WHEN HOME IS AWAY…

Days pass in foggy detail, in a blur of riding all over town looking for inspiration, late night movies, carrot juice on the roadside and frustrating attempts to move a 75 kg scooter up a narrow stone ramp. The old Hyderabad city-meets-Mada Streets world is infinitely fascinating to live in. But it isn’t K K Nagar.

The ‘week’, which sometimes lasts up to 14 days, is finally drawing to a close. Blood gushes to the peripheries, rendering you hyper and restive. Work seems meaningless, as a silly grin refuses to leave your face. The clock strikes 4 p.m., but you are nowhere close to getting done. But the motivation is fierce, and quality takes a backseat. You send it in, and take off yourself, skipping down the stairs to the one bike that stands out in the entire sea of two wheelers on Mission Street, thanks to the gaudy yellow stickers on royal purple, screaming ‘PRESS’. 

Charger, purse and medicines – all else is insignificant; you know that. Still, you set aside your favourite pair of jeans, and at least 5 shirts, in anticipation of some miracle that will prolong your stay. The white shirt for the movie, the striped tunic for dinner, and of course, no trip would be complete without your Superman T shirt. The first things that find their way in though, are those dirty clothes that you are too lazy to wash yourself. Books, toiletries, trinkets – somehow they all find their space in that capacious sac. And you are off.

In what seems like an endless stretch of time, the bus slowly weaves its way out of the fetid bus stop. The bus hits the highway, and you finally begin to relax and lean back into your seat. Your legs are cramped beneath the seat ahead of you, and your own seat protests in pain. But with raindrops pelting your face and the wind whipping the wisps of hair that have escaped your ponytail, your throat only chokes up inexplicably in a sudden surge of emotion. The bus ride is akin to running into welcoming arms, in slo mo. 

You wrench the ear plugs of your I pod off, as you turn the familiar corner. Irrespective of the weight of the backpack, you break into a 100 metre dash to the gate, throw it open and run upstairs. And it’s all a haze again, Gundu lifting you and dropping you on the ground with a thud, hugging a grimacing Amma and jumping up and down, running inside the house aimlessly like a juvenile 3 year old… 

Everything seems right suddenly, the week’s cynicism washed down with urulakazhangu curry, nei-drenched sudra saadam and rasam. And the thair sadam that you’ve waited for all week, of course. Catching up on family gossip over vanilla custard and banana. Nameless movie on HBO with Gundu. Random youtube videos, chat and blog post until you realize its 4 a.m. Unearthly hour shower before curling up into your bed. 

10 a.m., you wake up to Amma’s endless tirade on how ugly your skin is, how sparse your hair is, amazed at how comforting it is to listen to her scream. More custard, followed by more gossip and a thousand phone calls, until you yourself begin to feel the need to bathe. Bisibela bath, cucumber raita and oily oily appalam nearly moves you to tears. Guilty indulgence in the AC in Amma’s room, with an Archie comic or a Mills and Boon. Non-stop needling of Gundu. Happy laughing in the evening with friends, going out, or staying indoors over raucous games of Uno.

Now you begin to dread the end of the day. Amma hands you bills and important papers to take back. You sit at the computer desperately, as if that machine can rewind time. It can’t. Gundu gives you your hug and immediately falls asleep. Appa’s call lasts about ten minutes, and then Amma hits the sack. The quiet of the house itself saddens you immensely, as you move around, putting together the things you have to take back. 

Freshly pressed clothes, books, bags are all arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. And then you crawl in, into whatever little space remains and curl up. You shut your eyes, and pray that tomorrow never comes, wishing you could go on revelling in the comfort, nay, luxury of your own bed in your own home. 

Before you know it, its 5 a.m. Life is cruel.

RESIGNATION

7.00 p.m. – Gi. His heart lurched at the sight of this name in his appointment book. The heart of a paediatrician-respiratory specialist with a successful yet mundane practice in an upmarket area, doesn’t lurch too often. But it never failed to, when this particular name came up in his appointment book, which was about once in three months. He didn’t even look beyond the 7 p.m. slot. He shut the book, and returned it to his middle aged, mother hen secretary, who bustled off. And he waited. 

The hours ticked away like ages as he waited. Food and drink tossed down without interest, appointments passed in a blur. All that was looked forward to was the 7 p.m. appointment. 

