Backyard heaven

The last time `backyard' meant heaven, was in my ammumma's home at Chromepet Chennai. Yesterday, seven years after her home vanished to realtor monstrosity, I found a backyard heaven.

But for that, I had to do something I hadn't done before.

``Don't go into the woods,'' warned my husband before he left for a pre-hurricane errand, when I got ready with my camera to get some Fall pictures of trees near home. For long after a friend tipped me off on the woods behind our community, I wanted to venture out there. The trouble: we also get warned about not going out after dark, for fear of being mugged. And this, in our own community!

Somehow, the fear of being mugged or attacked is so pervasive. Irrespective of, whether such things happened near you that is. We do pay heed to warnings, because we do not know this community as much as people who lived here do.

I moved out anyways, steeling myself slowly to break that inner barrier, even if it meant I would get close to danger. What if the woods are really dense? What if I get lost?

First set of pictures were from outside my door, and I moved further to the edge of our community - the point where the last set of cars got parked, and the woods began. Wow! What a sight!

This was ditto the feeling from the trip to Bear Mountain! Never thought backyards could be so picturesque! So straight out of those picture postcards and magazine spreads! They did not even look as dense as I thought they would be! I noticed two young boys chatting up in the car park. Warning beats begin.

I continued with more pictures - of leaves, colours, barks that went up into sky...the two dispersed, and one of them walked into the woods. Really? In this cold? I thought.

My neighbour had spoken about a children's park existing on the other side of the woods.

``It takes five minutes inside the woods. Don't go when it's getting dark,'' she said. Five minutes is no big deal. But big when you've not set foot outside home in a while on your own, and when you've been warned so explicitly by fellow Indians. That was in the end of summer when my health was down, which was, a month back. The thought of these colours drew me in and won over.

I step out when it's warm afternoon sun anyways. And sun, has become a rarity at that, with daylight vanishing as quickly as it came.

I decided to get a few steps into the woods. And walk back if it was too eerie. A little further. And further. I saw another kid cycling in the woods. What? Was there really so much space? To cycle?

The next thing I realised -  roads in the woods! I laughed inside. At myself. An adventure dead.

Nothing left to explore! A road ran parallel to the community edge or compound. Another connected the community to the park. The walk was a super self-treat.

Yellow and brown leaves strewn all over. Varying shades of leaves on their way to the earth, lovely different hues of green against the burnt sienna, grey-green and pale blue sky...

I could actually see the park from the apartment community end of the woods. And a family or two making their way to or from the park.

I went further. And click away to glory. 

Midway into the woods, I find a carpet of leaves which were strewn everywhere including here, but not on the ground. They fell like feathers on a fresh water stream and floated on it. So deceptive you would step on the `carpet' and go down if not careful.

Look close below. Does it look like a stream? Or simply a layer of brown leaves?

It's two streams converging into one.

The park was another delight. A grill party was on at the children's play area. To my left on reaching there, was a basketball court, busied up by kids. Just the kind of place you want to throw away your footwear in, stretch out on the grass and let your hair loose. Or run your fingers between leaves and grass. Or simply play with dry leaves that crush under your shoes. Left to me, I would carry a book to the place and stretch out on a bench to be lost in words.

A few steps on to my right was a set of three tennis courts.

The real treat was the trees and their leaves. Flower bouquets in golden tints. Reds and yellows are for Autumn as pinks and whites are for Spring.

Here it is, another view of the park, nestled in calming green.

Want some romantic quiet? There's room for that too! I've always dreamt of a space to drown in a book, surrounded by trees and feeling safe. I've loved the idea of spending time with my partner or some friend for a chat in such environs too.

And what a pleasant feeling it is, to see that happen!

Such spots are common to any picnic-worthy area out here in the US. Wish we had them in India too!

Content with having spent an early Saturday evening in such superb company, I walked back home slowly, madly clicking the woods on my journey back. Watching and soaking in the colours at every step.

