It’s 22:25 and I’m still at the office. My colleague put on some music from the gramophone era. Creaky vinyl and black and white film. I haven’t had my dinner and my eyes hurt. I am stressed, can’t you tell? My week had been crazy. If deadlines were living creatures, they’d be monsters that stick close to you with their reptilian fingers wrapped around your arm. They’d have smelly breath too... an onslaught of fish markets, onion and garlic.

Whenever I get stressed, I don’t think a lot—this I have to admit. My brain shuts off partially to an auto-pilot mode. Don’t talk about feelings and emotions with me during this time because it will come out constipated and diced. I will frustrate myself and you.

However, I do enjoy the times when I don’t have to think a lot. Little activities and gestures that remind me how it’s ok, that things will be fine and good. Here are some of the many:

Grass and bare feet. Naked stars and being alone.
When I was younger, my sister and I would lie on our beds and stare up at the dark ceiling. We’d create stories with characters and a plot. She’d come up with a scene and I will continue, not unlike storytelling ping-pong. Sometimes I got so carried away I cried for the characters like in a movie. But in between stories I’d close my eyes and imagine walking in the universe and wondering if I’d reach the edge of it. I usually picture myself scratching at nothing, only finding more to the universe but never the end of it.





Underwater handstands.
Because it messes me up. Everything is upside down, downside up. I can’t hold it for long so it usually ends up being an underwater somersault. I’m not a pro. Yet.

Breakfast.
Wholegrain bread, butter (loads), ground black pepper, ham/bacon, mustard, zucchini slices, salsa/hot sauce (chunky)/ketchup, black olives and cheese. Let me know if I missed out anything. No, I don’t like raw onions.




I met a mute old lady in the alley behind my office today. She had huge glasses, pink pajamas-looking two-piece and a packet of cat food. We couldn’t communicate fluently and she had her own sign language system. Male = two fingers drawing a moustache on her face. Female = both hands touching her ears. And ever since my grandma passed away last year, I’ve had this inkling to “adopt” every old person... or rather, have them adopt me.

Alright, I should leave the office soon. Have better days ahead.

She’s so precious. The lines on her face say so much. When I first met her, she looked so sad. Her children left her alone and her husband, a man too old to be working odd hours, found it hard to find money to support the two of them. Traveling to work would easily finish up a day’s wage. Some days they go without food.

Her knees are weak and her eyes don’t lie. They tear easily and the skin around them folds and creases when she laughs and smiles. She speaks about abandonment and loneliness but also of hope and love. When she doesn’t have enough to eat, Ramya, her 19-year old neighbor would share her food. We sat on the floor of Ramya’s little home that afternoon. We had tiny orange biscuits and sweet tea in metal cups.

We talked about family, Ramya’s love for her husband and about being disowned and adopted at the same time. They didn’t talk about community or service, but they were living it. I found this to be true in the tsunami orphanage too. India was filled with paradoxes. The lonely weren’t alone. The poor were rich. The meek had what no one can steal and money can’t buy. The abandoned had homes in human hearts and a shelter. The orphans were adopted into a bigger family. Frail beings with the divine in them.

I still have the luggage tag tied to my messenger bag. I can be stubborn and sentimental like that, but I know I should move on. Life is more than a destination. If I would put myself aside, I’m sure I’d find scandalous paradoxes here or anywhere.

Where I end, He begins.