I was delighted when cooler weather arrived last November. I had been looking forward to carrying my cup of hot, sweet tea up to the roof to sit there and dream in the fresh cool breeze.
People born during years of British rule or the troubled year of the Partition of 1947, have suffered various kinds of trauma, lost land, family and friends, and have had three nationalities in the course of one lifetime.
My grandson, a delightful child aged five, is always full of smiles and good cheer. He trotted in from school one day, joyful as usual, and announced “I love everyone, including the people I don’t know!” “But there are so many people in the world,” I replied. “How will you find space in your heart for all of them?”
Some would call this new way of life a challenge, especially for the young. They want to go out and enjoy life, and this is an onerous burden to be borne.
There is nothing book lovers like better than to curl up in a comfortable corner somewhere and immerse themselves in the pages of whatever book takes their fancy, and drift away into a different world.
I see a flash of yellow, then a glimpse of parrot wings, sometimes even a baby parrot perched on a terrace railing, or crows arguing on a distant ledge. Butterflies flutter past, tiny messengers of births and marriages, there is much to enjoy in the constant activity of nature.
There is little to do these days. The virus has struck fear into the stoutest hearts, and most of us have changed our lifestyles to suit the times.
This is, or should be, the happiest season of the year — the time when we celebrate the holy month of Ramadan and the festival of Eid, except that we must keep in mind and pray for the casualties of the pandemic, and hardships of the poor, and the ongoing threat of the coronavirus.
I had never met the couple or their parents before, nor did I think I would again, thankfully. This is a new world in many ways, and I find that there are more and more young people like this.
The evening draws in quickly. At one moment the late afternoon sun is there, mellow orange against the sky, and the next minute it is almost twilight, and time for me to leave my rooftop plants and flowers, and return to my flat. As I take a last stroll around the jasmine, an aroma of warm ghee floats up from some nearby kitchen, and soon after, a long-forgotten and much loved familiar fragrance—the smell of curried chicken—as it was cooked in my mother's kitchen in olden days.
Every week, in some magazine or the other, there are enthusiastic pieces on some new miracle diet promising to transform us into our dream figures in a matter of weeks, or days even! There are dramatic pictures of 'before and after' and promises of a gorgeous new shape if we eat only bananas, or green peas, or whatever the latest studies claim will have said magical results.
The Young at Heart Someone else, not foreign and also past forty, said the opposite, which was that older people should put aside all
The streets of Dhaka being what they are, one has time to just look around and observe things from the car while waiting at traffic lights or while stuck in jams: hugely battered buses driven by what look like twelve-year old boys high on cough syrup; cheap cars; costly cars; and people going about their daily business.
I also liked doing housework, truthfully! In my mind the bending, lifting, cleaning and mopping made up for my reluctance to go to the gym. I even found washing dishes therapeutic, and I would find myself humming while I soaped and rinsed, admiring the rose sprigs on my saucers, or the blue border of a much-loved tea cup.
The months have flown by, and so did December, one of the loveliest months of the year. There is a crisp feel to the air, and the winter flowers have begun to show their blooms — dahlias, roses and all the other delicate flowers that cannot blossom in the heat.
We had arrived in Cairo on our first posting, and the Ambassador and family had come to tea. I had baked strawberry cake from what was supposed to be a full proof cake mix.
I feel the pleasures of the eye before everything else. Someone glides past in a shaded sari flowing from grey to flame orange, I see a figure in exquisite embroidered powder blue, a vision in mint green chiffon, and suddenly flash of brilliant red lipstick.
It is morning. I know it is because I feel someone tugging at my sleeve. I open my eyes and see two little faces gazing at me. Grandson #1 says "Nanee wake up. It's time for the battle to begin."