The real dream came true on my way back. Just what would you do, if you came face to face, with  a creature you love, but find only in zoos?

I missed clicking pictures of it on earlier occasions - either I did not have the camera on hand, or it was too far for a click. So this time, my hands worked super speed. Sports Mode on Nikon. Whew!

Here it is! A genteel deer!

I may put up more pictures of this one, in Cerebral Toothbrush. Meanwhile, am bracing up for Sandy, the super Hurricane! And keeping fingers crossed on the power-cuts front. Pray. Pray. Pray that Mother Nature who is so loving, spares us all.

Pictures: Radhika M B
For permissions to use: radiscribe@gmail.com

All pics are signed with `radi'
If you want a blow up for your wall-paper, do write in.

Navarathri/ Navaraatri: Dandiya, dolls, and dreams!

It's Navarathri time. And an excuse to indulge in festivities. I still miss the Dandiya nights of Mumbai when every housing society compound got lit up in lights and reverberated songs of the Goddess, and the Kolu of South - dolls galore that found their way from trunks to tables and benches that became steps for display.

Decking up for a festival where I live is a challenge, if not impossible. Flowers are a rarity unless they are part of bouquets. And bouquets, are super-expensive. I am not in the mood to celebrate festivals at home, but love it when I get invited over.

A little effort on, my hubby and I managed a visual treat for ourselves, replete with desi essence and grandeur.

For two weekends over Navarathri every year, Newark Avenue of Jersey City comes alive with a crowd, and is closed for traffic. What's so special did you ask? Newark Avenue is the official name for what is really India Street at Journal Square. Decked in desi lehengas, ghagra cholis and sarees, hundreds descend on the street these two weekend nights for a party. Kids, parents, grandparents, young men and women, tourists...Americans who love a dose of Indian culture...

An orchestra, aarti for the Goddess and loads of sponsors from this retail hub for Indian clothes, foods and other products. And a free walk-in to the street unlike ticketed Dandiya Raas events elsewhere in New Jersey State and the US.

A kid was kind enough to pose for me, with her kolattam sticks.

The event is not complete without a soulful aarti. The aarti sung here was very soulful, in spite of notes that went awry in the song.

These are pictures of the aarti being performed before the canopy of the Goddess. In the rear is the stage for singers, sponsor announcements and the like. One of the singers in the pictures below, is someone who sees with his heart, not eyes!

And a shot of the deity that I managed, jostling in the crowd. Aarti time is break time for dandiya revelers.

A group of friends poses for a picture (photographer on the other side). And then resumes the party. We're talking post 12 am!

Does this look any different at all from an Indian street? Am reminded so much of Commercial Street in Bangalore.

The crowds below are a matter of envy. I chatted with a couple who travelled from Secaucus. ``It's the only street in entire US where people do this,'' said Jayesh Balsara.

``We have been visiting here last four years. Before that, the scale was smaller. People dance in the cold, in rain, even if it snows,'' says Neha Balsara, his wife. Their daughter was out there on the street with friends, dancing. What a happy site it was! To see a street cordoned off, with huge crowds in colourful costumes!

On the cold night, people decked up in their finery, but covered up in a jacket or winter coat nevertheless.

Prior to the Dandiya night events, this street's umpteen clothes stores get decked up with the colourful dresses, hanging outside their doors, just like it happens in my home cities of Mumbai and Bangalore.

We travelled to Jersey City from Edison, but not before catching up with some home fervour at my friend's place in North Brunswick. Gombe Habba, Navarathri Kolu, Bommala Kolu, the names are many. And creativity, inifinite.

Kolu is the doll exhibition of the many Hindu Gods and Goddesses in neatly arranged steps that are covered ideally in a white cloth. Most dolls are made of clay. Many homes also make space for a little park spread out on the floor. A recent trend has been to use some space for displaying kids' toys such as cars, Barbies, and the like. My friend Prema and her family converted their basement room into the temporary display room.

