Part Of Being Sane Is Being A Little Crazy

Being a housewife is the best thing in the world. Or so they told me. Growing up, most if not all, of the women in my life were housewives. That was a very long time ago, back when housewife hadn't yet acquired its present unsavory reputation. At least I presume unsavory, why else would women refer to themselves as Stay At Home Moms (SAHMs)?  I never quite understood why a housewife was called that though. I know what idea it was supposed to convey, that of a married woman who looks after the home and its constituents, but it didn't make much sense. Men are given titles showing what work they do - not always though, I'm pretty fuzzy on what a VP of social media marketing does exactly, other than tweet all day long (sweet job!). And even when they do no work, they have fancy pants titles after their names. Given that, I always thought a better term for these women would be President  of Everything .  Because that was exactly what they did. Everything. Wake up the ...

I'm a lazy person. Note the lack of surprised faces. Practically everyone knows that about me. When I say I'm lazy I naturally refer to physical exercise. Any sort of mental activity I relish. Reading, debating, writing etc I get right down to it (unless I procrastinate, but that is for a whole other set of reasons!). It is only when I have to actually move my limbs that I start to resist.  In this, like in many other aspects, I take after my father. My mom is one of those people who irons and lays out the clothes to be worn the previous night. My dad is one of those people who wears whatever is next in line in the closet. I pick whatever is next in line, except if they don't look good together.  I do make exceptions when it comes to doing something I like, but that doesn't happen often. I had a good, if somewhat lazy, life going.  And then I met the man who would become my husband. He calls himself lazy but this is a guy who used to hit the gym after work. Who u...

She woke up with a start. She was late, again. But what did it matter if she was late anyway? She quickly showered and stood in line to receive breakfast. Some girls smiled and talked but others, new to this place like her, stayed silent. After breakfast, she went to the next building and sat down with many others like her in a small room. Girls on one side and boys on the other. She dared not lift up her head to look at them, in case somebody saw it and reported her. Sometimes she would sneak a peek at the boys and wonder about them. Were they unhappy too? Did some of them dream of escape? Maybe a few of them had a sense of humor, she liked to think so. She made up stories about them in her head, pretending to talk to one or the other. What would it be like to talk to them? They were humans after all, just like her. But it was strictly against the rules. Any girl caught talking to a guy was in for some pretty awful punishment. Or a boy talking to a girl. It was all the same. She ...

Summer holidays. Anticipated, savored and cherished. This magical time was the highlight of fourteen years of school. Every summer, my sister and I (along with our cousin brother), spent 2 months at the home of our grandparents. A rambling mansion surrounded by gardens on three sides, with cavernous ceilings, ornately carved furniture, doors hidden behind cupboards, creaky stairs and filled with relics of the past. Summer holidays. So many memories. The sweet smell of ripe mangoes. The shouts of fruit sellers from the streets. The raucous noises of monkeys as they eat from the trees in the garden. Trying to eat the ice cream before it melts from the heat. Eating cold taati munjalu (fruit of sugar palm tree) on a lazy summer afternoon. Squealing with delight when my grandmother unveils one of her special sweets.  Playing cops and robbers with water pistols. Annoying the gardener while he waters the plants, hoping he'll spray us with the hose. Bowling with plas...