, and then you spent some time together and then they went. You think you had roots but all you had was vapor. Sometimes when I attend a client call, and someone's voice sounds like her, I get very happy. Then I get very sad. Then I get very angry. And then I get happy again. This happens between the times the person says "Hi Mukta" and I say "Hi xyz". 

It's not like I am sad that she's no more. I am a little frustrated that I don't know where she went. It's a little idiotic because I was at the cremation. And I had the death certificate in the bank. But even now, if I see my name scribbled in her handwriting, I wonder where she is. Whether she was ever there or did I just imagine it all up. 

Hmm. The theory of complete randomness seems to be giving some solace to me. My mom's and my path had to cross. It did. Then she went her way and I went mine. She could easily have had another child and I could easily have been born in the neighbor's house. Nothing more to think about this. Her going is no more magical than her being there in the first place. It's random.

It would be nice if I could locate that keyhole or rip in the cosmos where random things and random people slip out. 2021 could very well be that year perhaps. 

I think I am quite smart now. I don't want the year to shine and dazzle me with lights. I want my eyes to get used to the soothing darkness. 

Maybe I will find her there.

 

It just so happens...

...that this post is being written with nervous energy.

Anyway, I think I will write on a more sedate matter - a painful truth that I have had to reconcile with, in 2020. I have read really, really little. Most of my reading has been for work and even in that, a lot of my reading has involved emails. This is not a happy state to be. 

So I am trying to finish reading Nell Zink's 'The Wallcreeper' which I have been trying to read for many months now. But after a long time, I am making some progress. Painfully slow but as a bumper sticker with a doozy turtle had put it, "Forward is forward."

I recently made a list of all the unopened, unread, almost-new books that are stacked around me and I intend to get through those. I do not want to be the kind of writer who writes more than she reads. Because reading is listening. And that is anyway a dying art nowadays. 

Also, there is likely to be a shift in residence next year sometime. Maybe between cities. And that brings with it it's own set of to-do lists.

It's funny. This year, I had fallen so ill in the middle that I didn't think I would survive the year. I though I would die just before or around Christmas. But I haven't. Of course, there are still a few days left so anything might happen. But in case it doesn't, I have one resolution in place - to read more. And I have the books to back up that intention. But in case I do die (hee hee! 'do die' - sounds funny), I would like to be cremated with my books so I will have something to read on the way up. I have no reason to think why the way should be 'up' but well, one lives in hope. Maybe I could read the dead authors so that when I do reach that special place, I'll find them there and discuss the stories with them and also diss the movie remakes. 

The imposter's way of looking

 A friend had gifted me this pretty, red dress a few years ago. I usually wore it on Christmas. This year, I didn't get the chance to. But a couple of days after Christmas, decided to wear it to meet a friend and run some errands (which is what a lot of my wardrobe is now going to get used for.)

But I love this dress. I love red and I love Christmas and I love the sparkly happy sunshine that lit up the world this morning. So I picked this out to wear. N, the help who is all too familiar with the rituals of so much stuff in my wardrobe, asked me why I was wearing this when I hadn't worn it for Christmas.

I said I was going out today. I stressed on the 'out' in a manner that suggested I wasn't getting bananas and mirchi powder. (Usually when I say I am going 'out', she gives me a list of all the household stuff I need to buy.) She looked at me and asked, "You are going for Salman Khan's birthday party!" (Apparently these are my only two looks: kiraana store get-up and Bollywood bash.)

 I felt a little sad letting her down. 

Fdsertuv

 I don't really know what to write. Just putting out a blog because I don't want to go too long before writing something. It was Christmas yesterday and it passed by sweetly enough. No crises or calamities. It was a little sad though. Won't deny it. But it is what it is.

Today there's a bit of hassle in the house. Hopefully, things will blow over. Let's see.

Not feeling too well. But not too shabby.

I made up this word - the one in the title of the post. It's a nice word, I think. If it were the name of a clothing brand, it would be affordable punk clothing, I think. If it were a restaurant, maybe something that served different kinds of caramel custards or sushi with potatoes.

But I think it could be the name of a type of weather. The type of weather we would get in the new world - a sandstorm with churning icicles and frozen blue ice-petals. 

Anyway, feeling under the weather. Won't work today I think. Will take it easy.

