Twenty- five Seven

Mumbai On A High – 10 years today!

August 5, 2019

Life is a series of baby steps along the way and if you add up these tiny little steps you take toward your goal, whatever it is, whether it’s giving up something, a terrible addiction or trying to work your way through an illness. When you total up those baby steps you’d be amazed over the course of 10 years, the strides you’ve taken.

Hoda Kotb

I woke up this morning to a post by a fellow Write Triber Balaka’s lighthearted complaint about her family actually honouring her wish and not celebrating her birthday.

This not only brought a wry smile to my face but also reminded me of my own birthday celebration last year.

My huffing and puffing actually ruined my own surprise party that my family had so meticulously for me.

Today it turns out is the anniversary of my blog

With my reputation for giving up things halfway, I can hardly believe I’ve sustained activity for so long.

And an important one at that!

When I began blogging, I had no idea really what I was doing. In fact it was originally an on line journal that I thought I would share with my relatives overseas. But those were the days when everyone was busy doing their own thing. The internet was new and used only for serious stuff like work.

Using the internet for something as frivolous as sharing ideas, ranting or even online grumbling was simply unheard of.

Gradually, however, the world discovered this free online publishing platform where NO EDITOR turned you down and soon there were more blogs than there were readers!

In the beginning, my blog was an experiment.

With each passing day, I discovered something more and learnt something new. In fact, it was such a fascinating journey of discovery that before I knew it I had completed 10 years on Word Press!

So thank you, all my readers who encouraged me to write for 10 years with your support.

Sharing these thoughts as Monday comes to a close on #MondayMusings

Ciao
Outside my window

August 2, 2019

As Morning Unfurls

It’s 6 am and the faint monsoon sunlight peeps through the curtains. It has been raining continuously for the past two days. Perversely, the rain starts with a slow drizzle on Friday morning, gradually working up to a torrential downpour by Saturday. And then on Sunday, it continues to pour. The wettest day of the week. Perhaps I should be happy that it rains only on the weekend. After all, that’s the time when people are home and safe. They don’t have to battle potholed roads or look out for open manholes waiting to devour them up.

But now it is Monday and the clouds have poured out all their rain. I wake up to the start of another week on a grey Monday morning.

Outside my window, I hear the horns honk. The harsh sounds pierce the morning calm. I look outside irritated. If I could, I would throw a blanket over them to cover the noise. Or better still, rotten eggs and over-ripe tomatoes on the windscreens of the irate drivers, who honk their impatience at the school buses blocking the road. Ironically, these huge, yellow monsters that are the solution to smoother traffic create havoc at the start of school and when school is out. Within minutes, cars stretch down the road to Colaba, the Southernmost tip of this narrow island city.

Outside my window parrots screech during their daily fly past while harrowed mothers coax their reluctant children to hurry up and cross the road before the light turns green. The little things with backs bent with weighted bags would rather catch up with friends met along the way than rush to class.

At the zebra crossing glistening with the morning drizzle, I spot a policeman outside my window. He sucks in his stomach straining at the buttons and holds his breath. He waves the children on impatiently, longing to blow his whistle and let the traffic flow.

Outside my window I see the dog walker waiting patiently for his gaggle of dogs to stop sniffing at the electric junction box. Soon each dog will lift his hind leg and with practiced ease, slowly release his visiting card that melts with the puddle on the pavement.

On the road divider, I see a banana seller precariously balancing his wares as he waits for the opportune moment to dash across the road.

Outside my window, the day slowly unfurls. My coffee awaits.

Though July has been a wet month, as far as my blog goes it has been pretty dry. For some strange reason, I just felt too blah to write or read. A short blog hop #The ZombieBlogHop organised by my favourite people shook me out of this inertia but after the brief spurt, I went back into semi hibernation.

Ciao,
What’s the big deal about Shravan?

August 1, 2019

Image via WikipediaThe Holy month of Shravan

Shravan or Sawan is the 5th month of the Hindu calendar.

This may sound strange to those who are familiar with just the one calendar- the Gregorian beginning with January and ending with December.

But there are other calendars as well : the Hindu one, the Muslim one, the Parsi one, the Jewish one.

I first realised there was a Hindu calendar when my mother made different food for herself on Tuesdays ( dedicated to Lord Ganesh) and Saturdays (dedicated to the Lord of Saturn). These were the days she used to fast and tea time meant yummy stuff completely laden with fat and calories…..But I’m not complaining. I used to love the smell of pure ghee that permeated the house as the saboodana khichadi was cooking or the wadas were being fried especially when we came wet and drenched from school……

[bctt tweet=”While my mother often let her fasts lapse during the rest of the year, she was particularly strict during the month of Shravan.” username=”viaunishta”]

Because Shravan is the holiest month of the year where a practicing Hindu observes many fasts and rituals.

Maharashtrian mothers in particular observe a Friday fast for their children in the month of Shravan and we used to get special treats on Friday like Puran Poli , Shreekhand or Basundi.

Another ritual was the ladies lunch on Friday where my mum would invite her married friends to lunch.

But there are many other rituals and customs that others practice and in order to get into the mood of austerities, the dark night before the month of Shravan begins, people celebrate in revelry and often land up drunk and in the gutter. Hence the name “gatari amavasya”.

The Dark Night of the Gutte

It was several years later before I realised that the day before Shravan is known as ” Gatari Amavasya” literally translated as “the dark night of the gutter” so called because it is the one day of reckless inebriation where people let their hair down drinking their way to the gutter before the onset of a month of austerity that Shravan calls for.

Naturally, this festival wasn’t celebrated in my home and it remained one of those days just marked on the calendar. However, one year we decided to actually celebrate this day and see how far we could go with the booze.

After dinner when all of us were in a mellow mood, we brought out a bottle of Sula red: a deep merlot called Satori . We poured generous amounts in each glass, promising ourselves that we would not only go through the whole bottle ( between the four of us) but also open the second and maybe third……

But after one glass our celebrations were called off as the girls remembered they had to go to work the next day.

Definitely, this is one day that will not be celebrated on my calendar again.

Do you believe in getting drunk to celebrate? Do let me know in the comments below.

Ciao and Happy Shravan