Here are pictures from my dear friend's home:

Note the lovely aquarium that they did not disturb, and adds its dash to the space! Steps are usually arranged in odd numbers, three, five, seven, nine or more...if you do not have ready-made wood shelves, it takes all your resourcefulness to muster up something to show for steps. The result however is rewarding.

The `park' is usually placed by the side of the Kolu in other homes. Here, it makes for a lovely base step.

 Saraswati, the Goddess of learning has gone straight on to the second step, with her books. The quite learning baby or student picture that would not quite form part of traditional displays looks the most perfect companion for the Goddess here.

Below the lovely Durga applique, is the cute set of Patta Gombe or wooden dolls that are a must in most homes with doll display.

Back home, my mother had a little collection of saints clay dolls such as that of Swami Vivekananda, Raghavendra, Sai Baba. I added one of Tukaram, from one my trips to Belgaum, and also that of emperor Shivaji.

Here, it is Gandhiji and a charkha that find place! Wow.

And here is a picture, of a part of the park, with a mini zoo.

Some craft work by a little one comes in handy too, in the form of these tea lights made of paper.

But the one that takes the cake of all, is what I call `Organic eggs turned chefs!'

Aren't they cute!

The weekend did its bit to set me off on creativity dreams, thanks to loving friends who made it all possible. Prayerfully yours!!!

Pictures: Radhika M B
Related post: Navaraatri South Style
Write to me if you want pictures that are not watermarked.
Thank you Prema!

Outdoors turn paintings

Before the cold comes the colour. It's the Fall. Of leaves. Before the white of snow sweeps your vicinity.

It's when paintings pervade every green gift outside the window. Hues innumerable, of yellow. Hues in hundreds, of happy red. It's when these colours fuel Fall tourism.

When people pull their jackets out, tuck their hands into pockets, but venture out anyways, to catch those last days of outdoor air before winter weeks jail them in.

My friends were happy to give me a ride to see some Fall colours for myself, colours that I saw only in picture postcards as a kid, and screen pictures on the World Wide Web. Off we headed, to Bear Mountain State Park, a two hour ride from my part of New Jersey.

Here's a glimpse of what it felt like:

Cliche says -- your journey is the destination. Delight, is when these wayside trees that turned out like flower bunches for a while, and the sky's lovely pale blue greet your eye.

This spot, where the trees were lit up so wonderfully by the afternoon sun, is very near the entrance of the Bear Mountain State Park. Meditative. Foresty froth.

I love the woods. Any day more inviting than myriad mansions and malls in metros. Makes me want to rush into the trees.

Blessed are we humans, with such beauty in our midst. Mad are we though, to chase brick and glass to satiate our thirst. This river, is Hudson. Yeah. The all famous Hudson that marks the Manhattan skyline, makes for a prop in countless movies...

...Hudson, that meanders so gently in the middle of these hills and trees, that it sets you off on a dreamy thought trail, makes for the most perfect place to throw your shoes, let your hair loose and stretch out on the golden green grass.

All you need, is a tree whose leaves turn flowery red, water that glitters in afternoon sun and a hill with umpteen green-yellow-orange tree-bouquets... what more to make a Sunday? 

Besides the camera of course!

That's the dream riverside one would die for. The trouble with paradise is, everyone wants it. Notice the crowd on this walkway!

Foliage of love.

And some company to cheer about. With some beer and grill in tow...

I'd call this heaven on a Sunday afternoon!

Pictures: Radhika M B
For permissions to use, contact: radicreative@gmail.com
Location: Bear Mountain State Park, New York State
All pictures are watermarked.

A related post to be available on Cerebral Toothbrush blog soon.

Do check out Imprints Handmade too, for a crafts related post.

Ah! That's my wafer!

Munch! Munch!

Photo Courtesy: Chelvaraj Dhinesh Kumar

Copyrights: Chelvaraj Dhinesh Kumar

Location: Longwood Garden, Delaware, US

Of homecoming, passion and food

Passion. It has many hues. I am mad about writing. About journalism. Not even in the darkest of moments, have I been able to shake off that journalist in me.