Slow, plodding, and done

 So, it has not been the best of days today. Most of my time has been spent coordinating on stuff that doesn't matter with people who don't really care about what is going to happen. And then there are the small flights of crap that happen at home.

I think I am done for the year. Not going to work on anything anymore this year. I feel there is a heavy fatigue in the air and we are all wading through thick smog. 

Yep. I think I am done. 

Tiny little guideposts

 A charming patch of garden near the helipad in Electronic City. A friendly co-working space. Crisp, cold, December in Bangalore. After a full day's work, I would change shoes, wear heels, get Uber and go to Koramangala for dinner. Or someplace else for a movie. That was the 'work-life' balance.

The patch of garden outside this co-working space had a beautiful, large, white Buddha. The place would put up pale yellow lights around the Buddha every evening. It looked festive. It felt reassuring.

There are several things I remember about that place. Staying there until really late and having a cup of coffee on the bench way past midnight. Just me on a cold bench and a Buddha lit up by twinkling lights. Or reaching really early in the morning, getting Maggi for breakfast and reading a page of a book before work. A game of table tennis with strangers. A walk back home in the early evening through traffic. A date in a local pub called Grasshopper where they did a splendid mocktail version of the Moscow mule. 

Around that time, I came across an app that dispensed wisdom of the Buddha, one pithy saying at a time. The last one before the app went defunct is what I often think of.

I had come into work at the office space one morning. The administration said that the co-working space was shutting down and moving. They weren't going to be a co-working space anymore.

I felt really bad. I didn't work in a regular office so that space gave me the steady little routine that I found soothing. 

I like dressing up for work, especially on days when the work is hard to tackle. And this is where one could wear coats and heels and a slim string of pearls. 

It was a sanctuary. 

Anyway, I started scouting around for a new spot but there was nothing in Electronic City. I remember that night, I had a client call at 2 am and I was in the office alone. The call went on for an hour and I couldn't get an Ola after that. So I thought I would wait it out for a bit. Maybe catch the sunrise.

I sat on my spot on the park bench. It was this month. Close to Christmas. There were a lot more lights on the Buddha. They'd put up pink fairy lights around the flowers and bushes. It was beautiful.

The last message from that app was, "You lose what you cling to."

True that.

Beautiful stranger

This evening I went to my friends house for coffee. Usually I rick it to her place but it was time for my walk and the weather's pretty good. So I decided to, well, walk.

I generally have to cross a busy crossroad to get to her house. Rather it was a busy crossroad before COVID. But it seems as if most people have either forgotten how to drive or are confused about what to do in case of a red light. So the crossroad is not busy now. It's practically lawless. 

Anyway, I was waiting for a few rickshaws to stop hurtling forward when across the road, I saw this very, very, VERY handsome man.

The first thing that struck me was that he was tall... 6-2 or so and his hair was very comfortably tousled - like he'd had a good run. He was standing straight but easy. He had the presence of a cheetah walking about slowly in his neck of the woods. Stealth, power, pace...but for the time being, a stroll will do. 

He was wearing a T-shirt in what seemed to be really soft material. It was in a lovely sage colour and he had French tucked into his running shorts. Broad shoulders and a jawline you'd want to sharpen your pencil to sketch. He was looking about to cross the road, I think. And just there, in the midst of noise and city traffic, he stood out like a god in sportswear. In movies, (the kind that I like), this moment would be the cue when some happy sound track would begin or everything becomes fuzzy and the spotlight shines on the character most likely to alter destinies whoever he comes into contact with. (If it's my story, then the destiny to be altered would be mine, obviously.)

I think I stopped breathing for the time I was looking at him. Gasped sharply when a stupid cyclist with a LIVE chicken almost trundled over me. (The ridiculousness of this crossroad is just another level.)

When I looked again, he was walking away. His shoulders were so squared and perfect. I imagined him enjoying rowing boats or kayaking. He seemed like an outdoorsy person but the kind who would enjoy the conveniences of packet sugar and toilet roll. 

Anyway, I was happy. I am still happy. I bet I must have looked slightly creepy with crinkly, smiling eyes buying milk and soup packets near my friends house. But it has been a while since I saw a man who left me with such a wide smile. 

Dear Universe, I was going to petition you to stop giving me bad dreams. But if this is how you intend to make up for that, I accept.

Today was possibly the happiest, most deliciously surprising 6 minutes of 2020. 

