Of towels , sheets and curtains

 Good day friends 

This is a short note on towels, sheets and curtains.

 I know it is a rather mundane topic, which may not exactly interest you, so if you are a busy executive, or if you just have something more exciting to do – please stop reading at this juncture.

 Would never want to take up your time.  Good-bye to you for now 

Hello again to those who are still with me.

 So yes – this is about towels, sheets, curtains and women. I left out the word “women” on purpose at the start so as not to tempt the ‘busy bees’.

No seriously speaking, this is not interesting and not some erotic tale either – just stating some facts.  

What is the correlation between towels, sheets, curtains and women of the house – wives to be more precise? 

When I opened one of the cupboards at home this morning, I was dumbstruck at the number of towels, sheets and curtains within. In fact, there was no room for any other item and the cupboard was surely over- packed to the extent, one of the hinges had begun to come lose due to the door being forced shut.

If we were to do a little calculation – how many of each would a family require? 

Now mark this – I am not only referring to the cupboard at home which is rather large – this is something I have heard from many people (read GENTS & HUSBANDS) 

Every time we go to India, we come back with Towels, curtains and sheets of various hues and sizes because supposedly the ‘quality of the cotton’ is so much better there. Is it really?

If my wife spots a shop which says, Bombay Dyeing ,  Linen Club  or something to that effect , we must enter and exit an hour or later with me attempting to carry more packages than I can actually manage. 

The same goes for curtains in Dubai. Now, I must admit, that you get beautiful curtains here in the UAE, but the question is “how many sets does one need”? 

These are questions, which perplex me, and hence this short note. I warned you it was nothing interesting!

Some of you are so worldly and wise so I will look forward to your inputs if any.

Ps. Pillow cases and cushion covers as well. Thank you for the prompt to two lady friends.

A Band aid to the rescue

 Ever had a cut on a finger and then scrambled to find and open a Band aid. Easier said than done. 

It's a frustrating experience. 

Our cat scratched me a few days ago- not her fault. 

She saw a stray on the garden wall , gritted her teeth, hissed,  snarled and was about to charge.

I imagined a full on cat fight. 

In a split second I bent down  did what I thought was best under the circumstances- i grabbed her. Thankfully I didn't get a back spasm to compound the confusion. 

In a mili second she had scratched me and run back inside.

It all happened in a blur- i looked down and my finger was bleeding profusely. 

I knew I needed to do something soon so after washing it thoroughly I decided to apply a Band aid .

Band Aids are elusive creatures. Something like socks that vanish and you are left with an odd. 

Under normal circumstances I keep one in my purse ( band aids not socks). I have had one there for months and never had to use it.

Now when I needed it, I  realized I had given it to someone a few days ago - something like Murphy's law.

 I could have sworn I had  bought a packet recently, but it was nowhere to be found.

Finally I found one. Crumpled etc but okay to use. 

Here  is the crux of the story.

Band aids are packed in such a way that it requires patience, dexterity, and nimble fingers to get them out and ready to use.

Now try that when in pain and your finger is  bleeding . It's easier to learn Mathematical Physics or The Monty Hall problem.

I have rather thick fingers so it's even worse. 

After struggling, muttering a few curse words, and wondering if I had made a will in case I bleed to death, I finally managed to get the wretched pack open and clumsily put a bandage on to stem the bleeding.

I breathed deeply at the accomplishment.  

No I didn't take a Tetanus injection/ the finger is fine  / the stray cat is still hovering around / our cat's nails have been trimmed and oh yes - I  must go and buy a few packets of Band Aids and spread them around the house-under the pillow, in the washroom, on the kitchen shelf, in the car, and wherever else takes my fancy. You never know. 

Yes before you advise- we do have two drawers with medicines etc but that's another story for another day. 

Till then - adios.

Dare to stop

 Dare to stop? 

There is a quiet power in just  stepping off the 'grid'

From the ceaseless hum of purpose unspoken,  

A brief rebellion against the grind 

The urge to do, to prove, to strive, to be.  

We skim and often race  through days, stone blind to their weight,  

So utterly convinced that worth is measured in motion,  

That to pause is to fall behind,  

And be left in the dust of 

The so called 'progress and sucess'  

But think of this

 What if stillness is not actually retreat,  

But the truest form of knowing oneself?  

