THE SHOPPING BUG - - ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY?

 
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There are shopping trips, and there are shopping trips! Nowadays, shopping malls and supermarkets have mushroomed, with everything under the sun available under one roof. However, a good shopping experience depends on the luck of the draw, as I was to find out, rather piquantly!

My two sisters and I once went to a particular sari shop to buy a sari for our mother, who happens to hold a record in being the toughest customer to shop for! With a walk-in cupboard filled with specimens of every hue and material, buying a sari for her is like carrying coals to Newcastle. In fact, like carrying red hot coals, to boot!

When we entered the shop, we knew exactly what we wanted, and went about our task like bloodhounds after a clue. "Could you show us an onion pink sari, with a non fussy print, that drapes like a dream?" This was after we mistook the lone salesgirl for a mannequin, so still was she! 

"Onion pink - what colour is that? Never heard of it!" That was no mannequin! Her main job seemed to be to sit and look pretty, and give snappy rejoinders at times. As we pointed out various saris, akin to the shade we were looking for, she got up languidly, flowed across, picked out the one sari we had pointed out, and flowed back, probably modelling herself on Tennyson's 'Brook', minus the babbling.

At the tenth catwalk, I could take it no more. "Could you stop pretending to be working?" The sarcasm had no effect on her. She gave me an ice cold, totally bored look, and proceeded to fold each sari meticulously, not even bothering to take out any more for us.

Whistling for my sisters, who had meandered off in search of more live specimens behind the counter, we decided to confront the manager, who happened to be a youngish man with a manner that suggested that he was the fount of knowledge from which his assistants had picked up their shop tricks from. After chasing him around as he proceeded to stride around, doing very little in terms of actual labour, we finally cornered him.

"Yes, what exactly do you want?" he demanded distractedly, and when we repeated our demand, he mopped his brow in irritation. "What is onion pink...? Never heard of it!"

We were stymied. All three of us wrote down our grouses in an enormous complaint book that should have been complaining under the load of complaints, none of which had obviously been addressed ever! 

We staggered into a coffee shop to boost our sagging spirits with a hot cup and a sandwich. Wasn't shopping supposed to be retail therapy? Obviously not when you were organizing a hunt for an onion pink sari for your mother!

                                                                                                       YourTango

It had to be onion pink and easy to drape, the sari, I mean, because otherwise we would find our maid or our neighbour wearing it the next time we went home. So off we toddled into another sari shop, a huge structure which had about five floors. Now here we would definitely be able to find what we were looking for, hopefully!

                                                                                                      Shutterstock

And we were pleasantly surprised. A beaming salesgirl came towards us. "What can I help you with?" As we repeated what we wanted, she led us to the second floor, where another charming lady took over. She smilingly deposited us in the right place, where yet another lady took care of us, and very well too. 

In less than two shakes of a duck's tail, we were confronted with a dozen saris, in various shades of onion pink, and she kept going from counter to counter to get us exactly what we wanted. Not surprisingly, we found not only the perfect sari for Mom, but were so happy with the service that we ended up buying two other saris, some blouse pieces and salwar kurtas for ourselves! So much for excellent service and charming smiles that warmed the cockles of our hearts.

                                                                             Onion pink in all its glory - Koskii

Which left us wondering why we would ever bother to go back to the first shop next time! Hasn't 'Service with a Smile' always been the motto? Finally, isn't it profit that everyone is looking at? Life is too short to moan and groan, and make others unhappy. There is nothing better than a warm smile to make you feel that all's right with the world! So, while the customer doesn't always have to be king, there is no harm in observing the niceties of life, the little courtesies that oil the wheels of human communication, and make shopping a more enjoyable experience for the buyer and the seller! 

 
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LIFE ABOVE 60!

 
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“Hey, when are you going to behave like a mother-in-law?”

The above comment hit me like a ton of bricks as I stood onstage, watching my only daughter flashing her million-dollar smile at the guests with her brand-new husband. It was a moment we had waited for all our lives, and suddenly, the sibilant stage whisper assailed my eardrums. It penetrated over the sonorous pandemonium of the ‘nadaswaram’, which often sounds like a nasal yet tuneful trumpet, if, and only if, played in the right spirit. On occasion, the said instrument has started on a particular note, and then, akin to a drunken bee, has meandered all over, hitting all the wrong notes, and the listeners’ ears, unmercifully.

