L'Oreally UnWella with Schwarzcough

 I don’t even know if there’s something called a parlour crawl but I can absolutely take credit for having done it and with panache. To be able to appreciate my experience, you really have to be someone who has off-days or rather off-your-head days and just does what you feel like when you don’t have a plan or don’t like to have one!

I often wonder where it is that I got this zest for looking up the Internet for things that I might need someday someplace sometime! It’s labelled trivia for people with better things to do but to me it’s all-important general knowledge. Trust me, for a lady, any age, that frequents parlours, this can be crucial armour to defend yourself from so-called beauticians who don’t themselves know they are out there to get you.

I had planned to straighten my hair. Decision made at 8.30 a.m. Parlour to be determined. I should mention that my risk-taking mentality is a tad high! I don’t always believe in being a loyal client to one parlour since I think I’d never know how it fares against the rest in the market. That explains it! Or, it’s probably also because I think I know how to ‘fix’ damages, if I recognize them that is!

I was there for the appointment that I had just made an hour before - in the premises of a relatively new parlour with a decent brand name. My basic questions were answered and twenty minutes later I was swivelling in a chair with blow dried hair, looking in the mirror imagining my expected result of the tedious process. Two of the gorgeous tubes sat there in front of me as the hair stylist stepped aside to wash her hands. I couldn’t resist picking up a tube to read the information on it. L’Oreal it was, just as I had wanted. Upto eight months of straight hair - only sans clamps, pony tails and braids - not to miss the fine print, explained the stylist as she mixed the stinky magic cream in a bowl. I blinked hard and stared at the tube again. It had expired two months before. I read again to be sure, in better light. I had read right. I called the lady and told her what I saw. ‘No chance!’ she said, ‘I had a client even last week!’. I cringed in my chair. 

The cream had to be used within two years of the date of import. I explained to her passing through every relevant information on the label. She had no expression. Either she was too shocked to react or she was skilled at handling clients  such as me in situations such as this.

She left the room to speak to the sales head. Ten minutes inched by and I was fuming ; more with every passing minute. The chain isn’t a cheap one nor are their charges. How could they be so careless? Did they not know it before or did they not mind using it as the expiry was fairly recent? Another stylist walked past and I imagined she looked at me like I was a giant headache first thing in the morning set out to ruin their possibly nice day. 

I swung the door open and peeped out of the room. The stylist looked at me like I was holding her under the guillotine. ‘A minute ma’m! We’re looking for new stock’, she said feebly. I walked back in and my heart went out to all those who were victims of that expired batch of tubes. Nothing may happen at all, it’s still ‘may’ right? You don’t want to pay through your nose in a branded parlour for a branded gamut of products to buy a branded allergy. 

The stylist literally dragged herself in to let me know that they didn’t have newer stock. I offered to pay for the blow drying but they offered it to me for the fiasco.

Blow dried hair in the blazing sun. I had imagined straight soft hair in an air-conditioned room. A bad day it was but I was determined it was not going to be a bad hair day. Quick, I said to myself recollecting what other parlours were on the 100 feet road I was standing on at noon.

Another hoarding caught my eye. Ditto. Branded chain of parlours, and  new in town. I walked a flight of stairs in pursuit of perfect hair. A lady welcomed me and asked what service I was in need of. An hour of cooling under a heavy duty Bluestar airconditioner was more like it. I rattled off and she quickly summoned her colleague to take my rapid-fire. We were done discussing the differences between hair straightening and rebonding and I had established she didn’t think they were different. Okay. I was willing to let it go.

‘What cream do you use?’ I asked. The lady who left us earlier reappeared like a genie, like I was asking personal questions. She replied and I clarified that I wanted the name of the cream and not the brand name.

‘We can’t tell you that, ma’m’. An awkward pause. 

‘Would you let a pharmacist give you a drug from a known company without knowing what it treated?’, I blurted. ‘It’s my head and I ought to know what goes on it so I can tell my dermatologist what I used if I need to see one in the first place, god forbid!’

I knew I was positively a pain in wherever they didn’t want one. Two other ladies down the same hundred feet road I was standing again on quarter past noon would undoubtedly share their sentiments.

Where next? I now dared to try checking with a smaller parlour whose beautician had done my wedding makeup a decade ago. Only, I had gathered so much information in this last decade, would she or her services be any different? I thought, as I felt my goal for the day move further away.

