Wednesday, April 1, 2020

A is for Aloe Vera #AtoZChallenge

Frog. If I were asked to describe my movements as a child, I'd say, I acted just like a frog. I could never sit still. I preferred running, hopping or skipping to simply walking from point A to point B. But, unlike the labels used these days by modern medicine to describe my kind--the-ants-in-their-pants-kind--I can confidently say that neither was I deficient of any attention nor did I suffer from any disorder. On the contrary, I received more love and care from my family than I can write about and certainly enough attention on account of the knocks and scrapes I got while wandering in Papaji's garden climbing trees and jumping off high walls and metal gates.

Papaji would ask Beji or Mummy to prepare a kuchee pukkee (partially-cooked) roti. He would cut out a fleshy Aloe Vera leaf with his trusted pocket knife. The knife always lived in Papaji's pocket, on the right hand side of his white kameez. Even though Beji was meticulous about washing clothes to such perfection that the whites dazzled and the colours shone like rainbows, the edges of Papaji's pockets were always stained with mud marks. I'm sure he got told off for such carelessness but my grandfather was a man of the soil and he wore his love for mitti (earth) with abandon. As long as his kyarian (flowerbeds) were full of promise and his radish seeds sprouted on time; their baby shoots peeking tentatively through the earth they had birthed in, he didn't care how dirty his clothes got or how much soil lay embedded under his nails.

Papaji would guide the knife through the edge of the Aloe Vera so that the two blades of the leaf would separate equally-- each part gleaming with transparent gel.

He'd pinch the gel with his fingers to loosen the goop before rubbing each half on the still warm roti one by one. Once Papaji was satisfied that most of the healing molecules had transferred from the two halves, he'd use his handkerchief or anything handy to keep the roti in place around my knee or elbow or any part that had been knocked and was threatening to erupt into an angry bruise or a bump.

"Hond tikk kai be jao." (Now sit still for sometime) was the only advice he'd give and carry on with his gardening.

To postpone Mummy's telling off for a bit longer, I'd pretend to be in much pain and buy time to hang around Papaji, in his garden, for as long as possible. You see, Mummy saved her disciplining of us for when we were alone with her. Very rarely did she indulge is daant phatkaar (serious telling off) in front of Beji and Papaji for they would always, always defend us and sometimes even rebuke her for her strict, disciplinarian ways.

All through my frog years, jumping from trees and playing in his garden, I don't remember ever applying any ointment from a tube. All the cuts and bruises healed overnight with a bit of magic and Papaji's patti (bandage) of Aloe Vera and kuchee-pukkee roti.

For those of you who're new to the healing benefits of Aloe Vera, here's a helpful link :

What are your Aloe Vera memories? When did you first use it? 

Friday, March 27, 2020

Welcome to my A to Z Blogging Challenge of 2020

Dear Readers,

Awkward pauses hold my thoughts captive as I try to type out a post today to say hello to you after a gap of an autumn and a winter. Two seasons apart has turned me into a tongue tied blushing bride: I'm not sure where to begin and how to give form to the stream of emotions that's gurgling inside. So, I'll do as the wise people say. I'll start at the beginning.

For me, beginnings are easier to get to when I work my way back from the end. The end of 2019 threw some curve balls at us as a family and when 2020 shone on the horizon, I was in danger of boxing all of last year into one big disappointment box, tape it up with 'why us' and post a big 'I'm feeling sorry for myself' label on it.

But, someone, somewhere, in this dimension or another, was looking out for us. Hearts healed and bodies bounced back to health.

Ironically, just as I was beginning to flex my writing muscles and get the grey cells ticking to the tune of writing regularly, news of corona-virus threatened to capsize my feeble attempts to get back to blogging.

The heart said not to bother with the challenge in such challenging times and let this year's A to Z slide by just like 2019. But the shutdowns and curfews and the inability to continue with my work at the local hospital have opened up a parallel universe of unencumbered time.

So, I thought to myself, why not step into this expanse and write?

I've been toying with the idea of writing a memoir for over a decade now. But, somehow, I haven't put in any real work into the idea. So, this time, thanks to the discipline of this challenge, I hope to make a start.

For the month of April, I will be sharing stories and memories from my childhood which revolve around my grandfather's garden.

I've inherited his love for the land, soil and seed and in recalling my fondest memories of him and his beloved garden, I hope to introduce you to him, my Papaji. Of course, no mention of Papaji is complete without talking about his better half, my grandmother, Beji, who he doted on and whose kitchen will provide some of the tasty flavours of this month's posts.

