My Piggy Bank

Tradition. From the Latin ‘traditionem’. Meaning “handing over, passing on”.

Nowadays most often we hear the word tradition in context to religious and cultural practices being hard headedly carried out or defiled- in both cases creating a furore. And in this set meaning on passing on. But I like what tradition means in the present sense. In the now. I like the continuity it symbolizes. It’s like procreating without the hard hours of screaming labour.

Our family has a tradition of spending summer holidays together. The entire Flanagan clan collects at the family home before taking off for a holiday together. Four generations together – children spilling out of bosoms, grandparent throwing tantrums, cousins sharing traumas, one generation misunderstanding the other, lazy days spent hiding under the fan to escape the scorching heat, lazier evenings in a swimming pool and long nights of planned and unplanned adventures. You love, you crib, you enjoy, you say you’re never coming back again, you do come back again, you watch the young ones grow, you avoid your elders, you hug a child close, you try to find a quiet corner, you play cards, you discuss books passionately with your young niece, you kiss each child good night, you mediate in fights between relatives, you wonder how you aren’t deaf yet, you rediscover why you hate and love to be a Flanagan. It is a great tradition.

I want to create many more. I want others to make their own and make me part of their pacts with life.

In the past year, this thing called Life and growing up has taken its toll on a lot of India’s crowd. Everyone’s working, juggling no less than three sets of families they have to satisfy, trying to be comfortable with who they’re maturing up to be… as well as eke time out for each other. Things are different. Alanis worries that being married and moving to another country is going to tell on her connection with all of us here but the sad truth is that just living in different suburbs seems to be enough. Because a girl’s life is made of immediate things and tiny joys. A great hair day, an impromptu middle of the night walk, a song that made you cry, a moment of desolation that came and went before you could hit the dial button… and unlike in college when all of us lived in the same house and shared every passing minute… now we’re lucky to meet once a month.

But I’m rooting for traditions to combat modern life. That’s what they’re supposed to do anyway right… join people together across time and place in a joint activity, feeling and hope?

So here I am making a bunch of traditions. To quote: Some traditions were deliberately invented for one reason or another, often to highlight or enhance the importance of a certain institution. Traditions may also be changed to suit the needs of the day, and the changes can become accepted as a part of the ancient tradition.

1. The first of these was made years ago with Harry – a weekly dinner table conversation. And Christmas eve together. We’ve managed to keep to this more or less.
2. An annual holiday with the Four… so far so good.
3. Always, always kiss each of the children goodnight and talk to each individually about whatever they like.
4. Dropping by Frederick’s uninvited for a surreal evening of abrasiveness, affection and a fuzzy reality that is quiet and says nothing.

I want many, many, many more… with Paris, with Mars and Paris, with Sky, with my home as the centre of a tradition… If it’s Christmas we’re going to India’s. And then a fortnightly dinner plan at someone’s house. A monthly weekend away with friends – old and new.

That’s another thought. Everywhere I go I meet people that I like so much that you feel like you’re just making so many friends when you don’t even find time to bond with the one’s you have. There might be a balance to strike but there’s joy in growing a family. And it’s a lovely feeling when someone new seems to meld seamlessly into a circle you’ve already built.

I just want to end on a memory that Paris and I were thinking about yesterday.

It’s the old millennium. Paris and I have just met a month or so ago in college. We’re part of a larger group that hangs out together and movie plans have been made. It’s great. It’s a new youth flick, we’ll be going in a fun large gang, eating pop corn, hooting, going out for dinner, etc. College bonding with people you’re thinking you might be friends with.

And then by the time the day rolled around, everyone dropped out for some reason or another. I don’t remember why.

So there we were, two relative strangers thinking, ‘umm… should I offer to postpone the plan when the whole group can be there and when it’ll be fun?” And we didn’t. We said, “to hell with it… let’s watch a movie.” We went and made fun of a shitty film and found that we didn’t need other people to make a plan fun. In fact we didn’t need other people to make a plan. That was true when we were ‘relative strangers’ and I’m guessing that it will be true now… when we are, for lack of a better word, friends.

