How not to tear your hair out (and other summer stories)

Summers in India meant hair lice. This came along with ripe and juicy mangoes, trails of dust along the cobbled streets, and the distinct smell of heat (a concept you can fathom only after spending seventeen days in a row in 110 degrees Fahrenheit). Nevertheless, hair lice had to be the highlight. 

Hair lice are tiny parasites that live in the hair. Though scientifically defined as 'harmless', th little bloodsuckers are enough to drive one crazy. They bite, cause extensive itching, multiply like rabbits, and lay eggs in the same hair that they live in. They are nearly impossible to get rid of – believe me, I’ve tried.

Every summer growing up, my cousins and I would meet for an annual reunion at our grandparents' house. This reunion, given its large scale, called for a lot of coordination before each family embarked from their respective city. Numerous phone calls were made across states with conversations revolving around arrival and departure times, transportation from the train station, and the routine question of 'does anyone have lice?' This last question was the most important, given how contagious hair lice are. Depending on the range of answers, the summer would be planned accordingly, decisions would be made, agreements signed and very occasionally, a brave soul or two would chop their hair off to avoid any sort of parasite drama.

Nevertheless, every summer at least one of us arrived with a breeding ground for a head. So when we were finally reunited, we would spend a significant part of our holiday scratching our heads together (not as a result of any sort of intellectual pursuit). Invariably, we would have our mothers and grandmother lubricate our locks with strong coconut oil to make it easier to de-infest our hair. This would be followed by the whipping out of The Lice Comb, a device with incredibly sharp and close-set teeth that I'm pretty sure was, at some point in history, used as an instrument of torture. The Lice Comb had many notable abilities, the best of which was ripping our hair out in the most painful manner possible, closely followed by actually pulling out the lice.

One of many remedies- and this was usually used as a last resort, given the chemical nature of it- was a liquid medical marvel that promised to kill all lice if you bathed your hair in it. We used a clear green solution that smelled of very strong floor cleaner. Actually, it may have been just that, packaged, marketed and sold otherwise.  At some point during our summer shenanigans, this 'floor cleaner' would be brought to our doorstep, and we would all have a fun morning together- the green liquid, our mothers, and us.  None of us were the least bit happy during this exercise of lathering our heads with this toxic chemical. We had to quite literally be tied to the bed post to cooperate. Though we knew it was for the greater good, we thought it was a waste of our precious time, which could otherwise be used to steal sugar cubes from the top most kitchen shelf, run around the center staircase making 'music' with steel vessels, climb up the dangerous water tank for a spectacular city view, and essentially drive my grandmother crazy. 

Looking back- and this is something none of us really noticed in the moment, given the 'dangerous' nature of events- those tiny insects played their part in the larger scheme of things. Without their help summer breaks would not have been half as entertaining. There was a certain amusing twist to three generations of female figures locked up in a room battling a common cause. Growing up, a number of things brought my family together in times of need- the good, the bad, and the ugly. But nothing as seemingly insignificant as these wingless, stumpy legged parasites.

Writing Prompts: Cooking

The aromatic smell of eight different Indian masalas seeped through the hallway, along with the sound of sizzling mustard seeds, churning cumin, and the rather loud air vent.

My mother is a spectacular cook, and I don't exaggerate when I say that people traveled from far and wide for a taste of her food. She pretty much whips up a miracle every time she sets foot in the kitchen. 

My earliest memory of her food was home made puffs stuffed with potato masala. I distinctly remember her taking it out of the oven in our little apartment in Atlanta. Even then, when I knew nothing about cooking, I was fascinated by how she had made thirty soft and flaky puffs with three layers that melted in your mouth and a tangy potato center, from - powder, basically. 

Growing up, the only 'cooking' I partook in was when my cousins and I got together over the summer. My mom would encourage all of us to bake cakes as a group activity (though now I realize this was to keep us occupied enough to not have to deal with our antics that were, more often than not, dangerous to a deadly degree).  I'm positive that I agreed to this baking exercise only so I could sneak a few licks of batter and of course, a large slice of cake at the end of it. 

