wet head

What´s worse than stepping out in winter? Taking a hair bath in winter.
Seriously, have you tried it? I can assure you that it´s not a very pleasant experience.
When you are in the steaming bathroom, it´s different. As hot water nurses your body from the cold weather outside, you feel like a baby, comfortable and happy. Once the hot water flow halts, it´s hell. So you grab a fluffy towel and cover your head and it feels nice and warm. You get dressed and then let the towel stay.
Honestly, I want to hold on to it forever. When I take it away, I know what happens. Wet hair makes contact with my neck and my skin revolts. And mind you, I don´t feel any better when I use the blow dryer either. Because when I stop and try brushing my hair, it´s wet again and sticks to my scalp.
I could try cutting my hair shorter but I know that it would be the winter´s gain and my loss. So I am going to be brave and come up with an idea. When? Well, I am hoping before the winter ends!

first day

The clammy hands, the galloping heart, butterflies in the stomach and nausea are so common when you are faced with "the first day". It could be the face day anytime or anywhere - play school, school, college, university, first day at first job, first day at tenth job, first date, first meeting with prospective in laws, first ever trip to a supermarket. "First" for me is disastrous. I say all the wrong things, drink lots of water, want to use the rest room all the time, feel like I am going to throw up when I haven´t eaten much, keep checking for zits or molecules that might have found themselves on my face since the last time I checked it ( that would be every minutes). Overall, I am just babbling and making no sense. The after-effects mind you, are far worse! I revisit every painful detail and cringe. I shouldn´t have said that! I should have said that! Why did I do that? Any by "that" I mean vague stuff like, shaking my feet at ridiculously high speeds, chewing my own lip off, stopping my eyes from blinking so that the other party feels like i am in the room, gripping tightly to anything that I can find- pencils, desk weight, paper, bill, cup... I guess you get the drift. I don´t know why this happens and no matter how much I coach myself to stay calm and think of the positives, my anxiety gets the better of me. I once entered a really huge supermarket without a trolly. I couldn´t find a trolly and I didn´t know whom to ask so I entered and gathered everything that I could in my hands and at the cashier´s counter deposited it with flourish. The confused cashier probably thought I was nuts. Who carries 13 odd items in their hands afterall? I do. "It´s my first day" I wanted to tell her. I am just like that. So don´t ask me and don´t tell me these things. I am sure I will think about this when I get home and cringe. Why, I am writing about it. Which means I am not over the incident yet!
Sigh, " the first day". Looks like I have to live with it. It´s one of those obsessions that will never stop because "the first day" shall always be there for the rest of my life at some point or the other.

a walk down memory lane - Wayside Inn

The city I used to call "home" is now a resident in my mind. It´s not easy to forget the first time I walked as a mere toddler on the endless stretch called Marine Drive holding my father´s hand or the evenings spent on Worli seaface wondering where my life was going as I stared at the waves crashing against the wall.
Why, the smell that still tantalises me is the fragrance of corn being fried on coal, mixed with the salty, humid smell of the sea. This fragrance lingers on in my mind unlike any perfume I have ever purchased.
The next few posts are going to be about remembering the haunts that once captivated me. The jewels in the crown that shall in my mind, always be the best ones.

1. Wayside Inn:
The first time that I ever tasted mutton cutlets was when I was about 5 years old. I remember being carried into this homely, European styled cafe that had round tables and chequered table clothes in red and white. My dad was carrying me while my mother intently studied the menu card. I remember a distinguished old gentleman taking our order as we sat at a corner table. My bother, two years more quieter than me dug into his plate right away while my father was debating where he should place me while he relished his meal. My mom was already way ahead. She was relishing the gravy that seeped out of the cutlets every time that she dug her spoon in. My father finally placed me on his lap so that I could also admire the contents as his fork made contact with the cutlets. I still remember how close I was to his plate. Just inches away from the rim. Suddenly, I found the fork coming towards me and a morsel entering my ignorant mouth.
I remember the mix of flavours that greeted me. I remember licking my lips and looking up at him with glee. I ate my full cutlet that day. I will never forget the day, the time or the server. His eyes crinkled as he saw yet another young girl being introduced to the legendary mutton cutlets they proudly served their customers daily.
Wayside Inn sadly doesn´t have a cafe anymore. They do have a carry-home service operating out of the same place but it feels different now. There are no chequered table cloths, the whirring of the overhead fans or kind servers who offer you delicious custard. I can´t help but feel sorry for the next generation. They will never get to understand what it feels like to be seated on a beautiful old wooden chair in this quaint cafe with the overhead fan whirring away the afternoon heat as you savour a mutton cutlet.