Wisps of Smoke

I feel like talking about cigarettes. Everything I can think of about them.
When I was in school I used to judge guys on whether they smoked. Not harshly but I preferred a non smoker over a smoker. I guess when you’re busy defining yourself at that age you come up with these list of dos and don’t. Nice girls don’t being the most popular. So I thought nice boys don’t either.
But then came the other defining realization. I don’t like nice boys.
I think it started with dating Aldair (who gave up smoking or claimed he gave up smoking for the period that we dated.) But he needn’t have bothered. I no longer care if guys smoke or don’t. I’ve grown up to bigger don’ts.
There was this para in Atlas shrugged on smoking that I love…

"I like to think of fire held in a man's hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind--and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression."

I remember I mailed it to Aldair and he didn’t appreciate that I was encouraging him to smoke. But I wasn’t really. I just appreciate words like fire and man and force and tamed and burning strung together. Heh. Freud would have a field day with me. Or actually I’m too pedestrian for him.
The other thing I read about cigarettes that I like the imagery of is that the writer Amrita Pritam was madly in love with this man and they would meet and sit in silence while he smoked and after he left she would smoke the butts he left behind to inhale him. In fact she has written a few lines on that:

Ek Dard hai

Jo maine cigarette ki tarah piya hai

Kuchh nazmein hain

Jo maine raakh ki tarah jhaadi hain...

There’s an English translation that I don’t really think is right. Either way I just like the story behind it.
The only story I have with cigarettes involves a night long smoking session. Kat’s sister had a house party and the clean up involved her getting rid of cigarettes from all over the world. Somehow that packet landed with me as the best candidate to regulate contraband. So it lay in my cupboard for months with Mars and Salvatore trying to convince me that they’re smoking anyway so I might as well save them some money. I could have I suppose but I was pain in the ass sister.
And a good thing too. One night Paris and I had nothing better to do. We got into Lauran Bacall mode and smoked every single brand in that packet. More, Marlsboro Light, Classic Mild, Nice, Gudang Garam, Dunhill, Lucky Strike, Benson & Hedges… that was it I think.
There’s a cigarette brand called Elixir (pretty self explanatory) and another called Romeo y Julieta… isn’t that interesting? I wonder why they named it that and what it tastes and smells like. A little sweet, a little tragic?
That was it for me and cigarettes. In later years when some classmates in my post grad course urged me to beat the stress with the sticks I was amused and disinterested. Without wanting to sound condescending I can’t believe that’s why people smoke or start smoking. When I think of myself smoking I feel like a poseur. Like a little kid playing dress up in front of her mom’s mirror as she clanks around in heels too big for her. And now that I think about it I never played dress up either.
Cigarette aficionados can tell the smokes apart I’m sure but even to a non smoking, weak olfactory nerved person like me the smell of a cigarette is the most definite thing. It’s as distinct and strong as the smell of my first heart break.

(I think this might be part of a Pensieve tag where in I write all the associations I have with a particular word. You are welcome to throw me a word.)

picture's from flickr

Greater Expectations

Calvin: Here I am, happy and content. ...but not euphoric. So now I'm no longer content. I'm unhappy. My day is ruined. I need to stop thinking while I'm ahead.

I beamed as Sytar opened the birthday present I’d got her. Everyone waited for the unveiling. (I’d talked a bit about the splendor of it) The silver wrapper came off and Sytar smiled at the candle holder. Light the candle I commanded. She did and oohed. I smiled wider. The others hmmphed.
What?
India, you said the dragonflies dance on the ceiling.
I thought they also glowed green.
Sky just shook her head at me.
What? I repeat. It’s pretty.
Mars explains to Harry – India’s fatal flaw is that not only does she have excessive imagination but she actually seems satisfied with how little reality matches it.
I blithely ignore them all. So the dragonflies didn’t dance on the ceiling but they’re flickering merrily on the green glass of the holder.