It looked the same from outside. I knocked and let myself in. There she was, just as she looked a decade ago. I’m not too sure why I was surprised though. By now, I had lost all the energy to question. 

I asked her the same set of questions, weakly. Her every answer made me shake off the fatigue and hopelessness. Clearly, frankly and patiently, she took every question of mine and an hour later, again, I was swivelling in a chair with freshly blow dried hair. (Turns out, the branded chain down the road hadn’t washed my hair well and I was so glad I accepted their offer of a free faulty job)

This experience was totally new to me again. Not in the last decade had I seen a stylist more dedicated, polite, focussed, frank and last but not the least, modest despite the experience she had gained. I loved her motto of hearing her clients as opposed to the annoying style of ‘Oh! leave it to me! I know how to give you a make over’ -style that many inexperienced, badly trained arrogant stylists have. It has nothing to do with not being loyal to a parlour - I had this experience even in the parlours I frequented before and had clearly established that I was a pain in the neck. 

Scrapy pedicures that gave me bruised feet craving for my earlier unkempt but happy ones, two eyebrows inches apart with six differences you could spot however hard I try to arch them to make them look passable, a scratch on a face that tells everyone where I went visiting - My turn to say - been there had it all!

As a client, I don’t have the skills though I know the procedures I am put through. Lack of skill doesn’t mean I lose the right to determine what goes on my face and what torture my feet need to go through. They are mine for god’s sake and who knows them better than I do! A painful pedicure isn’t meant to be that way because of exfoliation, lady! It simply means you’re so pathetic that you’re getting rid of more skin than you should be! I want rosy not bloody feet! I pay what you want so I can ask for what I want. Don’t make me think it’s easier to make it to Extreme Makeover than get done only what I want from you!

Just a shout to all you women out there - you know what’s best for you. Shy not from checking what’s important, you might end up surprising and saving yourselves from these stylists - again, like I said, some of whom may not even know they are out there to get you!

I now have hair I set out to get! That that I had to beg my new-found stylist to let me go after ten long hours is a different story altogether. What matters is I like what she did and she does it well. It's not about the big names always - sometimes, some small owner-run parlours, though tiny in front of these giants do a far superior job than the certified beauticians who train a truck-load of assistants, frame their certificate for display and go away on a holiday, taking the much needed skills with them.

Come full circle

It was cacophony in the car. It always is! Sometimes I really wonder why we bothered getting car seats for the kids in India. Most often it's quite an ordeal making them sit in their seats belted and is a long boring ritual every time that ends in my impatiently declaring they can go free. I end up being the drama queen for nothing!

We were heading to Thirupparankundram. Akin to many Maduraites I too have fond memories of running around the huge temple, getting lost in the crowd on Tuesday evenings, feeding the temple elephant for a blessing touch in return!

The children were enjoying themselves. I sorely miss the childhood bliss of not letting situations or places determine my behaviour. A long corridor, a steep wide flight of stairs and there we were at six feet distance from the idol of Lord Muruga. We intently watched the sacred spear being bathed in rose water, honey, tender coconut water and milk. For some reason, the milk from the abhishekam tastes divine, I know not why! The priest dabbed a generous amount of sandalwood paste on the spear and restored it beside the rightful owner while I hushed my son who grinned and declared to his sister that the spear was having a bath! Peels of laughter followed while my daughter was preparing to respond with an equally amusing observation.

Down the stairs again and I hurried to pay a special visit to Juradevar. Vested interest or whatever, we needed his blessings with the frequent travel and insane weather changes.

I was taken aback by a sudden gush of air. It was a welcome change from the crowd near the sanctum especially with all the climbing up and down. When I recovered, I saw a short old man wielding a highly disproportionate large fan made of peacock feathers. He swayed it from side to side with utmost sincerity occasionally challenging his equilibrium, every time someone went past him. I could see he was very content with the monetary token of thanks that my son had just offered him. With the brother ahead, the sister rightfully marched and demanded her chance. She quickly went up to him.

Neat stripes of viboodhi on his forehead and a warm smile on his face constantly, the man bent down to thank her while I stood beside. As I turned to walk ahead, my father told me that the gentleman had been fanning devotees from when I was three. I almost froze. I turned to look at him again and we walked back to him.

