Mindful Musings

I miss my daddy. We live in the same house in the same city. I see him every day, we share a meal together but I miss him terribly. Like I mentioned before I hate growing up. Achchan is Malayalam for father. My father never let us call him anything but that. For the longest time, my achchan was my hero, my Superman. Still is. He’ll probably scoff if he read this but its true. Maybe its because I’ve never ever experienced the crash that happens to children when they realize that their dad isn’t the perfect man. My daddy still holds strong to that one childhood fantasy. He has never let me down in any way. At the grand old age of 26, I’m still sent back to my room to “wear something that covers you up” and still told to eat my vegetables. Last month I bumped my head on the corner of the table while bending down to fetch something (I’m a klutz.). When I came back home that evening, he has taped Styrofoam to all the potential hazard areas in my room. He is a fine man and a brave one. In ...

It was a friend who triggered the thought, the excited phone crackle of a first time mom talking about her new baby’s first step. Yes, EspritNoir ( www.espritnoir.wordpress.com ) it right. It’s true enough. We do focus on all the firsts. Some may say it’s the inherent nature of being positive. Perhaps. But anyone who knows me will agree that I am far from positive. I am cynical and fatalistic about most things. But even in my confessed negativity, I think there is something to be said for keeping conscious tabs on things that could very possibly be something you will do for the last time. True, you don’t necessarily know. But sometimes you do. More often than not, you do know. It’s funny how the human mind functions. Something so important and steeped in the sub conscious can be triggered off by such mundane things. For me, memories lie curled up within smells. Nearly every memory has a smell or a distinctive fragrance that is attached to it. So strong and so distinctive that I can ne...

I wonder what its like, to do something for the last time. I wonder what goes through the head of individual when they realize they are doing something for the last time. Dead men walking the green mile, a mother letting go of a stillborn baby, a doctor watching a patient dying, unable to do a thing about it. It must hurt. And yet, one can take consolation in the fact that they have known, that they have been given the time go prepare for it. Whatever that entailed. And yet there must be so many last times that a person goes through everyday, unknowing, without even being given the opportunity to say farewell, let go and perhaps grieve. A friend from school you never stayed in touch with, an uncle who you never really knew. So many of them. Several of them that you haven’t even realized to date. Maybe I’ve been thinking about this because I recently lost a grandmother. Someone who I was very close to in my childhood days. When she eventually moved to Bombay, there were distances in m...

We brought someone back with us.” Mahsa looked at me apprehensively as she said this to me. Katherin looked pretty apprehensive too. Since like most Europeans I knew, they were sympathetic towards all gods’ creatures, I was sure they lost their heart to a little chimp or a lame puppy on the street or something to that effect. Hell, they had just driven back from Goa only a few hours ago. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a full-grown black bear in the boot. “So, what is it?” I asked. Before she could say anything, a tall fair blond young child, more striking than pretty, with facial characteristics unmistakably German jumped out of the car with a boisterous exuberance that could come only out of extreme youth. “Hi! Im Steffi!” she chirped, shaking my reluctant hand. I cocked an eyebrow to Mahsa, who laughingly said she’ll explain later. Later on, sitting in their overpriced little apartment, she did. Stephanie was someone they had met on the beach and later in a bar. being Germa...