Mars got back from Shanghai with kites. Unlike me, Paris implies more the less she says. A hint here, a word there. They were dragons with impressive wingspans. A medley of colors and flash like a battle in air. There were even pandas that the dragons were fighting to protect. So we went for a kite flying evening in a relaxed burb of Cesspool. The sun was gentle, happy groups flitted around with strings. Paris started to take the kite out of its packaging.
The dragon’s mine, the dragon’s mine. I book it hurriedly. Ha ha.
The kites unfold and I stare.
That’s a dragon? It’s neon pink! Isn’t it supposed to be a commanding bronze?!! It looks like a butterfly could fell it!
Paris tries to look nonchalant.
Mars mutters a sotto voce; Kites of a feather fly together.

So it figures that a few weeks ago when Myrine and Piper came in for a day’s visit Paris and I had plans which envisaged them having the most fabulous, exciting, never-want-to-go-back time in Cesspool.
This was our city. We’d take them to Bagel Shop and for a walk up to the fort to enjoy the sea, to some lovely shops that are stories on their own and for a night of hard drinking and dancing. Fortunately we got a reality check even before their arrival. I heard that not only were another cousin and his wife planning to be here the same day but also Mrs. H.
Hmm... Suddenly the visions of hazy fumed revelers and afternoon long gossip sessions in a cozy hamlet receded. Paris and I sucked it in (not very well). Nothing of the day went according to plan (plan A that is) and instead all we did was shop. I felt like the parent of an ungrateful child. All those days of planning and putting together the best day for them and all Myrine and Piper wanted to do was shop.
Lesson learnt – sometimes your expectations have to be tempered with other people’s.
I figured the evening can only get worse. I was trying to picture Mrs. H who can’t control her tch’s in the middle of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and who I’ve never even let in the same house for Sex and the City come with us to a den of iniquity. But by now I had achieved Zen. Or more correctly I just didn’t give a damn anymore. So we dressed up and went clubbing. I saw Mrs. H do a quick glance around. She sat down in a corner while we burst out singing the minute we entered. Then Elvis belted out a number and she shimmied onto the floor. I grinned. Piper’s resolve was bolstered. She dug out her pack and lit up a cigarette.
Hippy hippy shake. I bobbed up and down to hide the Classic Milds from view. Shake it to the left. Twisted. Shake it to the right. Slid back. Suddenly a hand snakes its way around me, Mrs. H gives me a wry-smug look and takes a drag from Myrine. I shake my head. Paris’s jaw drops open. Not for long though. Mrs. H passes THE CIGARETTE to her daughter-in-law. They turn a bend together.
And another lesson was learnt – Sometimes, just sometimes I find that I have low expectations and people can be and do so much more than I let them in my narrow imagination.

Dr: Yes a baby girl. I Fear there is No Cure

I’d have liked it if my birth was an environmental event. Some pathetic fallacy that I could prop up against. Pounding rain was Mars’ herald. In marwadi fashion someone ran from our house to a relative’s beating a plate announcing his birth. Titania came with first light after a moonless night. Their entry on stage was cued with lights and sound, drama and romance. I came at 6.06 am. There is no adjective for my birth. I don’t know if the dawn was soft or bright or unusually dark. I was just born. And despite nature I was born with the love gene.

Jr. Kg. I’d staked out my territory. I defended when he stuttered and looked disdainfully upon the class hunk.
Class 1: I got punished with guy and tentatively thought about holding hands.
Class 3: My mind found itself instinctively understanding smarmy lyrics like “duniya maange apni muraade, main toh mangu saajan, rahen salaamat mera sajna aur sajna ka aangan.’ Yes really. All bloggers are on a blogger oath to forget this.
So you get the picture. I can not help this. I was born this way. Way before books and romantic movies got hold of me and worsened the situation. Some people are born honest. Others are born happy. I was born believing.
When I learnt words I asked “How did mumma and papa get married?” and I got the answer, “Mumma proposed to Papa at the airport.” That’s it. There was no going back.
The story grew yearly. Different perspectives were added. How Mrs. H waited 6 months while Mr. H came back from his conference. How Mr. H had gone on a fast unto death till his mother agreed. How Mr. H dragged Uncle Red from the horse races to enlist his help. How Uncle Red sent out the wedding cards so that the match could not be canceled. There was a whole real life film in the family. And testimony to it was the chemistry between Mr. and Mrs. H.

