Memories at Sea

I sat there staring at the vastness of the sea that lay before me. The sea in all it beauty and mightiness and vastness, twining with the sky above, separated by just one fine line in the distant horizon, dotted with sailboats, yachts and what-nots, bobbing up and down as seagulls flew above trying to perch themselves on its deck.

There was something soothing in those rhythmic rise and fall, ups and downs, which were at times unsettling, but always calming. I wondered if the sea would ever calm when it’s constantly caught in the game of tug-of-war between the pulls of the earth, the moon and the sun. Somehow this beautiful and vast and unsettled sea in its way was a reflection of the mind thats constantly unsettled.

The beautiful sea breeze that blew on our face and messed our hair, filled the sails of our beautiful little yacht, powering us onward and forward, leaving us mesmerised as to how quick we were moving onward, leaving land behind, as the Taj and the Gateway of India, in all their regal splendour, became just distant specs in a distant shore, as the wind propelled us onwards.

And then there was the sun that was slowly clocking out for the day, but not before it painted it’s canvas in various breathtaking hues, the golden, hour, the perfect light to click pics, which we took full advantage of, but not before spending moments marvelling at the vast painting before us, that was being painted before our eyes, a truly breathtaking sight, a memory that will remain forever and eternity, outliving even our mortal souls.

I sat there listening to Sagar as he explained the various points at sea, educating us about his passion and love for sailing and his many fascinating and captivating anecdotes about his time at sea, as he guided our little yacht onward, with the help of the crew and of course Yaanez.

As much I was fascinated listening to Sagar and the conversation of my fellow landlubbers, the painting in front of me kept drawing me to it, a constant ever changing canvas.

The sun by now had gone beyond the horizon, off to bring light somewhere beyond that horizon. And now that the sun was gone, the moon was no where to be seen, the stars came out to play, to shine and twinkle in the night sky, to their heart’s delight, like beautiful diamonds on a velvet cushion of inky blue, un obstructed, not outshined, by the light of the moon. A beautiful site, with the only competition coming from the twinkling lights of oil rigs, exploration vessels, ships, and other yacht on one side, and the lights of the distant shore.

We sailed deep into the ocean, aided by the wind that filled our sails and moved us forward and onwards, ridding the waves, bobbing up and down, an exhilarating feeling, and at time a bit scary too, if you have done it before, like riding a roller coaster. We sailed past the final point indicating the Mumbai harbour.

And then it was time to make the journey back, back to the shore that we had left behind a few hours ago. So Sagar and the crew shifted the direction of the sails and guided the yacht, directing it to shore.

While we sat there, some talking, some quiet, but all taking in every moment of the wonderful excursion, this wonderful experience. 

And somewhere Stand by Me began to play. Ok Yaanez played it on her Spotify, and we all joined in, singing as B. B. King, singing for the joy in our heart, singing because we were happy and our spirit soaring, more appropriately l, sailing.A moment that will etched forever in our memory.

We slowly made our way back to shore, making it pass lighthouses that were unmanned and not operational, and other landmarks and boats, slowly as we were against the mighty breeze.

Finally we came to the little boat that would take us back to shore. We one by one made got into the boot, not before thanking the wonderful crew, and our gratitude to Sagar and Yaanez for this wonderful experience, and giving us wonderful memories at sea. 

Sailing was ever on my list, on my list of things I wanted to do before I go to the great beyond, it was something I never I knew I needed to experience. But now that I had , now that I did, I was going to savour the memories, relive every moment of this beautiful memories at sea.

Road Trippin’

The best part of a road trip is what you see outside your window… yes there’s the endless concrete and the endless line of cars…but then there’s the fields and the trees  and the blue skies and at times the river below (which may have run dry at the moment).

And if you aren’t dosing off to sleep (like I normally do), or pouring over your book, you would get to take in the sights of little quaint villages that drive through, the life away from the hustle bustle of the city, making you feel like there’s a whole new world out there.

And these sights become a part of your journey, a part of the memory that you take with you.