                                                                    nadaswaram image -mangalavadhyam.com

The sibilant whisper came again.

“Ah, well, you will soon need to behave like a grandmum!”

My expression (and I possess quite a few!) must have been classic. How do you respond to a comment like that? In hindsight appear all the best rejoinders, much after the horse has fled the stable, leaving the door wide open.

By the time I composed my face into a painful smile, she had already moved on, a battleship of a woman, all set to dole out well meaning (?) free advice, judging by the confused expressions she left in her wake.

If optimism were a person, it would probably take the form of my 88-year-old mother who not only sees the good side of people, even when they do not have one, but also believes in “forgetting and forgiving”, exhorting her children to see the sunshine rather than the storm clouds, even those that have broken over her very head.

The one gene she has passed on to us, her three daughters, is that of remaining childlike, be it at forty, fifty or sixty-three, which is the grand old age that I am at. Hence, all of us consider age just a number to be bandied about, not to be taken seriously, to be mentioned more to shock, because, let us face it, none of us look our age, modesty be blasted!

                                                                                                  The Random Vibez

Strange is it that often family members take the wind out of our sails. When I was fifteen, a grandaunt told me blatantly, “You are overweight. You were such a pretty baby. Now you don’t look nice at all.” At that age, one’s emotions are on a perpetual see-saw. I went home and cried myself to sleep. As Marti Olsen Laney put it, “Feelings are everywhere. Be gentle.”

                                                                                                       Pinterest

The next day I embarked on a strict regimen – no milk or dairy, no sweets or oily food. Our maid and our dog both turned buxom, while I shed all those extra pounds.

Half a century later. I look back on those days and wonder why I was so touchy. Today, I am content in my own skin, warts, blotches, freckles and all! I know myself inside out. I am a trifle crazy (blame my family and friends for that!), adventurous and trigger-happy, a Sagittarius in all its eccentric glory. The 50s and the 60s have only liberated me, made me even more averse to be tied down. I love my own path and woe betide anyone who strives to jostle me off it.

At 63, blessings surround me.

I have two mothers from whom I have learnt many things which have honed my persona. I call my husband’s mother my mother-in-love for there are no ‘in-laws’ or ‘outlaws’ in our family.

My Army husband sleeps with one eye open because he has no idea what my versatile brain will churn out. Luckily for him, all those gory ideas that materialise within get translated into the thriller stories that I write with gusto. However, as he says, “You never know when she will put one of those ideas into practice!” Jokes part, he is the wind beneath my wings helping me to soar high, but keeps a rein which keeps me tethered when he finds me hurtling towards disaster.

                                                                                               Vecteezy

How time has flown! My sisters and I are all over fifty. Gone are the days when I would sit them (and my cousins) down in a dim-lit room and scare the living daylights out of them with my blood-curdling tales. Today they have caught up with me and take turns to mother me, or chide me, as the situation warrants. The older I grow, the more blessed I am to have them and their better halves in my life.

Our mother, of course, cannot believe that we are in our fifties and sixties as we refuse to behave as if we are. She would be a fine one to talk, given her irreverence and joie de vivre, which are both legendary!

Life after 60, I repeat, is liberating. The age when men turn a dashing pepper and grey upstairs, with a hint of a pot belly making its presence felt, slowly but steadily, and women catch a glimpse of a stray wrinkle or a silver hair in their own once lustrous manes.

When my greys graduated to burgundy and later dark brown, onlookers would be a trifle confused. For the greys would wax and wane at regular intervals. I am not one to proclaim, “I will ‘dye’ only once!” The fifties gave me the freedom to stay elegantly (how I wish!) grey or make a beeline to the nearest salon.

                                                                                                   CartoonStock

Menopause came early, as the thirties saw me lose my uterus after myriad fibroids took firm possession of it. The writer in me lost no time, or sleep, over the experience. I put it down in my blog, aptly titled ‘Deep Ties’ under the name ‘Hysterics Over a Hysterectomy’. The freedom that the procedure brought was inexplicable, except in two words: No periods. Period!