Finally, at 7, he rang the bell, to usher the patient in. The child usually walked in half bent, wheezing heavily, face twisted in agony. But today she hopped in, smiling brightly and plonked herself on the patient’s seat. He greeted the child, and waited. From the corner of his eye, he could see that she had just walked in. He smiled at the child for a full 3 seconds, before he turned to greet her. 

His heart lurched again. She looked the same, the way he remembered her from three months ago, the way he always remembered her during the months between Gi’s falling sick. The huge slanting black eyes lined with kajal, the elegantly hooked nose, the tiny diamond nose stud, the thick wide mouth, the round bindi in the middle of her wide forehead, her slender form… She was even wearing the same sari as the first time he saw her walk into his clinic. 

Deva. That was how she had introduced herself, three years ago, when she had first brought her child for consultation. Since then, he was hooked. He had been utterly charmed by her slightly apologetic manner, as she told him about her daughter’s asthma history, perhaps blaming herself for her child’s sickness in some way. But the proud lift of her chin suggested that perhaps she was a fighter, fiercely independent and rebellious. He had noticed that she had never mentioned her husband in any of her visits. And he hadn’t asked, even though it was a perfectly natural thing for a paediatrician to ask, in the child’s interest. Besides, Gi never needed more than a nebulizer session and some antibiotics to set her right. 

The child was a splitting image of her mother, minus the nose stud, and plus the inevitable chubby cheeks of an average seven year old and plastic frames. He knew for a fact that Gi had a mind of her own. On her first visit to the doctor, when he was writing out her prescription after the nebulizer session, she had asked him, without consulting her mother and without any embarrassment, why he wouldn’t give her those animal-shaped biscuits that he kept in a jar on the side shelf. Her forthright manner had startled him. His grown-up children still sought his permission to do anything. They were brought up in the strictest discipline, and taught never to speak out of turn. But Gi knew exactly what she wanted. She always explained her sickness with clarity even most grown ups were not capable of. And he knew from Deva’s indulgent smiles that she found her daughter’s demeanour satisfying. 

For a man whose wife spent more time scolding the children than letting them be, Deva as a mother was fascinating. For a man whose wife never looked at another man in the eye and wore high necked blouses with long sleeves, Deva as a woman, with her cool gaze, low cut blouses and short sleeves was fascinating. He had soon begun to spend hours, wondering what kind of a companion she would make; fantasizing what life with her would be like. But he was too afraid to do anything about these feelings; for fear that one wrong step might stop her from coming to his clinic, even if only in the capacity of his patient’s mother. She didn’t give him a chance either. She was never less than polite, never more either. Moments of desperation had even led him to perversely wishing Gi would suffer a mild attack, only very mild, just so he could at least see Deva.  

“We don’t need a nebulizer this time, Doctor,” she said with a heart-stopping smile, sitting on the other chair. 

That brought him back to earth. He smiled back, and turned his attentions on to the child, asking her how she was doing. The child responded with the enthusiasm brought about by meeting someone she liked. A tiny bit of silence followed. 

“We are moving to London in three weeks, Doctor. Gi’s father has found a job there. I am a little concerned about her health, and how she might react to the cold weather. So we came to ask if you could refer her to a respiratory specialist in London. And perhaps brief the doctor about Gi’s history…” 

He stared blankly for a couple of seconds, and then nodded numbly. In auto-pilot mode, he looked for, and found the business card of his friend who had an established practice in the wretched city. He scribbled the details on his notepad, tore it out and handed it over to Deva. He recovered soon enough, to wish the family good luck, and asked Gi to take care of herself. Just as he said that, he looked up tellingly at her mother. She was smiling down at her daughter. 

He stared at the door for a few minutes after it closed behind them. Then, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and resigned himself to his nondescript life, cloaked wife and disciplined children. It was a while before he rang the bell again to usher in the next patient.

COFFEE?

He saw her. Chatting with her friends, throwing her head back in laughter, just as he had seen her before. Riviera 2009. He remembered exactly what had happened. Wasn’t her hair a lot longer then? 

Turn away, he admonished himself. She has caught you staring. Self-consciously, he looked around the place, as though looking for someone. From the corner of his eye, he knew she was still staring at him. 

He flipped open his phone, and called his friend to strike a non-conversation. Something that would allow him to look at her now and then, and observe what she was doing. Now where was he? 

It was just before his band was due to go up on stage to set up. He had seen her, throwing her head back, laughing about something her friend had just whispered into her ear. And when the convulsions stopped, their eyes had met and held. The next moment, he had tripped like a fool on the steps leading up to the stage. His cheeks stung as he recollected the embarrassment. He had simply not let himself make eye contact after that. But his head had clearly marked the latitude and longitude of her position in the audience. He won’t look her way, he had decided. She was still staring at him. 