The posts this month will follow only one rhythm: that which goes from A to Z. So, the seasons and the mood may change every day--be warned. Not all that you'll read here in April will be happy and full of light. Some of the posts may make you unhappy or sad. But such is life.

Apart from my grandparents, you may meet a few other members of my family, but the focus of this month is Papaji and Beji. So, come along and meet them and some flowers, fruit and vegetables that grew in a plot of land I remember as heaven.

It all happened in the mid nineteen seventies in Dehradun in a garden that was attached to a house built for refugees who'd left their homes and lands and moved to the newly formed India in 1947.

Papaji and Beji were two of the fifteen million people who were uprooted from their homes to honour a line drawn on a map by Sir Cyril Radcliffe.

Roots and branches will keep you company on this blog during this month of A to Z.

See you on the 1st of April 2020 with the first offering of "Papaji's Garden".

Keep safe and healthy.



Saturday, August 31, 2019

My first Haiku

A warm red flower
holding on to a bare branch
waves autumn good-bye

Dear readers,

I hope you've all been well and happy and healthy.

I've been away from this world of blogs and blogging for sometime now. In fact, being away has become more frequent than being here.


There have been a lot of reasons.

I've travelled a lot this year: some journeys were about getting on planes while others involved sitting on my mat and closing my eyes. Some journeys took me to taste new food and wine in wonderful places like South Africa and Bulgaria, while others required me to prepare food in my kitchen in Doha, pack it in large containers and drive to a hospital to share with friends I've made less than a year ago.

As an empty-nester, my life is sprouting new roots and shoots and nourishing the ideas that I had put on hold while I was raising my family of a son and a daughter. As an empty-nester, my home has filled up with ideas that were once lying dormant, wrapped up under layers of excuses.  They are now free to walk in the nude in any part of the house at any time without raising grunts of disapproval or ridicule or disbelief or lack of confidence. They're blossoming now. Some are higgledy-piggledy while others are thriving with a life force of their own. Life is being lived with gusto and pauses as the heart pleases.

Departing from a grid of routine or a matrix of people/situations/habits/compulsions can be challenging at first. But hang in there. Trust me.

The song that lies in between the lines of lyrics, in the space between the end of one note and the beginning of the next, will reveal itself to you if you let it.

Four decades of life lived, perhaps a couple more to go, I find myself needing less of everything. Perhaps, it's the blessings I'm thankful for: the blessings of having enough.

Perhaps, it's the age.

Perhaps, it's time spent on travelling within.

Perhaps, the Universe has presented kindred spirits in my circle because I'm ready now.

More and more, I feel, less and less is needed.

Less of talk, more of action.
Less of sharing my words, more of listening to others.
Less of accumulating, more of enjoying what I already have.
Less of planning for the future, more of loving the living of the now...this moment...right here...this exact one...this one ...when my fingers are touching the keys of my laptop and words from my heart are pouring out on the screen...this exact's here now...gone now...

And that is all.

Lesser, fewer distractions.

More and more of birdsong, poetry, hand holding, kisses, hugs, shared jokes, tears rolling down cheeks with gratitude and/or laughter.

Hence, this today: my first haiku: a form that uses the bare minimum of syllables to capture a moment in time.


Wishing you all joy and good health
jokes that tickle 
daal, chawal and pickle
to make your weekend restful, happy and spicy.

Thank you for being here today and for reading this post.
photo was clicked in Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, Cape Town in June 2019

Sunday, June 30, 2019

Of friends and friendships

I recently read an article called, 'How to end a friendship' in the Opinion section of The New York Times. The author discussed the lack of guidance available about the etiquette of breaking-up and/or dealing with the natural death of a friendship (platonic) as compared to avalanches of advice available about how to end a romantic chapter in ones life. 

That got me thinking.

The article resonated with me while I was reading it. Yes, I have had my fair share of not knowing what I've done/not done to warrant cold spells from erstwhile warm friends. So Lauren Mechling's (author of the article) suggestion :"when the magic dims, the best thing to do is let go." made sense, common sense to me.

However, almost as soon as I had put the newspaper down, a realisation tingled through me like realisations do. I realised that even though I agree with her wisdom of 'letting go', I don't agree with her notion of  friendships being like "beads on a string". In other words, according to Mechling, friendships should be like romantic relationships: you give your all to only one friendship at a time and when the time comes to let go, on account of dimming magic, you close one friendship and move to the next or at least feel comfortable with the demise of an old bond.

