Tag: family

Crossed Arms and Teary Goodbyes

I went to bed last night knowing that in less than 9 hours, I would bid farewell to my close friend.

Crossed Arms and Teary Goodbyes.jpg

My parents thought I’d wet my pillow with my tears. They were ready with tissues and shoulders in case I needed someone to console me. They stood by me ever supportive as I stood with my arms across my chest waiting for my friend to leave.

It was around 7 am, and I had had just dragged myself out of bed. I had slept well. So well for someone whose friend was going away to another country altogether.

I wasn’t worried. It was just another time zone. Besides, my friend and I only message each other a lot, and a five and half hours in between wouldn’t change anything much.

Not everyone else saw it the same way.

For my friend’s parents, he was going away for good. It was like he was abandoning them, running away without leaving a note.

As the previous day waned and the time for departure drew near, the father grew quieter and quieter. His voice grew smaller, his face duller, and his tension a little higher.

The mother, on the other hand, was panicking within. It was obvious, but she tried her best to cover it up by sweating in the kitchen instead. She cooked all his favourite foods; from fried chicken and sautéed fish, to stir-fried crabs, she wanted to make sure her son ate everything he could before he left the nest.

Ever since he booked his flight ticket, things had shaky at home. He had to mask his excitement so that his parents wouldn’t feel bad. For an outsider, it was all funny.

But on the inside, the family had broken down. Nothing was as big as the child leaving home to work in an alien country. That’s how parents are. They’re annoying, meddling, and saying things that we don’t like, and saying the right things almost all the time, which we don’t like even more. But they’re parents. At the end of a long day, they’re the ones who stay up all night wondering if the son has boarded the aircraft, and they’re the ones losing sleep because one plane crashed twenty years ago.

And there I was, my arms across my chest waiting for him to leave. I, the friend, didn’t even pretend to wipe away an absent tear. Well, what can I say, I not into public display.

Well, what can I say, I not into public display.

Breaking Inertia, a Cookie at a Time

On my first trip to Pondicherry, I had gone with my over-protective parents and my over-supportive brother. And so, we had to stick to the basics; we didn’t experiment with new cuisine, we didn’t have ice cream, we didn’t stay out after eight, and we never skipped breakfast.

This time, however, I went with a friend. It was easier to try various foods with her than it had been with my parents. She was much more adventurous than I, daring to drink orange juice just fifteen minutes after a cappuccino. And though I preferred to savour the lingering effects of my cortado than to wolf it down with sugary juice, I didn’t say no to trying new cookies. Vegan, they were, and chocolatey.

breaking-inertia-vegan-chocolate-cookies

Perhaps that doesn’t read as dramatic as it sounded in my head, but that’s because, for me, veganism is an expensive affair. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try. But where I live, being vegan costs you at least double of what being non-vegan costs. It’s a treat I couldn’t treat myself to too often. I can afford it once a while but making it a lifestyle — just for the sake of an adventure — isn’t wise.

In Pondicherry, however, we found a bakery that sold vegan chocolate cookies. My eyes bulged at the name tag while my heart soared at the price tag. It wasn’t too pricey. I bought a pack, because no matter how it tasted, I knew I’d appreciate it.

I don’t like sugary stuff, but I’m always game for chocolate cookies. And making the perfect dough and baking the perfect delight is an art I’m trying to understand. So when I saw the vegan cookies, I grew curious, not just for the taste, but also for the ingredients. Since vegan diets shunned cow milk, I wondered if they had used coconut or almond instead. And I wondered which butter they would’ve used. And the sugar — did they use brown, white, fine, caster — perhaps stevia, or agave?

With questions buzzing in my head, I picked up a single cookie and held it in both my hands. It was much smaller than a standard cookie. And yet, the cracks on the surface intrigued me. It seemed dry, and cookies are either chewy or crumbly. I wondered which category vegan cookies fell into. Holding the cookie in my fingers I tried to break a piece of it. It didn’t budge. It didn’t crumble. Chewy then, I decided and gave it a little more pressure. A small brown piece broke off of the cookie.

I looked at the other piece and saw that the inside was also pretty dry. It had no Instagram-worthy chocolate sauce oozing from within, and neither did I see chunks of chocolate chips broken in half. It was plain, and it looked dry.

I put the piece I had prised away, into my mouth. My first thought: it had no overwhelming sugar. It wasn’t mushy, it wasn’t hard. It wasn’t too dry either. As I bit into it, I could chew the buttery flour while the cocoa flavour seeped down my tongue. It felt rich like a brownie, and the crumbly-chewy texture lingered long after the piece had gone down my throat. And then I realised that they hadn’t used any sugar or artificial sweeteners. They had, instead, used honey.

Huh, I thought to myself. Honey. It made sense. Honey makes everything it touches a little chewy and sticky. Perhaps it had made the cookie how it was.

I grew curiouser and curiouser. Perhaps another bite of the cookie would clear it up. And it did. It was honey, I concluded.

Unless, it was something else similar to honey, something I couldn’t recognise. Another one wouldn’t hurt anyone, I thought and grabbed a second cookie. And then a third. And a fourth. And before I knew it, I was down to the last cookie, and I still had doubts. But I knew one thing for certain: I loved the various flavours that vegan cookies blew up in my mouth.

It was worth another trip to Pondicherry.

Happiness is…

Happiness is spending your holiday bonus on yourself.

Happiness is knowing you’re mature enough to give the last piece of pizza to a friend.