And he hadn’t. He had managed to play decently, AND he had managed to avoid eye contact with her for the first nine minutes of his performance, despite stealing glances at her whenever he thought it was safe to. She hadn’t given him too many chances to do that. But he hadn’t known for sure if she was looking at him, and not just in his direction. Either way, he couldn’t have taken the risk. God. She was still staring. 

When their performance had ended, resounding applause had threatened to bring the roof down. His name had met with the most hoots and whistles. This time, he had to look, to see if he had her approval. He couldn’t say if he did, because she hadn’t been clapping. She was sitting back in her chair, a faint smile playing on her lips. And then, by the time they could clear the stage, she had disappeared. 

Now she was right in front of him, still staring. It wasn’t a lewd appraisal, nor was it a piercing psycho-type look. It was just a curious observation really. Was she interested? Or was she simply sizing him up? He couldn’t tell. He hung up on his bewildered friend, and fiddled with the settings of his phone. He remembered her so clearly, because he had run that scene in his head a few million times in the last few months. There was nothing else he could do really. He didn’t even know her name, to try and find out who she was, or what she did.  

Finally, she stopped staring. Instead, she put her head down, and strode purposefully. In his direction. He gulped, and attacked the settings of his phone with renewed concentration. Play it cool, he told himself repeatedly. Act nonchalant. 

“Umm… hi.” 

He looked up at her, a vague, preoccupied expression deliberately fixed on his face. She was smiling. He noticed that her eyes crinkled when she did. “Hi?” 

“Adit. The guitarist from Loyola.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. “I am Sam, from Stella.” 

“Oh.” Before he could think of something to say next, she went on. 

“I first saw you perform at Saarang. You play quite well.” Wasn’t it Riviera this year? He was sure it was. But he couldn’t tell her that, could he? 

“Oh.” And he tried to smile. 

“And then I saw you play at Riviera.” 

“Oh.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot now. But what was one expected to say in such situations? Saarang before Riviera? He hadn’t noticed her then… 

“Actually, I knew you were going to play at Riviera. That’s why I came.” 

Whoa. Some balls that would’ve taken. Especially the way she said it. It wasn’t giggly flirtatious, nor was it an uncomfortable forced confession. She said it matter-of-factly, not in the least bit ashamed. He had to ask. 

“Umm… How exactly…?” 

“After Saarang, I googled you, and your blog came up. You had mentioned that you would be playing at Riviera, and so I turned up.” 

His mouth opened and shut. He just didn’t know what to say. No. She still didn’t sound desperate. Whatever she said seemed so… right. And she seemed to be about to say more. 

But it was his turn now. All defences down. He was going to say something. At least now. 

“Umm… do you want to go somewhere and grab a cup of coffee?” He smiled apologetically. “I think we should … I don’t know…” 

A heart-stopping couple of seconds. He squirmed. Should he turn around and run? 

Finally, a hint of a smile showed up on her face. 

“You beat me to this one.”

 ————————– 

First attempt at fiction. And God. How embarrassed I am about it already! But thought I’ll put it up anyway. Zzz. Had thought of a couple of more serious fiction ideas first, but decided to do this fun thing instead. I am SO desperately in need of doing something fun. 

Sort of inspired by that book that I read, at least parts of, every goddamn day of my life – Erich Segal’s Love Story. Had initially obssessed a lot over what the guy should be – a singer, a guitarist, or a speaker or whatever. And what the setting should be. Then I just thought to hell with all that, and came up with this. So I really don’t care for objections such as Riviera and Saarang happen at the same time, or guitarists from Loyola don’t perform at Riviera. And as for real Adits from Loyola and Sams from Stella, its all purely coincidental.

LIFE’S A HUM, FOR THE MOST PART…

God. How long has it been since I wrote my last blogpost? Every time I come to Madras, I always put this down on my list of things to do. But in the flurry of, you know, walking around in dirty pyjamas, gossiping with Amma, visiting Ammamma Thatha, Uno with friends at home, and movies on the computer, I don’t get around to writing a post. Plus, when you write for a living, there isn’t much of an inclination to write otherwise. (God. Have I become a cold professional, who has forgotten how to write for pleasure? *shudder* ) But right now, there is a flow, so I shall write, and shall do so, without cribbing about the company, nay, institution, I work for, because a blog is an open book. ZZZ. How boring have I become? Anyway, any cribbing shall be restricted to personal gtalk conversations.