Well played, Universe. Well played. 😊😊😊

Sundry stuff

 Sleep hasn't been so good lately. Strange dreams. Sometimes I feel that different parts of the body have different dreams. Which is why even if I remember a dream and it's not so bad, parts of my body feel otherwise. Heart feels heavy. There's a knot in the stomach. Pins and needles on the extremities. Something is changing somewhere. I get the feeling that this world that we are living in, this has been stuck in a cave whose entrance has been blocked by a large rock. And now that rock is loosening. We are hearing things we are not familiar with. We are seeing colors we don't identify. There's no light outside from whatever we have seen. There's only a darkness that feels loud because it's so quiet. It's silent in a way that silence means business. Inside the cave, maybe a few types of bugs and beetles, algae and fungus have sensed this. They have been trying to sneak out regularly. But they haven't been able to leave. 

But they will leave soon.

And we will follow.

Moonah

I juggle the moons

To a cosmic tune

On days that stars go gray

The seas rise and fall

As do the dunes

Desert crabs go astray

The moons are strong

And steady and wise

They know they will be caught

Their trust is complete

Yet stupid as well

They've forgotten how they'd been dropped

They're icy smooth

Their pale blue skins

And damp and moist as dew

They're feeble yet strong

Hydrated opposites

Ancient and spanking new

They try to talk at times

Garbled and sputtering

Like babies with cute lisps

But they make most sense

In cold silence

When they are all eclipsed

Then the desert crabs 

Brave the storms and sands

And nights with icy hale

The moons  then begin to remember

And the juggler starts to fail

Dreams

 I am having bad dreams. I was in the middle of one when J called. I dream that my cupboard is open and all these memories keep walking out. Like Shutterstock images. It could be that. I have been glutting on Shutterstock images due to work for a while now. And sometimes when it's really late or I am in a slight funk, I look at an image and it disturbs me. It looks like a regular guy in a conference room. Or a generic girl getting her coffee. But those eyes look hollow. That smile hides something. The suit creases in a place that suggests there may be a third hand hidden somewhere.

There's one image that I keep seeing in my dream. A man in a grey suit is for)ging forwards towards a desert. His left hand is outstretched behind and is pulling someone forward. That's not the scary part. I see that man - he is still 2D - move ahead on a flat postcard after coming out of the cupboard. I see two friends look at that. One says, "Aww" very affectionately. As if this man is doing something sweet. The other one is silent. She doesn't say anything but I sense that I can tell her why I don't trust that man. Why he makes me grimace.

And then endlessly all the Shutterstock photos keep marching out endlessly. 

Mall-dives

 The title is a pun...Maldives is a place where people with resources go to unwind. (Unless you are a local there.) And people with more conservative resources go to the mall and, well...dive into the happy, bright, sparkly stores. So Mall dives. (I didn't say it was a good pun.)

This evening, brother and I went to a neighboring mall. The happiest sight there was that Cinepolis had opened up. It really was joyous. We didn't take in a film because I had to get back to a call and brother had his own plans. But he did treat me to a warm, flaky cinnamon bun and black coffee at Cinnabon, which felt right. So Cinepolis and Cinnabon spell deep, warm comfort and hope for a new and better world.

I have very little interest in athleisure or anything sporty so I wasn't too keen to accompany the sibling to Sketchers. Other than for sentimental reasons. My first purchase in New York was a pair of purple Sketchers from Manhattan. Nearly a hundred and twenty dollars after taxes but very worth the money.  

But they have some really good stuff. There was an oil-slick windcheater that looked like wispy-thin distressed leather. A few crop tops were smart and my favourite was a pair of leopard printed stacked dress sneakers.

Then I checked out the Globus there and it's so much more sophisticated than the Globus close to my house. They had a very striking selection of sequinned party-wear. I loved a black number with stripes of rainbow sequins running vertically through it. It was a shift dress and slightly grazing the knee. So flattering enough for most body-types.

Then I checked out Bombay Paisley. They have these sets of cropped shirts with wooden buttons and culottes in thick, slightly rough linen. Very geeky chic. The palette is muted and the print looks like watercolors. It gives the look of being a well-turned out peasant living in an idyllic world where your fields are always lush and there's always a gentle, rainy evening a few hours away.

I liked a few tops in neon pink and yellow with exaggerated sleeves in Vero Moda. 'Only' was striking with its terracota-hued maxi-dresses with a rustic print. These stood out because their rust and brown palette was in such contrast to the sparkly glittering fabric everybody else had.