Disclaimer: Before any knickers or g-strings out there threaten to get into any twists, let me state clearly that the article was in the opinion section and therefore what I'm about to share with you is also an opinion: my opinion based on my experiences. No facts have been consulted. This post is purely based on experiential explorations of my heart vis-a-vis my friendships.

My all time favourite poet, Rumi and his best friend, Shams of Tabriz, are shining examples of giving your all to one friend at a time, but I'm wired differently.

Mundane acts like moving cities and continents, changing jobs and locations, changing interests and schedules has opened doors to many new friendships for me. But that hasn't warranted shutting doors on my old friends or 'ending' a friendship.

Of course, friendships comes in different shapes and sizes and depths: depths being of particular interest to me.  

Meaningful friendships, the kind that nourish  are very important to me. Some nourish my grey cells, while others nourish my soul and then there are those friends who feed my ambition to do better: to cook better, to write better, to be more organised or to travel lighter, to buy more consciously, to use resources sensibly, to recycle, reduce and reuse. There are friends whose knowledge of books, authors, art and poetry leaves me in awe and every time I spend time with them, I feel like I've been hugged by a library or kissed by an art gallery.  

So while Mechling looks at the individual bead and sees a single friendship at a time, I look at her analogy of  "beads on a string" and see a collection of friendships co-existing side by side, completing the equation of my life, complimenting each other, never competing for attention.

Ambica, my best friend in high school, opened her heart and offered me her family's love when I needed it the most. Asha and Anu were my rocks through college: my go to buddies for food and shelter who were always ready to listen to my latest 'crush' stories. I used to fall in love often: one sided, admiring from a distance kind of love. The kind my adult children find lame and don't see the point of. The kind Asha, Anu and I spent hours discussing and dissecting and drooling over. We pick up where we left off whenever we meet or talk. Time spent apart shrinks to zero. 

Payal and Fakhra, whose daughters were the same age as Arshia, my two year old, when we moved to London, got added to my string of dear friends when we took our toddlers out to the park together, baby-sat for each other, emptied our hearts out about in-laws, husbands and the general grind of busy London life as young mothers.

Angela, Di, Helen, Jess and Jane appeared on my life's primary school teaching horizon and shine brightly to this day. My string of beads would be bare without their love.

My sister and my cousins, my sisters-in-law, my nieces and some second cousins play the dual role of friends and family. Their presence in my string of beads is precious to me.

Doha's easy going pace and the job-free last three years of my life have conspired to add not just beads but entire strings of beads to my necklace of friendship. There are so many friends I've made here that I'm in danger of missing out a name or two if I start listing them all. 

Friendships, to me, are like mountain ranges. 

On bright and clear days, when the skies are blue and the clouds are invisible wisps of  vapour, I can see all the peaks and hills around me that make up my range of friendships. Some seem far away in the past, others reachable after a day's travel and some shine with snow covered peaks in my future. The mountain I'm climbing or walking on at this point in time is the friendship I'm experiencing right now. I do it with all my being, all my attention, all my love, all my laughter and with all my tears and emotions. For the time I'm on this mountain, with this friend, I step with care on her jagged rocks, I relish in her gurgling streams, I see heaven in her alpine blooms, I take shelter in her forests of trees when the sun starts to get too hot. When I'm with her, when I'm climbing this particular patch, I'm all hers, I'm all his. But, the range that holds this mountain, the string that holds this beautiful bead of a friend is also always present. 

If I look at a bead as separate from the one sitting next to it, am I not in danger of snapping the string? When was the last time you saw a mountain separate from its range?

For me, therefore, all my friendships have painted my life's canvas collectively. There are no solo stars or villains. 

I may not have spoken to some friends in decades or they may have travelled far from me in distance or interest, but I've not had the need to 'end' anything to move on to the next. Perhaps, I've been extremely lucky. 

I suspect, instead of letting go when the magic dims, I've learnt to let go of expectations. 

It wasn't always like this. I've been harsh with my words and put the phone down on a friend when I've felt let down by her actions. I've been moody and broody and no fun at all when I felt I was being excluded from plans and parties. I was there, in that land of expectations and 'why me?' woes. 

"Oh! you don't call any more." I've used that needy, clingy group of words too.

It was exhausting to live in that land of expectations. I wasn't happy. 

Anusha once asked me when she sensed I was hurting about a friend's actions, "Did you sign a contract before becoming friends that she should always include you in her movie going plans?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. But it showed me what I needed to see.

