Category: Relationships

Of packages in the post and handwritten letters in the letterbox

I cannot remember when was the last time I had this magical little hour of tearing through a package, of letting my eyes feast on the multi-coloured wrapping paper, of opening each gift, heart throbbing with anticipation and excitement and curiosity, of discovering and revelling in all the gifts that my friend and her husband had chosen for me and my husband, of reading the letters, of eyes feasting on the familiar curve of the cursive writing of a dear one.

A glass of gin and a story that stretches back to twenty years and more

Since I grew up in Gujarat, a state on the Western coast of India, and a state where the manufacture, sale and consumption of alcohol is prohibited (but many households stock drinks in the privacy and safety of their homes though), I grew up without really having any kind of an alcoholic drink. Even when I moved away from Gujarat, I failed to develop a liking for an alcoholic drink. But for once, I think I may have found a drink that I might sometimes indulge in. On rare evenings when the air carries the scent of jasmine flowers or the memories of the scent of jasmine flowers, I might have a glass of a drink that may be just right for me.

Adieu Kinetic Honda – my first love, my faithful friend and confidante

When I go to India now, it will no longer be there - standing faithfully like an old family dog, waiting for me in the courtyard, waiting for me to put it to life, bouncing over potholes and dirt roads and cruising through summer evenings and winter afternoons, through love and loss and so much in between. Farewell, my friend. You have served me like no other. There will be no one else like you.

The durbar of pretty women

Our friendship waned. I grew tired of constantly paying obeisance to her beauty. I also got tired of never getting complimented for anything. I understand that compliments aren't run on a barter system. But I did find it odd that for a woman who constantly thrived on references to how beautiful she was when she was young and how pretty she still was and the number of suitors she still attracted, she would choose to be miserly about how she complimented others. And that she could hold out on giving a compliment even if a person truly deserved it. The turning point came when she once commented on a person, who was her friend and was doing poorly on health issues.

The fine art of not asking intrusive questions

Why do we need to ask people - friends as well as strangers, deeply personal and intrusive questions. Is it an innate trait of being curious and inquisitive? Or is it our need to know overpowering our sensibilities and common sense? Perhaps, the fine art of not asking intrusive questions is something that can be cultivated if it isn't something that comes naturally to us.