Now we’d heard the tale from every possible source but Mrs. H. It was generally acknowledged in the family that Mr. H is the more romantic and expressive while Mrs. H still plays hard to get. It just didn’t seem to gel with the image of a woman who proposed and then waited for an answer. No matter how many times we asked her how and why and what she was thinking all you could drag out of her was a “don’t remind me. The foolishest thing I did.” We’d all laugh and put it down to her dry character.
But recently Paris and I cornered Mrs. H. We decided that an answer must be had and that it was a mite suspicious that she never said a word. Was Titania illegit? Hehhe.

So we hounded and hounded till exasperated Mrs. H said, “oof… he promised me that he’d take me for a holiday every year.” Silence. I could tell she was serious. After all these years this was the truth behind the Great Love Story. Mrs. H hurriedly added, “and he was the decentest guy I knew. Better than the options my father was coming up with.” Suddenly it all made sense. My mother was not a romantic. She was practical. She got married for security and comfort and because the known devil also happened to be man about town.

I have been proposed to a couple of times. They were people I adored and rich and could have offered me the world both emotionally and otherwise. But I couldn’t offer it back. If I’d accepted them I’d have been Mrs. H.
On this issue I am never going to want to be my mother. I was perplexed. My ailment seemed even worse when I realized that the love gene was not inherited but actually something that was all mine. I couldn’t blame my mother for my irrational choices.
Then I was talking to Salvatore and he laughed and said, “but don’t you see…you’re like Mr. H. You’ve taken after him.” Ahhh.
I always thought that I wanted Heathcliff but now I have to think that maybe I am Heathcliff.

Magic Beans: Part 1, 2 & 3

I lie on a sun bed on the beach framing a photo of my hand attempting to grab the rainbow in the sky. The diamond on my middle finger identifies that I’m the rainbow chaser. There… I think I’m getting the right light. The diamond’s sparkling, my hand’s perfectly placed around the rainbow and the colors look bright enough.
“aaack…. Alanis. Get out of my frame.”
She gives me her profile instead. The foot massager is grinning as he continues working on my not-so-receptive toes. I suppose it isn’t often, even in Goa, that you see one woman astride another.
Alanis is quite comfortable there. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my friends it is… that you can never beat them, you must always join them.
I sigh as I click a lovely shot of the rainbow shooting over Alanis. Then I push her off.

****

Lazy days begin with breakfasts that can be lingered over. A shack of wood with plastic curtains keeping the rain out and a soft breeze bringing some drops in is where we spent every morning in Goa. The first day began like this – “Fill me in.” Some things need to be talked about. The subject may be trifle troubling but you get it done quick and clean.
“Aldair says he doesn’t care enough anymore.”
“Sidhhartha says he’s dating the woman he was just friends with.”
(We groan at the cliché)
“I think I shouldn’t have called things off. I mean it’s not like I’m getting married tomorrow.”
I frown at Katharine at the same time that Alanis smiles. Kat just looks plaintive.
The sensitive stuff dealt with we launch into character assassinations and bitch-a-thons. Salvatore, Quinn, Menon, all of the above, are dissected and cremated.
The last time The Four of us spent a night together it was the night before Paris’s wedding. In honour of that event we bitched out every guy we knew save Mars. The night passed quickly. Mr. H’s warnings to let the bride get her sleep so she glowed flew around with the cuckoo.
This is 6 months later and Paris has left her husband behind to holiday with her friends. Over breakfast and in the midst of saying, “he’s really manic.” Alanis breaks thought to say, “You know I don’t think I’d mind if Mars was here.”
Kat nods good naturedly. I think about it and agree. Paris just grins.

