Music. Heart stopping. Mind blowing. Yet peaceful. Serene. Orgasmic bliss. Gives one an i-can-take on, conquer-anything, i-am-above-this, floating, floating, spinning, out-of-body experience.
Haven’t been writing for a while. Ideas bubble, brim, spill over, and when night falls, exhaustion and a couldn’t care less attitude sets in.
But yesterday. Yesterday, was a multisensory overload. In a great way.
Sangeethotsavam/Sangeeth Utsav/SU2019.
Beautiful children.
Beautiful adults.
Dressed in their Indian best.
Music. Percussion. Strings. Wind. Instruments of all sorts.
Children 4 years up.
Rose at 4am to attend a housewarming. Went on to SU 2019 Yuvabharathi/youth concerts.
My juniors, budding baby vainikas, performed two simple yet meaningful beautiful compositions of poet saint Sri Thyagaraja Swami. Seniors performed two more, one of which is a rare composition. My daughter, an NZCMS graduate performed a mini solo kutcheri.
Got home, heated leftovers in fridge for family.
Rested for 20 mins.
Got ready, left again for evening concerts.
Day 1. Malladi Brothers. Violin accompaniment young genius violin virtuoso Sri Vittal Rangan. Legendary Mridhangam maestro Sri KV Prasad.
And so, returning to my initial words. What an evening, what a day.
Krithis, composers, bhajans, ragas, thalas. Music, Musician, Rasika. Blended, Merged into One
Energised, Rejuvenated, Happy, Serene, Blissful State of Being.
This is a two saree post. Me in my daytime saree, and my evening-night saree without me. (Pulled it off without a capture).
Daytime saree is a golden bodied, double bordered gold, royal blue and bright pink. Pallu is a work of art, elephants, cows.
Placid cows and Elephants marching to where I decide to take them. Gifted by a friend during Navarathri golu visits.
Evening forgotten capture is a purplish two toned Vaira Oosi kanjivaram silk, gifted by husband 25+ years ago. Buttis of gold on body of varying sizes. Midnight blue and gold borders and pallu.
Watch this space for day 2, 3 of SU2019 and Sarees of the day.

Sunday. Mom made Kool. Jaffna vegan spicy palmyrrah flour soup. My favouritest soup on earth. A little rice, lots of cassava, jackfruit, long beans (which we were unable to get, and which mum flatly refused to replace with French beans), black eyed beans. Toppings of vegan prawns and raw banana, doused in chilli powder, fried with onions. Distributed tupperwares of kool to friends who came home.

Husband was off for a mic balancing session with a legendary foreign artiste in preparation for a music concert that evening.
I had my usual spate of classes.

Husband home, classes done, kitchen clean. Settled down with the family to sip/gulp down hot spicy soup, entertained by ‘102 not out’.
Draped this brand new bright double toned pinkish reddish silk, for the concert and a dear friend’s surprise 50th later in the evening. Saree has borders of no, not swans but the mythical Annapakshi, a swan like creature with the crest and plumage of a peacock, and a purple pallu of gold, pink buttis and more Annapakshis. Gifted by a friend to be worn at her daughter’s wedding a year ago. Didn’t wear it then, as I had had another Saree in mind.

Concert was a resounding success – a multi sensory overload, for the ears, heart, soul. Garlands of ragas, multiple thala cycles, sometimes one within the other, speed, clarity of all performers. Fell in love all over again. I often tell him that when I see him perform, I remember why..

Left for party. Great food, company, her birthday cake was in the shape of a Veena (photo in comments). The birthday girl looked fabulous in a white and pink silk, photos not supplied.

Met another dear friend, one of the most beautiful ladies I know, Gayathri Rajeswaran.
The beauty of her soul shines through her eyes and smile. Took some photos together. Have been pushing her to post some, she assured me that after this post with me, her first/joint post, she would post more.

And so, here we are, me in my saree described earlier, she in an astounding kanjivaram of pastel shades – grey body with pink, gold borders and pallu, embroidered with glass work, further enhanced by her captivating smile and persona.