On Sunday at New York, I met those of my tribe - bloggers, except, many of them wrote blogs on food. Ouch. Food. I love food - eating it. Not cooking. I dole out dishes with love. But no. I don't love cooking. Meeting the host - celebrity chef Vikas Khanna and the other fellow bloggers who clicked away pictures of each dish laid out on the table set me off on something.

He is a celebrity. But when he stood with us bunch of bloggers, he seamlessly blended into being one among us. It was when he started talking about spices, about Indian food, more as a friend than an expert, that the feeling sunk in -- about his passion for cooking, his madness for making perfect food, and yes, the long journey too. I could so instantly connect with that passion! Those hours I worked away in journalism, those sleepless nights, chasing stories, people, deadlines...here it was a man loved the food, its ingredients, and had that desi essence imbibed in every word he spoke.

He does not have a freezer in his restaurant!

The biggest treat of the whole time was our tour to his spice room. ``I love the smell,'' I said when we all walked in. Turmeric, pepper, dried rose buds, nutmeg, each smell sets you off on a nostalgic journey. These smells are part of our kitchens, but somehow they felt special there.

That was about the host. Fellow bloggers made as much a difference.

Sometimes, you can be at ease with complete strangers. Warmth. Connect with home - India. When we got chatting in the lounge of Junoon - the host restaurant, we introduced ourselves right away. No formalities. I saw the host's little angel asleep on the sofa and felt at home. In an instant. Our hosts were from Bangalore, and the same suburb where my parents-in-law live! Another blogger said she grew up in Goregaon, my home suburb of Mumbai! A bunch of blogger friends there live in nearby towns, in New Jersey! I couldn't have felt more at home!

The surprise was when Cerebral Toothbrush, my blog, got picked up as the one with the craziest name. That was so moving! It's been long since my work got recognised, in any area of life.


Trouble was when we were asked to taste soup made by the chef and list out 10 ingredients. Disaster. I wanted to hide under the table and said that aloud too.

Among the things we ate, it was dessert that moved me the most. Ever thought of fusing paan in kulfi? It was just that - paan ice-cream/kulfi besides mango kulfi. Each taste triggers a memory. When an ingredient triggers memory in a dish you least expected it to be in, you know the maker's love to innovate has paid off. I had not trailed off on these thoughts till Sunday. Let me admit the meet has made me more food-aware now.

It was just what I needed now. Healing. In every sense of the word. I can make peace with my madness for journalism, writing and the other things I do. For I met others who have it too, for what they like - mostly food and cooking. I can sleep easy with the thought of having more friends ...

And the images that will stay with me long - Junoon's layout which Vikas Khanna said was based on Belur temple's, his homely nature - that kitchen towel over his shoulder, the spice room, those little tea-lights that led us to the basement where it was located, that little angel on the sofa...Junoon staff doing their bit to keep her engaged, and a lot more.

Now here, now gone

Sometimes in life, numbers stay with you even if you dreaded them in your school days. Five numbers will haunt me for a lifetime I guess.

Everytime that image of these numbers on that printed slip flashes in my head, I feel lost. It's like they have an aura around them. How on earth would you think 14, 30, 73 and 41 made any difference to your life?

To me, they signify the arrival of my baby I longed for, and its exit. `It'. Am saying `it' because when it arrived in my womb, it still did not have a gender. When it went too, it did not have a gender. I don't care what its gender was! I just know it was mine. And did not have to go.

Technically, the numbers I mentioned above are the HCG count, which spells out as Human Chorionic Gonadotropin harmone. It's otherwise known as the pregnancy harmone. We went to meet my gynaec on the last day of my stay in Delaware, because my body was behaving unusual. When the staff checked my weight, she casually enquired if I wanted to do the pregnancy test.

``But I did not skip my period? Is it possible I get pregnant in spite of it?'' I wondered aloud.