Keeping a balance of both was Marks and Spencer's. They have luscious funnel-neck tee-shirts and a variety of forest-green shifts. I didn't quite care for most of them but one of them with a scooped back and exaggerated shoulders would look sweet. Their party-wear were subdued bodysuits in ebony, ruby, and white. These had a slight sheen. YOu would only notice it if you went really close to the bodysuits. Otherwise, they seemed regular. That's smart if yu don't want to invest in something that's only occasion-wear.

And then taking the sequin-tune and raising it full volume is H&M. They have some really good stuff. I will keep my reservations against fast fashion aside for the moment. But gosh -they really have goods you could buy and stock up for the whole year There was the silver sequinned dress that I had been eyeing. It is fairly loose and baggy so I'm not sure how good that will look on the average body-type. But I guess one could belt it up with a strong, structured belt to give it some shape. Then they have flat-fronted, bootcut pants in beautiful muted gold-sequinns. These come with a matching top. There were lots of animal-printed tops and dresses in viscose and a sheer fabric. That sheer fabric dress was a shirt-dress. So one could wear it like a duster over a simple form-fitting dress in black, white, or caramel. They had a set of classic silk vests in white, black, dove-grey, and biscotti. They were V-neck, bat-sleeved, and hip-length. Perfect to wear with a skirt, trousers or even denims or shorts. 

Then their coats. One of the many things that I love from eighties and ninteies is the look of the rolled-up blazer sleeves. They had a few such jackets. They don't look scruffy or dated at all.  think it could be because these jackets are a little more tailored and nipped in at the waist instead of being really loose and boxy. I liked a couple that were in stone and ecru. There was another one in egg-shell white,, which is a much more flattering white for me than say, Snow-white. The white one also had a shawl collar. I like those because they don't look so stuffy. But the one that I loved most was a jacket in rose-pink with a tuxedo-cut. It was such a stand-out piece And contrary to what one might imagine, a dusty rose can actually go with a lot. At least it will certainly go with a lot of what I have in my closet. 

I could wear it with my dark blue dress with colourful print from M&S, there are a couple of white shirts and pink corduroys that I can pair it with, I have a grey tee-shirt dress it can be teamed up with...and there's always denim and any number of charcoal grey skirts and pants. If I have to buy something, maybe I'll get that jacket. 

But really, I would like to save up to buy the best quality of Oud attar. The one that I have in mind is approximately Rs.75,000 for 3 ml. But I think it would be worth it. I have only had real Oud once - when a friend's uncle from Saudi had gifted him a bottle for his 18th birthday.. My friend didn't like it at all. Not surprising. At first Oud does smell sharp like burnt wood. It reminded my friend of charred flesh. (He was the sort who only liked Davidoff's Cool Water. Only that. Nothing else. He would get headaches with rose and musk attar He almost fainted when he had Hugo Boss on. So Oud - especially that pure and concentrated perfume oil - was much more than what he could take.) His uncle asked me to try on some. He asked me to first wash my hands with warm water, no soap. Then he got me to pat my hands dry, not wipe them. Then I waited until the moisture dried up naturally. Finally after 10 minutes he dipped the glass stick of the attar, swiped a long line of the perfumed oil on my palm and asked me to put it on my neck, around my collar bone, and also, run it through my hair.

My very first thought was revulsion. It was so strong. I couldn't bear it. Uncle told me to wait it out. And the scent changed with every passing hour. I went for tuitions and by that time, the scent had started becoming sweeter. I ran some errands and the scent was velvety and heady. By dinner time, that Oud scent had become that favorite friend who the rest of the world saw as a temperamental monster but she held an open heart for you. 

Wearing Oud - the real deal - they say is like wearing poetry. You will uncover a different interpretation of it as time passes. And not just that - the scent will bring out a facet of you that you didn't know either. You remain less of a stranger to yourself.

My friend would have preferred if his uncle would have given him several bottles of Cool Water instead or money to buy knock-offs or genuine stuff but illicitly sourced from Heera Panna. When he came to know how much that little bottle of attar had cost, he whispered to me that we may as well rub petrol on ourselves. 

I loved it for as long as it lasted. In fact when it started waning off, I tried getting another bottle. But the good stuff was hard to buy on the money I had and the affordable stuff - they were all simple and rosy and fruity and musky. They were nice and all but they weren't that - that complex, difficult bouquet of enchantment.

