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Day 752

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“This weekend I am going for a girl’s night out” said I.
“You are not a girl” Saagar responded with amusement.
“I want you to remember that even when I am 85 years old, I will still be a girl.”

Yet, I lost that girl. I became a grieving mother. Nothing more.

2 months ago I took my Mum to a hobby craft shop. I thought she would love seeing all the pretty things in there as she is creative and full of great ideas. But it was me. It turned out to be a treasure trove for me. I was completely sucked into the rows of lovely stickers, stationery, buttons, pens and ribbons. I wasn’t sure what I would do with them but I couldn’t help bringing a few things home.

One Sunday morning I took them all out and displayed them on the kitchen table. After looking at my loot for a while some ideas started taking shape and I made a few birthday cards, thank you notes, messages of sympathy, blank notes with some art work, nothing-in-particular cards and so on. I was on a roll. I found that girl!

Now I know where she’s been hiding. I’ll be keeping track of her. She’s fun!

 

Day 751

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Shaving of heads is an age-old tradition in India. Some hindu families tonsure kids at about 1 year of age. It is believed to liberate them from the ties of their previous life. It is also felt that the new growth of hair is healthier and thicker than the old one.

Tonsuring is an act of surrender. It also means giving up one’s vanity. It can be a sign of mourning in some southern states in India. Father’s soul can find peace after death if his son shaves his head. Shaving is a way of raising funds for charity and for showing solidarity with a cause, such as free Tibet.

Saagar had beautiful soft curls. They were shaved when he was a toddler. It was a shock to him but it helped him cope with the hot summer. When he visited Uganda for charity work at 18 years of age he shaved his head again. This time it was a shock to me. I thought it was a big step for a teenager, especially one who angled his head and checked out his hair each time he purposefully or accidentally came face to face with a mirror. He was very much his own man, my boy!

 

 

Day 750

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Back in the House of Memories,
Streets covered in ghost steps,
Parks of silence,
Paths of distress,
Rooms of cuddles and words,
Corners of cackles and tears,
Walls of sepia tone frames,
Cartons of little nothings with no names.

Mirrors of sadness,
Shadows of light,
Windows of hope,
Secrets untold,
Flights go up,
Down,
Floors barren,
Plates cold.

Orange sunrise,
Tired eyes,
2 felines,
His and mine.
Out of synch,
Purple pink
Dreams…
Pure dreams of home.
Sweet Home.

Day 749

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The heavens have opened with all their might and a heavy tropical downpour has drenched Stone Town to the bone. I stand in the balcony looking at streams of water running down corrugated roofs in parallel right into the street. Down below I watch a father and son holding Superman and Spiderman umbrellas, both completely soaked. Checkered and plain, bright and black circles are floating in the street, not doing much.

There is a real chance that our flight from Zanzibar to Dar-Es-Salaam will be cancelled and hence we might miss the connection to London but well, may be another day in paradise is meant to be. Who knows? Hakuna Matata.

That he was born to me
That he was mine to hold and love,
That he was all cuddles and smiles,
That he was sweeter than sweet, kinder than kind,
That he was the brightest spark in the dark,
That he made me cry and made me laugh,
That he came unto life through my being
That he brought joy to me and so many,
That he far exceeded all expectations,
That he helped many get over their inhibitions,
That he was funny and had time for all,
That he was sensitive beyond call,
That he came through deep pain with dignity,
That he didn’t want to be any trouble to anybody,
That his laughter was infectious,
That his advice was often beyond his years,
That he lived his 20 years to the full,
Even though life was sometimes cruel,
Is enough.

Day 748

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The tin roofs glittered in the sunlight like confetti as our plane approached the island. We are on our way home now, stopping over for one night in Zanzibar, an ancient trading town off the eastern coast of Africa. Although it is a part of Tanzania, it fancies itself to be autonomous. We were asked to fill in immigration forms on landing at the airport but no one looked at them. Stone town is the perfect confluence of Arabic, African, Indian and European cultures. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site. The architecture and town planning is predominantly Arabic. Narrow streets lined with two storey houses with long narrow rooms disposed round an open courtyard, reached through a narrow corridor are distinguished externally by elaborately carved double ‘Zanzibar’ doors. These wooden doors are particularly ornate and characteristic features of most houses here. They are one of the main themes of the local art work and memorabilia. The motto here seems to be ‘pole-pole’ which translates to ‘slowly-slowly’. But after our week-long quiet time in Fisheagle Point in the north of Tanga, this place seems hectic.
Zanzibar is infamous for being the last bastion of the slave trade and a major centre for the ivory trade, both of which are considered by many never to have properly ceased. It is well known for its seafood, fruit and spice markets. Walking through the market was an onslaught on the olfactory senses. It was a relief to leave as I couldn’t have taken any more surprise odours.
We did the touristy thing of buying a few t-shirts, fridge magnets and other necessary yet unnecessary things. I missed buying a t-shirt for Saagar. I wanted to cry but I didn’t. Earlier in the day, I had read on someone’s plastic wristband -Life is not fair but it is still good.

Watching kids play football in the narrow streets in the evening was uplifting. Loaded up with passion fruit juice! Happy as can be. 🙂