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She has 2 daughters, so have I. Our lovely girls adjusted pallus, poses, smiles and captured these shots.

Vaikasi Visakham. Wesak. Buddha Poornima.
Had Poornima Puja at home on Saturday night.
OCD me learnt a lesson that day.
Had a conversation with spouse regarding my OCDness and how I never relax and am always bustling around. I have been known to make the bed with my husband in it. However, this was during the early days, yes, days and not months, so husband found it quite charming.
I still make the bed with him in it, very very quietly, tucking in my side of sheets, pulling up covers, quilt, placing bolster, 4 pillows, then half folding throw and laying 2 of the 4 cushions at the foot of the bed.
I have a ready excuse, that I’m reducing his chores.
Anyway, mum, sil are here, and being Purnima, and a Saturday, I had firmly told both to rest, and that I would handle lunch, house cleaning and Poornima puja prasad.
After said firm chat with husband on Friday, wherein I spouted many a justification, I finally had to concede that yes, my OCDness was going to wear me thin and run me to the ground. Note, my husband lectures for a living and is able to talk the hind leg of a donkey, I’m not saying I’m the donkey.
The next morning, I got mum and sil to sort out lunch – fried rice, and dinner – tomato rice, green chilli crackers, cake, purple yam dessert etc etc etc. while I cleaned the house, husband sorted altar, puja room,girls did some chores, assignments. (The OCD remanifested in my cleaning the stove, sink, kitchen floor and loading the dishwasher – yes, there is a right way and a wrong way to load dishwashers).
There was ample time for me to nap, have a cuppa, be read for guests by 7pm.
And, wonder of wonders, I even sat down to have food with my guests instead of standing at the kitchen sink. I allowed them to rinse their plates if they wanted to and load the dishwasher. The icing on the cake was when I allowed a friend to wash some dishes.
But, as with Cinderella, the magic wears off. When all had left, I had to vacuum, wash the towels, and make sure that cushion no 6 was strategically resting in its 45 degree slant to the right.
Here I am wearing a saffron Kanjivaram, amber in some lights, with mustard stripes all through the Saree, gold and amber borders, a gold pallu, a gift from husband, 28+ years ago.
An apt Saree, as saffron is the colour of Buddhist monks’ robes, symbolising humility, renunciation. Furthermore, being the colour of the earth, it denotes stability and a grounded nature.
Happy Wesak Day Sakhis. May Buddha, in his infinite compassion and wisdom, grant us inner spiritual peace and strength.

(Couldn’t resist posting too, decades old Photos of me draped in this Saree, in the US, 10 years ago, attending a friend’s son’s Veena arangetram; and co-judging a national televised music competition in Malaysia, with Indian artistes musician Palghat K.L.Sreeram and music director Ramesh Vinayakam, 15 years ago).

I suppose I am to be politically correct by writing about Mother’s Day. Last Sunday. It started off well enough, and ended relatively alright enough. Gifts, hugs, kisses were exchanged, The weather was terrible though.

My mother is here with me in NZ. On holiday. My mother in law, a beautiful selfless soul, passed away a year ago but hubby’s older sister is also here. My younger sister, Thaya from Perth has flown to London to be with her older daughter on her 21st birthday, while my youngest sister Shuba has gone to Perth to be with her older daughter and Thaya’s children. What a confusing state of affairs.

Why, you may ask, do we do it?

Why, do we uproot ourselves from one place and transport ourselves to the other end of the world?

Because we love. Because, for us Mothers, it’s not that one day on the year where we are loved and we love. It’s an everyday, minute by minute, microsecond by nanosecond affair for us.
On this day, we strive even more, unconsciously, to mother our families.