As a teenager, I was an adamant and naive feminist (or that's what I called myself). I believed that feminism meant a lot of great things that make sense to me even now, but I also believed that it meant women shouldn't cook. I admit, this was a very simplistic view of things. I refused to set foot in the kitchen based on the belief that I was truly breaking gender barriers here. 

For years when people asked me about cooking, I joked and stated that my mom's amazing cooking genes just skipped me- when in honesty I had never even tried. Through university, I was surrounded by amazing cooks and found no necessity to attempt any possible/probable disaster in the kitchen, when home-food was a knock away. So at the end of my twenty-fourth birthday, boiling water was the only real culinary skill I had.

It wasn't until my brother soon blossomed into an amazing cook that I really sat down and rethought my life choices. When I visited him that summer, he whipped up some of my mom's signature dishes for me. I must admit that I was quite ashamed of myself. I had clearly let my adamant and childish views of the world get in the way of what could have been a great skill to have.  

I'm not sure if it was competitiveness, shame, being broke or just basic hunger that resulted in me finally deciding to grab a spatula. One thing I will say is, once I started there was no turning back. What started off as an evening ritual of dumping all the vegetables from my vague attempt at grocery shopping into a pot, led to some pretty elaborate spinach ravioli from scratch, healthy cauliflower crust pizza and complicated South Indian dishes packed with coconut, curry leaves and spices. 

My mom has a hand written cookbook. Though she no longer uses it (given her years of experience I believe every recipe sits safely in her brain), I know it still exists somewhere in her treasure trove. I always thought that I would never want or need it, and had come to terms with the fact that my brother deserved it more than I did. But with the recent turn of events, i think we are down for a battle for the cookbook. May the best child, I mean, cook, win. 

Writing Prompts: Day 1 - They said it could be done

They said it could be done. However, the soldiers were unaware of the kind of planning and deliberation that went behind rebuilding the nest. Their queen had been through a lot these past few days, no doubt. After the humans had torn down their hill and the cranes had disappeared from their view, chaos had prevailed for hours. There was so little the soldiers could do to defend the colony against the human ‘attack’. Now that the forest was calm again, it was time to rebuild and start from scratch. With the increase in human activity over the last few years, minor disruptions to their nest were not uncommon. But this was the first time they had experienced such a major upheaval, a total tear-down of their home and the loss of so many lives. Things would never be the same again, and rebuilding their lives was not going to be a mean feat.

Hindi Prachar Sabha St.

My grandparents’ house was once majestic- this much I am sure of. However, age had worn down the walls, outside and inside. The mold growing along the outer walls and the creepers winding around the gate increased the antiquated feeling it brought about.

I distinctly remember walking along the cobbled Madras streets a myriad times and looking out for the big black gate that felt like home, despite how foreboding it really was. The gate itself was incredibly difficult to open- it took all the strength that my eight-year-old body could muster to make it move an inch. I remember my grandma resiliently opening it each summer when we came to visit, helping us unload our massive suitcases from the old white Ambassador car that would dutifully come and pick us up from the airport. My granddad would stand by the gate in his all-white attire (hair included) and smile down at us. We would pass the garden that my grandma lovingly tended to and the office space downstairs that I associated so strongly with my granddad and his amazing work ethics. I remember ringing the calling bell, a ten-second long tune that I intensely loved and fiercely hated at the same time.

Summers in this house were a grand event, to say the least. My closest cousins would all assemble here, and we would essentially have the time of our lives and drive our grandma crazy (both were very mutually inclusive events).

