[Credits: OJ and her first Canon Powershot]
So much better a title than ‘Spearing the Sun’. No? 🙂
Chinese fishing nets, Cochin, Kerala.
Hello readers of Orange Jammies,
As will be (painfully) obvious pretty soon, once you have detected a not-so-subtle change in writing style and conspicuously poorer use of English – this is not OJ. No siree, the honour of writing this post has been given to her worse half or, as he is known in these parts, the Boy. And this honour is not to be taken lightly, because it is indeed an onerous task to fill her shoes as the “Sutradhar” of the crazy world of neon pyjamas. I shall do my best to not let her blog down… but I do sincerely solicit your patience and tolerance just this once – because it is OJ’s birthday!!
Yes, twenty some years ago (or was it thirty some years ago…can’t be sure), this mistress of spices arrived into the world in a beguilingly simple manner. Though I was not present at that point in time, it is said that free OJ was distributed in the halls of the Parsi General Hospital in the leafy confines of South Mumbai. These are just rumours – but I would like to think this is what happened. With the free OJ, all the nurses, doctors, the infirm but lovable Bawas and the fruit vendor across the street were handed an issue of the latest edition of People magazine, a scented candle which brought about visions of Autumn in Bavaria, a bottle of industrial-strength kitchen-top cleaner, a pound of Norwegian (not Alaskan) smoked salmon, a Bottega Veneta crosshatch handbag, a gilded copy of “The Women of the Raj” and a vial of the strongest of good intentions. On receiving this puzzlingly odd collection of stuff, most were confused, because little did they know that this was just the beginning of a beautiful life filled with beautiful things.
That is my wife. A study in contradictions, but only those which make life interesting and worth living. There are many things I have learned about her, over the relatively short time I have known her – but if there is one thing I can mark with a flourescent highlighter for everyone to see it is that she relentlessly searches for beauty in this world. Whether it is through her amazingly crafted prose, or her selfless support of those in need, or her ability to change her own point of view, or her search for the perfect handbag/industrial-strength cleaner… it is all to make this world a prettier (and cleaner) place. A world her Nana would have been proud of.
And if it is her birthday, I for one, have many reasons to celebrate. After all, twenty some years ago (or was it thirty…does it matter?) on the 25th of July, the world suddenly became one heck of an interesting place to live in… that is worth celebrating, isn’t it?
Happy birthday, my love… may God bless you with health, wealth, happiness and lots of beauty.
Some days I scoop up love in those neon-hued plastic shovels from a kiddie sand pit, scrape-whoosh, scrape-whoosh, filling the spirit, topping it up with a rare fill of generosity and compassion, so that I may lie back, eyes closed, contented, and bask in the simmer of affection until darkness swarms and she siphons me out again.
O Mother mine, dementors chant like schoolboys at your feet.
Congratulations on being done with the terrible twos. Now that you’re all potty trained, less attention-seeking and inching past toddlerhood, I grow fonder of you each day.
You’re a sociable little one. You like visits, don’t you? And those mean folks who lurk in the shadows and never say hello upset your contented California existence. There, there. Not on your birthday. Here’s a clean tissue.
Let’s take a quick look back, shall we, and then onward ho to fabulous four!
Happy 3rd, precious page. You’ve brought me joy, catharsis and friends. And for that, I shall always be grateful.