• I write for a living. I go to bed every night in mortal fear of having gotten a fact/quote wrong, and hope that the next day goes by without any untoward incident, such as, you know, have some hired assassin skulk around some corner waiting to finish me off, or worse still, have someone call office and demand that a correction be printed. Zzz.
• I have begun to write fast. Really fast, as compared to the 30 hours I took to write a 600 word piece in college. I am proud to say that today, I am a copy producing factory. Who calls up her sources 5 times in paranoia, to ensure she has gotten her copy right. And yes, I still write in Microsoft Word, and copy paste it before sending it. I can’t get myself to write anywhere else. Word limits and deadlines continue to agonize me.
• The features I write, I just realized, have become slightly formulaic, although I try to throw in a fair bit of both heritage and lifestyle. Hmm, must change that. The first feature I wrote, I wrote like I do in this space, and as a result, it got edited quite drastically. Must find some middle ground, and write acceptable fun pieces. I am not allowed to post my stories elsewhere without permission, and getting permission is too strenuous, and unnecessary for a nobody like me.
• I don’t think I want to do this for a living. Will get back to studying soon. These days, I really really wish I could study for a living. I know I sound like a nerd, but I really really like studying, but strictly only subjects I myself can choose.
• On the personal-ish front, I really like Pondicherry. Was thinking of doing a series of posts tagged “city girl in a small town” based on my experiences and observations there. We’ll see.
• I don’t have a laptop, and have sort of decided I don’t need one, considering that I have access to the net during my nearly ten hours at office. Have learnt to be really alert – whenever a colleague walks past my computer, I quickly change windows, so they don’t notice I am chatting. It makes me feel guilty, but its not like I don’t work. As always, I multitask superbly, and at very impressive speeds now. This also explains why I don’t/can’t blog from work.
• Having my pieces edited too much is a BIG ego issue for me. BIG BIG BIG. Oh, snap out of it already!
• I miss Madras quite badly. Not like in a depressed way, but in a yearning sort of way. I always thought that when I fly the nest, I wouldn’t return too often and my parents would miss me terribly. But I hate to admit that I am the one pining away here. My folks miss me, and call me enough, but not as often as i thought they would. I am the one who comes back home every off I get. So much for all the bravado. Zzz.
• Another completely reverse thing. One of the reasons I said yes to posting at Pondi, was all those images I kept conjuring in my head, of my wearing my Stetson and cycling around everywhere, with a basket full of flowers (refer to header of this blog for clarifications. How cocky I am).  But since I report, I need to get around a lot, and fast, so my purple Scooty Pep has come there. When I am in Madras, I get around on my old green Ladybird. What life has in store for you, no one can tell. Even I couldn’t.
• I am quite happy there. The one thing that makes me feel bad is my nearly complete lack of friends at Pondi. But yes, things are getting better.  And so, in the future, I hope to spend more time at Pondi and discover it, during the offs that I decide not to come home. that shall happen as soon as my social life is worth writing home about, and I mean literally.
• Like I said, trips to Madras are looked forward to. I almost always enjoy the bus rides back home, except when a creepy man is near me, and that has happened only once so far. I am now, and only now, discovering the pleasures of music and the i pod. I am no technology ignoramus, but somehow the i pod had completely evaded me, because I listen to no music. I do now, a little. And it thrills me no end that the tracks get shuffled on my ancient, hand-me-down i pod shuffle. It IS so damn cool.
• Lived with an angelic family-friends family in absolute luxury, until recently, I moved into the house of another warm family, not freeloading this time, but as a paying guest. I am really quite thrilled to have suddenly become so grown up and independent, but its also a little scary. Scary-exciting.
• My room is super, really dark and no cross ventilation. Just little windows on top of the AC I don’t use, and dark blue and grey curtains. Its so normal perfect.
• I have completely stopped using the AC except when I am in Madras, because my house is a furnace. I am glad I am weaning off it. Now, my tolerance for cold has also come down drastically, which may not be such a good thing. When I experience for real, the white Christmas of my dreams, I will probably just be a snowman on the landscape.
• Absolutely EVERYONE is off to the US. It is SO scary and thrilling. Maybe I will too, I don’t know. Amma sure wants me to go. Hmm…
• Every trip to Madras is marked by an alarming discovery/news. Sample: last trip’s shock quotient was provided by the discovery that Enge Brahmanan is over. How my heart broke. This trip’s discovery is that Balamurugan Stores has been razed to the ground. I feel like crying a little. How painfully I miss school. Why can’t I go back to being my gawky self, the one who dug up compost pits, spent hours doing Exnora work loving every moment of it, and earned her Pepsi Cola at Balamurugan at the end of everyday’s work? How I miss Exnora. How I miss everything.
• Thanks to Appa, dear Scooty Pep got a nice clean up. I have never done it myself really. The most I can do is, spend 5 minutes looking for a parking space on Mission Street that isn’t in the line of fire from above. What I have learnt is that kaka pi does not always travel in a straight vertical line due to gravity. Its paths are trajectories sometimes. Zzz.
• I used to eat lunch at a Gujju/Maru mess right below office. The first time I went, DDLJ songs were playing in the background, and they served a super rava kesari. My eyes welled up as I realized that it was Fate that threw me and Sri Balaji Mess together. But after Serena described the kitchen and cooking conditions to me mincing no words whatsoever, I don’t know if I believe in fate anymore.
• Ah. What can I say about the pleasure of Walls orange kuchi ice on a rocky beach? Or the chocolate pyramid at Hot Breads? Nothing, except “Thank you God”.
• I have actually stopped thanking him. Still procrastinating the “questioning faith” bit, but I don’t do my routine prayers anymore. I just selfishly pray for my ass to be saved, when I write some copies.
• I wonder often if I should write a book. I don’t know if I can. But when I think of Chetan Bhagat, and his ‘One Night at a Call Centre’ that claims to be a bestseller, I take heart at the fact that anyone can write, and be successful at it, even if not (any) good. Maybe I should try, no harm.