The house was every bit as massive as it seemed to be from the outside, and it was home to every kind of hiding place you could imagine. And by hiding place- not only do I mean hiding places for people, but also for food- cookies mainly. My grandma would carefully lock away and ration what I believe to be (to this day) the best cookies I’ve ever eaten in my life. Britannia Jim Jam, they were called. Cookies with white cream and yes, a hole with jam in the center. Unfortunately, they were always locked in ‘the cupboard', with the keys carefully tucked away in the folds of my grandma’s sari. Of course, that hardly stopped us. There was a time when we actually had the courage to sneak up on her at 2am when she was fast asleep. Using a combination of skillful finger work and impressively light feet, we tried to fish out the keys from underneath her blankets. As surprising as this may sound, our mission was a grand success and we were up all night eating cookies and writing ghost stories. The next day was spent with my grandma chasing us around with a broomstick and swearing at us in the choicest of Telugu curse words.

The terrace was my favorite part of the house, and also the most dangerous part. Well, the terrace itself was relatively safe. It was the roof above the terrace that wasn’t. It was where the water tank was carefully tucked away, and access was only possible by climbing a lethal ladder. This may be a good time to mention that we were an adventurous bunch, and our curiosity was extremely piqued ever since our grandma made climbing up that ladder seem completely out of bounds.

So one summer, when we were sure she was busy making goodies for us in the kitchen, we snuck up into this forbidden land. And we loved every bit of the excitement that came with it. Oh and the danger, for one fall and we were definitely doomed. We were quite literally walking on a sloped roof. The fun did not stop here. We climbed up and down every little hole and ledge that we found. Oh wait, the fun did stop here- when one of my cousins got stuck on the last ledge we would ever climb, and we had no idea how to get her back up. It was a moment of panic, and even our combined brainstorming saw no way out but to own up and call our aunt to save my cousin. It is all quite hilarious, thinking back, though in the moment it was a matter of life and death.

This marked the end of our terrace adventures, sadly, until many years later when we were all in the house together again. My grandma was in the kitchen, and we snuck up there to reminisce the good old times. 

How to Not Write and Fall Asleep Instead - A Deep Dive

Struggling for your apartment keys in your whale-sized backpack and failing for a good 3 minutes and 45 seconds is not exactly the best way you want to enter home, especially after an 8 hour work day, a one hour body pump class and what you're sure was a two hour commute out of the city (because who wants to keep track of how much of their life is spent on a train?). It's funnier because you're pretty sure you latched every key chain you own onto your tiny little apartment key for the sole purpose of avoiding this situation of clumsily standing outside your own front door. It's only natural for random passers-by to look at you with mild pity, likely with the thought that this twenty-something year old clearly does not have her life together. Yes, struggling for ones own house keys is the biggest indicator of that, truly.

Once you finally manage to stumble into your apartment, you realize that it's summer, and yes, your apartment does not have even the lowliest form of an air conditioner. Being as broke as you are for three-quarters of the month, buying a functional air conditioner is simply not an option.

Time to peel off your gym wear, which at this stage should not by so tight, given the amount of time spent in said gym wear each week. Clearly, that's not how life works. The black workout pants are as tight as they ever were, and the weighing scale shows no promise either.

For a second you almost forget that adulthood comes with having to make your own dinner on most days. 'Make' being 'find', truthfully. On days that you're lucky enough to have edible ingredients, you toss in all the contents of your refrigerator into the non-stick pan that your mom so thoughtfully bought for you with the hope that you will one day become a master chef and make delicious South Indian curries to impress future in-laws. Little does she know that your cooking entails tossing and adding oil, salt and pepper to your motley amalgam of vegetables. Oh and ketchup, because let's be real, anything tastes good with a little lots of ketchup.

Anyhow, it's the middle of the week and whatever groceries you had stocked up have somehow disappeared from the meager collection of items on your shelf. Magic does exist, it seems. In the form of disappearing groceries. Driving out to Whole Foods is the only remaining option, aside from starving, of course, which you've definitely done on occasion.