Anyway, I hope to get that type of proper, genuine Oud someday. Not through Amazon or anything online. Maybe serendipitously come across an attar store that stocks it. 

Yep - timing and life - that's what you trust to get you the real deal. 

Glutted out

 Today, Dad brought home spring rolls from a small, local place. I ate two large packets. Well, I left a few pieces for him but I think I will get more tomorrow. Spring rolls and soup. I haven't had soup in ages.

I don't quite like soup too much unless it is a hearty thick broth. There was a place called Mandarin's Kitchen in Colaba, just below Dhanraj Mahal where I worked. This spot served the very best Jade soup. It was a large bowl of flavourful, thick soup with lots of chopped greens and shrimps, prawns, and fish - such a joyous trifecta. (This was the sea-food version.) It smelled divine and each spoonful came with chunks of meats so one was quite full after a bowl. I used to have two bowls, though. And bring one bowl home. 

I think I will have a wonton or a clear soup tomorrow or maybe mushroom or tomato. I love mushroom soup... a good creamy mushroom soup salted and peppered perfectly with the smoothness of melting butter. Just before COVID, my friend and I had gone to Fariyas, Lonavala and had a cup of tasty mushroom cappuccino. Another place that had great mushroom soup was Pop Tate's near Marol. Before they started getting stingy with the portions, they would get you a huge cup filled with soup that was frothed at the top. When you spliced through the foam, you reached a delectable tiny ocean of thick soup with hunks of mushrooms braised in butter. 

As for tomato soups, one of my favorites is the sort you get in Rajdhani or at any station. It has to be a station though. The quick packet ones you get at the airport don't cut it and the ones you buy inside a plane may as well be dishwater. The ones in Rajdhani are slightly sweet (the purists complain that it tastes like diluted ketchup) but I love it. I like slightly sweet tomato soups. The Rajdhani soups come in a teeny paper cup and two bits of fried croutons. In the Bombay-Delhi Rajdhani, this is served with dinner. You have settled in, made reasonably hospitable contact with people around, you hold this cup of soup in your hands, chat a bit, someone dims the lights, you finish your meal, listen to the rhythm of the train hurtling through darkness, and wind down. 

Soup - the wholesome fuel for 'you get there when you get there'.

How does that work?

 A friend of mine is looking to marry. She wants someone from 'a good family'... Respectable, decent, sufficiently well-off I suppose...not so hard up that it indicates that they would do anything to make cash. Not so rich that they can afford to bend rules and getting away with it. The right bracket of middle-class where it is comfortable to have a conscience.

There are lots of men who are also looking for girls from good families. So this should be fine. 

She did meet one such person. I was introduced to him. I thought he dressed really sharp and seemed nice. Then again, who's not good, right? But I did ask her to talk to him more because I felt that he wasn't comfortable with something. Granted I had only 30 minutes of a Zoom call but I don't know. I sensed something.

Anyway, these people hung out outside the city one weekend. And she called it off because he seemed 'dysfunctional'. I asked her why. Apparently the guy didn't think that his family was 'good'. She worshipped her own family, so she couldn't even understand how anyone reviled their folks in front of a stranger.

Personally I think it takes great perception to take a step back and see your family for who they really are. One can still be fiercely loyal. One can put the family over everything and everyone else. In a bind, your family can always come first, last, and always. But I think it's okay if you feel your family is weak or selfish or broken. 

I was very fond of my mom. When she came to my school to pick me up, I would be so proud and thrilled to have her around. She had a carefree, joyous laugh that comes with the confidence of beautiful people. They know that they are cherished everywhere. All my friends loved her. One of them would always tell me that she wished we could trade moms. I was very possessive so I hated hearing that. One day she was sobbing during recess. She was punished and wasn't allowed to play outside. I weighed nearly 100 kgs and had no interest in being made fun of. So we were both in class. 

I asked her what was wrong. She pointed to a woman outside and said that she was ashamed that that woman was her mom. That lady was holding a lunch basket, wearing a red saree, and sitting quietly looking around. The girl said that her mother was so ugly that she wished she died. That may have been the first and only time I slapped a girl. I didn't mean to. It was a reflex. I was a shy girl in school so this was very shocking for me as well. I hit her hard. She had red streaks on her face and my palm stung.  