``You never know. Why not give it a shot?'' she said. And what a shot that was.

When the gynaec walked in to the room and announced `positive' for pregnancy, I was on top of the world.

``What? How's that possible?'' I had been trying for over three years in the four and half years of my marriage, and lost hope. Now this! When we were moving town, and on our last day in that state! Did the return to India bit not work out because this was in store? These queries did hit me, but a few minutes later.

A happy shiver went down my spine. I couldn't understand how to react. ``But...''

Oh yeah! A `but' means that bad news.

``I don't know what is happening with your body. This is unusual! It could be a pregnancy or pregnancy on its way out. Why don't you take a blood test?'' We agreed.

On our way out, I was still so happy! But happier to see that joy on her staff's faces! It feels so great when others are happy for you and still better when you can see that happiness!

``See I told you!'' remarked the staffer who first suggested the test. My husband had said to her earlier,`` It can't be. If it's positive, I will give you a treat.'' I tried to caution myself. But no I was not ready to ruin this ecstasy. ``We didn't believe it,'' I said, and the normally stern receptionist gave a motherly chide.

On our way to the blood lab, we hugged each other. I had heard so many stories of the `mother' feeling, and pregnancy joy, but this was something I felt for the first time. Like every bit of my body danced. The doctor asked us to do a second blood test after we moved to the other state. It was when the first phone call came from her, that I jerked up. ``Your pregnancy harmone count is low - 14. It is probably on its way out,'' she said, and suggested we see another gynaec for local help in the new state immediately.

The night after that, my hubby tried to convince me, ``It's just a tissue. Don't worry.'' I lost it. And bawled. ``Don't call my baby that! It's my baby!'' What the hell was happening? I was battling between science and emotion. What was wrong with me? With my PCOS history, even getting pregnant was a miracle!

We saw another doc. And took another blood test. It was 30 this time. Hope. ``It's not exactly galloping forward!'' the doc phoned in. Another blood test after three-four days. 73.

I wanted hope. Not this. It was supposed to be in the range of 400 by now. All the internet reading about hcg would not sum up to anything. I did not know what to do to make it multiply in hundreds.

``Wait and watch'' is the only thing the doc would say. How could I simply wait? I wanted that number to go up and NOW.

``If you are pregnant, it should touch 2,000 by seven weeks,'' the second gynaec said. They would not as much as officially declare the pregnancy! I did not want to see a doc anymore. ``I will pray. Let the baby come. Or go. I will not visit the doctor again.''

My hubby insisted on informing his parents after the first blood test. And my parents too. I did not want to tell anyone. Not even our parents. I wanted to see the baby come on for two months at least. Hell. I cannot answer people. I want the baby. But within families and extended families, news spreads. Faster than fire. You do not know how many people you end up talking to, explaining what happened.

We moved to our new place. A few days on, he pushed me to call the doctor for an appointment. I refused. By now, the pre-natal Vitamin C tablets she gave me were causing havoc, flaring up my piles, and an episode of painful gastric. I started bleeding. Hubby away at work. In desperation, I cried to my baby, `Don't go. I'll protect you!''

When he rushed home, my gastric pain had subsided. No. It can't be, it's still there, I told myself. The internet said such bleeding was possible in normal pregnancies too! Hope again. But I dreaded going to the doctor. We did the fourth blood test anyways. And visited the clinic. ``Something's not right,'' I told my hubby while waiting for our turn, my hand instinctively running on my tummy. And tried hard not to cry. What if it stays on only to become an abnormal one? Why is everyone making it sound like the baby is not meant to arrive? Before seeing the doctor, we asked the receptionist to show the blood test result.

There it was. 41. My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed a lump and controlled my tears. ``Sorry!'' is all I could blurt out to my husband. He replied, ``Sorry,'' and we squeezed each other's hands. The doctor walked in. I was prepared for that official answer. She checked.