*****

Katharine and I walk along the beach. I started picking stones for Rosalie (my youngest niece) and somewhere started holding them for myself. There’s something magic about finding shining color in water, makes you wish there was a story with each stone. The green one fell off the mermaid’s fin, the red one was on a pirates dagger, the smooth oval with a crack was a cursed stone that shattered itself. Before I know it my mind is full of magic and my hands full of dreams. Katharine willingly takes some off my hand when she sees they’re falling out. We amble along.
“You really will follow up on your dance dream right?”
Katharine just told us all this morning that she plans to quit her advertising job and take up dancing again. She wants a certificate in it to set up her own school eventually. All that was stopping her all this while was the imagined absurdity of dance as a career for the daughter of a business family.
“I think so. I just have to work around Ma.”
“Okay. I’m really happy you’re thinking this way.”
I suddenly remember that some months ago I’d written a really bad poem for Kat.

Dancing girl
Puts on her shoes
Gliding she tango’s
A step or two

Throws away her cares
Puts down her lists
Wildly she sashays
Through ensnaring mists.

Forgotten legacies
No other dream
She’s where she wants
In her dancing cleats.

What was written in hope seems a possibility now.
We wander back to our spots in the sun and pounce on the other two. Kat hands my stones back and i dump them in my Elmo bag as it begins to rain.

picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Harry Potter and the Unbreakable Pact

The wand arm reach of the boy from Surrey really came home to me when traveling by the BST or BEST (I never quite got that). The gentleman next to me stared right into my pages and without a moment’s hesitation asked me if this was the last book.
Now so many people ask me if I stood in lines and trampled people to get the book that I realized I am a fan.
My newly discovered reputation is suffering since I have to claim that I do not own The Deathly Hallows. Nein. Nyet. No. Fortunately for me my affairs of the heart have been singularly untouched by hype.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

It’s so lovely to unexpectedly find someone who grabs your attention and entangles you without you even drawing breath. Much before Harry got famous, in early 1997, Mrs. H found this book somewhere and got him home. We were moving house then and the beginning was as secret as I could have wished. I was supposed to help carry dusty cartons and carefully unveil pieces from their bubble wrap. But instead I thought I’d read one story of this new book. (I thought they were short stories of magic with the same characters) (Kind of like Pink Whistle). But of course it was so much more. Before I knew it, I was knee deep in still-packed cartons and reading in secret. A pile of boxes gave me cover as I read on and on. My heart beat didn’t drop once. If not the story then Mrs. H suddenly appearing gave enough impetus to push me into this relationship.
It is my most atmospheric start.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

No… I have not made a mistake. It’s just that our relationship jumped a stage. I read this part next and this is probably the only time in a relationship that I jumped a base. (Snigger. My parallels are so amateur that I’m entertained). Emotionally I like intensity before I like softness and Harry really entrapped me with this one. It had it all – anger, loss, hurt, coming into own, passion and happiness. With this one I knew that it would last.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

This was the comfort zone of the psychological relationship chart. We’d hit the high notes of intimacy, passion and comfort and now the former two were on a down swing. I enjoyed the company but wasn’t dazzled by the depths. This is when relatives and friends help a relationship - when their words help cement things. Mars and Paris really loved The Chamber of Secrets. Paris goes far enough to say it’s her favourite. Hmm. I went back and read it. For me this book was a work of ‘not enough of the good stuff’. I love the Parselmouth angle and it wasn’t used enough. I love the main plot with the diary and it wasn’t used enough. I was filled but not content. Then I read it again and enjoyed the delicacy. The economy of revealing enough and leaving you wanting. I was no longer in the comfort zone rather raring for more. Who would have thought prosaic Mars and woman of few words Paris could put a zing in for me?!

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Then there was this one. The fourth installment is my favourite. No question. I chewed my lip dry. I was left stunned. I laughed. I marveled at the intricacies. I hated it having to end. And I was so respectful of the forethought that this book revealed. Everything tied up and made sense. It was like being given the key to attraction. Like someone telling you… these are the reasons you love me… and finding that even knowing the reasons doesn’t lessen it. But good things can’t last and the next one proved it.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

If I could wipe out the memory of this one I would. I felt that we had different motivations and were growing apart. Harry had become embroiled in his quest for silver screen fame. I wanted him to stick to his roots. This period in our ten years gave us nothing. No joy, no highs, a litany of let downs and the death of what was to me one of the most hopeful aspects of our relationship. Even THE REVELATION by Dumbledore did nothing to save it.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

I didn’t wait for him this time. I was curious but felt detached. We’d grown apart and I figured if he had anything to say to me anymore I’d hear it. I feel little pitter patters in my central towards the left region when I think of how sweetly he returned to himself. He threw off the shackles of stardom and seemed to have realized that to win his girl back he’d have to woo her. A little wickedness, a little humour, a lot of kissing and the undercurrent of the earlier darkness. To me this book is more “return of the Kid” than about Snape and his bezoar remedies.