We exchanged gifts, we laughed, we ate together, we looked out for each other, we looked after each other, and in the midst of this, when my daughter had a meltdown because she couldn’t access her online exam from home and she had to drive to the uni during a thunderstorm, I waited with bated breath until she texted me to say she was alright. I drove my second girl to a concert and had to fetch her close to midnight. My elder girl accompanied me, and was quite firm with me when I then had a meltdown as roads were closed and I couldn’t get to where my younger one was waiting for me with around 1% battery charge on her phone. My older girl had had a difficult day, yet had come out with me in the pouring rain to get some Mexican takeaway and to fetch my younger daughter. My younger one excitedly raved on about the concert, showing me videos.

As the day drew to a close, I realised that these were the rewards of motherhood. A daughter wanting to spend time with her mother, on a car drive through the bitter rain and traffic, daughter, mother, aunt, grandmother, digging into hot spicy nachos, enchiladas, quesadillas while watching Secret Superstar, which ironically depicts, in the face of sadness and cruel abuse, the saving grace of a mother’s love, a daughter playing back videos of the concerts, explaining scenarios behind songs.
I fingered the rose gold Pandora charm given to me that morning from one daughter, folded away underwear and socks, yes, exactly that, from my oh-so-sensible second girl, binged on a decadent lemon glazed slice of cake baked by her, and patted myself on the back. It was a day like any other. What we have here, is a great thing going, the girls and I.

Am in a sky blue cotton, with pink and gold triangular embroidered borders and gold pink pallu. A cool happy Saree. Much like my tale –
Read on, in my previous post, my tale, The Spare Gas Tank – About relationships, mothers, daughters, sons, mothers, mothers in law, daughters in law. A funny true tale.

Disclaimer alert. A Funny True Story during A Post Natal period. And I loved, love my Mother in Law, who has recently passed on, God bless her beautiful soul.

THE SPARE GAS TANK    

I always thought my husband loved me best until my daughters came along. No, let me rephrase that – until my mother-in-law came to visit.

It had been decided when Anusha was born, that my in-laws would visit us from Sri Lanka and stay with us for 6 months to bond with their granddaughter and re-bond with son and daughter-in-law.

I’d accepted this with mixed feelings – I loved my in-laws, but I valued my freedom and my role as Queen Bee of our spotlessly clean high-end apartment, not to mention our newly-built life together, more.

My mother-in-law buzzed into our lives, penetrating the strongholds I had erected around my couple-dom, my home, household chores and of course, the kitchen over which I reigned supreme. I awoke at 6am daily, to the sound of furniture being moved around and the swish of the reed broom sweeping dust and dirt away in a frenzy, as if they were not to be forgiven for being there in the first place.

Then, Anusha would be taken from me, to be oiled and massaged, her limbs being plied and kneaded, while I stood, useless, at the sidelines.

‘She will be a perfect beautiful dancer’, mil used to say. (Never mind that it is true today).

Anusha would gurgle and coo as mil would bathe her, then dry and warm her over a hot smoky terracotta pot of of camphor, incense  and herbs.

Stricken with jealousy, locked in the bathroom, I would rant and rave over the cordless phone to mum who offered no sympathy. Mum’s placid answer was that I should be ever-so-grateful to my mil. Having sufficiently worked me up to boiling point, she’d add masala by warning me that I too would be a MIL one day with a son. (That thankfully, will not happen – I have 2 daughters, and am well past my child-bearing years).

MIL would cook up a storm in my tiny, before-mil-came-used-to-be-spotlessly-clean-white-and-germ-free kitchen. Literally. My kitchen bore the after-effects of Hurricane MIL – curry splattered on the white tiles around the stove and on my white floor, sri-lankan-cooking-style-coconut strewn over the drainer. She would however attempt to clean it up, but her poor eyesight prevented her from doing a satisfactory job. This is where I would display my good Daughter-in-law tendencies. I would make a hot chai masala, load a Tamizh movie for her and give her Anusha to hold, while I sponged and scrubbed away at the stains with Sprays-and-Wipes. I could never get rid of the pungent odours though, as MIL invariably never switched on the hood fans.

