Desert Rose

Up until 15 years ago Growing up in Muscat, we made it home in time for lunch. We could eat with our hands and take our own sweet time. Or could we? Because welcome to Geolin – rules are rules, girls! Our lovely home was a little uphill and as Pappa geared up the slope and the car came to a halt, we’d catch a glimpse of our Mumma standing at the door. She’d be fresh after a bath, wet hair loosely tied at the end leaving enough room for it to dry out slowly. She was almost always draped in a set mundu keeping us rooted. What a stunner, Mumma! She’d stand there and catch a glimpse of us and know exactly how our day went. From the comfort of the car to the scorching heat outside to the warmth of the home was routine, but one of the biggest luxuries this life has given me. Lunch was always ready. I never asked how. I never even wondered. It would be laid out on the table and we just needed to finish about 10 things in Mumma’s rule book to be able to devour our lunch. Shoes in the rac...

When days got closer to vacation in India or a trip, Mumma Lin usually went into severe planning and strategising mode. The key takeaway from her economic major, "maximum utilisation of available resources", blared louder than on regular days. She ensured that she ran the show with everything available until the departure and avoided "procurement" in the last week.  When the stock was minimal and other tasks were on priority, I always wanted to eat something that was not there at home. If I wanted a burji, there wouldn't be the egg. The potato wouldn't be there if I felt like having mumma's special potato korma. And if all the main ingredients were there - then onion wouldn't be there! After some discussions and convincing, I'd be on my way to my neighbour's home to pick up every missing part of my craving! These trips were wholesome in every way I can remember. Sometimes, you'd have to go to a couple of doors to ensure you have everythin...

 The hardcover was intact but a little sticky from years of perspiration from being stuck in the cupboard. It is lovely how seeing just the outer cover can stir a whole lot of emotions. It can wake up memories that you had put to sleep with a lot of effort. On turning each page, each of their faces smiling wide was so clear in the mind. In a phase of life where you’re wondering if memory is your thing anymore, it is quite reassuring to see your mind map the handwriting to the right faces.   A line here and a phrase there; a quick sketch here and an inside joke there; ink pen on a page that’s slowly fading (but you still remember enough to fill in); pages made all colorful with every line in a different pen. On a day when everything felt grey from the inside, just flipping the pages painted her mind red. They’d been the world at a point. Then there was a blur. Then there were years of questioning the blur. This phase was followed by some agitation and anger for not being...

                                                                JO&LE I know. Beautiful. She seems to be at so much peace. Such calm. While it all seems so, her brain is exploding with questions and her eyes are filled with wonder. And mind you, those are the questions that actually matter. “Where does the sun hide when it goes to bed at night? Where does the moon stay all day long? Why is pink, pink and orange, orange? Why do some men have beard and some have a smooth face?” She mostly wants more – be it the carrot cake on her plate or the stories around the world. She says things as she feels it. She cries when she feels like. She sleeps when she needs to. Here I am. Grown up. So grown up that I am currently reading “The Subtle Art of not giving a Fuck”. That’s the fine line I guess. She giv...

She woke up that day with a smile.   Thank God. Lately days are bright and happy. Yet that day, it was something else. After a minute or two, she realized. The reason.   She was amused because she thought it was all long back ago. She thought she'd forgotten details. Days which once mattered the most.   And here she was, messed up hair and tiny eyes, and the smile. How a tiny bit from the past make us come alive without us realizing. How those pieces we thought were buried deep down or removed from our system find their way back on the days that makes most sense to those memories.   How we see the innumerable happy moments over the few that probably caused the drift. After all she's a wild child with stains.   Sometimes imperfect. Sometimes unclean. But so damn shiny underneath.