My father explained to him that he had been seeing him the last three decades. The man was touched. He was only so glad he was being spoken to. He quickly called all of us and offered the viboodhi from his recent temple visits. I still kept observing him. A contented look, divinity, immense faith in the Lord and no complaints about having to tirelessly fan the hundreds of people passing by, with zilch expectation - truly rare!

Minutes later, we then learnt that he doesn't miss any kumbabishekam in the state. He deems it his duty to be present in any temple where the kumbabishekam happens. I don't know if he has a family or if all his belongings would fit into a backpack. It didn't bother me more than his simplicity did. He seemed like someone out of the race. In his own manner, out of the league, I'd like to say. He seemed unfazed by the world around him. He was the king of his fan and he served the Lord by serving the Lord's devotees. I could well put him on a pedestal amidst shopkeepers outside selling overpriced flowers and offerings and devotees haggling with them. Unfortunately, there is a price tag with faith and devotion. It comes with ifs and thens and with mental mutual deals. Not that there's anything wrong with that! It's just the way some of us pray! Can we pray unconditionally? That's the question that popped when I heard about him.

As he blessed my kids, I felt blessed. I was so glad that my children have the opportunity to experience the niceties that were an integral part of my childhood. Sometimes, you see God in strangers and in their deeds. The gentleman was a reminder that he was in a place where I’d probably need a lifetime to strive to be in. Contented, spiritual, selfless with unconditional faith in God. I felt a tinge of shame that I had to realize that after a man older than my father, struggling to lift a fan almost twice his size, fanned me, my kids and a million others who wouldn't even miss him.

It was certainly not just a gush of air.

At home and in Rome

A plethora of reasons could require us to reside outside the country - education, profession and striving for a better class of living. While away from the homeland, everything could seem and be almost perfect. Yet, I feel like I have a jigsaw puzzle laid in front, with a couple of gaping holes caused by pieces whose whereabouts I am clueless about. These could well be related to food, family, friends, tradition, climate, places or a conglomerate of it all.

As an individual, it is all about the choices I make. I could blend in with residents of the foreign land while I still cherish the Indianness in me. There are things that I could do that I wouldn’t want to in India. There are some I would want to do that cannot be done in India.  There are some I would still do like in India no matter where I live. Years go by. Views change, balances tilt because sides creep in. Two halves in a whole become one half versus the other.

While I carefully ponder in an attempt to recollect when the demarcation seeped in, the last  rollback point I can zero in on is when my first child was two. I don’t remember vividly if there was a benchmark moment that made me reflect on what kind of upbringing the child needed. I can’t tell if it was spontaneous. That’s precisely where I am headed. Spontaneity. I was hugely hung up in ensuring that the children behave as expected in public. At home, they could be as spontaneous as they could. What then was my idea of socially acceptable behaviour for a toddler who could barely speak the local language? I shudder. I don’t think I would have wanted him to do anything that another normal toddler of his age didn’t and this example toddler would have to be a local! 

Scene change. Back home. Indian food, Indian clothes, Indian languages and way of life. While I took so much trouble in trying to teach my toddler how to behave in Rome, I conveniently forgot that I always chose to live like in India at home. A Rome to home transformation should have been so difficult, I realize now. I regret now.

Why was I able to decide perfectly on how I should behave and based on what culture in all situations? To me, then, it was because I just knew both worlds. To me, now, it’s simply because I wrote the rule book myself. You don’t break the rules a lot when you make them.  Even if you want to, you amend or work around them. Why? I am a parent!

The toddler I tried teaching all the time, knew, when he was three, to speak French outside and Tamil at home. He didn’t have to be told. He didn’t have to be reminded who knew French and who didn’t. He just knew. He loved eating curd rice at home but didn’t ask for it in an Italian restaurant. He just knew. He ate with his hand at home and comfortably used the cutlery in restaurants. He just knew.

In retrospect, it’s he who did all the homework. I possibly misguided him or rather distracted him with inconsistent behaviour. While he ate with both hands at home, I clicked countless pictures of his face and hands smeared with yogurt and rice, to e-mail to family back home. At restaurants, he invited steely glares from me when he dropped a shell of pasta on his clothes. 

This was just the beginning. The boundaries of conduct were going to get hazier with every passing year. My time was going to run out very soon, perennially lecturing on the do’s and don’ts. To top it, two sets of them - one for India and one for the foreign land. Unfair, is what comes to mind, unfortunately late but in time for my daughter who’s a toddler now.