But, having said that, her dishes would be mouth-watering, exotic spice-laden works of art, carefully, lovingly prepared – the garlic and onions rust coloured, cumin and mustard in one dish, fennel in another, the menu always having been obtained the night before from her son who displayed post-marriage- starvation-syndrome tendencies.

In the Pre-MIL days, I would rush home from work, morphing from a high-flying IT consultant into a gourmet chef. The dinner menu would have been planned in between managing projects and offering invaluable advice to clients. My menu would include colour, vitamins and food groups in correct quantities. A typical dinner would comprise basmati rice, steaming, white, fluffy (carbohydrates); soft, golden chappattis (oh alright, not so soft in the early days)(fibre), green spinach saag, (antioxidants, iron), drumstick and potato kuzhambu (brown gravy), red okra hot curry (brain food), yellow mung dhall (protein) and some orange-ish masoor dhal (lentil soup) to wash it down, followed by white thick curd made from low-fat milk. It would take me ages to prepare but that would be the highlight of the day in the early years of marriage, before the girls came along and when I had nothing better to do. It would all be worth it – setting the table for two, lighting incense to set the mood, indulging in delightfully perfumed shower gels and body lotions, the sound of hubby’s key at the door. Those were the good old days, when we had each other to ourselves, selfishly unwilling to share our warm passionate tight-knit existence. Conversation would be peppered with endearments and how much we’d missed each other, our bodies effortlessly and constantly touching throughout the evening, something we took for granted.

But in all this, hubby stood firm on one aspect which irritated the life out of me. I cooked using gas and we only kept one gas tank at a time. Every time it ran out, which it invariably did when running off-schedule, I used to frantically cajole and bribe  the gas-man to deliver a new tank. I wanted a second spare tank in my kitchen but hubby insisted it would take up too much space in our little kitchen. He would then proceed to lecture on ‘Advanced Gas Tank Management’, being a proficient Financial Management professor himself. Fuming with frustration, my evening would be spoilt.

One dreary morning like any other, Mil ran out of gas and stated in no uncertain terms the advantages of having a second gas tank. Husband reciprocated by getting 2 gas tanks – one for current use and one as a spare. Suffice to say, he was delegated to sleeping in the guest room. He could not understand why I wanted him nowhere near me, putting it down to post-natal depression.

When finally I did throw an Emmy-style tantrum in the hope of making him understand, he shook his head in disbelief, ‘the gas tank? You mean you’re upset I got mum a spare gas tank? But i just got you that magenta silk saree and matching ruby set!’

Looking back today, from this weather-beaten threshold of 54 years, I appreciate MIL for what she had been – a loving, hard-working woman, who’d come from sri Lanka at 60 years of age, to selflessly administer to her son’s family’s needs, when instead, she could have been globe-trotting with her husband.

And all said and done, she did get me that spare gas tank!