                                                                                                      Etsy

My 50s and 60s were equally eventful. I went from blissfully myopic (to the extent that my better half proclaimed that I had only seen half of him when I agreed to marry him!) to almost perfect vision.

My first cataract surgery was a pleasurable experience. As I lay back, a trifle apprehensive, all I could feel was water flowing into my eye and a host of glorious colours. Before I knew it, the procedure was over. I came out grinning for all I was worth, much to the astonishment of my husband waiting outside with bated breath.

“You may read and watch TV!” the doctor remarked. I took her advice with a pinch of salt and decided to listen to music instead. That is when Cold Play came into my life, and one particular song fascinated me. My next post on my surgery was titled ‘A Sky Full of Stars’, another entry on my blog.

My second cataract surgery was done less than a month back. I saw fewer colours, and my grin was not as wide, but the procedure was smooth. I came out, thankful that unlike Ravana, I have only one head and two eyes. Imagine the plight of having procedures on ten pairs of eyes. Perhaps, if cataracts had been discovered at the time, the Lankan king would have had very little time, and inclination, to abduct Sita, because he would have been busy putting drops in his eyes throughout his waking hours. The Ramayana would have lost its climax, no doubt.

                                                                                                    Pinterest

Once again, I sat back while my better half pampered the life out of me, and this time serendipity worked in my favour. I found the mesmerizing short stories of Somerset Maugham on YouTube Music, narrated most wonderfully, and I could not have been happier. When I was up and about, my blog was enriched with yet another post on my latest surgery – ‘An Eye (Lens) for an Eye’.

My life as an Army wife, where I juggled school, Army get-togethers, Family Welfare Meets and Ladies’ Clubs, was frenetic. However, now is the time when I am the busiest ever. As the Executive Director of an ICSE/ISC school, my brain keeps ticking, sometimes at midnight, on ways to make school life more fulfilling and fun for our students.

Being with children, watching their faces light up when they greet you, the handmade cards they make for you on occasions, the joy when they climb mountains and attain pinnacles, the tears when things go awry, and above all, the zest they possess which goes a long way – all these things keep me on Cloud 9.

We have only one daughter, who is the reason why we live, smile and breathe, the sunshine in our lives, the mother of two adorable cherubs, our two grandchildren, who are nine and six. To them, we are Mooma and Nana. When we gaze at them, a receptacle of love refills itself deep within our hearts. We meet them two months in a year and have all the fun we can, just so that we can fill the ten months that follow with amazing memories of everything they do and say.

Life above 60 could not be better! Amen!

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A GIFT LOST AND FOUND!

 

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I stood on stage, tongue-tied and dry-mouthed, as a whole host of eyes looked on at me, waiting to hang on to my every word. I had begun Mark Antony’s famous speech with gusto, my “Friends, Romans, Countrymen…” ringing out, full-throated and compelling. Not for nothing had I spent days memorising every powerful word, while my ever so patient grandparents took turns to mentor me and encourage me. I knew the speech backwards, or so I assumed…

Till that fatal moment when, after four lines which flowed smoothly, my fluency dried up, and my mind went blank. Mark Antony had lost his tongue this time to Brutus’ fluency. Shakespeare would have turned in his grave as I fumbled, trying to find light in the darkness that threatened to surround me. As a ninth grader, standing before a whole school of different graders, I wished the earth would open and swallow me whole.

It took me less than a minute to rush off stage, tears rolling down my chubby cheeks. I had been slated to win the prize for English recitation, and there I was, stumbling down the steps, not even willing to tackle my Hindi recitation which was next on the agenda. My friends tried to stop me, but I was beyond redemption.

Back home, my grandfather patted me sternly on the back. “Don’t worry, child! You did your best!” My grandmother bought me the soft cupcakes I loved, trying to stem the storm of tears that seemed endless.

However, a sense of guilt overtook me at my grandfather’s words. I had not done my best. I had bungled it all up and now, I was not ready to face any of my friends.

“I don’t want to go back to school,” I wailed. “I have made such a fool of myself.” Of course, the next morning found me “creeping like a snail/ Unwillingly to school.” I kept my head down, expecting my classmates to laugh at me, but when they seemed to have forgotten the whole incident, I felt better and was soon back to my old happy self.

