an itinerant observer

Noori woke me up first thing in the morning and wished me a happy anniversary. “What’s that Noori?” was all I could mumble. After realization sunk in I knew I was in for the doghouse—again. It was poetic justice that just a few weeks ago I had written how I was given to forgetting Love Demonstration Situations (LDSs): birthdays, anniversaries, and the like. That post in itself could have been a potent reminder, but here I was forgetting my own anniversary AGAIN! The horror of doing so last year crossed my mind: let alone remember, I had happily driven away with Noori’s Aman Chachoo to San Marcos, almost 200 miles away, on a jaunt, presumably to buy furniture for his townhouse. I had returned close to midnight; kids were fast asleep, and Ayesha was past reason—rightly so. Redemption was not in reasoning with her that I was merely helping a good friend move around bulky furniture. Nor was it in the Coach handbag that I got for her as peace initiative. As all the above rattled aro...

"Happy Birday , Baba !” The emphasis on the chicken in that birthday wish was not lost on me. Although I appreciated my kindergartner’s signature artwork, I couldn’t help but cringe inwardly when I thought how fast the fortieth was approaching.  When I am in a thoughtful mind frame, especially on my birthday, words are conceived. I tend to shy away from too much fanfare on my birthday. I feel that it should be a subtle rejoicing and reflecting of what I have gone through the previous year and preparation for the next. The icing on the cake, no pun intended, would be to spend that day quietly with a few near or far, but dear ones. But then that’s me. For some, birthdays are of grave significance: to be CELEBRATED and indulged in—decadence then has no limits. Thus, conventional wisdom for me would be to give it the importance it deserves on a case-by-case basis. Should I be sad that there is one less year to live or be happy for the potential opportunity that still exists ...