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ds of silence depends on how long incredibly long periods of silence means you say ok so clearly i haven t lost my ability to ramble and ramble i will do i want to look back on how i have grown up and think that kids these days hah i said it are like three generations ahead of what i used to be probably not i considered buying my not yet two year old a tablet for his birthday yeah that s the one a small digital thing to watch his nursery rhymes on do i want to look back on marriage and how it s amazing and makes you a better person probably not i have met entire other personalities of mine hidden deep down the irritably wife the annoying nagger but hey if you feel it s better being married to this guy than not being married to this guy you re on the right track and if you want to make the guy feel it s better to be married to you than to not be married to you you re on an even better track do i want to spout endless theories on how living outside your home country changes the person you are probably not living away from india for years has strengthened my person stubbornly rather than change her yeah i am like that do i want to sound old and wise talking about how age makes you appreciate things you couldn t appreciate when you were younger probably not i m not happy with my country or even the society i ve grown more intolerant rather than accepting do i want to assume i still have readers out there who bother to read my ramblings probably not posted by the think at 1 19 am comments trackback wednesday december 1 as children we would spend long lazy weekends at our aunt s house located all the way across the city in a quiet residential locality half way up a little hillock on those weekends we would start our little journey with my mom grandmom and brother packed tight in an autorickshaw with weekend clothes little snacks for the ride and me perched excitedly on my mom s lap the ride was long shaky and rickety taking us through strange lands high rise buildings with fashionable people sipping coffee and nibbling on cake lush gardens where the elderly sauntered aimlessly traffic lights with hundreds of cars and buses little streets strewn with litter and some sleepy cows and stubborn buffalos thrown in for adventure a race course where i always hoped to see a horse peeping out through the gate rows and rows of little shops selling food clothes and toys until we took a wide left and arrived at our aunt s home i loved visiting my aunt there was so much to do to begin our weekend my brother and i would walk at least once around the house looking for new plants in her garden or even new flowers and buds that hadn t grown during our last visit my favorite stop was at the mango tree where summer fruit would hang from branches ready to fall off when the tree shook in the afternoon breeze i loved watching my aunt walk around the house and work in the kitchen i ve always thought of her as an industrious ant tirelessly going about her routine taking one thing out replacing it with something else noticing everything saying very little she has the most endearing habit of saving little bits of food for us a little bit of chana curry she made to accompany the three chapatis for uncle of which he ate only two and a half one unni appam from the temple pooja last week a little bit of mixture from her friend s wedding yesterday a little bit of tomato rice she made when visitors walked in un announced last friday three of the six wafer biscuits she bought for the little girl next door all because she knows i like chana curry my brother loves unni appam my mom loves tomato rice and my grandmom enjoys a little snack after lunch dinner was always an occasion she would make another favorite pooris and potato curry so we could eat it on the terrace the planning that would go into one of those terrace dinners was truly admirable to begin with she would spread many sheets of newspaper on the terrace floor and place little stones on the edges to prevent them from flying away each one of us would get two plates one to eat in and one to cover our food with in case there was a strong breeze the pooris and potato curry would go into air tight containers then there would be glasses spoons water a little bit of sugar in case the kids bite into a chilly and some curd in case the sugar didn t work we would all march up the steps holding an item or two settle down on the sheets of paper and start eating oh wait she had to switch on the little light bulb on the terrace we didn t want to end up eating a bug that landed on our plates and then of course my aunt would jump up from the floor with no warning and run downstairs to bring those four spoons of kesari baath that her neighbor maami sent over last thursday this routine of running downstairs would repeat at least twice and we would all wait politely for her to return but every minute of planning and running up the stairs would be quickly forgotten as we watched the million little city lights twinkling far far away and bit into crisp pooris and perfectly blended potato curry the night would end with a pointless game of identifying the source of each big or unusual light utility building cubbon park the pink building next to the lic office i don t see any lights my grandmom and then there was the noon time visit that i would have waited for the most the shepherd with his sheep and lambs somewhere close to noon an old man and his sheep would come wandering by the sheep being too pre occupied with leaves and grass to notice where they were going i would wait by the window for long sleepy minutes and spring up in sheer joy upon hearing the distant tinkling of bells i d pull my aunt along and wait by the gate and they would arrive in tiny groups one big dirty brown sheep and a medium sized one a few minutes later a small group following the shepherd and then finally a couple of lambs as they got closer my aunt would step out like a highway robber stopping his unsuspecting victims she would bend over half walking half running to pick up a little lamb who would of course scamper off to join the mother so i would run out too chasing the lamb who would be bleating for dear life by now finally we would approach the old grouchy shepherd and ask him for help he would walk over and casually scoop up one of the lambs and hand them to my poor aunt who would stand there for a minute holding a wriggling struggling white mass of a bleating lamb and before the lamb started chewing on her sari she would hand it over to me nothing mattered more to me than those few precious seconds yes seconds because i would let go of the lamb before it realized it had changed hands but i had held a lamb there was nothing else left to complete the weekend on sunday evening we would all head home in an autorickshaw just like we came over two days ago only now we would be taking back weekend clothes little snacks for the ride city lights twinkling in the night scampering lambs mango trees in the wind and flowers in a garden posted by the think at 1 11 am comments trackback sunday january 10 back in those days the rain used to fall all over time drenching it flooding it into sluggishness i would sit on the black and shiny stone sill of the box like window that formed a deep square hole in the heavy wall watching the wet afternoon the breeze would turn into a wind every other minute slamming the flimsy wooden window shutter against the thick prison like bars