Which leaves me with: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
There was a tension inside me and a tightly leashed excitement. This was our moment, our grand finale and I’ve always liked to know how things are going to be. I was too scared to leap in and it matters that we go raging. I’m sure lovers, writers, film critics, venture capitalists, entrepreneurs, politicians, sportspersons and readers around the world will agree with me - There is nothing worse than a bad ending.
I heave a sigh of relief and wait in anticipation for this weekend. I mean to give us uninterrupted time.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

The Mighty Heart

Fed Ex won the Wimbledon in a too-close-for-comfort match equaling Borg’s 5 straight strawberries with crème trophies.
Ferrari and Kimi are racing again.
I’m a little like Veronica Lodge – I like my winners. But if truth be told I like people who like winning more. There’s something so honest about a man who wants to win- Like a woman who shamelessly enjoys compliments or a child who likes getting dirty.
I got up early one morning (only because I had to) and took Cykie for a walk (only because I had to). I’m a strong girl. (I hate how that makes me sound like the Hulk’s sister). But I am and I took our St. Bernard size Alsatian for a walk. Maybe with my limbs still slack and warm this wasn’t the brightest idea. I think researchers should spend valuable time studying the wake up time of a 19 year old vs. that of an 8*7 year old dog.
Anyway, so there we go – down hill and up dale. Big dog pulling sleepy mistress. Tug.
Cykie don’t.
Gambol. Gambol. Come race me.
Sigh. I hate good cheer in the mornings even from a too-big-to-be-so-silly dog.
He turns back on his lead and grins. Then he goes around me wrapping me in his chain so I’ll trip. Ha ha. He thinks it’s funny. I don’t.
Whack.
Don’t you give me that melted brown look. You just tried to kill me. Okay so you didn’t mean to but stupidity is no excuse in a criminal court. (Is it Aldair?)
He slumps along now. Just trying to make me feel bad. I’m not sure if he’s a dog or a man. I’ll show him. I jauntily ignore him. I’m a woman.
He’s a dog. He doesn’t sulk too long. Gambol Gambol.
At this time in the morning I wish he was a man.
The wind is really blowing. Fresh and cool and I’m coming awake. Against my will, I’m caught up in his excitement. Fine, let’s run. (Besides it’s downhill for a stretch).
So we run, run, wind in our hair and fur, faster and faster on our 2 feet and four paws, lungs filling and tongue flapping (all mine and his respectively). When I come to a grinding halt. Too late. Ah crap.
The momentum helps the big mutt. Before I can even shout a command ( I like to believe it would have stopped him), he has yanked himself off and is lion-like prancing straight at 4 dogs who had the audacity to bark at him while he was on a lead.
Not anymore. But they weigh the odds. Their four to his one. He doesn’t think at all. I can almost see the gleeful burst in his pea sized brain – Fight. Game. Fun.
It’s too early in the morning for such frenetic energy bursting through my heart I think. Fear. Oh god. Mars is too far away at home. I wouldn’t be able to get him in time.
So I do the only thing I can. I scream.
Cykie no. Stop. Come back.
It’s all clogging my heart and throat. The four dogs round on him. Oh god, my beauty. Snarling dogs are truly scary. Scarier than lions and tigers who have the good sense to stick to jungles.
Uhh… wait a second… one dog has run off. (I wasn’t completely useless; I helped my team by picking up a rock and hurling it) But the alpha male didn’t need help. He had one villain pinned under his front paw while he snarled and bit the other two. Then he released the first one and mauled the next. It was like watching a lion on National Geographic. Stunningly beautiful in motion. All the more so with the blood lust upon him. Just the desire to win and fight. Then he posed over the dogs like Schumi on the top step of the podium. Pure pleasure and energy at the win.
The larger army turned and ran. My hero came back. He has the brains to looks contrite.
He’s intact and I’m too impressed to be angry.
I don’t know about the rest of mankind but I’m definitely descended from a caveman and his clubbed on the head mate.

picture courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/

p.s. - can anyone (read Mars, Titania, Salvatore) supply me with a running pic of Cykie?