However, that one incident had a deep impact on my psyche. All though the rest of my school life and the whole of college, I took part in everything – literary events, dance and music, drama and even politics. Everything but public speaking! I could not envisage standing before a crowd and speaking. That was an art that I would never be able to master.

Or so I assumed…

Twenty years or so after the Mark Antony disaster, I was sitting with a whole host of Army ladies discussing an important Ladies’ Meet that was to be hosted by us. The chief guest was going to be the wife of a senior Army dignitary, and discussions were going on in full swing. After an animated session where all of us gave our opinions and the items to be put up were decided, I suddenly got the shock of my life.

“Deepti, I would like you to be the Emcee of the event!”

It was the Commander’s wife, a lady who had known me for years, a mentor I deeply respected. I nearly went through the floor.

“Oh, no, Ms. N, you have the wrong person in mind. I am not a public speaker,” I said desperately.

“Well, you are going to do this, because I know you can do it.” Her verdict was final and my despair complete. That afternoon, I went home and scared my Army husband almost out of his wits.

“I want to go home to my mother right away!” I wailed. “I do not want to speak before a crowd.”

Slowly, my husband got the whole story out of me. He calmed me down with a cup of tea. Then he slyly whispered, “Maybe this is a chance for you to prove yourself. I also feel that you can do it.”

The next two days were spent in a flurry of tears and tantrums. I threatened and cajoled, and my husband kept calming me down with cups of tea. The die was cast, and I was trapped like a bird in a cage, because I could not even run away from the dire situation. That was when I decided that, come what may, I would have to try, and if I did make a fool of myself, I would suffer the consequences.

From that hour onwards, I began to write my script, honing it for all I was worth. I put my flair of writing into it, padding it with jokes, especially at myself. The next part was learning the whole thing by heart and every morning and evening, I would stand before the pitiless mirror and rehearse, word by word.

                                                                                                 Unsplash

The day came when I had the whole script in my mind, so rehearsed that I could say it in my sleep. My husband applauded my efforts, rewarding me with samosas, and of course, the inevitable cups of tea.

On the day of the event, I had butterflies within my stomach, and as I watched the first lady walk in, my heart was in my mouth. Once they were all seated, the spotlight fell on me, and I began to speak, softly, nervously, and suddenly I found myself flying, as the words came out in a flow that took me by surprise. After the first few minutes, I found the audience laughing at my first joke, and from then on, it was smooth sailing. I found that I was enjoying myself. This was not too bad!

Today, when I speak in school, or at a function, the first thing I do is send a mental message of gratitude to that lovely mentor of mine who forced me out of my self-enforced shell and made me aware of my flair for public speaking. It was a gift that I had lost in the ninth grade, but when I did regain my confidence, it was like being reborn. As a writer, words have always played a vital role in my life, but as a speaker and orator, they took on a greater significance in my life.

                                                                                                        Pinterest

Maybe that is why, in school, when I see children who are terrified of being onstage, and of addressing crowds, I tell them my own story. They listen wide-eyed, unable to believe that I too had butterflies in my stomach like them, and believe that there is hope for them as well. That, I reckon, is the difference between empathy and sympathy.

 

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HABITS THAT HONED MY PERSONALITY!

 

Atomic Habits Quotes - Fun With Mama

Even now I hear my grandmother's voice in my ear when I wake up in the morning and get out of bed. "Remember to make your bed after you get up! It clears your mind and your physical space." Those words created a habit in me which I would never leave behind. Even now, when I see a messy bed, with tangled sheets, askew pillows and a crumpled counterpane, my fingers itch to set them right. I love hotels where the bedsheets are pulled tight with nary a wrinkle, sometimes with white towels folded intricately into swans, rabbits and hearts.

                                                                                                         Vecteezy

The other habit I picked up was after I got married. Till the day I tied the knot, the kitchen at home was out of bounds. We had a loveable martinet, Parvathy Amma, who guarded her spices more vigilantly than her chunky gold earrings. (I say so because she dropped one of the latter into the commode by mistake, and was none the worse for it!) Three young girls in the house, and yet, not one of us knew how to even boil water because the aforesaid martinet was protective to a fault about us, God bless her soul!