She said nothing. Surprising because she was a fiesty one and would have clocked me for sure.  She quietly said that I wouldn't understand. My mom was beautiful and stylish and I had no reason to be embarassed. I told her that you loved your family because it was your duty and her mom seemed perfectly nice.

At home I told my mom about how bad this girl was, carefully hiding the fact that I had hit her. Mom was unpacking my school bag. Somewhere between checking my calendar for homework and removing my tiffin-box, she asked me what I had replied in return. I wished she hadn't asked me that. But I said that I had hit her because how could anyone talk about their mother like that. Mom had no patience for such self-righteous wrath and it was possibly the first of many times when she asked me if I had 'taken' something...like drugs. (I got pretty angry and violent later on but never due to drugs, and never against women...of course anger can be a drug and it has its own payoff.)

The next day mom came to school and made me say sorry to the girl. That girl was so ecstatic to be around mum that at one point I wondered if she had orchestrated the whole thing only to get close to my mom. Then mom went up to her mother and invited her and the family to dinner. (I was horrified and that aunty was baffled. But she agreed.)

I don't know what that dinner accomplished except for it being excruciating for me. But aunty, my friend and her younger sister seemed to have a good time. 

Later Ma told me that people have different types of families and it's not good to judge people like that. That girl and I got back on talking terms. She kept getting punished and I remained 100 kgs for a while. So we spent many recesses together. I don't know if she started becoming okay with her mum. But her mum would come every day and sit patiently until our classes ended. 

I am not sure what this girl's story has anything to do with that guy. 

But I think maybe they should give each other a chance. If only the well-adjusted have a shot to find loving partners, it's a pretty unfair world. 

Spots of sunshine

 Today felt a little easier. I had to finish and deliver a couple of things. One was a little bit more detail-oriented than I care for - so it seemed like a little bit of drudgery. But it does leave the mind free to think of things that are more creative. So while I did some basic checking and rechecking on one thing, I thought of my next assignment which was juicy. It involved doing some research work on usability and accessibility which is a fascinating thing. I think it's nice that there is a discipline out there that is looking to include and involve people who would not otherwise have access to content or study material. I remember that in my school, if you couldn't see or hear the teacher, it was your lookout to go find another spot to sit or figure out which of the front-benchers would relay the information. The teacher herself would never consider speaking up or doing anything to improve the situation for the students. Class was in session. You were allowed to sit and listen. And you jolly well be grateful for that.

I was a front-bencher myself and I loved it. I especially liked homework. So much so that I liked doing other people's homework as well. I couldn't understand why someone would voluntarily give up spending some alone time with one's books to be with 'friends'. It made me popular with a certain set. I wasn't so fond of math or chemistry but I did enjoy English and History. The best part of doing multiple sets of homework for different people meant understanding what they were like. For example, if I had to write an essay on Summer Holidays or What Great Novels Mean to Me;, I had to understand the personality of who I was writing the essay for. I once erroneously wrote about Crime and Punishment for a girl who never read anything. Anything. We both got caught. Then I got smarter. I wrote about some stories from Tinkle or Betty and Veronica digests, persuasively pegging them to be 'novel-like' ad getting her a passing grade. Now when I think about it, I am just continuing that as an adult to earn my living. Doing someone else's homework. It's fun really.

Anyway, my friend is better but I do so want to meet her. Will plan to go to Delhi sometime soon. I wish it happens this month.  

Chatted with a couple of friends. Then went for a short walk. Didn't really walk around. Just went to a spot by the lake and sat and chatted. There was a point when the moon was covered by a gauzy coppery cloud. And I saw it through the trellis of  bougainvillea flowers. It looked stunning. Reached home and had a really bad hankering for ice-cream. I would have liked salted caramel from the new ice-cream parlour but I couldn't find it. So I went to Naturals instead. It's become big and shiny now. Got a couple of large packs of coffee-walnut and tender coconut ice-creams. I like Naturals but I will locate the new ice-cream parlour for my Salted Caramel fix. I love that flavour. Love it. When I stayed in Baner, Pune, a new frozen yogurt place opened up. I would drive down every night with a friend who stayed close-by. We'd go, get our cones, sit in the car as the shiny, happy people tumbled out from the discs and night clubs in Koregaon Park, and drive back home happy. 

Yes, salted caramel is what the heart is now seeking.