So put down that book and wipe that sleep from your eyes. There’s a whole world waiting for you out there to take in, to experience, to enjoy. So don’t loose that opportunity and live life to the fullest!

Life is short… and the World is Large

“Life is short, and the world is large, so let’s go out and make some memory”

And as my heart races with a mixture of excitement and nervousness and hesitation, I know this is something I need to do. Something that I have put off for too long. Something that I was hesitant to do as I was not sure I was capable of!

But I have just one life and one heart. And if don’t live it now, I may never get the chance to make many memories (I can assume that I have lived more than half my share of a lifetime without much of travel). 

So the trip means so many things to me, as I need to find myself, to heal, to be at peace with myself. So even though I have never ever done anything like this, this journey is something I need to take, this is an adventure I need to go on! 

There’s no telling what’s in store, what’s out there, what adventures are awaiting me, what experiences will I have. The uncertainty scares, makes me nervous, but the same tine excites me. That what makes life exciting, that what make life worth living. 

So here’s to travels!

Here’s to memories!

Here’s to adventures!

Here’s to peace and healing!

Here’s to me!

Doodh Do Do Biscuit - A Childhood Anecdote

She may have looked old and frail, but then looks can always be deceptive. Cause though time may have aged her, it could never age the immense strength she had within. She may have been small in stature, simple by nature, but was quite the formidable woman. After all she had raised her children and grandchildren and cared for the ones who were blessed to receive her love and care. 

Though we were not related by blood, I affectionately called her Nana (or grandmother in English, not to be confused with nana, or grandfather, in Marathi). A simple lady who always wore a traditional lugda (an East Indian Kashti, or navarri saree), who always loved the simple things in life.

Every morning she would open a packet of Parel G in a  bowl and pour milk into it, and then try to  mix the two together. The next step was getting hold of her grandson, a not so light toddler, tie a bib around his neck (where else would you tie it), carrying him across her hips, or on her lap, or any thing where she could try to feed him. This was her regular morning ritual, feeding doodh do do biscuit (as we used to, and still, call it) to her grandson.

I don’t think he was great fan of his doodh do do biscuit, and I could understand  why, as once attempted to taste it and it wasn’t quite good. This was evident from his constantly trying to escape from her, trying to move his face and wriggling his way out, dangerously bending over backwards, resulting in the doodh do do biscuits finding all but the right mark. And if by some mean that it did, it was spat right out, adding to the splattering on his bib and his clothes, all over his face, and some on her saree.

But she was formidable woman, and she would not give up. She ensured that he ate, even if it was little. She threatened him that the crow birdie would come and peck him and take away his doodh do do biscuit (I don’t think he would have mind this), or the boodha man (not to be confused with budha man) would come and take him away. And if he still didn’t eat, a whack he would get. 

But she was loving and kind towards him. And despite all his attempts to free himself, she would feed every morning like clockwork. She insisted that he have that  as it would make him nice and strong and she had fed his father that when he was little, and did the same for all her daughters, and she insisted that her grandson would do the same.

I observed this with great amusement and interest, often bemused at what transpired between grandmother and grandson and that bowl of doodh do do biscuit. This stayed with me long after nana passed away and her grandson’s all grown up and had a son of his own.

But every now and then I love to remind him how his nana used to feed him doodh do do biscuit and If he does the same to his son too, passing down the tradition.

The Photograph: A slice in time

I sat there, minding my business, trying to appear, even if I wasn’t quite busy as I looked, when my mumma handed me a photograph which she had come across during one of her many draw cleaning sessions.

As I stared at the photograph that she had given me, I tried to recollect the morning can’t time when it was taken, rummaging through the deep recesses of my mind. But then it wasn’t about the time when the photograph was taken. It was people who were in it , the ones staring back at me, who may or may not be smiling for the camera.

These were the people who I so loved and cherished, people to whom I credit who I am today. People who taught me so much about life, about love, about family. People who I would sadly never see again.

And yet they continued to live on in this photograph, immortalised on this piece of glossy paper. It was as if this photograph had carved out a slice in, a moment for all eternity.