``You have had a miscarriage,'' she said, mellowing her voice. ``I will send you for an ultrasound to see if you need a clean up of the uterus.'' The only other query that came out from me was - `should I exercise? stay normal or take bed rest?'

Her reply, ``Continue your routine.'' She did not stay a second longer for the next query. I guess even at 80 (heard that is her age), she found it hard to handle women who had lost babies in their wombs.

We took a cab home. The thoughts racing in my head - how exactly should I feel? how should I react? Should I grieve for the baby? Is the baby still there? We were prepared for this. We can pull ourselves together. Why am I feeling numb? If it has left, why? It was NOT a tissue. It survived. For nearly a month! I am already hearing those questions people ask. ``Did you exert yourself more? What went wrong? Did you bend too much? Was there lot of stress?''

I dreaded those questions. I was screaming inside, ``I did everything possible! I wanted this one more than you or anyone else in the world.'' Over the next two days, frequent episodes of screaming and crying did nothing to numb the pain I felt. In my heart. That evening, I got agitated when kids played outside. Where's my kid? I forgot those physical pains - that gnawing back ache, panting for breath...every time I saw that little amount of sticky blood while in the bathroom, it killed me that I had to see the baby go little by little. Even bathroom visits were something I did not want!

The ultrasound was worse. Internal ultrasound is a nightmare. If it happens after a miscarriage, it is hell. You don't want a machine to thrust its rod where your baby is supposed to be. When the machine's rod went in, I hated it. `I don't want this thing to go in, I want my baby to come out - healthy and intact.' I burst into tears on the table. ``They gave me time to recover unlike back home. I did not have to hurry...'' I said to my husband. Back home (India), the long queues of pregnant women and overworked sonologists made an ultrasound visit a disaster.

In the hours and days that followed the ultrasound, I shopped for craft material, hosted my friend and family with their daughter who hugged me, played... ran off to my old home and neighbours, played with their toddlers whom we love. In the middle of it all, I went mad about adopting a baby too, while pushing husband to buy pregnancy test kits, ovulation strips....what was happening?

The bleeding stopped. Baby gone. Void.

I stare out now into the maple tree from my window, watch its leaves sway in the wind, and hope they will all bless my baby. I watch clouds when we're driving in a cab, through trains, and feel my baby nestled there, filling the sky with joy. Inside me, there's that emptiness.


Oodles of tears on over the last couple of weeks, I learnt something. My baby came and went. It was meant to do something. It made me feel hope. It made me feel the joy of being pregnant, even if for a few days. I love my baby for that. I am blessed with friends who went out of their way to keep my husband and me happy for the time we spent with them. Friends who spoke different languages, even belonged to different lifestyles and religion, but cared for us.

My folks living oceans away pray for me and grieve too, when they hear the bad news. When something like this happens, everyone around you somehow gets to know. They may not talk to you out of respect for your feelings. But they know it.

You can connect with your baby even if it is a day old in your uterus. I did not think it was possible till now. It is.

I connected with a friend who had three miscarriages before the fourth one survived. ``I feel your pain now,'' I confess. Only to get shocked further that she had six miscarriages, three after the fourth pregnancy worked. Oh my God!  Six babies! Someone else I know did not abort her abnormal fetus, and she suffers to this day - a little angel who cannot move, talk or express the way other kids do. A cousin lost her son, a couple of days before he was to arrive - nine months!

I will continue to grieve for this one that I lost despite these comparisons. My little one deserves happiness though, even if everytime those numbers show up on my face - on bus boards, registration numbers, calendars, tickets...feelings trail off towards those lab visits, and eerie clinic phone calls.

The one I lost did not have a name. Or gender. Or even a heartbeat. But it was mine. It deserves my every little effort to spread love around.

Magnificent vs Miniscule: Onguiaahra

A perennial rainbow. A river. A gorge. Nations that use this water as borders. Water white that falls so beautifully it lures humans in millions to witness its - fall.