As if by magic, old friends started behaving more gently and generously. New friends walked into my arms with open hearts, their world views not necessarily compatible with mine but it didn't matter.

How did this magic happen?

Almost as soon as I let go of my-friends-are-bound-by-unsaid-and-unwritten-contracts-of-expectations, my friends changed. They all became beautiful. 

I no longer needed to think up of excuses to get out of catch-up-coffee-sessions-which-I'm-not-keen-on-but-feel-obliged-to-attend-or-I-may-be-excluded-from-the-group-and-not-invited-for-the-next-birthday-or-anniversary-celebration. 

I no longer need any excuses. I speak the truth: sorry-mate-can't-meet-got-to-do-yoga-or-write-or-just-be-with-myself works perfectly these days. None of my friends have disappeared from my life. On the contrary, beautiful souls infuse my time with love, grace, home-cooked food and hugs whenever it's needed.  

As a lover of mountains, I know that the path I'm currently on seems closest to me. The light is right for me to see what I need to see to travel this stretch of land, this mountain, this meadow and to bask in the warmth of this human, this friend, this soul who holds my hand and my attention today.

Why do I need to worry about how to end anything when there is no such thing as an end?

We're all connected. 

For me, at least, letting go of expectations has opened my eyes to the vast vistas of mighty ranges of solid friendships that stand witness to my journey of self discovery.

What are your thoughts about friends and friendships? How has your journey been? You know I'd love to hear about your experiences.


Wishing you all the sweet fragrance of friendship, wherever you may find it.
Photos taken in spring of 2019, on my way to Kuari Pass

Monday, June 3, 2019

Solo in a Pack

"When you practise on your own, you meet yourself." Giselle, my yoga teacher said softly. She smiled her usual warm smile, her eyes disappearing in the rise of her cheeks, only the shining sparkle of her wisdom shone through. 

I was sitting on my mat feeling at peace with my body. The class had come to an end. Mats were being rolled up, blankets were being stacked neatly and placed in a blue Ikea bag. All the students were in different stages of getting ready to leave. 

It was the last class before a long summer break. To me, it felt like a weaning off session, an attempt by our soft spoken guru to nudge us towards our mats without the scaffolding of her words guiding our limbs, our breath and our thoughts. 

She may have said something after that last sentence. But I didn't hear her. Something about 'meeting myself' made me stop in my tracks. Like a camera lens, my thoughts zoomed in on those two words. The rest of what was being said and done around me faded into a blur.

How easy is it to meet yourself? 

Are we ever ready to make our own acquaintance? Truly and honestly? 

Why do I find it easier to drive to a class to practice than to roll out my mat at home? 

Keeping the raging dialogue hidden inside my head, I  paid up, said goodbye and left. 

When I resist the mat, am I in some way refusing to meet myself? I wondered as I drove out.

I had put my reluctance down to lack of discipline and general laziness. I never thought of it as being unprepared or unwilling to meet myself. 

And what does meeting oneself really mean? 

'Listen to your body', Anusha, my first yoga guru, used to say. 'Don't worry about others, be present on your mat.' 

'How you are on your mat is how you are in your life.' was another one of  Anusha's favourite things to say during a class. 

For me, the words I hear in class are as important as the techniques I'm shown. My teachers' wise utterances keep playing in the recesses of my self, especially the bits that I need to pay attention to. 

Summer is unique in Doha. As the school year comes to its natural end in June, many families move out of the city for good to either head back home, or move to a new place with better job opportunities or to be close to where their children are (at universities etc.) Doha's working population is predominantly ex-pat, so it's natural for the city to be a transient stop for many.

A friend recently remarked how her corner of the yoga class she's been part of has emptied out as many of her yoga buddies have left.

Getting attached to a group of people, a class time-table, your favourite place in the shala to unroll your mat, a sequence of asanas, or even a yoga teacher are all shades of that which yoga is showing us to distance ourselves from: attachment. 

And going back to Giselle's words, only in finding the discipline and courage to make a date with myself to meet me can I hope to distance myself from all the above attachments. Otherwise, any one of the above has the capacity to interfere with my practice.

Being solo in a pack is a beautiful place to be in. 

Often on treks, despite being part of a group and despite respecting the safety codes of trekking (not lagging too far behind or running too far ahead), I often detach from others and walk with myself. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling.