And though the people in the photograph had long since passed on to a better place, they continued to live on, as they did, etched on the walls of mind.

So as I placed the photograph aside, I just smiled, cherishing the memory that the photograph had made, a slice of time captured for all eternity.

A Photograph: The Conclusion of a Trip

Moments once gone can never be recaptured again, no matter how much we try to. Each moment a unique picture, one which we haven’t seen before, one which we may never see again, each unique, each different, remaining all but a memory that may fade with time, if we don’t try our best to preserve it. And so we hold these memories in a photograph, the memories that we make, where eyes never blinking, hearts never broken, time forever frozen still. We hang it in the halls of our mind, etched forever on its wall.

So was the trip memorable? Well, I would like to think that (to put it as diplomatically as possible) there were moments I would cherish, but then there were moments I wished I didn’t have to go through. There are memories that I’ll have with me, my own photographs to cherish forever, but then there were memories I would rather forget. The highs and lows of life.

What the trip showed me is that I am not quiet the wandering soul that I would have myself to believe, not quite the solo traveller, too dependent on others and circumstances, living in my own shell. And there lay the crux for the moments of low. Was not quite ready to come out of my shell, let my hair down, lighten up and allow myself to have some fun. Not to try to keep to my introverted self (which is strange cause I am normally not that), a loner, all lost and alone, too in myself, in my shell, prim and proper. And that’s also the reasons of clashes of ideals, for the memories. All the makings for a boring company.

So in short I needed to loose myself to find me. To let go and loosen up, to go out there and have an adventure. Probably then there would be more memories to be made. My reasoning for the trip was noble, but the reasoning was not mine in the first place.

Would I return to Dubai? Well that’s a definite yes! But would I move there (as I have been asked a thousand times before and I know I will be asked a thousand times again)? The answer to that still stands at NO! Don’t get me wrong, Dubai is a nice place, clean, orderly, disciplined, but then for an outsider like me it all seems to man made and artificial (just my point of view). Though there are rules which are good, it keeps things and people in order and in check, it’s the unsaid ones that can get a bit scary. Dubai is a nice a place, but Dubai is not a place for me. Mumbai is where the heart is, where my life is, so definitely won’t be looking to move from here anytime soon.

So to conclude, I could definitely say I had a nice trip, if not a great one. I made a lot of wonderful memories, which I will carry with me forever. Seen quite a few places, and there are many more to explore, to see. So yes definitely return to the place but as a tourist. 

In the end, Life is small, and the world is large, and I went out there and made a memory, which I will forever cherish, who I will hold in a photograph, etched forever on the walls of my mind.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

As I sat there watching all the communicants march into church, all

dressed in pristine white (and some in off white), all dressed to the ‘T’, ready to receive Jesus for the very first time, I couldn’t help myself but take a walk down memory lane, over couple of decades back to my own First Holy Communion.

I remember that I was the only child not in white, not even in off white. In fact I was wearing a three piece suit that was grey and blue. I guess my aunt knew the kind of child I was and couldn’t trust me with keeping the suit white. In which case any other colour would be safe bet.

So there I was, standing out in a sea of white, definitely not a sore thumb, but a handsome young man (as I would myself to believe), marching into church as the choir sang “Lead your children Jesus to the altar”. Being a child with a speech impediment (and yet do have it) I wasn’t given any part in the reading, or the eucharistic celebration, a bit stab of disappointment for any child who would love to read, who would love to participate. But then that’s life, you make do what you’re given with.

When it came time to receive communion I remember forgetting to join with my hands at my side as my mum looked on (dada wasn’t there). After mass it was time to click pics at the altar and the grotto with mum, godma, and not to forget my class teacher, who’s daughter was receiving communion with me, so yipee she wouldn’t be there in class (as I had bunked school that day) and I wouldn’t be missing much in terms of lessons.

In the evening we had a small party with my neighbours and close family friends. I remember my best friend Ryan joining me to cut my cake. I distinctly remember trying to cut that cake, struggling to do the deed, thanks to the hard icing. But all said and done, though I had a quiet party, I had a good and memorable time.