And a boat from either sides carries those millions as close to the thundering falls of water as possible. A boat of dreams. Dreams of plastic cloak people - babies, couples, kids, seniors ...all hoping not to get wet in that thunder lashing them.

Loving every bit of feeling soaked anyways. They scream in joy. They yelp. They go away wanting to return. Again. And again.

Yet, this is how magnificent nature looks from the top, and how minute those millions. Their plastic blue on the boat jades in front of the pure water blue that surrounded them. God, is probably smiling. Nature, is relishing this human wonderment.

Location: Onguiaahra
Corrupted Current word: Niagara
Age of place: since Ice age
Age of falls: 12,000 years
Future of falls: about a few thousand years
Boat in question: Maid of the mist

Picture courtesy: C Dhinesh Kumar

Some culture shock bit this!

What in the world you do if a stranger walked into your bedroom unannounced?

Shriek? Scream? Get annoyed? Threaten to call 911? It happened to me and I could not call 911, though it left me with some bitter after-taste of those cliched words - culture shock.

It was a morning when I was busy at my craft table near the bedroom window, making those India calls, chatting away with family and friends. I was still holding the internet phone, pondering over this conversation I had with a cousin when this man - about 6 ft tall and fair, showed up at the bedroom door.

Was it mere fear? Was it shock? Anger? Surprise? I cannot describe what went into my zapped head at that exact second, but knew my heart skipped a beat. I heard myself yelp. And realised the phone fell out of my hand on to the table.

He looked as shocked to find me in my bedroom! Damn.

``What's this?'' I demanded, but sounded still shocked.

``The maintenance!'' he replied, matter of fact look on his face.

``Uh! Oh!'' I remembered, heaving a sigh now, not exactly relieved. I pointed to the closet where the roof was threatening to leak any moment.

I had called the apartment maintenance number the previous evening and expected the maintenance guys in the morning. But it was too early for a maintenance call.

``You scared me!'' That was the sanest thing I could say. I fancied giving him a punch on that nose. Was to short against his large frame.

``I am sorry!'' No he did not sound sorry. Merely a formality for an apology that. I was annoyed.

He got in to the closet, assessed the roof, and said he'd come back later.

Come back later....but wait...how did he get in?

``I knocked the door and there was no response. So I got in.''

Got in? And so casual about it?

``The door was locked from inside, wasn't it?'' I wondered aloud. Did I leave the door unlocked?

``I have a master key.''

Was that any consolation? Privacy invaded! These guys can just walk in if you don't answer the door knock!

This would be so so unthinkable back home? I mean you don't walk into a home like that!

I did not venture to argue about why he should not get in that way. Am not sure if I should have.
He did come back later. This time, I was alert. I did not let my eyes wander off my bedroom window for long. It's from where I can watch those entering the building and going out, with relative anonymity.

When the guy knocked, I was already at the door. He did some quick patchwork over the potential leak-spot with white-cement. And left. A stranger walked into my bedroom and I could do nothing about it! Sigh! Strange country this.

Only later in the evening that a friend assured me this was `normal'. For maintenance guys to enter apartments when the owners were away. My problem - my ears hear less.

Smile with love when...

...errors endear! You're stepping out of the home of your friends, after a wonderful hour of chatting between play with their toddler girls.

When you pick up your coats to leave, the younger one - all of about 16 months, puts out her hand as if to say `Bye!', but says `hi!'.

A `hi' greeting so soft and musical, you want to hug her and not leave! She continues to say `hi', till we step out of the building.

Her dad's heart has melted from an ice-cream to milkshake.

An ad punchline rings in my head: `Daag achche hain!'  (Stains are good!)

Any guesses which one?

Sunshine and spring-cleaning, as words

Romantic comedies of the Hollywood kind are so full of the word `sunshine'! Watching these films in India, I never got why the love of your life must be called sunshine of all things. Forget honey, sugar, sweety, cutie-pie and other such chocolates for the romantic feel. Sunshine?