As an adult, I did face situations when I wasn’t sure how Indian I should continue to be. I am sure I was inclined to learn the local tradition and observed the local customs to follow them appropriately and gain acceptance. Did I assume I needed acceptance and that I didn’t have it already? 

Dual behaviour based on self-drawn assumptions could well distort the very things we strive for. The rule book never gets obsolete. It only gets bigger, fatter and more complex and comes in multiple languages. I realised there is nothing worse than curbing natural behaviour. I let myself be the way I wanted but began nudging the children to gain acceptance in the home land as well as the foreign land. What made me think people in either land cared? There was leeway everywhere - back home, because we were non-residents and in the local land, we were known to be Indian. 

I caused the pressure. I wanted them to be Indian at home and do as in Rome a step outside home. I think I know well enough now, that, what matters is not what’s Indian and what’s not. It’s what right, appropriate, sensitive, humane and what’s not that is the essence. 

I am glad I learnt my share of lessons on my own before my children grow old enough to ask “It was your choice to live outside India, not mine!”

Adaptability is the need of the hour, not duality.

Grow up, get together or grow together

I had mixed feelings. Mixed could well be a wrong choice for a word. There was excitement, skepticism, eagerness and ease all in varied proportions. I was meeting my classmates I went to school with after over a decade. 

A lot of memories to recall and relive. A lot of untold stories to share. Many happenings to summarize and update. Rather many versions of happenings related to the degree of closeness. I needed preparation. No, it was not about clothes and not about specifics - it was largely about preparing my mind. 

In a class of 50 plus where you have literally grown up with so many right from the age of three to seventeen, it is quite a journey to be through. Ups with some, downs with others and ups and downs with a special few.

A one-on-one conversation is a cakewalk. It’s when in a group that it’s really complicated. Varied personalities, different levels of humour and political correctness! It is indeed an art to be able to talk in a group and appeal to all types. Thankfully, I was not nervous. Largely because this was a group I grew up with. There is this comfort that they all know your qualities well enough to spend a nice evening together. There is also nervousness that one cannot gauge how much the other has changed or grown up! 

What then is the safety net? To stick with old friends or to venture making new ones?

In school, some are classmates and some are friends. When you’re out of school, all classmates seem friends to many. This theory surprises, amuses and interests me all at once. Why is it that a decade later some think old classmates are better company than some new friends they have made? There is always a risk that some have stayed the same and some have refined and some have taken a U-turn - further messing up the complexity of group dynamics!

I should say I thought for a lot more hours than the hours I was to spend with classmates!

Is it alright to take the liberty with some assuming they are comfortable? Is it acceptable to interpret that you share the same level of closeness mutually given that you haven’t spoken with each other for a decade? Too many questions to ask and multiple answers vastly depending on who you are as a person now and also greatly relying on how much better you fare in comparison to the other friends your classmates have made in this decade! Scary but true, in my honest opinion. 

Unfortunately, I squirm at the thought of being a second choice. I would rather invest time and effort to build on a relationship with classmates for whom I have never been a choice to take it to the next level than jump at them and declare my forced closeness without knowing how far along they are in their journey.

Sans doubt, I am welcome to the idea of changing equations with some. I think the only equations that will change are those that will make things better. Else, I have serious questions on how grown up we are. While there may be no golden rule book for classmates’ reunion behaviour, I still think each one would have a plan of action in place, possibly undisclosed. Whether the plan is acted out by all, I know not. 

At the outer side of 30, we ought to know that each of us might be living in a big bubble. We have reservations on who can cross what limit. While some decisions are predetermined, some are impromptu after spending an initial pleasantly surprising ice-breaker slot of time with classmates we never thought we’d hit it off with. We can’t judge, we can’t comment, we can’t complain. 

A get-together is much like a buffet. You take back with you tastes of dishes you love and new tastes you’d like to remember and wash the rest in a finger bowl.

While I didn't get to try some new dishes, I did see some favourites and I'm glad I didn’t have to use the finger bowl!

Nail Biting - Nay Nay!

My imagination has almost run out. I am in desperate need of ideas to use to put my five-year old boy in place when his energy runs super-high. Soft parenting theories, timeouts to occasional taps - no proven consistent success. 

