It is amazing how a little human being with tiny feet, pink cheeks and hair like strands of silk, can make a singer out of anyone.
The beauty of singing for a child is in its spontaneity. You have no idea whatsoever of what you’re singing; you just start ‘la-la’ing off to make the baby stop crying. And when it seems to work, when the frown is gone, and the eyes shift focus on to you, or close peacefully in slumber, you suddenly realize that the gibberish you sang was really a tune. And you sing it again and in loop. Right then, at that point, you become a singer. No matter how harsh a voice you think you have, when the baby in your palms will start to cry, you will sing. And that song will be the most beautiful, because you will have no idea of where the song came from, and you will want to sing it again and again, just to re-experience the joy of having relieved the divine little being of its restlessness.
In the car, I made a bubble with a bubble gum. On the street, he made a hundred with his bubble guns..
He didn’t sell any bubble guns, but he beautified the scene… And just as the traffic cleared, and I saw him walk by, I saw his last bubble.
And I burst mine.
Life is war. You wake up, and raise your shield against the world.
Protect yourself from every man you see. Trust no one. Carry pepper spray.
Watch the gory news. Be scared. Overdress. Look serious and suspecting. Get home early. Cook.
Woman, you change. You adapt. Yet you bleed unnoticed.
I love what Russell Peters does. I hope that you’re the kind that loves it, too. If not, you’re probably taking life too seriously to laugh about it. Don’t.
The guy loves to talk about Indians, and though his comedy is quite harsh, it is almost never untrue. Last night was one of those nights when I needed a good laugh, so after I was home from work, I picked a couple of Russell videos to watch (no one can watch just one!) In one of the videos, he was talking about arranged marriage, a very common and complex Indian tradition, wherein he narrates that his mom once told him: I will pick you some nice girls, then you choose which one you want.
And Russell said: This is crazy! My mom wants to pick a girl for me? I don’t even let her pick my clothes!
Interesting thought. How many of us can say that about ourselves? Continue reading “We, the joke”
Wanting to have friends can make you do stupid things. But you want to fit in, anyway.
Its like you’re this image, nice and sharp, clear and bright. Smaller than some, bigger than some others. Some might like you, some might not. Or worse, few might like you, most might not. And torn between what the world thinks and what you think, you don’t have a real opinion about yourself. You don’t know whether to call yourself a brilliant image or an image too small, too limited. Continue reading “The Image”
As she lay sleeping, I ponder: Whom does she look like? And what will she look like a few years from now?
What will her interests be? Will she be an artist like her father and me, her aunt? Or will she be a brilliant mind with extra-ordinary capabilities of reasoning and mathematics, like her mother?
What will we teach her? What will I teach her? What values will she be raised in? What will I stand for in her life?
These thoughts reminded me of a beautiful paragraph written by Khalil Gibran in his soul enlightening book, ‘The Prophet’.
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.”
She was asleep, and felt something strange at the tips of her feet. She panicked.
What is that? What am I feeling?
Toes. Those are your toes. See? You can wiggle them.
Toes? What are they for? And how do I wiggle them?
Toes are so that you know how much you can stretch yourself high.
Yes, dear. And to wiggle them, come here, let me touch your feet.
She felt a thin thread-like trail run across her foot. And the feeling it left was subtle but inexplicable. So much, that she cringed her feet, and the new toes she’d been given, cringed with.
That’s a wiggle, he said, and ran his invisible finger yet again across her feet.
Do it gently, dear, and do it often. It’s like a sign of life. The woman protecting you inside her will be waiting to feel it.
Yes, dear, your mother, he said, as he continued to count the final few gifts he had left to give her. Before she was finally ready to be born.