5 Things You Didn't Know about the Summer in the Middle East

So you have heard that the temperature soars to 50 degrees in the noon time in the Middle East.. but did you know:

1. You can find burst car tyres on the roads. Something as small as a rock can do it cuz the roads are so hot and when the rubber hits the road in this weather, even a teeny tiny rock can have catastrophic consequences.

2. No one is smelly - Perfumes are sold in the truck load. The nationals here use Itr which is a concentrated version of perfume and as they walk by, you will only get hints of lemon, musk and Frankincense

3. This one is for my fellow ladies. Its wise to hestitate before you use the jet spray and taps in the bathrooms. The water here is so hot that I actually scalded my fingers today while trying to foam the face wash. You can imagine the rest of the 'challenges' on this one.

4. They wear a burqa for a reason. In the day time, it is criminal to subject your skin to those harsh rays. I once went out wearing shorts, thinking I need a 'cool look' for a hot day. I came back red and blistered. The clothing just protects you from the harsh sun.

5. Never leave your sunglasses in the car. Neil tried doing this once. And he's still applying aloe vera to the spot where the glasses sat on his face.

The Bottle That Travelled


Those who know me know that I come from a cross cultural background. My dad’s a rajput from Himachal and my mom’s a mallu. I speak a smattering of Malayalam, accented in all the wrong places and am mostly confused for a Bengali than, well, a mallu-rajput.

A day ago, my dad landed in Muscat Oman and brought with him a bottle of oil (?!) as a present for me. Which brings me to the subject of this story.

It all started when my mother visiting my house many months earlier made a heartbreaking observation. My hair wasn’t as lovely as it used to be. Now you have already been introduced to the fact that she is from Kerala. Add to this the revelation that ‘Leela aunty’ (pronounced Leela aundy) was in Chingoli, Kerala on one of her ayurvedic treatment trips and lo and behold, my mother had found a solution to all of my woes. A call was made at precisely 8pm Muscat time and Leela aunty was briefed.

2 days later 3 bottles wrapped in the local newspapers and restrained in a million rubber bands was handed over to Leela aunty. Leela aunty then handed them over to my uncle Joy (cuz only names in Kerala can be so vibrant) in his town of Chenngannur. The bottles were then handed over to his daughter who was visiting from Delhi, Shiny Chaychi (Malayalam for sister, she’s my cousin). Shiny Chaychi brought the bottles to Delhi and handed them over to someone in my dad’s church. On the next Sunday, after service, the bottles were handed over to my dad. My dad tied a few more rubber bands and cello taped it till a drop didn’t dare slither away. He boarded the flight to Muscat and arrived a day ago. Bottles in tow.

It took me a total of 30 minutes to unwrap one of these bottles. It had been mummified to the point that when the bottle actually revealed itself, it was a David of the Goliath of the layers of paper and cellophane that its personality once exuded. On the label, a scribbling of Malayalam.

For the sake of the travel its endured and the hands its changed, I hope my hair will be shiny once again.

Being 29. For a Day.

As I write this note, I am just a few hours away from turning 3 decades old.


30.

Most women would refrain from publishing their age stats on any kind of medium so I guess one thing age has made me is brave. I have spent the first hour today thinking about how I would like to spend the last day of my twenties something. Movie, shopping, friends? I have finally zeroed it down to not rushing, but enjoying the day - as it comes.


They say that in your 30s you come 'into' your own. I look back at the last 9 years - college, my first job, falling in love, getting married, making friends, making enemies!, late nights at work, my terrible back injury in 2005, job interviews, driving to work - there are so many memories. Each of which have helped me become a more 'settled' person.

So as personal achievements Before my 30th birthday, Ive debuted as an author, learned to pick myself up from my injuries, become a better professional, friend, daughter, aunt, sister.

And as my good friend Khalil Gibran puts it "Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

A day away from 30 actually feels really good.

Down the Road : My Debut as an Author!

A bunch of friends gathered around the top of a lounge bar on the evening of the farewell of the 3 Musketeers, Manu, Sneh and Pranav. Bosses say kind words, friends wish us luck.


And then one word sticks – Sneh, write, this may be the chance for you to become author.