After marriage, the first thing I learnt, along with switching on the gas stove and boiling water was cleaning the kitchen. My mother-in-love would do it so assiduously that I watched and learnt! Even today, after four decades of wedlock, the last thing I do is wipe the kitchen surfaces with a moist cloth so that Mr. Cockroach and his extended family do not have a paradise to flourish in.

Life does have its ups and downs. When I am unusually upset or unhappy about something, my biggest salvation comes from ironing clothes. Marie Kondo has always been an inspiration, and her instructions about loving your possessions come to mind when I have a hot iron in hand. I smoothen, I iron and I fold with gusto, ironing out my own little worries as well.

                                                                                             Inside of Happiness

The one habit which I do dearly love is buying pens and pretty, little diaries. If you want to win my heart and my confidence, one little pen will do the trick. As I sit at my desk in my office, watching the children in school troop by, with a couple of them peeping in to show me a poem they have composed or a project they are proud of, my hands automatically go into a niche which houses sparkly star stickers, another obsession of mine. Watching a child smile, wide-eyed when he or she is praised is so heartwarming. Every time I go to South Africa where our daughter and her family live, I come back laden with stickers of all kinds.

Open my school diary, and hey presto, you will find a riot of colours. Every day has tasks written with a different coloured pen. After all, life is colourful and hence, why not incorporate those colours in your writing as well? The Sagittarius in me induces me to live life in glowing technicolour.

                                                      

               A Small Array of my Pens                     

A neat desk is an efficient desk! Unfortunately, my desk overflows with a motley collection of diaries, files, envelopes, sticky notes, bits of paper, cute pen holders of various kinds (another thing I love!) pens, pencils, stationery, the daily newspaper, my pink water bottle in which I carry hot water to drink (another fetish of mine!) While I may not boast of a tidy desk, I do have an imagination that runs riot, and proves useful for all the thriller novels and short stories that live in my mind, grow and get translated into paper.

 

                                                                                  An Overflowing Desk! 

We may take ages to form certain habits and a lifetime to unlearn certain others. However, there is no doubt that it is our habits that make us what we are, warts and all! As Gloria Steinem put it, “You cannot change your future without changing your habits.” 

Vocal Media

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IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!

 
Vecteezy

It gnawed at my innards in the middle of the night, forcing me to keep awake, my eyes staring as if they had been prised open with matchsticks. The shudder of the curtain in the translucent light that streamed in faintly through the window, accompanied by the sigh of the material scraping along the frame, made me shudder in empathy. Was it midnight yet, or the witching hour of 3 am, when shadows loomed and phantoms danced with their own rhythm? Who or what was the monster that kept me awake all night as I desperately counted sheep and did exercises to ease my aching muscles?

The silence of the night grew unbearably loud as all kinds of dreadful thoughts whizzed through my mind. What if I had lost my powers? Powers that had made me different from all others… powers that I had honed from a young age! I felt like Superman would have felt had he been subjected to Kryptonite – innervated and powerless!

The moon beams streaming in seemed to mock at me. “Lost your power, have you? What will you do now?” they whispered eerily. I pulled the soft duvet over my head trying to shut their whispers out. Please, please, let this be a nightmare, my mind screamed soundlessly.

                                                                                                   Shutterstock

At 4 am, I threw off the duvet, and sat up, my mind made up. I padded across the room, making my way to the kitchen cupboard where a packet of Lays chips lay, winking at me in the dim light. Grabbing a bottle of water along with the chips, I crept back to my room, taking care not to wake up my parents. My mother would be incensed if she saw me snacking at night. I would have to replace the packet of Lays; she counted every packet that lay within the larder as though it contained gems. Along with the generous quantity of air within as well!

                                                                                                  Wallpapers.com

As I crunched on the chips (no one can eat just one!), I felt a cold lick on my ankle. I looked into the imploring eyes of our adorable Labrador, Sterling, who could sleep through the noisiest thunderstorm, but could sense the crunch of a crisp chip from a mile away. He grinned at me, tongue lolling out, and my treacherous heart melted at the expression in his limpid brown eyes.

In five minutes, the packet was empty and both of us pleasantly full. Sterling went back to the corner from where he had emerged, having lost interest in sitting by me. The study lamp flickered for a split second, went out and came on again. A sudden calm came over me. I could sense a surge in my sagging spirits. It was the moment I had been praying for.