One thing I swear by in recent times is scaring him with the police. I have told him there are cameras everywhere - some have been installed by the police and some by God. He knows he is monitored most of the time. He is in trouble, beyond my solving capacity, if he misbehaves in stores, runs on roads or basically pushes his mother to her limit. The fact that her limits can vary is another story but that’s not what we are talking about here.

Using the cops has been working well. The first time he bites his nails, the germs are going to get him. The second time, the doctors are going to poke him. The third time, the police are out to get him for having disobeyed his mommy and the doctor! Sigh. It is indeed a challenge to make up stories bordering believable and scary and to top it all to seem logical too. What was fearful to us as kids is illogical and stupid to ours. The learning continues. 

Guards everywhere in sight. Starched uniforms and sober staff in stone buildings. I was meeting my classmate who confused, shocked and made us all proud by being a doctor and then turning a cop.

I sat there with paramount confidence that I finally had, in flesh and blood, someone to point to and put an end to all my minor daily miseries. Though totally impossible, I was secretly hoping he would brandish a pistol and shoot all trouble at sight. As my cop friend went on with his business, I casually explained to my son how serious the situation is and how he really needs to wrap up throwing tantrums unreasonably. He watched me intently and we were ready to test what we had just learnt. 

We turned and looked up at my friend, waiting for him to get a brief break so we could catch up. I almost froze in my chair visualizing the questions I would have to answer.

The cop was biting his nails.

Passers-by

I meet her almost everyday. Complying with local tradition, I have greeted her many a time only to evoke no response. No response in the strongest sense of the phrase. No nod of the head, no fake grin, no warmth in the eyes, no change in body language. 

Once, twice, thrice and the same reaction or the lack of it every single time. I no longer  greet her. 

For someone with such strange uncommon countenance, she is in my thoughts more often than I would expect. I see her thrice a day at least and have never seen her smile. What could be so wrong in her life that prevents her from offering the simplest and sweetest thing we all can? Is she swamped with worries? What could be so grave and topsy-turvy in her life that all through two long years she didn’t smile once, at me or anyone else? The one-sidedness made it seem like an insulting raw deal, even humiliating occasionally when it happened in the midst of others. I was annoyed. 

I am constantly at debate with myself every now and then. Am I right in expecting a pleasant response or should I just wish her sans expectation? If greeting someone is to make their day better, should I just go ahead knowing how she is or should I pay more attention to how her dullness and silence bothers me when I greet her every time. Funny I end up sulking because of a lack of contact when I try to offer her a better moment. 

Should I try to be a better person or a sensible passer-by? I knew not. I chose to alternate. 

‘Ciao!’. I frantically searched the tram,within my purview. 

A little girl in pink, head to toe, pony tails and all, waved out to me and flashed a smile. I waved back and began brooding on what prompts these young bundles of joy to brighten up someone’s day with no inhibition. While I was glad that kids were so special, I went back to brooding on whether it was my sulking that made her pick me out of so many in the tram. 

The tram stopped and I stopped judging the lady. 

Knives Kill

Fire fighting practically every day was challenging and manageable. What unnerved me were lunches with the clients. No, it was not making conversation that daunted me. It was using the knife and fork.

A day’s workshop on cross-cultural skills and my husband’s crash course at Pizza Hut was all the training I could manage to gain confidence in using the knife and fork. Some things just seem to elude me, simple or not.

What was it about the cutlery that intimidated me? What made me think it took away the joy of relishing my food? Was it the fact that I grew up eating with my hands or was it the engulfing fear that the pizza I was eating would trace a projectile and end up on the floor or worse, my client’s plate?

One country in the west to another and my table etiquette hadn’t improved. The transition from pizza to pasta did the trick of making it easier. The occasional complexity peeped in disguised as salads and I was even getting better at choosing dishes on the menu, that wouldn’t blatantly expose my dexterity.

I had improved or had had enough practise, I know not which, until the acid test came in the form of a chappathi made of maida (refined wheat) at an official dinner. I looked around helplessly searching for a single person who used their hands for the chappathi. That was all I needed to dive in.

Twenty-two at the table and there was none. How did they eat it with cutlery? No clue whatsoever, absolutely. I did try. I had a plan - To cut a piece of the chappathi, to use the fork to dip it in the curry. Wait, I didn’t think I saw anyone do that. I saw the chappathi being eaten interspaced with spoonfuls of curry. What a pity?