In silence, we find the world unravels,  

The noise of life fades, revealing what is real

And what really matters 

We are not the sum of tasks completed,  problems solved or questions answered.

Not the hours spent filling the void with purpose,  

But the quiet moments when time stands still,  

When 'being' is enough, when doing can wait

The world demands we run, to always match,  

To chase some fleeting sense of value — 

 

But in truth, perhaps it is not the pace  

That matters,

 but the depth with which we live.  

We always ask the world, "Am I good enough?"  

And  wait with baited breath for the answer.

 We  love being judged

And that is the sad paradox of life .

But what if the answer lies in surrender,  

In ceasing the chase and letting go,  

Finding peace in the midst of the spin.  

Yet here I sit, sipping tea

In the silence of the dawn

caught in this thought,  

Wondering if anyone else has dared to stop.

Nana Ellen

 Nana Ellen

I must have been about seven or eight when, one morning, I woke to the surprising news: Nana Ellen had arrived! Back then, children weren’t part of adult conversations—we were kept firmly in the dark about plans, decisions, and especially about people we hadn’t yet met. Unlike today’s children, who seem to be in on everything - from travel bookings and holiday plans to family squabbles, we just waited for life to unfold around us and to play!

I’d never even heard of Nana Ellen before that day, let alone realized that I had a grandmother who was alive. She was my mother’s mother, who had been living in England for many years and was now returning to India. Who brought her? When did she arrive? I had no idea. I later overheard she’d come by ship to Bombay and then travelled by train to Allahabad.

There was quiet excitement in the house. I crept into the room next to ours, and there she was—fast asleep. Tall, still, and wrapped in an air of quiet authority even in sleep. Later that day, when I returned from school, I was introduced to her properly. She looked very old to my young eyes—though she must have been in her mid-sixties. Her grey hair was neatly tied in a bun, she wore large spectacles and had on an ankle-length dress. She looked regal. Strict. It’s a bit intimidating.

And then she drew me close and smothered me with kisses.

Nana Ellen settled into our home as if she’d always belonged. A true matriarch, she didn’t ask to be consulted, she simply took charge. There was no questioning who now held quiet authority in the house. She rose before anyone else, was always impeccably dressed before dawn, and maintained her room like a sacred space. Cleanliness and order were non-negotiable. Her bed was always neatly made, and we were strictly forbidden from sitting on it. A side table held her Bible, her rosary, and a few worn prayer booklets. Her room always smelled faintly of lavender and talcum powder.

She had a cupboard filled with ankle-length dresses—mostly in shades of blue, as I remember—and the most curious thing of all: a square leather hat box with brass studs. The hat box was strictly off-limits. Which, of course, made it irresistible.

Every Sunday, she wore a different hat to church—one with feathers, one with stones, another with a netted veil. I remember my mother and aunt wearing hats too, it was the fashion then, a sign of grace and decorum. But Nana’s collection was something else. One Sunday, when everyone was out, I gave in to temptation. I snuck into her room and lifted the lid of the hat box. It was like opening a treasure chest. Twenty or so exquisite hats in all colours and styles. I tried on a few, admiring myself in the mirror, grinning from ear to ear.

But Nana knew. Somehow, she knew. The moment she returned, she could tell someone had been in her room. I don’t recall how I gave myself away—but the scolding I received was swift and sharp. Perhaps even a slap or two—common in those days and never taken to heart.

Despite her strictness, there was great kindness in her. She was deeply particular about things - how we dressed, whether we had bathed properly (especially behind the ears!), how we said our prayers (on our knees, in her room), how we chewed our food (no noise, mouths closed), and of course, saying grace before and after meals. Elbows off the table! No talking with food in our mouths. No wasting any food and how to place the spoon and fork after we had finished the meal! Thinking back now, she was a tough cookie!

She had her ways, but she cared. She would ask if I had finished my homework, and oddly enough, she seemed to be involved in our daily rhythm without making a big show of it. We all learned a lot from her—even if we tried to avoid her when we could. To be honest, I often stayed out of her path. If she called for you, it usually meant you were in trouble!

And then one day, everything changed. I woke up to a strange stillness. There were too many people in the house. Soft voices, muffled sobs. We were not allowed into her room. Priests came. I remember shadows and whispers. And then—nothing. It’s as though my memory closed a curtain over that day.