Two thoughts that crossed my head, when I tried really hard not to think of which waiter’s sweat made it into my cup of dal last week:

• There is a foolproof method to decide if your family and the things they do are normal: imagine a family like that on TV or in some movie. Are members of the audience likely to say “loosu kudumbam”, or worse still, “ayiye”? If they are, then SO not normal. Let’s not even begin about my own. The windows had better remain shut all the time.
• There is a foolproof method of being able to tell if a person eating at the table in front of you is settu or South Indian (assuming that the telltale signs, such as tight transparent Hrithik Roshan T shirt or pattai/namam are missing): the settu will tear his roti using both hands, make a sort of a loop with the piece and scoop the gravy into the loop neatly. We? We are destined for yellow fingernails.

Phew. I think I am done for now. Will try my best to write during my next trip down. Can’t wait to go to ACJ tomorrow with friends. There is this warm, fuzzy feeling deep within whenever I think about ACJ. Sheesh I am too wistful and nostalgic and emo for my own good.

EVEN GRANDPARENTS HAVE WANDERLUST

Ammamma hates moving. Moving as in, traveling. I don’t mean the countless trips to kaigari kadai and back, blouse tailor and back, kaapi kottai kadai and back, Petthis market (to refill her toffee stock in old kissan jam jar) and back, paper kadai (to check if Thuklaq has hit the stands yet) and back, every single day. (Yes, even if she bought Thuklaq only the previous day, she would go to kadai to ask when the next issue was going to be out, although she already knows the answer to that. I think she hates the prospect of having to wait for a week for the next issue, and generally likes to live in denial.) Ammamma’s universe is restricted to block 93 of Sowbhagya Colony (although occasionally also blocks 94 and 95 but never beyond), and 1^st Street 1^st Sector where all the aforementioned essential kadais are located. Every two weeks, she goes to Aavin booth on parallel road, to grab the first two slabs of butter for herself and my mother. She also visits us – we live a kilometer away – at about the same frequency, taking an auto from the auto stand right outside her house.

She never used to take an auto, although she knew all the auto guys well enough. That’s because Thatha used to take her on his scooter. My Thatha is a stud. Really truly. He was a super sportsman in his heyday. Apart from playing every sport in the WORLD, he used to conduct judo classes outside his house. Thatha used to be this rowdy – a do-gooder rowdy like heroes of Tamil cinema. Any trouble in the neighbourhood, and Thatha would arrive (with only background music and slow mo missing) to warn the villains off and to intimidate them. Sheesh! Like a Brahmin rowdy, who went, bashed a few guys up, and came back home to do his sandhi and eat his thair sadam and maavudu. God. Thatha is my hero. After he retired, he devoted himself completely to his grandchildren, and so did Ammamma. Ammamma held fort at home, while Thatha was our caretaker – mine and Sheets’. He was our chauffeur, friend, guide, philosopher and hero. Thatha on his black Kinetic Honda, and later on his grey Dio was a cult figure in the neighbourhood. Everyone at school knew him. All our friends’ parents admired him. And we were so damn proud of him! Imagine a swashbuckling superhero named Iyerman (or even Iyervaal, for that matter). How exciting! 