I was angry. I stared at the chappathi. The longer I stared the harder it became, the texture and the slicing both. I rejected it conveniently blaming it on the maida. Only, it was so tasty!

I was amazed at how my table skills determined what I wanted to eat in restaurants. I didn’t let it affect me so much till the effect of my lack of dexterity invaded my choice of Indian food. The alarm rang! Strangely, it alerted me not to care about cutlery in Indian restaurants at least.

My heart bled. I saw the painful divorce between the potato filling and the samosa’s pastry.

There is a reason why they are together. There is a reason why Indian food is eaten with hands. It is crucial in rendering a wholesome experience. My line was ready, as clichéd as world peace is to a beauty contestant.

I knew it all along but just needed to be reminded.

I will answer anyone who questions my decision, just that I want to remind them why chopsticks had to become famous. I am sure there are dozens who feel about chopsticks the way I feel about cutlery.

To all of us, let not table manners distance us from the table. Habits are means to an end.

Bon appétit!

Away but not Alone

I walked in, carrying my restless toddler and took an instant liking to what I saw. There was undoubtedly a vibe, a first of its kind in the faraway land I was getting used to living in. We were house hunting, desperately.

Renting a house is an experience altogether. We visualize ourselves living there and envisage the good times that will follow and make the house an inseparable part of the memories we will cherish. It involves a complex mix of economics, legality, locality, being child-friendly and to top it, some very strong vibes that can disregard the other factors occasionally. We were in a rush to move from where we stayed

A foreign land, it’s people, an unknown language and your perception of how your skin colour is judged can trouble any steady mind, though briefly. We decided to move the moment we felt unwelcome. No arguments, no confrontation. We had to be prepared to let the difference follow us everywhere. Or, so we thought.

The beautiful lawn meant so many possibilities. I was imagining a swing while my husband, a battery-operated car, all for a toddler who still wanted to be carried. A friend offered to translate for both sides and I gazed hopefully at the lady who owned the house. With every minute that passed that she showed us around the house, the connection only grew stronger. So much, that I didn’t have to glance over to see my husband’s reaction. We just knew we loved it. Would just that suffice? We were just one amongst the many families who would have visited the house and quite likely the only foreign one. That said, all the factors I said can absolutely be pushed under the carpet. We were entirely at the mercy of a lady’s perception of our origin and lifestyle. All we could do was go back and pray. The house, in our dreams and thoughts.

The call came, a couple of days later. The landlady had chosen us over all the other families that had visited. We were completely engulfed in joy and disbelief. We began feeling welcome. This land and the house could very well be home, no matter how long.

The battery-operated car came. So did the swing. After four lovely years, a daughter and a car theft later, it’s moving time again. Breaking the news to my landlady has been one of the most difficult things I have had to do. I did and our conversation will be one I’ll never forget. I had learnt to speak the language and that was our only means of communication. She sportingly corrected all my conjugation errors and casually ignored my insertion of English words into her dictionary. She was always there for everyone in the street; running errands, baby-sitting, shoveling pathways. She was my image of a good samaritan.

A tear trickled down her dry cheek as she pointed to the Tanjore painting of Goddess Lakshmi that I had presented to her once. ‘That will stay with me forever’, she said. I was touched at how she valued the painting when I was once skeptical about how she would receive it when I gifted it to her. I had hesitantly told her that I do not want to thrust my religious belief on her. ‘I respect your deity as much as mine’. I didn’t say more. Two days later, she brought me a write-up on Goddess Lakshmi and to my surprise, I realised she now knew things I did not.

This was the lady that treated me like a daughter, who risked all while our car was being stolen; who spent hours at the hospital with us; who mowed our lawn and baked us cakes; who watched my toddler evolve into a young boy.

I believe our connection was meant to happen. She does too. ‘You were a result of my prayers to the deceased lady who lived in the house before’, she said. All I know of the dead lady is her name from her mail that still kept coming. After our conversation, I thanked her too.

Some relationships are special. For me, these just have to be the ones where there is an instant connect. While I don’t remember much of her from our first meeting except for her striking simplicity; she vividly remembers me carrying my toddler; and that’s the picture she will associate with me.

‘C’est la vie’, were my last words of the conversation. ‘My perception of Indians has changed’, were hers. I nodded and walked back home; it will stay home to me no matter who lives there next.

The swing will stay and so will the car. For another family that the angel will send.