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Old mess new mess

I’m back. Back from the land of the Nawab’s to Peshwa land. 
There’s a sheen of dust on everything in the house even though the maid has been in to clean once. The pigeons seem to have converted my balcony into a mass loo of some kind. 
That’s just the new mess – the one I knew will be there waiting for me. That’s the one I’m prepared to handle.
What’s worse, my old mess also seems messier now that I see it after a month. The thing is, some bits of my home accumulate disorder slowly, over days and months, so slowly that I barely notice. I live with it all, in peaceful cohabitation, a kind of happy chaos.It makes the room cosy and ‘lived in’ or so I like to tell myself.
Clearly I’m not a cleaner. As long as my bit of workplace is neat and dust doesn’t come away when I put down my tea cup on the table I’m good.
If I’m away just for a week or so I won’t even notice anything. But when I’m away for a month, I see my house a bit like an outsider would, a rather judgemental outsider, I might add. And all the clutter comes leaping right at me.
There’s that side table that simply accumulates suff on its own, the rather worn out tissue box I’ve been meaning to change for ages, the medicines that need to be in the box not around it..… and so much more.
I’ve been cleaning, scrubbing, giving away stuff, arranging books, changing footmats, discarding faded towels – they fade away so silently I never even notice when I keep seeing them everyday.
All of this might have something to do with the fact that my mom’s and my MIL’s houses are always spotlessly clean and perfectly maintained. The two of them are bad influence.
I do need to get back to my comfortable messy self soon. This  cleaning will be the end of me.
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Of travel plans and travel anxiety

Its the summer break and that means my presence here at the blog shall become sporadic. As we ready ourselves to set off on our travels I am consumed with a bad case of travel anxiety. 

What if the taxi gets a flat tyre?
What if I miss the flight?
Did I miss packing anything?
What if my baggage is overweight?
What if I misplace my baggage?
What if I forget the ticket, the id?
What if I am not at the correct terminal?
What happens when I get there?
What if I don’t find a cab?

It’s endless… this list of tiny worries.

Without even being aware of it consciously, they nag at me for days before I set off. That, when I’ve been travelling on my own for over two decades. It makes me irritable and more likely to snap at the kids, not that they aren’t doing enough to drive me up the wall anyway. It wasn’t half as bad when I travelled alone, having responsibility of the twins just makes it worse.

I’ve tried imagining the worse case scenario and that isn’t scary at all yet the anxiety refuses to go.

I’m hoping putting this down here would make me see how irrational it is. 

Do you worry when you travel?

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The things I’ve seen this morning

A woman hanging from a rope, another one draped on a stand with
her head hanging back. A man with his legs strung across his shoulders, another
one with his hands and feet hopelessly entangled while a third one sits calmly
cross-legged.
Those are the
things I’ve seen this morning at yoga class.
*******
It’s ages since I did a 55er. I thought I’d try one for this
prompt.
I won’t stop there though, because I have to tell you about my new
experiment with yoga. Let me begin by saying that I took it up once before for
about two years and found is quite magical. The twins weren’t yet two and I was
on the verge of going completely crazy. Yoga then wasn’t about weightloss. I
looked upon it as the only me time I was likely to have through the day. It turned
out to be way more than that. I always came away with a sense of peace and
well-being from the sessions. It helped that the instructor was coming home and
I had the kids close by.
With the twins entering their tweens, the ‘going crazy’ feeling is
closing up on me again and I thought I could do with some peace of mind along
with my exercise. Also, with my knees getting worse I knew my days with Zumba
were numbered. Yoga it had to be.
However, it has just not been the same.
To begin with the class starts right at the time that twin’s bus
arrives so I’m not there to wave them goodbye and that doesn’t make me too
happy. Yeah they’re almost ten but N makes this huge show of not wanting me to
go while hardly bothering with me when I’m there. Kids, I tell you! They’re
champions at starting off guilt trips. 
Besides, there are too many people at the class. When we had the
instructor coming home we were just three friends and had undivided attention.
My spondilitis has only made it worse. I cannot do many of the asans and that bugs me no
end, specially when it’s something I could do earlier or when I see people
around me doing it with relative ease.
It doesn’t help to have Zumba songs playing in my head during
meditation. I feel like I’m being unfaithful (To Zumba or Yoga, I haven’t quite
figured out). Sigh! 
Maybe another time, another class, another instructor. For now
it’s back to the walks and the Zumba.
So what’s your most/least favourite exercise?
Linking up to Finish the Sentence Friday. Thanks to Leanne for
the wonderful prompt  ‘The things I’ve seen this
morning…’ . and as always, warm thanks also to Kristi from Finding Ninee our
regular host. Do drop by to check out the other entries.