Watching the daisies dance with the breeze, the play of the morning sun on leaves, the dusty clouds that keep puffing out of soles of the one walking ahead of you and rustling leaves are all present like my teachers' words: telling me to listen to the voice inside, to meet the soul that has been given a body that I use to live, to walk, to practise yoga, to write, to cook, to love, to laugh, to sing off tune, to dance with abandon, to dress up in a saree or to spend an entire day in old pajamas, to bathe in waterfalls, to slip on big rocks, to hold a friend's hand, to give her long and tight hugs and to sip hot tea.

"We are not becoming experts.
  We are just finally becoming good students."
Says William Martin in The Sage's Tao Te Ching

As a student, I hope I can use the steps my teachers have shown me to practise the discipline of detachment so that I may meet myself more often on my mat. And in doing so, I can be a better version of my solo self, one day at a time.

Whatever your daily practise, be it a walk in the park, mediation, preparing food for family, writing, singing, dancing, listening, earning money or just being, I wish you all the best. 

I'm writing a blog post after a long time. Bear with me while I flex my writing muscles. The thoughts I've poured out today have been knocking my insides for a few days.

The photos I've shared on this post were clicked in the Himalayas (Maunda and Chakrata) a couple of weeks ago.

Eid Mubarak to all who are celebrating .

I'll sign off with these lines from The Sage's Tao Te Ching by William Martin

"Work with passion and energy
at the tasks you cherish,
but connect often with that part of you
that is watching it all happen
with eternal joy and love."
I'd love to know what you make of Giselle's words. What do you do to meet yourself? Do you do that often? 

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

A Thank You note: to the lookout journal

If you've been a part of this blog's journey, then you would've noticed the long silences.

The past six months have been a jumble of thoughts and emotions. The novelty of empty nesting refuses to wear off and I find that I'm so preoccupied with 'what's next' that I'm not doing anything now.

For the first time in three years, the A to Z blogging challenge has stood out of reach. I was sure I'd be ready for it and then when the last day of March turned into the first day of April, I realized I wasn't.

I'm at an intersection of so many plans and ideas that choosing the 'one path' is proving tricky.

There's a new camera to get familiar with.

Then there's a voluntary pursuit that started off as an art therapy session at a hospital four months ago. But it has evolved into a promise of an art exhibition in the very near future.

And the freedom of an empty-nester combined with the blessing of rebate air tickets has meant frequent travels out of Doha.

Also, as with any creative pursuit, long rest periods can develop into breeding grounds for self-doubt and laziness. 

As a result, this quarter has been busy but without any blogging.

So, when the lovely duo at the lookout journal, Anusha and Vangmayi, showed interest in a proposal I sent them, I was thrilled.

This was a first for me. To write a piece for a journal. To work with edits. To look at my writing from an editor's point of view. To say what I wanted to say but not say it in so many words. To be happy with snips and corrections.

I'm utterly grateful to the duo at the lookout journal for making this easy and enjoyable for me.

Here's the link. Have a read. Tell me what  you think. Share it if you'd like someone else to read it too.

of saris, goddesses and the common woman

I hope I can come back to regular blogging soon. I miss it for sure. It's time to make time and find the focus. 

Thank you for reading my words.
Have a wonderful day.

Friday, January 25, 2019

The attitude of greytitude

What is grey?

Is it a minus or a plus?

Is it the fading of colour from lush black hair?

Or an adding of salt and pepper to their ripeness? 

Is the lack of colour a reminder of my mortality?

Or a timely reminder to celebrate the years lived?

How you look at grey is entirely up to you.

I'll be celebrating my forty-eighth birthday soon. I've been greying for a few years now. After almost a decade of henna application regimen of once a month, I switched to hair colour when the rate of greying spiked. I convinced myself that No Ammonia written in purple letters on my box of shop bought colour meant it's almost chemical free and therefore harmless. I was wrong. My hair didn't take to the colour like I'd hoped it would and so I'm back to applying henna twice a month. The henna I use these days is organic. Yes, I believe the claims made by the packaging.

I've thought about greying naturally many times. To not bother about covering up my ripening roots. To celebrate rather than hide my luck to have lived this long, and mostly in good health. I'll be a year older than my mother ever was when I turn 48. 

But this pull of vanity makes me pick up that brush, load it up with goopy green henna paste, slather it on my head, paying special attention to the pesky roots, the obstinate growth above the temples that NEVER changes colour, no matter how many layers of colour or henna I put on it. Then there's the 4 to 6 hours of waiting, wearing a drying henna crown covered in cling film or shower cap. A couple of sheets of kitchen towel are twisted and stuffed into the edges of the shower cap to stop the henna from leaking on to my forehead or ears or clothes or the floor. The washing off of henna takes time. The bath gets super messy. All in all, it's a very messy and tedious process. 

