Withered through time, easily bruised, chipped nails….
Rough yet unkempt hands…
Reassuring grip…
Perfect.
My mothers’ hands
Almond shaped deep eyes.
Dark,lucid.
A Kohl black wonder.
Bursting at the seems gaze.
Poignant...papa s' eyes.
Wicked.
Flirtatious.
Dry humor walk hand in hand with slapstick comedy.
The laughter…the smirk…the roll-of-eyes….
My sisters’ wit…
Glee-filled voice…
The twinkle of the eye…
The naughty smile…
The manipulative mind…
My brothers’ mischief….
The reason why life seems a lot like heaven to me….
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Honest-to-Goodness Romance....
Ever hear the one about the guy who had peachy-pink peonies imported from Chile every February? Apparently, he wanted to guarantee his sweetheart a touch of spring each morning. Then there's that story of the man who kept his wife's kindergarten picture in his wallet, because they met on the first day of school and (even after 66 years together) that photo never failed to make him smile. Oh, and let's not forget my personal favorite: Involving a woman who thought her boyfriend was taking her for a weekend in some-not-so-romantic-place. Work was high-stress and they were both pretty beat. As they approached the airport, he announced a little change of plans. "You will need this," he said, and put a passport in her hand. The very surprised woman and her boyfriend jetted off to Bali, and there, in the courtyard of the oh-so-beautiful-hotel-facing-the-setting-sun, he got down on one knee and proposed.
All three stories sound like urban boyfriend legends. But Peony Guy does exist. And yes, somewhere outside Tucson, Italy there lives a 71-year-old gentleman who is still madly in love with the girl who taught him to hopscotch. As for Mr. Ooh-La-La, I have seen the engagement ring with my own two eyes and—so help me God—that diamond was bigger than my house.
When I recount the tale of my friend's Balinese proposal to sister, there is a thoughtful pause. I know she must be doing what I did—picturing the giddy hand-in-hand walk along the beach, the caviar on toast points at dinner. I sigh. She sighs.
I am a sensible girl (lady…woman...). I keep Vitamin-E cream in my medicine cabinet, an umbrella in my office; stash my savings in one of the many drawers in my room. I'd sooner remove my own tonsils with a spoon than buy anything that requires ironing. I believe in practical shoes, low-maintenance hair, and whichever pants, blouse or skirt to be on sale. I'm not entirely where in the world Chris Daugthry was all this while, but I thank God he showed up. Still, I can't help feeling that there's something to be said for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels. I believe in the power of marabou, bubble baths in claw-footed tubs surrounded by a gazillion twinkled white candles. I believe in strawberries coated in dark chocolate and raspberries floating in pink Champagne. I'm glad Victoria has a few secrets. I think fireplaces should be lit, compliments should be paid, legs should be shaved, I want Lassie to come home, and I yelled “Don’t die Jack…Don’t die...!” willing Leonardo Di Caprio to live in Titanic. I'm not proud of this, but in the interest of full disclosure, here it is:I still break into a cold sweat every time Celine Dion starts wailing about how her heart will go on. My name is Bimel, and I am a romantic.
The truth is that there’s a fat chance of me finding an Arjun Ramphal or John Abraham…
So Mr.-Oh-So-Perfect-For-Me and I won't be taking a cruise together anytime soon. And no, those won’t be his arms around me as I perch on a dune watching the sun come up over the Sea of Galilee; he may not be the man who sends me a basket of French damson plums or the one who wants all babies to have my nose. The slow dances maybe few and far between, and walks in the rain may involve him running up ahead with the stroller.
He may teach me how to fly a kite, and share steamed dumplings in a little chinese coffee shop he discovered a few years back, pull me through more than one bout of the dreaded stomach flu. I believe anybody can sprinkle rose petals across a big brass bed, but only a real man will cook you chicken soup to sooth your temperamental stomach.
Now, there are those who will say that references to intense nausea don't belong under the category of romance, but I'm thinking maybe it's time we broaden our definition of what constitutes romance. Ask yourself this:
When the man you love realizes that half the screws are missing from the Ikea bookcase he's attempting to assemble for you, does he:
(a) Complain bitterly about herring and Volvos—vowing to forsake all things Swedish for the rest of his natural days?
(b) Leave the shelving in a heap on the living room floor and question your need to read in the first place?
(c) Complete construction using a combination of rubber bands and Uhu Glue while suggesting you fill the thing with pamphlets rather than actual books?
If you answered (c), then, my friend, life is good—because it means somebody out there loves you enough to try to get your bookcase together. That creative effort is the kind of everyday gesture on which great romances are built. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that while at the drugstore picking up the amulet of poison, Romeo also picked up a copy of People for Juliet. I like to imagine Abelard taping Grey's Anatomy for Heloise. I bet a day didn't go by that Mel Brooks wasn't funny for Anne Bancroft.