The word suddenly became something I had to come to terms with over the last three months, just as the words spring cleaning do this week. Indians know what sunshine is all about - it can be anything but romance. Unless it's the peak of winter and you're waiting for those rays of sun to pierce through clouds.

Ask a Chennaiite what sunshine means - sun that burns your skin. She would rather not have some sun if divinity permits. It means losing the last drop of what could be called water, from your body - through day and all night. Panting for breath, cursing the government for power-cuts and wanting to escape. To the mountains.

Bangaloreans relate better to sunshine - winter sun. Winter sun is welcome. Summer sun? No way. It means sweat and hate traffic more and more!

Sunshine that's soft is best saved for those sunrise-sunset moments in India - maybe a bit of romanticism can be allowed then.

Out here in the northern half of East Coast, USA - sunshine has such a dramatic and different connotation! It is as if, in my dictionary, it got a new meaning entirely! It means romance!

A strong morning sun in peak winter need not mean you forget your heavy coats for that precious walk outside. Not at all! You would freeze anyways! Still, your mood lightens when you see morning sun bless your living room carpet, through the porch door. Sunshine means smile.

`Vitamin D Vitamin D - bless my day, bless my health'

Sunshine means, people dare to step out of their homes that are otherwise shut for most part of winter. It means welcome. Happiness. Sunshine means softness! It means warmth! What a contrast from the `burn my skin' feel back in India!

Am yet to experience summer sun. I bet it will not be half the dog days' torture of Chennai!

Spring cleaning!

One hears that so much among Indian English language speakers! I have used the words too. Without quite getting why a season matters so much to cleaning. I knew that in the West, spring cleaning had a lot to do with the weather, or maybe ushered in the arrival of spring. Not so in India! With every festival - be it Varalakshmi pooja of August, Sankranti in January, Diwali of November or Ugadi/Gudi Padwa/ Tamil New Year's day of April, there is a whole new round of cleaning! It's so much a part of festive culture!

Spring cleaning - it is used by Indians, but has an alien context. Spring is so short in India that it's almost like a door to summer.

This weekend, spring will arrive officially, or so I am told. The USA clock will move an hour ahead and somehow the day will get, longer. Daylight Saving Time. Absurd logic, but people out here are used to it. I look forward to longer days.

People have begun cleaning their balconies and homes. Retailers and wholesalers were ready about three weeks back, with outdoor furniture, shelters, camping material, cleaning products and more.

It really means putting your winter clothes in, and getting the spring/summer clothes out! It means the end of a season and beginning of another! Spring cleaning, actually means spring-cleaning!

The big question then - why do we Indians have to use it?

Healing hiatus: the other name for my Writer's Block

So many times over the past several months have I opened the blog post page, hoped to write something, and not done it. For those churning out thousands of words in a day, it may sound silly. For those outside of writing profession, it may not even exist. 

After all, what is a professional peddler of words supposed to do? Write. Is it not?

But I could not. The desktop screen would stare at me, taunting. My fingers would want to vent all rage on the keys, pound them ceaselessly - about life, about problems, people. Still, I would go blank. They call it writer's block.


No regrets about what happened at all. Some blog readers have often asked me what happened to the blog. The blog was always here. It was I who was away. I have no apologies to offer. Absolutely none. Because I am not sorry.

Am not sorry, because what happened was something beyond my control. Destiny hits you hard when you least expect it. You walk into its menacing mace, completely unprepared for a blind turn, or a walled mirage. And fall. It takes time to heal from a fall, whatever its form. What defines us, is how soon we push ourselves to get up after that fall. Here I am.

I thank each reader, for enduring me through the absence. Frustrating as it can be, to open your favourite blog, almost by habit, and find no updates - thank you for that faith in me.

So where was I all along? Let's say, on a healing hiatus - completely health imposed and all that's associated. In future posts, I may end up writing about this whole complex process of healing. For now, all I want to say is, your belief got me this far. Thank you, dear reader.

I have finally keyed in something. Have I finally gotten over my writer's block? If yes, you deserve credit.