thunder

I am not a big fan of thunder. As a child, I would hide under my bed covers and pray hard.
Even now, I try hard not to be intimidated as the bolt of light whips the air around till it trembles and moans.
As I write this, I can hear the air around whimpering . I see it weep steadily and the ground, like a dependable tissue paper, is absorbing all the embarrassment and pain almost effortlessly.
I know this show of emotion shall end soon. And then, it will be bright and cheerful again.

manic sunday

I grew up listening to The Bangles crooning about Manic Mondays. I have a song of my own playing in my mind though and it´s called, "Manic Sunday".
I feel Sunday is the most chaotic day in my week. That´s the day when I am horribly behind schedule. Breakfast and lunch is always in quick succession. Bath seems like an unlikely possibility as uninvited friends show up wanting to brunch with you. As you dig into the refrigerator wishing for a miracle called leftovers, frozen food or anything distinctly edible, people walk around dripping beer ( they call it condensation off the can) on the carpet you managed to brush the day before. As you smile patiently and wait for the hurricane to pass, the phone rings and it´s your mother wanting to catch up with you. It´s not her fault really. It is a Sunday after all. Most normal people spend it in bed/hammock. I am running around ensuring that people have enough to eat at the table and that there is ice in the freezer.
I love entertaining, mind you. However, I appreciate notice. A week preferably. It gives me time to be a diva then. Answer the door looking like I got back after a rejuvenating massage at the Four Seasons. As I offer my cheek for the customary peck, I am confident that it´s the reassuring smell of Gucci and not perspiration greeting the kisser.
A woman has to be presentable at all times is what I was told by an aunt. She was also the one insisting that I go to Finishing School. She would give polite disapproving looks every time I tucked my feet under me on a particularly slow afternoon. Or when I dug into my spaghetti with relish after a particularly depressing day at work. She never lived with us but somehow was always hovering around making observations.
Not that it ever worked on me. Even today, if caught unawares, you will find me in my faithful pyjamas and t- shirt that have seen several birthdays without giving up on me .
I love the life I lead on the rest of the days. Just don´t expect the best out of me on Sundays. It´s a losing battle that day.

routine

It´s just one of those days when you want to do nothing. Even moving around your bed seems like such an effort then. You squint at the clock and see that it´s close to noon. Sighing like you are about 200 years old, you groan and moan. The sun is shining brightly, so you head to shower. As the water hits your body you feel sleepy again. It´s like a massage really. You just don´t feel like raising your hands or even finding that soap. A few minutes of water therapy later, you walk out and sit on the bed gulping a glass of soya milk. There are dishes in the sink, the floor needs sweeping, the garbage needs to be taken out, the letters need to be posted. ´"Later, later, later" seem to be the only words that register.
The phone rings suddenly and you get up with a start. Your mind goes blank for a minute and you realize it was all a dream. Reality is far worse. You need to get out of bed, spend not more than 3 minutes in the shower, complete those chores, catch the 9 am local to reach that meeting across the city in time.
Sometimes dreams are good. They let you relax. Life unfortunately, is a high-speed, bumpy ride with no brakes. The only time you stop is when you have had enough. And that´s when your dreams start to take over your life.
So the next time, you want to have that leisurely shower in real time...just do it! The next time you want to binge on chocolates, indulge. Cause when you don´t, you know you will dream about it and wake up cheated.

sans jacket

I hate feeling cold. Your mind turns to slush and the only real activity that happens then is chattering. Your teeth completely give up on you and start a life of their own - grumble, bitch and laugh in that annoying way that makes you look ridiculous in front of strangers. So, I try to be wise and carry suitable clothes when I step out in winter. Mind you, the winter we are talking about in this case is a freezing -5 degrees. Enough to turn you into your favorite ice lolly.
Of course, sometimes it is warmer and it is then that one needs to make choices. A pullover, a jacket, a woolen cap, mittens...all of them, one, two, three of them, none of them...it´s really puzzling for a woman sometimes. After all, we are looking at a wardrobe malfunction here if the colors don´match. Most men would say, Oh just throw it all on and step out". So you listen or you simply wear what you please ( and I can bet that´s almost always the wrong choice) and step out smiling and pretend that it isn´t cold when all you really want to do is enter a sauna and gulp down some brandy to get your blood circulating again.
I haven´t quite figured out the colour coding for clothing yet. For example, I really don´t understand whether the fawn jacket I own goes with the emerald silk shirt my mom gifted me. Most of the clothing I own is simple, non descript and enough to make the divas shudder with disgust. Then again, if my fingers still feel like they are alive at the end of the day with all that I own, I must be doing something right.