over and over again i had imagined an invisible person standing behind the wooden plank pushing it toward me sending little droplets of rain water flying off its chipped edges the smell of wood that never fully dried would come screaming toward the open window only to hit it and fly back again sometimes i would read a quiet book in the dull light that hung lazily in the room with the sun hidden deep behind the thick rain clouds the huge mango and tamarind trees it would take careful peering to see the words on pages once the downpour calmed down to a heavy drizzle i would close the book listening to the water gush and gurgle down the tiled gutter from the roof i always wondered where the birds hid from the onslaught of the kerala monsoon when the clouds began gathering in tall endless spires of grey they would fly in a fluttery frenzy cawing and twittering to each other and once the rain started pouring down mercilessly all you could hear would be water no cawing no twittering and no fluttering on some rare occasions you might see an endless line of crows or sparrows on an overhead electricity line over a field sitting still drenched and dripping watching the rain in silence sometimes one bird will fluff its feathers out squirm a little and fly away into the field breaking the long dotted line of quiet feathers and patient eyes staring at the wet crops the fields turn into large swamps of mud and dirt well above the heads of young rice grains the plantain trees droop under the weight of their own shoots the jackfruit trees stand over large puddles under their canopies the mango trees shed precious green fruit into slushy mud the coconut trees lean over the others shivering in the wind and time forgotten posted by the think at 6 34 am comments trackback thursday june 25 bare tree springs out like a dead hand from nowhere on a piece of parched land stretching aching from never ending spells of gloom wind dies slowly and painfully reduced now to whispering wheezes boiling sun floats in red grime flaring up at angry intervals of rage with killing heat space stretches into tortured elastic between parting tracks snaps shoots into space falls down trembling like a dying lizard s tail limp pathetic tiny seeds like blackness fall off bare tree spiraling with mad frenzy spitting out distance with no horizon separated from the beginning by light years posted by the think at 8 37 am comments trackback friday june 19 why boston is home it s raining today like it has been for two weeks now sometimes i wonder if i would have been happy living in london or seattle under the clouds and constant pitter patter against my window yes i probably would be because i like the clouds they make me feel warm and safe huddled under the grey blanket that shields me from the bright light boston and its surrounding towns put me at ease almost immediately like an old sweater i had washed and worn for years they wrapped me in a sense of comfort and belonging even today as i walk on the streets looking up at the old city skyline the massive university structures the coffee shops and heavily made up window displays of book stores i relish every moment like the first bite off a crunchy pear from the orchard i ll never forget how new england welcomed me and gave me what i honestly truly always wanted my greatest gift that sits on the couch glued to the laptop chases the basement mouse at two in the morning is a helpless romantic about almost everything from dogs to art stubborn about every single thing ever conceivable insanely flexible about everything and drives me to tears and laughter with almost no effort we own a river in this little town or so we would like to think when we first moved to this house a long time ago we were terribly excited about this river flowing just a few hundred feet away every summer morning we would religiously put on our shoes slide an apple or two into our jacket pockets and walk out our face to the sun our noses in the air a half smile spread across our face we would walk by our river the place we shared our first quiet moments i had been shaking inside my heart skipping every other beat and my smile quivering under the night air i won t forget our old wooden train station it s not a train station in the larger sense of the word it s just a raised wooden shed standing precariously on old legs shaking and rattling as the trains rumble by on our first train ride to boston we were lost in the landscape of the rural beverly and each other s hands while the stern ticket master a big man wearing a proud navy blue uniform and gold rimmed spectacles waited for us to break out of our reverie the first winter had choked the tears in our eyes temperatures that we had only heard about froze every bit of our enthusiasm until that cold december evening when i insisted on going for the poetry reading and new year s eve parade walking down the hill gritting our teeth burying our hands deep into our pockets and talking about our toes being frozen we had seen the bus leave the station a few hundred feet from us the sun was setting in the late afternoon horizon and we walked back only to walk down again and find a train we huddled together on the floor of that crowded room and listened to amateur poets in the summer we were like little birds in a nest always squealing and shrieking excited about nothing for no reason at all the flowers on the trees the ducks in the river the skunk in the backyard the possum on the street we needed no reason to celebrate the almost incessant rain winter summer or fall grey clouds that called for a long afternoon nap or a walk by the pond the first big screen tv bought and returned more out of guilt than a technical error the blue green couch with giant flowers the new car in the thunderstorm the basil in the window the air conditioner humming and huffing uneasily so tell me what are homes made of if not by fond memories posted by the think at 9 03 am comments trackback wednesday june 10 like white stinging rain it falls reminding me with each flake that pain still exists it seems like it s been snowing since the beginning of time itself powdery stings gently wafting from the sky settling down stubbornly on every miniscule piece of space ever conceived yesterday after a long drive in the dying dusk of winter trying to dodge surprisingly huge flakes shaped like little boats falling from the sky i trudged out cutting sharp black lines on the pavement with my snow shoes the jacket rustled and ruffled in my ears how can so many million little white wisps swim in insane silence are they laughing to each other as they cling to my eyelashes slide under my collar or melt in my eyes sparkly sprightly icy harmony sprinkled everywhere like the ground itself were one giant white tide i can almost taste the sharp excitement of winter in each flake yesterday i sat in my car watching a million flakes fly by criss cross zig zag madly falling flying slipping sliding they landed on the windshield waving to me in glee winking and blinking in the morning sun before they melted into the smallest little ponds of water each flake drawn in the most wondrous shape lines angles pointy edges sharp and shiny little crystal clouds is it true that each snow flake is shaped different from the other a zillion little reasons to be happy posted by the think at 7 00 am comments trackback friday january 2 parrot on the coffee tree oh green upon green alive red upon trembling red look over my head hungry flut...