Of course, this can all be replicated in a salon. I don't have the patience to sit for long periods of time in salons and my middle class Punjabi upbringing runs strongly through my veins. So, if I can achieve the same results at home, I'd rather wear my crown of crusty henna for a few hours every fortnight while I cook or watch Netflix or read.

The question I struggle with is why do it at all? 

I admire women and men who are happy with their greys. My husband is one of them.

I'd like to be just like them when I grow up.

I keep promising myself that I'll stop colouring my hair after this next milestone in my life. Our son's high school graduation in May. Our daughter's university graduation in June. Our holiday in September. That dinner at a friend's last Thursday. Yes, you get the idea. The pull of vanity is strong with this one. 

At times like these, I take refuge in the shade of greytitude (a term that popped into my head on one of my morning walks): a state of being that allows a person to be kind to themselves. It's when grey mixes with gratitude. It's when after having lived a few decades of accumulating material comforts, one realises how important the free things in life are. Not just important, but essential and irreplaceable.

Greytitude has to be cultivated, like a habit.

So, I show myself the kindness I find easy to give to others. 

I remind myself  that I have hair and it's healthy and the choice to colour or not is mine. When it feels right, I'll stop. For now, I'll cover my greys. But, I won't let the greys cover me with self-conscious gloop. I've lived my thirties is boxes of what will people say. It's time to discard those suffocating boxes. 

Today, as I sit at my kitchen table to write a post after almost five months, I look out.

Doha sky is wearing a soft grey blanket. Winter has arrived very late this year. 

The month of December was warm. Both our children were home for the holidays. The four of us were together under one roof after almost a year. Our collective chatter, arguments, silly jokes, leg pulling, telling off, accusations, sharing of news, making of plans, meals at the kitchen table, pizza slices in front of TV, saving and then savouring of favourite episodes filled the house to the brim with the warmth of family.

January arrived. The children left.

An empty nest. A quieter home. 

The clearly defined lines of mothering, the black and white of raising a family have been blurring into the greyness of what next. What does my role as a mother of adult children mean to me? to them?

Like a drop of dark ink in a bowl of clear water, I feel my world of parenting disappearing into a bigger, wider world. I feel like that drop of ink: spreading one molecule at a time, mixing with the water, losing my essence as a mother to the world that my children now inhabit. A world where they don't need me or my cooking. The black and white world of bed-time stories, school runs, packed lunches, help with homework, PTA meetings, school plays and proms has disappeared like that drop of ink. 

I sigh deeply as I type this post out. The drop of ink may have disappeared, but the water carries the tinges of its colour. 

Greytitude comes to my rescue again.

It's time to take down the scaffolding of mothering.

I celebrate the diluted inky waters of my new role as a mother who gets more Whatsapp messages than hugs.

I rejoice in the 'miss you too' and 'love you' sign offs.

I look forward to the next time this home will house us all in its fold.

In the meantime, I celebrate the open pastures of time where I can frolic with a book, volunteer at a hospital or at a special needs school, enjoy long languorous lunches with friends or just sit and stare at  sparrows in the garden as they flit from a purple petunia to a buttery frangipani, cheerful in their tweets and sprightly flights. I can do whatever I choose to do with my time, which is no longer bound by the knots of school runs.

I choose greytitude: an attitude of gratitude as I enter my fuzzy, soft, warm grey years.
I choose to be far away from hard lines, from definitions, rules that stifle, clothes that restrict, make-up that covers up more than it shows, people who find faults with everything, human stories that only focus on the ugly and the offensive. 

Instead, I choose to savour my grey like one savours the soft pink and white splendour of cherry blossoms or the orange and red of an autumnal birch. For like the seasons, my greys  will dissipate in a blink of an eye. Whether I will be blessed with the bliss of a snowy winter, I do not know. 

In the meantime, let me relish these grey pauses and welcome the peace and quiet of my home of brick and mortar into my heart of flesh and blood. Let me sit in silence and dip into my inner well often so I may draw from it the milk of human kindness. Let me ground myself enough so I may have the strength to share the warmth of my  grey blanket with a soul in need. 

Let me line my attitude with the warmth of gratitude.

Leaving you with these most beautiful words written by Guru Nanak Dev ji, sung like a dream by Shivpreet Singh and sent to me by my dear friend, Vidya. Her name means knowledge in English. I smile.

Wishing you all many moments of peace and tranquility.