I pulled out a blank sheet of paper from the drawer of the desk, and arranged my set of coloured pens alongside it. Sterling cocked his head, and sauntered back to my side. A gulp of water, a pat on Sterling’s soft head, and my mind kick-started itself. My superpower was on its way back, thank the Lord!

As ideas crowded my brain, I picked up my favourite turquoise blue pen, my signature colour, and scribbled a few words on the blank sheet… pretty, turquoise blue gem like drops that pirouetted their way across the pristine page –

…and that’s when I knew I was writing again.

           Mountain of Ink

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This post is also part of 'Real and Rhythm Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.

THE STRANGE GIRL!

                                                                                                   Unsplash

I was aware of people staring at me, sometimes sniggering behind my back. As I walked on, my head down, tears lodged at the back of my eyes as the whispers continued like the buzzing of bees. I was not surprised… I would have been surprised if they had not laughed at me. I knew the reason why. The mirror told me the unflattering truth every single day.

From very early in life, I knew I was different. I had big eyes, silky hair, a pert nose and rosebud lips. However, my features sat crudely on my flat face. My eyes stayed blank because I could not comprehend much of what others conveyed to me.

Did my parents rue the day I was born? Not really, because I was a beautiful bouncing baby! Passers by would pause and coo over my ringlets. My adorable toothless smile! 

                                                                                                    Vecteezy

My parents would look on with pride, glancing at each other through the corner of their eyes.

Back home, my mother would draw a big black spot behind my ear.

“Let me ward away all the evil, evil eyes!” she would chuckle, giving me a sloppy kiss which I would instantly wipe away when I was older.

The black dots stopped when the compliments did. By the time I was around six, my features had spread themselves out over my face unbecomingly. No longer did people stop to cluck over me. I saw the trepidation, and sometimes even the revulsion on their faces when they gazed on me, only I did not know these terms then. I would run to familiar faces to hug them with all the affection I was capable of, and there was a wellspring of emotions that ran so deep within my heart that no one could see them. Probably because my eyes did not convey the same emotions. They remained beautiful, but blank, making people uncomfortable. They would turn their gazes away, pretending to be busy on their phones so that they would not have to talk to me.

The older I grew, the more difficult it became to socialise with others. I turned into a surly teenager who sat at the window, watching other girls act coy and flaunt their looks. They would toss their hair and smile at their admirers. Occasionally, one of them would glance up at me, ensconced by the window, and with a subtle gesture, make the others aware of my looming presence. There would be titters and giggles, and as suddenly they would lose interest and go back to what they were doing earlier.

My parents gave up on me early in life. My sister, who was born three years after me, was the apple of their eye. I remained the stye, the one whose presence rankled in their hearts. Diya, my sister, was aptly named. She sparkled from the moment she was born, and she was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I loved her, and when she was a baby, I would grab her and hug her till she was breathless. My mother would always keep a watchful eye on us. I am sure she was worried that my love would suffocate the little one.

Even when Diya’s friends came over, I would sit in a corner of the room and watch them play. Often, they would look at me, and whisper, “Diya, how did you get a sister like Maya? She looks like a storm cloud.”

Yes, I was Maya, named after my mother’s favourite poet, Maya Angelou, with a hope that I would also be a wizard with words. Unfortunately, my vocabulary was limited and would always remain so. As limited as my friend circle!

It was then that Marie came into my life. She was a new girl in our colony, and she was as radiant as the sun. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, and her long curly hair moved as if it had a life of its own. Diya brought her home one day after school. My parents loved her. Words tumbled out of her mouth without cessation, and I watched her, rapt. How could someone talk so effortlessly, and so much. I sat in my corner, listening to the music in her voice. Suddenly, the voice fell silent, and I sensed her gaze on me. She smiled at me and asked me from across the room, “What’s your name?”

“Oh, that’s my sister, Maya!” Diya answered. Marie rose and came towards me.

“Why are you sitting in that corner?”

She held her hand out to me, and I shrank away from her, uncomfortable at the thought of someone actually talking to me. By then I had lost the willingness to converse with anyone.

Marie came nearer and looked closely at my face.

“You have beautiful eyes, Maya!”