Until, recently, kannu struck. No no, it can’t be anything but kannu that resulted in this. Thatha now has an extremely painful left leg and can barely move. As in, he can. But yeah, that would end up with him sitting up most of the night in pain. So now, Thatha sticks to his white plastic chair, and doesn’t get around too much. And his grey Dio is busy gathering dust in the shed. 

Sigh. Anyway, so Ammamma and Thatha have lived in their 93 B house for the last 30 odd years. No, it is no ancestral house that they refuse to move out of. It is but an incredibly modest MIG flat. But no, Ammamma hates to move. She hates living anywhere else. Forget living, even staying. For years, she refused to stay at her son’s or daughters’ even for a few days. But now, for the last few years, they do come and live with me and Sheets, when my parents are not in town, they do go to Mylapore (Ammamma cannot bring herself to say no to her most-beloved son anymore), and I know even though she doesn’t admit it – Ammamma and Thathu secretly love their annual trips to Hyderabad to visit Du and Nanda Chitapa. Mostly because Du is poor Du, and Ammamma can nicely bulldoze her around, and because Nanda Chitapa is the sweetest man in Hyderabad. 

Despite being so close to my grandparents, I had unfortunately thought of them as very one dimensional until recently. Ammamma and Thathu have been on many pilgrimage trips with us, all over Tamilnadu. Appa always took them around everywhere. But they have never had a HOLIDAY per se, until they went on a vacation to Munnar with Suri Mama and fly., and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They went on to talk about the vacation for more than a year after it happened. But the revelation came when I went over to do namaskaaram before I left on a holiday to Singapore. Ammamma was sending me off at the door. Thatha had just finished belting out his slew of safety instructions, and then there was a moment of silence. Suddenly, Ammamma started to sing “Akkarai seemai azhaginile manam aada kandene…” and smiled. Then, she said: “Mochai kottai, ennayum kootindu po da…” And my heart broke. I blinked away instant tears quickly and said bye, and ran away. I couldn’t have taken her along for what I was going to do at Singapore, and anyway it was too late. I didn’t even realize that even Ammamma might want to come along, and travel the world like I did. Ammamma and Thathu have no son in the US (surprise surprise, for a Brahmin family of that generation): they would’ve made a trip there otherwise. They’ve never been abroad. They only know what they’ve seen in Priya – all those wondrous sights that Rajni describes in that song. So then I decided that they must go to Singapore someday. 

Anyway, my wonderful time at Singapore quickly made sure I forgot all about it, and thereafter life sort of took over. Until I was painfully reminded again, when a slightly high Thatha, sipping his whiskey, looked at me and said “Enna ya, oru passport kuda ille… eppo nanga idellam pakardu?”, pointing to the tv. There. I could hear the familiar sound of my heart shattering into pieces again. I marched up to Amma and Appa (yes, in tears AGAIN) and said, “Look. Please take them to Singapore. They have actually opened their mouth and asked.” Amma and Appa agreed, but were disgusted with my unabashed maudlin display of emotion. Amma in turn said to me: “Stop crying like a fool. Why don’t you take responsibility for a change?” That’s when I decided: I am going to get their passport forms. I will fill them out, and take them to Thatha and watch his face. Amma said she’ll do the waiting at the passport office and blah. And then, my parents will take them to Singapore. Or if I have enough saved by then, I will take them to Singapore. Ammamma wants to come with us to Kodaikanal this summer. But space in the car is a problem. Thatha is also protesting a little, because he’s too proud to openly have trouble walking. Amma is fighting with him, by citing examples such as Pads and Meenamma who trot all over the country, even though they too battle old age problems such as knee pain and this and that. And Ammamma wants to go no matter what. So I have decided: even if it means that Sheets and I have to run beside the car all the way to Kodi, Ammamma and Thatha will go to Kodi. And then to Singapore. Ha! 

[ God. This post is so emo. Zzz.
And God. My titles suck. The title of this post beats the title of my blog hollow. Congratulations to me! Zzz. ]