Don't get me wrong, I'll always want the chubby little cupids and coconut bonbons, but lately I find myself prefering something richer, deeper, sweeter. Provided nobody decides to do a remake of Titanic.
All three stories sound like urban boyfriend legends. But Peony Guy does exist. And yes, somewhere outside Tucson, Italy there lives a 71-year-old gentleman who is still madly in love with the girl who taught him to hopscotch. As for Mr. Ooh-La-La, I have seen the engagement ring with my own two eyes and—so help me God—that diamond was bigger than my house.
When I recount the tale of my friend's Balinese proposal to sister, there is a thoughtful pause. I know she must be doing what I did—picturing the giddy hand-in-hand walk along the beach, the caviar on toast points at dinner. I sigh. She sighs.
I am a sensible girl (lady…woman...). I keep Vitamin-E cream in my medicine cabinet, an umbrella in my office; stash my savings in one of the many drawers in my room. I'd sooner remove my own tonsils with a spoon than buy anything that requires ironing. I believe in practical shoes, low-maintenance hair, and whichever pants, blouse or skirt to be on sale. I'm not entirely where in the world Chris Daugthry was all this while, but I thank God he showed up. Still, I can't help feeling that there's something to be said for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels. I believe in the power of marabou, bubble baths in claw-footed tubs surrounded by a gazillion twinkled white candles. I believe in strawberries coated in dark chocolate and raspberries floating in pink Champagne. I'm glad Victoria has a few secrets. I think fireplaces should be lit, compliments should be paid, legs should be shaved, I want Lassie to come home, and I yelled “Don’t die Jack…Don’t die...!” willing Leonardo Di Caprio to live in Titanic. I'm not proud of this, but in the interest of full disclosure, here it is:I still break into a cold sweat every time Celine Dion starts wailing about how her heart will go on. My name is Bimel, and I am a romantic.
The truth is that there’s a fat chance of me finding an Arjun Ramphal or John Abraham…
So Mr.-Oh-So-Perfect-For-Me and I won't be taking a cruise together anytime soon. And no, those won’t be his arms around me as I perch on a dune watching the sun come up over the Sea of Galilee; he may not be the man who sends me a basket of French damson plums or the one who wants all babies to have my nose. The slow dances maybe few and far between, and walks in the rain may involve him running up ahead with the stroller.
He may teach me how to fly a kite, and share steamed dumplings in a little chinese coffee shop he discovered a few years back, pull me through more than one bout of the dreaded stomach flu. I believe anybody can sprinkle rose petals across a big brass bed, but only a real man will cook you chicken soup to sooth your temperamental stomach.
Now, there are those who will say that references to intense nausea don't belong under the category of romance, but I'm thinking maybe it's time we broaden our definition of what constitutes romance. Ask yourself this:
When the man you love realizes that half the screws are missing from the Ikea bookcase he's attempting to assemble for you, does he:
(a) Complain bitterly about herring and Volvos—vowing to forsake all things Swedish for the rest of his natural days?
(b) Leave the shelving in a heap on the living room floor and question your need to read in the first place?
(c) Complete construction using a combination of rubber bands and Uhu Glue while suggesting you fill the thing with pamphlets rather than actual books?
If you answered (c), then, my friend, life is good—because it means somebody out there loves you enough to try to get your bookcase together. That creative effort is the kind of everyday gesture on which great romances are built. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that while at the drugstore picking up the amulet of poison, Romeo also picked up a copy of People for Juliet. I like to imagine Abelard taping Grey's Anatomy for Heloise. I bet a day didn't go by that Mel Brooks wasn't funny for Anne Bancroft.
Don't get me wrong, I'll always want the chubby little cupids and coconut bonbons, but lately I find myself prefering something richer, deeper, sweeter. Provided nobody decides to do a remake of Titanic.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
All Alone....
I hope you know ,
I hope you know,
This has nothing to do with you
Me myself and i need some straightening out to do....
Fergie croons over my trusty radio.
I used to fear being alone. Not lonely—because there were always people around—but I knew that my soul's survival depended on me.I now think that the sense of being apart from others is what led me to trust so firmly in something bigger than I could articulate, and feel a connection to God.As a girl, I used to love company, i still do.I remember i always hated being alone while my mother tended her chores.
These days I'm often surrounded by other people. I have to interact constantly, so when I get to spend time with just me, I delight in every moment. Alone time is when I recharge and go back to my center, distancing myself from the voices of the world so I can hear my own with clarity. It's when I consciously count my blessings, take a deep breath, and try to absorb the wonder and glory of all my experiences.
I'll admit that my teenage years were a blur. I scrambled through secondary school trying miserably to be the popular one. I would do agree to everything and anything just to fit in the elites of the social world and hadn't yet learned the art of being humane. That was the unhealthiest period of my life. I was so out of balance.Disconnected.Ruthless.Bitter.