There was a sudden singing in my soul. No one had ever said anything so personal to me. I took her outstretched hand and smiled warily  at her. My muscles felt taut. I had got out of the habit of smiling as well.

My parents watched in silence. Diya called out to Marie.

“Hey, shall we go out and play? I want to introduce you to all my friends.”

Marie held on to my hand, as she nodded. As she moved towards Diya, she gave my hand a gentle tug.

“Come on, Maya. Let’s go out and meet your friends.”

“I have no friends!” My voice sounded raspy.

Diya added her pennyworth.

“That’s true. Maya has no friends. Everyone thinks she is strange.”

Marie shook her head, and her hair swung over her face, partially covering it.

“Now she has a friend. Me!” she said solemnly. “She will make more friends as well.”
I drew away from her in alarm. I was not used to anyone holding my hand or even talking to me.

“No one wants to be friends with me,” I said to Marie, who flashed her beautiful smile at me.

“I want to be your friend. Come with me.”

She glanced at Diya and my parents who were all looking shocked.

“You must be wondering why I am behaving like this, aren’t you?” They nodded in silence.

“I have an older brother who is twenty years old. However, his mental age is about eight. All my life, I have had to be his older sibling even though he is six years older than me. I love him very much because he has a heart filled with love and innocence.” She paused, and then she went on, “When I saw Maya sitting in that corner, it reminded me of my brother. He is wary of people because they react in different ways to him. All Maya needs is to be treated like a human being. She is not asking for anything more, I am sure.”

Marie’s voice sounded even more like music to my parched heart. I did not understand her emotion, but I saw the warmth in her eyes. My parents had tears in their eyes, but I did not know why. Diya took my other hand and for the first time, I saw a flash of understanding in her eyes as well.

The sun was shining down from a cloudless blue sky as I walked along with Marie and Diya towards where Diya’s friends stood, waiting. For the first time ever, I felt unafraid as I walked. My head was high, and my heart was easy. As the bright sun shone down on us, the cloudless blue sky seemed to nestle within my heart as well.

  This post is a part of 'Currents of Kindness Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.

 

The Great Indian Tamasha - Adventures of a Wedding Planner by Rasika Bhatia

 

Amazon.in

The Great Indian Tamasha by Rasika Bhatia is an in-depth and interesting book on her lived experiences as a wedding planner, not fiction. As she puts it candidly, "Being a wedding planner can prepare you for anything in life."

So it appears, as every chapter springs a surprise, which, while amusing in retrospect, must have quickened the heartbeats of those involved in the preparation of the event.

The author's sense of humour comes in often as she describes her experiences which often differ greatly from her expectations. One bride wanted to step down from the moon, a drunk groom went absconding, another groom found himself carried away by runaway white horses, and a tiny diamond merchant from Surat made use of the wedding presentation to copy it for his daughter's wedding.

Rasika Bhatia reveals the myriad lessons her experiences have taught her over the years. In the chapter titled 'Money Can't Buy You Love,' she says wryly,

"Love cannot fill one's stomach, but one can't stay in a loveless marriage either." In 'Trouble in the Garden of Eden', she discovered a 'werewolf' mother, who turned into a designer who thrust her ideas on to the planning team. Her name being Tweety, she was dubbed 'The Terrible Tweets'!

The author also amusingly describes the drunk French groom who climbed the parapet wall in true Sholay style. She came across bullying hotel employees, political heavyweights and a Tenali Raman lookalike, another hotel employee who had his own ace to grind and a 'Guns and Roses' wedding where weapons were brandished and a tardy caterer manhandled.

The life of a wedding planner can be truly tumultuous, especially when mothers turn into Mrs. Voldemort, invoking terror. As the author puts it, "I still wake up sometimes with her voice, more like a hyena's call, ringing in my ears."

This book, written amusingly, speaks yet of the immense pressures that a wedding planner goes through, but finally when the couple tie the knot in happiness, all seems right with the world. Till the next wedding tamasha, that is!

Name of the book: The Great Indian Tamasha: Adventures of a Wedding Planner

Publisher: Om Books International

Buying Link: https://www.amazon.in/Great-Indian-Tamasha-Adventures-Wedding-ebook/dp/B0C4T53526