Nana was gone.

Just like she had appeared in my life—without warning, she vanished. We never saw her again.

In those days, death was handled differently. Children weren’t told much. We were not part of the grieving process, not really. We sensed the sorrow, but we didn’t fully understand it. It was as if the adults carried the weight of loss alone, while we remained on the periphery—confused, quiet, a little lost.

Looking back, I realize what a force she was. She brought discipline, ritual, and a quiet elegance into our home. She ruled gently but firmly. She made her presence felt without ever raising her voice. She was the kind of matriarch every household once had—steady, prayerful, rooted in her ways.

And even now, I sometimes see her in my mind’s eye—tall, grey-haired, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a blue dress, a hat in hand… and watching us, always watching, with that mix of stern love and quiet pride.

I almost became a priest

 Let me start at the beginning and tell you what almost happened with my life.

I almost became a priest. Seriously – don’t roll on the floor laughing and don’t get chocked – it’s a fact!

So how did this come about and what made me even think about a life in a Christian seminary?

When I look back, I guess it was the way we were brought up. No it was not all about non- stop prayers  , fasting ,  the bible , penance  and the like but there were some things we were taught as young kids ( my cousins and myself by our Aunt Addie )  and till date I am thankful for the same .

I do remember kneeling down and praying a short prayer every evening after dinner, making novenas occasionally (especially just before I was to get my report card) and going to church once a week.  No, I was not the holy types ,there was never a halo shining over my head ,  nor was I very keen on all this religious stuff but there was no choice! My aunt was a strict lady who brooked no nonsense – when she said, “let’s say our prayers”, we said them, even though my mind was often elsewhere. One look from her was enough. 

Studying in a Christian ( catholic  school ) St Joseph’s in Allahabad added to the religious part – there was Catechism  classes ( religious teaching ) – like a Moral science   every day , there was chapel once a week , there were retreats ( which were day long or week-long stay in camps which were fun because of the company  ) and all this obviously got ingrained in my personality . 

Then there was a seminary across the road in the same campus as our school, so we often went there to see the trainee priests playing football and basketball – they were very good at both. They seemed to be leading fun lives as well – at least that is what they told us and what we saw . 

As a young teenager  I lived just about ten minutes from our church and there was not much to do on most days  , it being a small town - so a few of us were in church regularly  -  we helped with cleaning the church ,  painting and polishing the wood and the brass  , assisting  at the weekend  mass and religious functions & helping to decorate the church on special occasions . It was fun, there were plenty of girls and boys to mix with and as teens that was definitely an added attraction.

 Then there was the Christmas Carol singing, where about twenty of us went around every evening for a few days in Mid-December in a school bus,  visiting houses, singing carols  , being offered  snacks, being given a donation for the church  and the like  and in general having a blast . As I played the guitar I was quite in demand and I liked the attention (had to admit that).

The church also had an annual fee and a dance for charity which a few of us helped organize – I am sure you see,  how very gradually,  and without any conscious effort , the church became part and parcel of many of our lives .

You who are reading this must realize that way back then there were no pubs, no mobile phones , no malls, no TV , no internet – but life was fun !

However, there was something else – and this is the truth so read on.

The parish priest – a very nice man - seemed to live an extremely comfortable life. He had a large house to stay in , within the church compound  ,  rode  a lovely  scooter , had a servant and  apparently had not much to do – or so we assumed  and this was a big plus point! 

 He was popular, was always invited out to parties and dinners and never seemed to have a care in the world. Whenever I looked at him, I envied his life. I somehow imagined people calling me Father Michael and that thrilled me! 

Now when I think back, studying was not something many of us were keen on – I for one had not thought much about the future – money  or property was not something I was going  to inherit and hence I made up my mind that being a priest was what I wanted to do with my life .

It seemed the easiest thing in the world.

However what man proposes, God disposes – sounds odd in this context though! 

I guess, once I grew older, I realized that priesthood was not for me by a mile and I went into teaching and life took a turn of its own.

Just thought about this a short while ago – Just a Priest?

 After so many years I may have even become a Bishop by now!

Now that would be something – Not just Father Michael but His Lordship !

Unforgettable

 UNFORGETTABLE 

I’ve seen you at your best. 