Saree Speak Meet, Auckland. Saturday, 11th May 2019.
A Red Carpet Gala Event with gorgeous Sakhis, living in Auckland, but hailing from all regions of India and Sri Lanka.
In one room, to be more precise, in a restaurant, the combined intelligence, charisma, beauty, elegance was, to say the least, a feast for the senses.
Each lady, nay, each Saree on a Sakhi, had a story to relay.
The icebreaker had each Sakhi stating 5 facts about herself, and coincidentally, those 5 facts resonated with every other Sakhi in the room. A case of ‘Like attracts Like’ or ‘Water finds its own level’ or ‘Wise (Wo)men think alike’.
Expertly, precisely organised by Manasi Chivate and Kirithika Kiki, with great food, games, camaraderie, the evening was splendid fun.
Met up with old friends, made new friends. Couldn’t stop smiling, photo shoots galore. My mum and sister in law, visiting from overseas, had a wonderful time too.
Draped this brand new gorgeous beige tussar silk, with appliqué Kalamkari paintings of Krishna and Consorts on Pallu, and Dancers on borders. The body has tiny embroidered bits of glass work. The photo depicts the Saree as the Colour of my terracotta tiles, but in reality it is a darker shade of beige. My one and only online shopping spree due to the fact that shipping costs to the South Pole far outweigh the cost of the Saree. However, this was a promotion where shipping costs were waived. Purchased another two Silks then, patiently waiting in the camphor chest for their place in the sun.
My elder daughter hand pressed the pleats down, held it tight and got me to twirl around – she said that was a good way of ensuring that the pleats stayed stiffly in place; my second one insisted on me using a particular shade of lipstick, and removed my non existent eye liner when I got home. The elder one draped the pallu neatly and got me seated on my standard seat on the stairs in preparation for my photo shoot.
Later that night, past midnight, my mind traversed over the day’s events.
What stood out, stark, blatant, fresh, all encompassing, was just love.
The simple love of a Sakhi for the timeless elegance of her Saree.
The love of the organisers towards their fellow Sakhis in ensuring that a great time was had by all.
The love of the Sakhis for each other, admiring, cajoling, encouraging each other to participate, to make friends, to model, to take photos.
And the love of daughters towards their mother.
My daughters wanting their Amma to look good, to have a good time. They didn’t have to, but they did. Then wanting to hear about it when she got home.
Daughters mothering their Mother.
In the words of Sharon Draper “Perfect happiness is a beautiful sunset, the giggle of a grandchild, the first snowfall. It’s the little things that make happy moments, not the grand events. Joy comes in sips, not gulps”.
If we wait for the gulps, we miss the sips.
And I had a Joyous Day of Sips.
What a Divine Prelude to Mother’s Day.

My post today is going to be a little different. It is a short story I wrote a number of years ago, after meeting recent migrants. This story is not meant to hurt, harm anyone or have any unwanted connotations. This story depicts some of the issues faced by migrants trying their utmost to assimilate into a new culture. 

Here I am sitting on my garage stairs, trying to pose coyly? trying to act naturally uninterested, if there is such a meditative state of being. Am in  an ambiguous shade of beige-brown-ash with an orange and gold pallu and orange, green, gold borders.

THE PERFECT JOB

This is a simple story. Somewhat like the fairy tales written by the Grimm Brothers. I say ‘somewhat’ because it is a grim story, that being the only likeness it shares with the Grimm Brothers. This is my story, your story, our story, the story of hope at the beginning, disappointment and despair in the middle, and hope and a certain kind of happiness at the end. The story of women the world over, migrants, residents, citizens. Now, read on.

Mrs Devarajah was excited. The ‘East Tamaki Courier’ had so many opportunities lined out for her. ‘Widening my horizons’, she’d proudly told her husband over breakfast six months ago. Mr. Devarajah had nodded and said ‘Anything goes, chellam. I’ve told you you don’t have to work but if it makes you happy, go for it’.

Mr and Mrs Devarajah had arrived in New Zealand about seven years ago with their eleven year old son. In two weeks and five days it would be exactly seven years. Mrs Devarajah had been the head of gynaecology at St Peters’ Hospital in Sri Lanka. Mr Devarajah’s profession had been on the ‘Critical Migrant Job List’, being an IT consultant. At the airport, upon disembarking from the flight, Mrs Devarajah, being highly religious, had touched the ground and then touched her forehead. She had remarked ‘A Land of Milk and Honey! We will truly be happy here’. That was seven years ago.

Now, things were different. Initially, Mrs Devarajah had been quite content to be at home and not have to work. ‘Being a good mother and wife and homemaker’, she’d remarked to anyone who’d care to listen. She’d loved planning breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks, whipping up meals for friends who dropped in from time to time. In Sri Lanka, she’d had a maid, a cook, a nanny, chauffeur and gardener. Here, Mr and Mrs Devarajah jointly functioned as all of them. Mrs Devarajah loved ‘being on top of everything’, as she so aptly put it. She knew exactly how clean the bathroom rugs were, how white the shower stalls were, whether the hair near her dressing table had been picked up. But now, she was not so sure anymore. She found lately that she was always irritated. She also felt that Mr Devarajah and now 18 year old Ashwin didn’t need her anymore. The initial excitement of doing things together had faded. They were all wrapped up in their own secure and insecure worlds. Her friends seemed to look down on her. And there was this nagging feeling at the back of her mind that maybe she was developing Alzheimer’s – she could never remember anything unless she wrote it down on the whiteboard taped to her fridge door or her black worn dog-eared diary. Whenever she mentioned her memory lapses to her husband, he would laugh it off saying she was not using her mind and that she should either go back to studying, doing ‘one of those short courses’, or get herself a job.