And as I reminisced on the past, the memories made, the present beckoned me. So I had to come back to the present and stop dreaming of the past and of time gone. The past is a beautiful memory that will remain with me forever, no one can take that away from me. But now it was time to come to the present and join the celebration of the children. I had this smile on face thanks to the memories I had.

Christmasses of Yore: Childhood Christmas Memories

Once again it’s that time of the year when the cheeks are rosy and everyone wants to be comfy, cosie, from the cold (yes, it does get cold at time in Mumbai). It’s the festive season and everywhere you look you’ll find a festive glow. Shops with their festive window displays, houses with their lit windows, at every signal there’s Santa hats and reindeer antlers being sold, there’s decorations for your house, decorations for the tree, star lights and dancing lights, not forgetting the statues for your crib. It’s a magical feeling, the most beautiful feeling you could ever have. There’s excitement in the air, as people rush to make their purchases, children writing letters Santa, hoping they find what they wished for, the asked for, beneath their Christmas Tree, or in their stockings. You hear the gentle strains of a carol, heralding the coming of the Christ.

It’s a magical feeling, but you can’t help yourself and be transported to years ago, back to your childhood, to christmases of yore. As soon as you step on to your floor you you get the whiff of the sweets being made, kulkul, navri, marzipans, guava cheese, date rolls, the coconut cake. You could tell who was making which sweet just from that smell, that sweet smell.

Sweet making was social activity. You made sweets together in one house and then moved to the next house to help. I distinctly remember the lady who came to knead the atta, literally bashing it up on the heavy aluminium thali. You were either assigned to make balls or make the kalkals or do the fillings for the navri, and get scolded when they came small or opened up while they were fried. I remember the taste when the first batch of navari and kalkals were fried. Making marzipan was fun, especially when you experimented with colours. So A sunflower could red or green, Christmas trees all yellow, and Santa a very colourful fellow.

Decorating the house was and is a very tedious activity in itself. Finding the right streamers that would go with each other, that would match, if not the same. Deciding on the patterns in which to hang them, ensuring they didn’t touch the fan. Then you had decorating the tree. Did I say that I had a 7 feet tall tree, with toys that my dada had got when he came down? So decorating it would be fun, firstly finding the right branches, putting in the right sequence, spreading the branches, hanging the toys so that the good ones were in front, and thanks to my doggie, there were no balls down. Finally came the untangling of the lights and wrapping them around the tree, and putting up the star.

Our building boys used to put up a huge star, hung in the centre of the building, with a crib in it. The highlight being getting that star up. The excitement, that crackle in the air, got everyone out of the houses and on to the gallery, cheering the boys on as they pulled the star up which mind could be damn heavy, as my poor buddy Ryan found out.

Once the star was up it was time to get ready for midnight mass, but first sweet needed to be distributed amongst the neighbours, especially the families of those mourning. Midnight mass included royally snoozing during the mass, or trying to count the number of people who had gone Betty-by, going to Persian Darbaar for chai, to avoid the long and preachy sermon, and then stand out there at the end of the mass to wish everyone. Once the mass was out of the way it was time to make way to Mondes for beer (or in my case, Coke or ice tea) and then Bade Miyas for some kebab rolls.

What followed was a week of fun and frolic, music and activities, of Christmas Parties, and housies and request programs, Fancy Dress and Talent Competion, request programs and guessing the Santa, children running around selling housie tickets, music playing, people jiving ( yes that’s where I got my jiving skills), guitarist in demand  cause at the time talent meant singing (unlike dancing now days), Tele games and guessing the Santa, all culminating with the old mans walk on New Year’s Eve and the prize distribution and raffle draw on New Year’s Day.

But now things have changed, the world has changed, the way we celebrate Christmas has changed. The Christmases of our childhood have become a memory, albeit a sweet one, one we shall cherish forever. Those days may never come again but we shall always have them with us, no matter where we go, over land or sea or shore, the celebrations of Christmas of yore.