 And often at your worst. 

Have seen you at your happiest.

And then when you’ve been down. 

But the day I saw you hurt 

Almost run into the ground 

Was the day I still remember 

When the morning was fogbound

Your life was at a standstill.

 Tears flowed from your almond eyes. 

You talked of happier times

While remembering all his lies. 

You mulled over the future. 

You said all would be fine.

But deep down in that broken heart

I saw  some desperate signs 

And the snowflakes

Fell softly to the ground. 

And the earth became all white. 

And we talked and laughed 

And reminisced 

Through the long dark dreary night 

But morning came

As sure it would 

And the sun rose in the sky 

Then out of the blue 

Two shots rang out

They left me wondering why. 

 

The bullets hit where they were aimed 

They pierced your beating heart.

Then with your last breath

you whispered his name

And I woke up with a start. 

I woke and looked around the room

You were nowhere to be seen. 

I’ve had that dream

A million times 

And now it’s so surreal.

But life goes on 

And stories abound 

Of how you were shot and killed 

The seasons change 

And years go by 

But he was never grilled 

Now every year, on that sad day

To the cottage I retreat 

And reminisce on happier times 

While hanging the mourning wreath

I sing the songs 

You loved to hear 

I cook your favourite meal 

The incense burns 

Smoke fills the room 

And 

Your silhouette before the altar kneels

Am becoming an artist

 After a lot of soul searching (and an unhealthy amount of procrastination), I have finally decided to pursue a long-held passion — art. Stop giggling you who know me!

 Yes, art! I know, I know. You’re probably wondering, “But weren’t you the kid who said that you  couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler in school?” Yes, that was me. My so-called “artistic talents” were legendary... in the sense that they were utterly non-existent. I was and am still colour blind as well and that's not synonymous with art- but that's another story. 

In reality, my destiny took a surprising turn when I visited Europe a few years ago.  It was during that grand trip to the continent, where we gallivanted through an absurd number of art galleries only to avoid the crazy rainy weather. From the Louvre in Paris to the Uffizi in Florence, I marveled at the works of the masters — names like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, and Van Gogh danced in front of my eyes like old friends. And that's when it hit me. Art wasn't just something to admire; it was something to create - and I was going to do the unthinkable - become an artist.

On my return, armed with nothing but a new sense of inspiration and a brush (and perhaps a few too many cups of tea), I decided to give it a shot. 

To my utter amazement, something magical happened — I painted my first piece. And then, I painted another. And another. And... okay, so I’ve only completed about eight pieces so far. 

But here’s the twist — every single person who has seen my art has insisted that I host an exhibition. 'An exhibition',   they said. “You have a gift,” they said. (Which is a bit of an exaggeration, but I’ll take it.)

So, here I am. My decision is made. I’m going for it.

Much against the advice of my wife,  I’ve bought paints, canvases, brushes, and the promise of an 'undiscovered talent'that might just need a little more practice in the coming months.

Now, let’s talk about my plan going forward.

 I’ve spent money and  stocked up on high-quality oil paints in vibrant hues, ranging from rich reds to calm blues. The canvases are ready, primed, and waiting for me to bring my “masterpieces” to life. A couple of easels are now scattered around my tiny ' studio' , creating a slightly more “artsy” ambiance than my previous collection of dusty books, guitars  and mismatched furniture. 

But the real question is — where do I get my inspiration from now? Sure, the great masters are fine and all, but I need something new, something fresh. 

Maybe I’ll be inspired by the calm of my morning tea or a walk around the lake  (which has been known to unleash a wave of creativity in me) -   or perhaps, my inspiration will come from the mishmash of everyday life — that half-empty glass of water, a  bowl of fruit  or Chanel , my cat, lounging in the sun. Truly, art is in the eye of the beholder, and I plan to behold as much as I can.

I am not into the human form so please don't rush forward to volunteer.

For now, I’m just excited to take this leap into the unknown. Eight pieces may be a humble start, but I’m ready to turn my living room into the next big art gallery. So, grab your wine and don your best attire because it’s time to admire  masterpieces that probably won’t make it to the Louvre, but will definitely bring a smile to your face.

And may I ask in all humility - ' any buyers'? 

No harm in day dreaming is there ? 

I rest my case.