So, that was what she decided to do. Every morning, once she’d cleared the breakfast table, emptied the dishwasher, hung the laundry out to dry, she’d settle herself in front of the computer. She’d browse the various job search web-sites, then proceed to draft, proofread and email various application letters and her curriculum vitae, which she would then carefully upgrade or downgrade according to the position for which she was applying.

At first, her hopes were high. She applied for managerial, clinical and surgical positions on various health boards and hospitals. But after one more of a long succession of rejection letters and emails, always beginning with ‘We regret to inform you that..’ and closing with ‘We will keep your records on file..’, she was forced to lower her expectations.

Sometimes, however, she got to the interview stage. Armed with her CV and photocopies of her degrees, she would mentally recite every conceivable mantra she knew whilst walking into the room. She would look her interviewers straight in the eye, offer a firm handshake and proceed to answer all questions in a way she believed would floor them. She always left the room on a high, feeling she had clinched that perfect job. But a letter or a call a day or two later would leave her in an all-time low.

On one such day, she sat in her little blue Toyota Starlet at the parking bays of her friendly local supermarket. She had just come out of a particularly stressful ordeal at a local surgery. The interviewer this time did not smile and kept interrupting her in mid-sentence. Worse still, he looked extremely bored and could not help stifling yawns. At one point, she pushed her chair back heavily, got up and told him where he could stuff his job. She told him that no matter what he or anyone did, she knew she was the perfect one for this job. She had her degrees, credentials and more experience than any of them put together. With that she strutted out, head held high, feeling curiously satisfied as she slammed the door behind her.

So here she was, sad not-so-young and now not-so-optimistic Mrs Devarajah, trying very hard not to cry. She knew she had to get some groceries but she couldn’t remember what they were. Then, with a resolve, she turned off the engine and got out of her car. ‘What the heck! I’ll walk along the aisles and pick up what I want! I’ll cook what I want today! Or maybe I won’t cook! Let them cook, let them order a takeaway or better still, let them starve!’ And with that thought, she strode through the automatic entrance doors.

She stared at the rows of fruits and vegetables, her eyes unseeing. She continued walking on aimlessly. She had no choice. These supermarkets were designed to ensure that customers started at the entrance and worked their way through the entire shop till the exit. She threw tins of chopped tomato into her cart. She picked up some milk and cheese from the cold room. And all the while her mind played on the unfairness of her situation. She glanced around her and saw women, young, old and middle-aged like herself, some with babies and toddlers seated atop  shopping trolleys, their plump legs kicking, others with a pre-school child lagging behind them, whilst their mums searched for items and scrutinized labels. All like her, or were they? They looked happier, she thought. Maybe they had part-time jobs, maybe they didn’t have to cook so much or clean so much. Maybe their husbands shared household chores.  Maybe they had part-time house help. Or maybe they had perfected the art of stress-free house cleaning.

Without realising, she’d reached the checkout counter. She smiled at the teller lady. She knew Gloria. On one of Gloria’s bad days, when a customer had insisted that she’d keyed in the wrong bar code, hence charging him an incorrect price, and said customer had further insulted her by saying that she needed to take a language and IT course, Gloria had unburdened everything onto Mrs Devarajah, as she’d had the honour of being the next customer in the queue. Gloria was from the Philippines and had in her hey-day, held a position of great authority at the Ministry of Education. Mrs. Devarajah had managed to nod sympathetically, at that time feeling a little embarrassed that she’d obtained the coveted position of being counsellor to an irate teller. Gloria continued, unrelenting, about one Mr Chatterjee, a Bengali ‘rocket scientist’, a term espoused by Gloria in reverent hushed tones. Gloria’d told her that his qualifications hadn’t been recognized, he’d refused to sit for an examination and so he was now driving a taxi. ‘Nothing wrong about that’, Gloria had emphasised, ‘But you know for us Asians, we have this thing about white and blue collar work’.