Happiness is turning over the last page of a book you’ve enjoyed reading.

Happiness is writing a complex sentence with the correct punctuation, at the first try.

Happiness is watching your little brother hit a home run.

Happiness is splitting a muffin with your mom.

Happiness is gazing into the eyes of your dog.

Happiness is having your feet on the ground when sitting on a chair.

Happiness is playing carrom after a lunch break.

Happiness is getting the tea to milk ratio right.

Happiness is dipping a biscuit in tea and eating it before it falls down.

Happiness is abundant. Happiness is all around us, even in small doses. And these are some of my moments of happiness. What are yours?

incredible-blogger-marathon-challenge-10I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the tenth and final task: The Happiness Challenge. The challenge is to just write, continuing “Happiness is…”

A Walk Down the Memory Lane

Alethea chanced a glance at the large clock on the wall. It was ten AM. She had packed the husband off to work and the kids off to school. She had woken up at 5 am to make sure the kids got solid breakfast. They were going on a field trip that day and had to be at school by 7 am, which was much earlier than the usual 9 am.

As she shuffled around in the kitchen packing some extra sandwiches for the ride and her kids’ friends who couldn’t resist her homemade peanut butter and jelly, Alethea’s husband walked in with red swollen eyes. He had had a rough week at work, and it was disrupting his sleeping patterns. She whipped up another pair of sandwiches for him and tried to coax him into taking the day off. And when that didn’t work out, she resorted to making some soup to soothe him.

After making sure everyone she cared about had had a good morning, Alethea decided to clean up the basement. It had been on the to-do list for far too long now. She and her husband had talked about turning the basement into a smaller recreational room, and he had volunteered to do the cleaning himself. However, given the state of his work pressure, Alethea decided to do it herself. A decision she came to regret soon enough. As soon as she opened the door to the basement, she came up with a sneezing fit.

Once the air around her cleared a bit, she looked around at the mess and slapped herself hard on the head. It had been fifteen years since she and her husband had graduated high school, and yet, she still preserved her old school notebooks and scrap papers. It had seemed important at the time, but now when she looked at them, she wanted nothing more than to kick herself. She spent over an hour sorting out her things from her husband’s. They had both been complete idiots, she told herself over and over again. And when the clock struck ten, she knew she needed a break. She picked up a couple of old notebooks from the pile and went up to the kitchen.

Letting a pot of coffee brew, she sat down at the table and opened one of the notebooks which hadn’t had her touch in over 15 years. The pages had frayed in the corners, and she felt them stiffened by the coffee stains of a lifetime ago. One by one, she turned the pages, unable to recollect why she elected French because she had gone on to teach German. She kept turning the pages, smiling as she looked at the little drawings she had done in the margins. She couldn’t contain herself as she recognised a rude caricature of a teacher she hated in school.

By the time she took a large swig of her black and sugarless coffee, she had reached the end of the notebook. She looked at the scribble on the last page and realised her kids’ notebooks had similar scribblings. No matter how many years passed, some things never change, she mused. And then she noticed something. Sketched in the corner, hidden behind a bunch of meaningless pencil strokes, was something she had revered back then. It was her and James’s names written one below the other and the common letters in both their names scratched off. Next to their names was the word “FLAMES” with all letters but “M” scratched out.

James had died in a car crash the next day.

To Visit or Not to Visit

I love my parents. Well, who doesn’t? They raised me all these years, taught me what’s good and what’s not good, tried to teach me to make my own bed, and even instilled in me some values of cleanliness. They are the best parents I could’ve ever asked for, and I even considered giving my dad a “World’s best Dad” mug for his sixtieth birthday—which is all so normal and obvious.

That’s what parents are like; sweet, caring, nurturing, and deserving of our affection and compassion. Nothing wrong with any of those things.

All these aside, though, I still have second thoughts about visiting my parents. I can’t stand the thought of them looking up and down at me with crinkled eyebrows, and commenting I’ve lost far too much weight. I cringe to think of spending two days trying to endure their manipulating talks about saving up to build a house, gaining weight so I look my age, and not cutting my hair any shorter. Home for me is just a weekend of torture.

Is it just me, I often wonder.

And I realise it’s not just me. Most of my friends are like me: Dreading visiting parents. But then I spoke to another colleague. She loves to visit her parents. She plans her weekends in advance and allocates time for everyone that matter to her. She’d set up a movie date with her mother, a dinner with her schoolmate, and a tiny lunch party with the entire family. And when she comes back from home, she’d be downcast for a couple of days in the least.

It was a wonder to me.

And then I realised I don’t hate my parents. Despite being reluctant to visit them, I still care for my parents. So much so that I’d call them up to ensure they take their medication on time. I love spending time with them. I love the little chats my mother and I share while we make a mid-day meal. I cherish holding my dad’s hand while we walk to the grocery store. I crave for those moments when I catch up with their stories, smile at their weak attempts at making jokes, and even when I help them navigate the technology I have trouble with myself. I value those little hours we spend for each other. Nevertheless, every time I enter the house, I also look forward to leaving.

People talk so much about parenting, the rules, and best practices of being a good parent. But not enough people realise the challenges of being a daughter, a child. It pains me to yell at my mother who calls me at work because she’s bored at home. How would I tell her to do something for herself, something she’d enjoy doing (other than talking to me)? That is, alas, a question no one can answer. Good “daughtering” is all about finding the sweet spot between spending too much time and too little time with your parents. And I’m still looking for it. Any advice? Please shoot.