Several months pass, blogs written, short stories in Oman – and then I meet the folks at Grey Oak, a publishing house who innocently ask – Would you be interested to write?

Hop. Skip. Jump.
Hop Again.

Months later, here’s Down the Road – an anthology of campus stories that remind you of those “good ol days” when Maggie constituted for breakfast, lunch and sometimes dinner; Professors took interesting names such as “Mendakk”; and romance was about “liking” someone. In this upcoming release you will find in print 2 of my stories written after much reminiscing and coffee.(Hop. Skip. Jump)

Coming to bookstores across India, Landmark/Crosswords/Reliance with the launch dated from first week of April at various cities : Delhi, Mumbai, Pune, Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad.


Watch this space for more!

Short Stories in Oman : I lash out




It must be the moon.
It makes me feel different each time.
Out beyond, I see you - you with your family telling your kids to be safe
You with the lover, holding hands and watching the sunset
You with the lonely gaze, standing there watching your footprints disappear
I reach out to the shore, only to drift back again
I want to be a part of your memories, but I have to return home
There is a stirring deep within me
But I must always be lonely, this is my destiny
I must always be a wave, a ripple, a river, a stream.

I must always be alone.

For I am the sea.

(Written at Qantab Beach in Oman where the waves lash out at your feet, almost wanting to drag you away with it)

Short Stories in Oman : A Morsel full of compassion
As the smell of fried chicken wafts into her living room, Shanta Sunderaman realises it is too late. It had become her daily 10am ritual to run to the windows and seal them shut to avoid the smell of non vegetarian cooking from floating into her impeccable maintained Brahmin house. But alas, she would have to do her "dhoop batti" puja and chants again to purify her space.

For months after moving into her little apartment across her husband's office in Muscat's business district, Ruwi, she had complained about how difficult it was to follow their age old traditions. "But this not India, Shanta.." her husband had refrained.."we must adjust". So now Shanta did all she could to stay true to her gods.



But today she had had enough, "atleast she can close her window!!" she thought to herself as she marched to drape a yellow dupatta over her new suit, saris are so much easier but "One must adjust!". She avoids the lift and walks down a flight of steps and rings on the doorbell of Flat 14.



Almost instantly the door opens revealing a sweaty faced woman in a Hijab* (*A scarf wrapped around a woman's face). "OH!! its not the delivery man!" exclaims Miriam and smiles. "I am Miriam and you must be the new Indian family upstairs, come sister, don't be shy" and she opens her door to reveal an array of trays laid out on the floor and tables.


Shanta opens her mouth to say something but decides against it and walks in precariously.

Miriam rattles away "You see, I am a single mother and I make non vegetarian lunch meals for working Indians in these offices. The money is not very good but it helps me get by and I was waiting for my delivery man who is late AGAIN today!"


"And how rude of me - I didn't even ask your name!, Anything I can do to help you my sister?"


Shanta puts down her dupatta on a sofa close by "I am Shanta, Can I help you chop those vegetables - you look like you could use some help.." She smiles and rolls up her sleeves.

Short Stories in Oman : On a Zephyr



The sun streamed into the room lazily through the mosaic tiled windows. Rafeeq rubs his eyes and leaps out of his bed. He goes over to his new spider man bag, bought after much pestering and then many thank yous "Shukran abba Shukran" to his father. His new books with the gleaming brown paper covering are lined neatly inside. He bends over and takes a deep whiff which tranforms into a smile on his face.


"Yalla !!" - his mother yells from the kitchen, hands smeared in the lunch she is packing for him. "You don't want me to come there! Get ready!" Rafeeq quickly runs to the bath, half mindedly washes his face and brushes. Its his first day of school and he dreams of running around the playground, kicking ball and scoring goals over dust clouds kicked up by his opponents on the other team.


********


"Yalla Badar!" Rafeeq's mom yells again. "You will be late for your first day at school". Badar clumsily picks up his new spiderman bag and heads towards the door where his father waits. "Atleast say bye to your brother!", Badar throws a glance at Rafeeq who is now attached to more tubes than he can count.


I would say bye to him, but can he even hear me..he thinks.