‘That will be fifty-six dollars and seventy cents.’

Gloria’s voice jolted Mrs Devarajah back to the present. She rummaged in her diligently-rearranged-once-a-week handbag for her purse, always elusive under the wad of notes, tissues and bills. She paid, then burst out, knowing that if she didn’t speak out now she should have to hold her peace forever.

‘Take me to your manager, Gloria. I need a job.’

Gloria eyed her suspiciously. She slowly nodded, understanding. Mrs Devarajah too had reached that stage. Mrs Devarajah had landed with a rude thud flat on her feet. Her feet would be sore but she’d survive. They all would, eventually. They all did. They all arrived, well-qualified, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, then blow after disappointing blow would ensure that they compromised and saw the stark reality of their situation.  It was the nature of things. That was how it was supposed to be.

Gloria paged for her supervisor who arrived unsmiling at having been disturbed from her difficult labour-intensive task of watching her inferiors. Mrs Devarajah noted the hierarchy even here in a supermarket – a complex caste system. One could not escape from these classes, subclasses, sub-sub-classes, one migrated from one’s motherland to escape the clutches of this but it was there everywhere. In a supermarket, in the 123 dollar store, at the beach, at a restaurant, at a petrol station. Wherever there was money being earned, wherever there were superiors and inferiors, supervisors and worker ants, the system was in place, unclenching its fists, stretching its gnarled fingers and curling around one and all.

Mrs Devarajah pushed away the myriad thoughts that played at the back of her mind. She had to answer all questions. Correctly. Relative to the manager’s expectations. Correctly.

She was at the manager’s door. She knocked, entered, pulled up a chair to sit without being asked to. She’d forgotten her rehearsed speech. Instead, she informed the manager – she needed this job. No, she could not get anything else. Yes she would work hard. Yes she was good with her hands – after all she had delivered babies, performed micro-surgery, but it did not matter now, no one needed to know all that – they’d deem her ‘over-qualified’, a well-worn term. No one wanted to know all that anyway. Yes, she was alert, with a keen eye for math, was a quick learner. Yes she could and would work well with people. Yes, she loved meeting new people. No she did not get flustered or angry easily. Endless questioning. She answered them all. Correctly.

And all the while, parallel thoughts plagued her. What would her politically correct friends think? Her doctor, engineer, lawyer, accountant friends, their husbands, their families? What would Mr Devarajah say? The so-called drop from white collar to blue collar worker. How could she change the mentality of the typical upper middle class Asian? But she consoled herself – she was no longer in Asia. Her hands were tied, if she continued on her current path of self-destruction, trying to keep up with the Jones, she would go insane. Here at last, here at least, there was some distraction from the mindless routine she waded through daily. It was not the money. It was the company that mattered, the feeling of belonging, the feeling of being worthwhile. And bringing home something which she had earned – a feeling she hadn’t realised she’d been missing for so long, a good feeling after seven years of taking handouts from Mr Devarajah, not that he’d minded, she had to give him that much credit, God bless his good soul.

She walked out of the supermarket. She’d forgotten her groceries, but it did not matter. She unlocked her car, and from the front seat, removed her file, replete with CV, photocopies and letters of recommendation. Without hesitating, she dropped it into the garbage bin, located an arm’s throw from her car. That too was meant to be. The garbage bin, she meant. In the correct location, waiting to swallow her dreams.

Mrs Devarajah spied a single orange calendula poking its head out of the well-manicured beds segmenting the parking areas. It was then that she understood everything was going to be just fine, or in Maori, just kapai.