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A gratitude post

About two weeks back I landed myself a sore throat. Nothing that couldn’t be cured by warm water gargles and mugs of ginger tea, I thought. However within a day my throat turned to sandpaper making swallowing difficult and I felt The Wheeze come on. 
If you’ve ever had it you’ll understand the capitals. Within the space of a day breathing becomes a chore, lying down impossible and sleep a mere dream.
This hadn’t happened to me in the last ten years. The twins seemed to have scared it away! However this time it was back.
I gave up oral medications and took on inhalers. Soon enough the breathing eased. Within a week I was feeling human again.
I remembered my childhood – those long painful nights with my mum sitting beside me rubbing warm mustard oil and garlic on my chest while I struggled for each breath and prayed for the night to be over. The days weren’t ever so bad for there were distractions. Nights, on the other hand, were dreaded monsters. Propped up by pillows I would struggle to pull out each breath from my clogged lungs. 
Those nights were truly dreadful.
It was this dread that made me reach out for shawls and sweaters at parties. This dread made sure I was always unfashionably bundled up at weddings and get-togethers when everyone else was flaunting their silks and georgettes. And it was this dread that made me completely immune to friendly jibes from friends and family. 
It would take sometimes, a month for the congestion to go.
This gratitude post today goes out to scientists, researchers and doctors who have made our lives so much easier that a mere ten days later I was back at my Zumba class with just a memory of the wheeze.
Thank you with all my heart. Oh and from my lungs too :-).

Linking up to Vidya’s Gratitude Circle Blog Hop. Do click on the link and head on over.
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The problem with Kajol’s sari

I finally watched Dilwale. Yes that Rohit Shetty film with SRK and Kajol and the two new bachchas. It’s old news, I know. The whole world has watched it and not quite liked it too, which I might not agree with, but then that’s my own thing. I didn’t mind it except for this one issue – the issue of Kajol’s sari. But first, if you haven’t watched the film you need to know a little bit about it. I promise to keep it to five lines – brace yourself.

So Kajol and SRK belong to two warring mafia families. Point to be noted here is that Kajol is as kickass and as worthy a scion as SRK. The two fall in love. A misunderstanding crops up, Kajol shoots SRK and they go their own ways till their siblings find each other and fall in love too. After some ‘Dobara aaye to jaan le loongi‘ bit’s and a few sadish songs, the misunderstanding is sorted and voila! All is well (Writing this down I can get a vague idea why some people wouldn’t quite have taken to the film).

Whew! That’s exactly five lines. *Pats self on the back*.

Anyway the point I’m trying to make is this – towards the  end of the film SRK’s brother is shot at by a don (yet another one) and Kajol sits there all abla nari cradling his head and yells for SRK, “Kaliiiiii……,” she screams and SRK comes flying out brave and macho and well obviously, he saves the day.

 

Why, tell me, doesn’t she reach for her own gun? She’s as worthy a ‘donness’ or whatever she-dons are called, as he is, right? She steals the sona from him at the beginning of the film, she runs a restaurant and has some mean shots to throw when faced with a kidnapper. She’s brave and smart and wily and strong so why oh why would she scream for SRK instead of going behind the bad guys herself? Wouldn’t instinct drive
her to go for it herself?

And so I thought maybe it was the sari. Maybe it was the sari killed her killer instinct. Or maybe she didn’t want to spoil her look by hiding a gun in that sari. I mean a bump at her hip would
have looked odd, no? Yet, one would have thought she’d have found a way given that she’d been outdone by it once earlier. Remember Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai and that basketball match? She lost to SRK, despite being the better player all because of that five meters of gorgeous georgette. Over a decade later and things haven’t changed. This Senorita doesn’t learn from her
mistakes.

Or maybe… she yelled for SRK because she just liked having him around, in which case it is perfectly understandable. I’d call for him all the time if I had the faintest hope he’d come. The brown
eyes, the intense looks, the crooked smile that dimple to die for and the stubble … ooh the stubble.

Yeah if it’s not the sari it most definitely is SRK’s.

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