I thought that if I stopped, I would surely wither away. Now I know for sure that if you don't replenish your well, it runs dry. And things around you falter. So on any given 30 minute train ride to work, you will find me alone. Filling myself up. Cherishing life and loving every solitary moment.
I hope you know,
This has nothing to do with you
Me myself and i need some straightening out to do....
Fergie croons over my trusty radio.
I used to fear being alone. Not lonely—because there were always people around—but I knew that my soul's survival depended on me.I now think that the sense of being apart from others is what led me to trust so firmly in something bigger than I could articulate, and feel a connection to God.As a girl, I used to love company, i still do.I remember i always hated being alone while my mother tended her chores.
These days I'm often surrounded by other people. I have to interact constantly, so when I get to spend time with just me, I delight in every moment. Alone time is when I recharge and go back to my center, distancing myself from the voices of the world so I can hear my own with clarity. It's when I consciously count my blessings, take a deep breath, and try to absorb the wonder and glory of all my experiences.
I'll admit that my teenage years were a blur. I scrambled through secondary school trying miserably to be the popular one. I would do agree to everything and anything just to fit in the elites of the social world and hadn't yet learned the art of being humane. That was the unhealthiest period of my life. I was so out of balance.Disconnected.Ruthless.Bitter.
I thought that if I stopped, I would surely wither away. Now I know for sure that if you don't replenish your well, it runs dry. And things around you falter. So on any given 30 minute train ride to work, you will find me alone. Filling myself up. Cherishing life and loving every solitary moment.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
My very own Aha moment...!!!
Language, food, culture, people may differ—but soul is soul any where in the world.
It was a blistering afternoon. I was sitting at the edge of a hill eating lunch and eavesdropping on the exhausted urdu-speaking 7 year old and frazzled english volunteer: a favorite family game, Suddenly, as I was savoring a last bite of what looked like the now famous Chicken fold-over from McD's, I heard loud cackles of laughter coming from around the corner—laughter that roused me from my lazy afternoon trance like a jolt of espresso.
It was a laughter, loud and clear at top volume with unmistakably mischief filled glee.Looking over i searched for the source. Over the hill, pass the rubble.I see a pair of siblings.One holds off the edges of a ragged cloth and the little one sitting on it.It touched off memories of countless evenings when I a little girl and my brother, with cheeky smiles would run over to our secret playground and spend our time tumbling over moulds of dirt,making up rules of the games as we played along.
Oh how wondrous times!!!
So there it was, the music of my childhood, ringing out against the ruins of Balakot. Echoing through rubble filled streets that was just recently introduced to the tremors of absolute destruction.
I stood there momentarily lost in a mixture of amazement and confusion that must have shown on my face, because my friend patted my arm. "It's okay, B," she said, with the tone of exaggerated patience we get when others are slow on the uptake.
And in a flash, I realized a number of things:We are so much alike as we are different.Amazed at how self sufficient children can be. "It's better than okay," I said to my friend. "It's wonderful." And I closed my eyes and joined in the final chorus, rocking in the heart of the crowd as if I were still 9 years old,back home, at the playground.
It was a blistering afternoon. I was sitting at the edge of a hill eating lunch and eavesdropping on the exhausted urdu-speaking 7 year old and frazzled english volunteer: a favorite family game, Suddenly, as I was savoring a last bite of what looked like the now famous Chicken fold-over from McD's, I heard loud cackles of laughter coming from around the corner—laughter that roused me from my lazy afternoon trance like a jolt of espresso.
It was a laughter, loud and clear at top volume with unmistakably mischief filled glee.Looking over i searched for the source. Over the hill, pass the rubble.I see a pair of siblings.One holds off the edges of a ragged cloth and the little one sitting on it.It touched off memories of countless evenings when I a little girl and my brother, with cheeky smiles would run over to our secret playground and spend our time tumbling over moulds of dirt,making up rules of the games as we played along.
Oh how wondrous times!!!
So there it was, the music of my childhood, ringing out against the ruins of Balakot. Echoing through rubble filled streets that was just recently introduced to the tremors of absolute destruction.
I stood there momentarily lost in a mixture of amazement and confusion that must have shown on my face, because my friend patted my arm. "It's okay, B," she said, with the tone of exaggerated patience we get when others are slow on the uptake.
And in a flash, I realized a number of things:We are so much alike as we are different.Amazed at how self sufficient children can be. "It's better than okay," I said to my friend. "It's wonderful." And I closed my eyes and joined in the final chorus, rocking in the heart of the crowd as if I were still 9 years old,back home, at the playground.
As vijay puts it....
My name is Bimel. I was born at 2:44 pm, on a Tuesday, 25 September 1984. I am the second of three siblings. I am a left handed.I am a female.All that is fact.Everything else varies.
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