And so readers, that was how, one afternoon, in early spring, Mrs Devarajah managed to land The Perfect Job, thus ensuring that this is indeed a fairy-tale ending to a good story.

My daughters profess to love me very much. Husband too. Too much. Not sure whether that’s a good thing or not. They have no qualms, no filter about telling it as it is.

A month or so ago, husband had had a meeting with girls on helping mum to eat healthy, on reducing frequency of pasta and pizza meals. They had also arrived at a consensus to dispose of the condensed milk, MY condensed milk, in the fridge.

On said day, I had had a good lunch, then had to go out with the girls on some errands. One daughter decided to have an iced mocha milkshake, and I needed a sugar fix so I got myself a soft serve ice cream.

My girls proceeded to grill me on the probabilities of “contracting” diabetes from that beckoning swirl of heaven. Did I not like staying healthy? Did I want to lose sensation in my fingers and toes? Did I not want healthy limbs and heart?

Anyway, we came to a compromise. If I were to have this ice cream, I would have to forego my evening tea. (Usually made with 2 teaspoons of condensed milk). I reminded them of their recent heartless behaviour with regards to the condensed milk incident. They relented, I had my ice cream, and 3 hours later, I also had a lovely hot cuppa tea. With evaporated milk and coconut sugar, however. (They were ensconced in their respective rooms).

A month later, here I am, at a friend’s home for dinner. Yummy. All caution thrown to the wind. Here I am in a simple white and red checked silk Saree, with a red, gold pallu, looking forward to the beautiful spread.

This is a follow on from my previous post, Autumnal musings. This post is entitled Half Asleep Musings.

Let’s go behind the scenes of a post. The writing aspect of it. Photos are there a plenty but ideas need to flow incessantly to complement the photos.

Sunday was spent on Veena classes, (I didn’t have to worry about lunch as mum and sis in law SIL were cooking up a storm), chaperoning my daughter driving to the Special Olympics where she is a volunteer swimming coach, then chauffering mum and SIL to visit friends in the evening.

I remain in the car, while daughter coaches, binge watching downloaded Netflix movies, listening to Kutcheris on YouTube, or writing. I decide to use my time wisely and to let my creative juices flow. 

I sit up, all geared up to rave about my musical weekend. I must say it would have been quite exemplary writing except for the many disjointed facts, and the sidetracking from a musical weekend to Fritjof Capra, the Tao of Physics and Lord Nataraj’s Cosmic Dance. 

At one point, I stop and ponder.

No that would not do. No that will? not do. Please select whatever grammatically correct sentence suits your fancy.

I do what Carlos Castaneda said to do in his ‘Teachings of Don Juan’ – to follow the path with heart.

I take the mind out of my writing and add the soul.

At bedtime, I almost complete it when I doze off.

Now, rule no 1 to all bloggers, ‘post’ers, should there be such a name, writers, do not doze off while typing on a so-called smart device’s onscreen keyboard. 😴 (If the device were that smart, the Delete key should send a bolt of electricity to jolt one awake!)

Anyway, an entire paragraph will invariably disappear. And all the Undos in the world will not get your penned thoughts back 😜

When you proofread your post, you will find it makes absolute No-sense. And so you retype what you remember typing, only to fall asleep and erase not only that retyped bit of thoughts but the previous paragraph.

To cut a long story short, I ramble on here so that I may post this picture of moi in a bright pink cotton Saree, with geometric embroidered patterns on the border and pallu in the happy colours of golds, greens, reds, blacks. The Saree was gifted to me by a music student, having lovingly purchased it while in India. 

The bright pink and bold border colours are meant to keep my eyes 👀 wide open. On the contrary, I am in bed, under the quilt, electric blanket and heat pump on, iPad on my chest, fingers peeping from under the warm covers, having dozed off yet again a few seconds ago, having erased all but the last line of this post. So here goes, Night night all, sweet dreams.