I'm an Indolent Panther I am

The law of the jungle favors the big people. The lion may rule but he’s really got to learn to move around the elephants with stealth and style and apparent nonchalance.
Mars is leaving for Cesspool. He’s got a new job there with TV19. Though he’s joined on for a web magazine they’re launching, I suspect that Paris is fantasizing about him on TV.

With him gone, I’ve got to pull up my socks, pull down my helmet straps and get my ass ready for a bike lesson.
And so.. at 5 in the morning, Mars and I are up and riding out. He sits behind me and clips out instructions.
“Start button. Accelerate.”
“Never use the brake and accelerator together.”
“Don’t go into sand and water.”
“Slow down at the speed bumps.”
He’s quite a good teacher, ofcourse he'd be better if he had nerves of steel. Our approaches are different.. he doesn’t want any accident at all and I’m just aiming not killing anyone.
Okay this is not bad.. whee.. I’m riding on a road. No problem. Heh.. I’ll take Paris to Chocolate Dips on the bike next time she comes. Though maybe we should walk when we go there. hmm. Or.. O crap! O crap!
I hug the side of the road till we’re almost in danger of kissing the trees. Mars sighs.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting out of the way of the truck,” I say belligerently.
“Okay. It’s a little extreme but you should ride the way you’re comfortable.”

We ride some more. I studiously stick to the left side. My left arm is hurting from clutching the brake so hard. A truck passes by and I don’t shudder. I think I’m improving.
I’m almost ready to whistle, (only I don’t know how), when suddenly I feel a change in the sound in my ear.. it’s a silent whooshing approach. My body feels the hum and generates the fear.. it’s one of those silent, speeding killer buses.. I just know it. All of their own will, my throat, lungs and lips form a choir and start whistling. A lesson from the King and I.
The elephant passes by and I am alive, safe. I am a survivor! Fit. Ha ha!
This bit of success goes quickly to my head. I veer off the side of the road and cheerfully pick up my speed. I’m not an expert yet so I can’t look down and check the speedometer but oh I’m fassssttt. I giggle to myself. I wonder how fast I’m going. Must be 100 at least.
I enjoy the moment.
Mars approves, “Very good. You not only need to know the rules, you should also enjoy a ride and feel the bike. But slow down now,” I smile smugly, “stick to 40,” heheh..i'm so fast i'm even scaring the flying Martian, "it's good you're comfortable at 60 though."
What?!! 60? a measly 60’s that fast? I’m obviously a dare devil only in my imagination.

In the next 20 minutes I discover while I may follow all the rules of the jungle, there’s no saying that other gazelles and cheetahs and lions will do the same. I’m secretly resigned to the idea of being a mole but it’s a fun thing to learn so I stick at it.
I start humming. I don’t know why but I’m singing you’re to good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you, lala heaven to touch.. lalla so much..
“India dammit, you’re going to break my back.. avoid the damn holes and slow down at the speed bumps.”
“Umm.. yes yes.” I nod vigorously to show I got it.
Mars isn’t very trusting. He repeats all the instructions.
“Never use the brake and accelerator together.”
“Don’t go into sand and water.”
“Slow down at the speed bumps.”
Thoughtfully he adds, “Keep a straight line, but you can veer if there are potholes.”
I’m adding one of my own to the list. No thinking while riding. No wandering while riding. Think straight. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel. Oh. . roadhouse blues.. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the whee-eel. Roll baby roll, roll baby roll, baby rollll.. all nigh-
“India! Ind-ee-a, god. damn. it!”
Eeps.

Pretty boy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance