Slow Living

I scroll through instagram and visit a profile I love. Slow living, says the description. The feed is filled with pictures of sourdough baking, gardening, homemade kimchi and kombucha. 

I dream of slow living. Of waking up and walking down the stairs, one step at a time, savoring the feeling of the dark brown wood against my bare feet. Of drawing back my printed yellow and red curtains acquired from Fab India, the soft cloth cool against my skin; the curtains that are often mistaken to be made from an old sari. Of gazing fondly at my herbs, as the sunlight seeps in through the balcony window.

I walk towards the kettle, fill it up and wait for my water to boil. I squeeze some lemon into my teacup, adding fresh mint, cinnamon, turmeric and black pepper. Filling it to the brim with my boiled water, I take in the gentle aroma of my hot herbal mix; my one solace each morning and a truly delicious concoction. 

I make my way to the front door, opening it and walking into more sunlight, each ray bouncing off my dark brown skin. Sipping my drink, I sit with my plants. With my hibiscus and aloe vera, my mint and parsley, my spinach, my tomatoes. I spend my mornings gardening, my afternoons fermenting, my nights writing.

I understand the privilege of dreaming of this lifestyle, of even thinking of it as a possibility. But if it is a possibility, oh the wonders of it. If it is. 

Bob the Lizard

The sharp and slender green tail of the house lizard disappeared under the white and pink bed frame, once again escaping their broomstick. It was day ten of dorm life, and Shruti and Prerana had spent the last hour trying to chase the slippery reptile out of their tiny dorm room. After many minutes of deliberation and discussion, they brought out their green-bristled broomstick, a recent and cheap $5 purchase from FairPrice. They had not anticipated using this for anything other than cleaning. The plan was to slowly nudge the lizard out with the broomstick. It felt like a solid plan. How hard could it be anyway? 

Hall 15 of Nanyang Technological University, Singapore was very pink (in color) and very green (in plant and lizard life). The building was made alive with these reptiles. They were constantly darting across the walls, mostly active at night, their scaly skin glistening against the bright beams of nearby street lights. 

It was 10pm that Tuesday night when the lizard had escaped their clutches for the eighth time. They were exhausted and on the brink of giving up. But fear truly outweighed exhaustion and the thought of falling asleep with a lizard in the room was almost too horrifying to fathom. Shruti thought about how it might creep into her bed at night, finding its way into her hair, or worse, into her ears or mouth. Though she’d grown up with house lizards in India, the ones in Singapore seemed a little more adamant, and a little less scared of humans. The compact dorm space didn’t help and made her feel like the lizard was too close for comfort.

They decided to take a break. Fully alert, they went back to doing some school work, all the while keeping their eyes peeled for a green flicker against the light brown plywood floor. Shruti had the broomstick plopped against her desk, within arms’ reach. She was only half focused on her Mechanics of Materials homework, her eyes glazing over the vector calculations.

In less than ten minutes, a sudden motion caught her eye. She jerked up and beckoned Prerana. She felt like she was going into battle, sleeves rolled up, broomstick in hand. They were going to banish the creepy little critter this time. This was serious business.

Or not. Now it was almost midnight and resignation was upon them. “I think we should name him Bob.” said Prerana, as she plopped onto her bed. Shruti looked up. “So we’re keeping him?” And so it was decided. They’d live with Bob, he’d be their friend. And they’d overcome their fears. And everyone would be happy(-ish) under the illusion that Bob was harmless, would not creep up on them, and would generally just live in harmony with them in Hall 15, Block 72, Room 1503. 

Writing Prompt - Write a story that begins with someone's popsicle melting

The orange ice from her popsicle dripped quickly into the hot sand as Shruti tried to save it. The scorching 40C heat got the better of her though. Before she knew it, there was more sticky, sugary water sliding down her arm and to her elbow, eventually falling to the ground and forming tiny damp dents in the soft sand she was sitting on. Almost seconds later, all that remained of the delicious purchase was the light brown wooden stick.

Shruti quickly looked at her grandma, who had already required a lot of coaxing before agreeing to buy her the popsicle. She was sitting grimly next to Shruti, sand nestled in the folds of her green sari. Her grandma was a curious creature, if one could dare use that phrase on this woman. When it came to ice cream (amongst other things), she was quite the authoritarian. She only allowed Shruti to purchase ice cream from a Kwality Walls ice cream cart. The beach had many brands of ice cream- Kwality, Amul, Lazza, and a couple others that Shruti’s eyes always glazed over. Perhaps it was the quality in Kwality, Shruti thought to herself smiling, that made it more appealing to her grandma. The safer sounding option in the vast sea of questionable ice-cream carts that lined themselves up each evening at Marina Beach. 

Shruti heard the jingling bells of another Kwality Walls cart passing by, and she jumped at the opportunity. “Ammamma, my ice-cream melted, can I please get another one?” Being simple and straightforward was the best way to deal with her grandma. She knew this after spending the past year under her care, and having to ask (and sometimes beg) for many things. Her grandma’s eyes narrowed, her lips beginning to shape into a no . “The orange one is only five rupees, it’s the cheapest one they have!” Shruti quickly added. She hoped the money justification would do the trick - the solid pitch that she was buying the most inexpensive ice cream, and hence the ice cream of best value, had to help. 

Her grandma quickly resigned. Perhaps it was the scorching heat and the desire to get back into the air-conditioned car, or perhaps the pressure of the ice cream seller who had overheard the exchange and had stopped to wait for the final decision. Her grandma unbuttoned her brown Rexine purse and pulled out a thick five-rupee coin. Shruti eagerly grabbed it and hopped over to the ice cream cart. This time, she’d be wiser and eat it as soon as it was unwrapped. 

A Common History

History happened here. It wasn’t the kind of history that made the news, or the kind that was mentioned in history text books that children thirty years from now would have to memorize. It wasn’t even the kind of history that the village would talk about in the coming months or years. It was a simple history. A history of love and kindness. Of sacrifice. Of a mother and a son. Of long days under the scorching sun and short nights on cold and sandy floors. Of infinite paddy fields surrounding their mud thatched house. Of one jute sleeping mat, patterned green and red, spread on the floor. Of a mosquito net unfurled, protective, above the mat. Of clay floor stoves just inches away, surrounded by steel pans and mud pots. Of spice jars filled with every flavor imaginable. Of a tiny well shared by a hundred villagers. Of the two mile walk from their thatched house to the well, women barefoot and braving the heat. Of the little brass pot that was filled with their days' water supply, that they rationed ever so carefully. History happened here, and all it was, was the struggle of everyday life. The greatest history ever.

Writing prompts: Character sketches

Almost as if forced into a uniform, my grandfather would spend everyday in white attire - a cotton shirt and pant, with very stereotypical brown sandals that almost every South Indian man over forty could be seen wearing. The outfit was starched to stiffness and as crisp as a hundred rupee note. I don’t have a single memory of him wearing something out of this patterned white - a white that matched his hair, his smile, and the talcum powder that he always smelled of.

Disciplined through and through, he would sit at the dining table for breakfast at 10am each morning, on the exact same chair, that was interestingly, NOT the quintessential ‘head of the table’ chair. My grandmother would place a large silver plate on the table, along with a steel water glass. Once he took his seat, my grandfather would pour some water from his glass into his right hand and rather artistically sprinkle it around his plate. I always wondered why he did that and I never, ever had the courage to ask. I found out years later that it is a South Indian tradition that is supposed to prevent ants and other insects from intruding into your food. 

My grandfather was also disciplined about his vices. In his younger days, he was a smoker. While he wasn’t a heavy drinker, he would end each day with a glass of  'Mcdowell's No. 1'  whiskey and soda. He had a mini fridge hidden in his bedroom- my grandparents' attempt at hiding this habit from their eight grandchildren.

Now, he is frail, weakened. He no longer drinks or smokes because his health doesn’t permit him to. But some old habits die hard; I visited him last summer and watched as he sat on the exact same chair, did his water sprinkle, ate. He started talking to me about food - a topic that hits home. My family has a farming background, and as a kid my grandfather worked hard on his families' fields. He knew the ins and outs of farming and was incredibly passionate about it.

"We never had to worry about food being ‘organic’. Everything we ate was farmed by us, and it genuinely was free of chemicals. It was all fresh, and absolutely delicious. When I moved to the city, this was one of the biggest changes and challenges for me. I missed the days when I was actively involved in my families’ farm. We ate eggs right from chickens that we reared in our backyard. I helped decompose the manure that we used in all our fields."

He went on to tell me about how the price of milk and rice is a hundred times what it used to be, followed by other “in my time” grandfather phrases. He never spoke about himself or his feelings, and rarely spoke about his childhood. These few sentences were a treasure to me and while I was eager for more, the conversation quickly changed paths.

There are many things about my grandfather that are still intriguing to me. He absolutely adores my grandma but also never, ever calls her by her name. He is terrifying to his grandchildren to the point that we would all literally tiptoe around him- but with that fear comes great respect for this self-made man who left his tiny village for the big city and created a new life for his family. 

You are only as strong as your weakest link

The thing about people who are weak is that no matter how strong you are, their weakness is stronger. Their weakness is the strongest thing they have and it will trump anything - love and kindness and sincerity and conviction and strength, all. So much that everything you have fought for will seem insignificant, immaterial, a powerless speck of dust drifting in the vastness of the universe. 

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.