After another relatively minor struggle to find your car keys (you've dealt with worse), you triumphantly leave your apartment. Well not really- you shuffle in and out a couple of times because you forgot your wallet the first time, and your reuseable bag the next (might as well save the planet in the process, right?). And your sunglasses. But then you realize that it's 10 pm. Right.

Miraculously, you manage to maneuver your car out of your complex, dodging a couple of aunties clad in salwar kameez and white Nike running shoes, staying so faithful to the typical Indian middle- aged woman clothing stereotype. Like many other things that you are blessed with, a bad sense of direction is one. You hastily enter Whole Foods' address on Google maps, despite the million and one times you have traveled there these past few months.

Entering the Whole Foods parking lot, the moment of truth slowly creeps upon you. Parking time. With the number of parking disasters you've had in your less than six months of driving, it's hard to not be extra cautious. No matter how far it is from the store entrance, you find a spot that has empty lots on BOTH sides. You even circle around for a few minutes just to find this perfect spot, believing it to be almost fool proof in terms of preventing potential, probable calamities.

By the time you disparately pull together some basic groceries and lug everything back to your car, the two empty spots the were sandwiching your car have been taken (need I even say this), and one car is parked inches from yours. I mean, of course, how would they know what a struggle it is for you to back up your car without ramming into the ones next to you. You make a mental note to stick a sign to the back of your car next time.

By now, all your hopes of writing a glorious article or chapter of what's undoubtedly going to be a future best-seller (high hopes) have disappeared into thin air and sleep is calling. Your final thoughts before falling into a blissful slumber are 'You're never going to be a writer at this rate'.

//end 

Normal

Normal is a word that I've always struggled to grapple on to. 'Normal' size font, says Blogspot as I type. Heart rate, normal. Normal solution, said my chemistry textbooks. Math said a normal line is a right angle- right being ninety degrees but right also meaning true, correct, and what should be, right?

I think most of us are guilty of trying to be normal and falling in the category of people who do what's expected of them. I know I'm guilty of trying that- trying and failing miserably but trying nonetheless. What is normal, though, and why is there so much pressure to be normal? Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken was probably one of the most read poems growing up, part of the content of almost every English textbook. I remember loving and appreciating that poem. I was so sure that the poem was written for me and that I would never conform to the crazy workings of the world. And here I am today, quite caught between what society expects of me and what I really want to do with my life. I want to say that despite the conflicts and confusion, I've got everything sorted, but I would be lying to myself. I can say that it's a good life, and perhaps the uncertainty makes it all the more interesting. But getting things sorted will make life a little more richer.

For now, I'm learning how to embrace the confusion- because we're all a little crazy anyway, right? It's normal, right? :D

Paradise Found - 2

It was the second time he had brought her here, to this magical land, this other world. All with just one simple touch. She couldn't help but be as overwhelmed as she was the last time. The sun shining on each blade of grass, the beauty of the place radiating in every molecule around her. The feel of his hand and the gentle tug that it held hers with just added to the otherworldly experience that was overpowering her. 

The war at home was nowhere near the end. After years of fighting, after years of oppression, nothing had changed. Her visits to the beach were becoming less frequent. She had reached a point where she could no longer be alone with her thoughts, and even the sound of the lashing waves weren't loud enough to drown the voices in her head. They were there, always, haunting her and mocking at her, reminding her of what little power she had over her own life.

But no. She could not, would not let them win. Her whole life, she had been told what to do, her entire family had been under the control of the Empire. Freedom was just a word in the old dusted dictionary that her father had smuggled into their getaway. She no longer knew what that felt like and almost forgot what it meant.

Suddenly, realization dawned upon her. Along with that came hope.. maybe this new world- his world that he had given her the privilege to peak into- was the only remaining hope. Maybe all this was happening for a reason, and this was a sign, loud and clear.

She looked into his light, playful eyes, and they exchanged a glance that spoke a million words and encompassed an understanding so profound that even the depths of the waters around them wouldn't have been able to match up.