Luminescence

The squeaking of the rusty swing in the deserted play area of the garden is a note foreign, intruding upon the sonance of the night.

The light zephyr carries with it secrets whispered to it by the frangipanis, as it blows through their flowering tree, loosening a blossom. The flower surrenders itself and is given a gentle lift by the breeze before it collapses onto the cropped grass. A bat, almost camouflaged in the dark, flutters out from a tree and disappears into the night.

The moon is almost full, sailing in her ascent to her cherished spot in the sky from where she reigns as the hours pass on. The clouds move with her, guarding her jealously. They claim her beauty for their own, refusing to share it with the world below. She peeks out shyly from behind an opening in the clouds that obstinately remain before her, a glimmer of her iridescence illuminating what little of the garden it falls upon, making the leaves glisten and outlining the empty playground, silent, but for a frog croaking harshly under the slide.

Finally, the wind intercedes and nudges the clouds, reminding them that their journey lies onward, elsewhere. Reluctantly they float on, leaving bare a jewelled sky, revealing the glowing orb in all her glory to beam down on earth.

The garden lies still in her luminescence, unmoved but for an observer who has been watching the transpiration, swaying wordlessly on the rusty swing.

an eventful weekend.

This weekend has been a very nice one. I'm sorry it's come to a close. Yes, I realize I said here that I was sure I had more to say than tell people in so many words of what a good time I'm having, but you know that feeling when you have SUCH a good time that you must share? This is me sharing. I promise to make it worth your while.

Since I started working, I've rarely had a very packed weekend in Kuwait. Occasionally, I do breakfast with the BFF and then we go gallivanting in her car across the country, or I take in a concert or a movie. Else I prefer to stay in and relax with the family, read or write. This Friday however, was different.

Friday morning I met the Q8 Foot Soldiers a second time (they deserve an entire post, stay tuned) to go running (in my case, walking more than running) on the promenade from Marina Crescent to Scientific Center and back. The weather, in case you slept in and failed to notice, was absolutely gorgeous. The walk/run was rejuvenating, the crisp, fresh air revitalized my senses that had been so dull and dismal and in danger of catching a cold the past week. My skin was finally exposed to sunlight—merciful sunlight—and I basked in it. So much more refreshing than a workout at the gym!

The scenic route: pausing to stare at the scenery

After the walking/running, stretching and socializing with a couple of the other runners, I met the mother for breakfast at Zaatar w Zeit and devoured the most mouth-watering and delicious fattoush salad ever. It was heavenly. I can still taste the lettuce doused in the tangy lemon-olive oil dressing and hear the echoes of it crunching in my head...I can never get that taste in homemade salads.

The afternoon consisted of a shopping spree for sports apparel at Decathlon with the sister. I think I drove her to the brink of frustration and insanity as I circled the store for nearly two hours in search of a long cotton jacket. Finally conceded to buy one two sizes too big since nothing else was long enough for my liking.

It's about time I linked back to my blogger-aspiring writer friend Lord Aymz. He writes exceedingly well, has a distinct style and wit, and his blog is the first local one I stumbled upon that was articulate and intelligent. We had a chance meeting at Better Books a couple of years ago when we were just following each other's blogs. He is also the founder of the aforementioned Q8 Foot Soldiers.

He likes to try new things, and somehow got himself into performing stand-up comedy for the first time at the Isma'ani Open Mic Night event Friday night at Argeela Bar. Carpe diem baybeh! The online audience registration had reached capacity so of course I invited myself, and attended with a lovely (and very lively!) member of the Q8 Foot Soldiers.

It was a very enjoyable evening and I'm still laughing at the hilarious dialogues and antics of the host. Aymz's act was very good, considering it was his first time (his face beetroot red with nervousness throughout). Stand-up comedy is probably the toughest form of public speaking and I admire his guts. Watch his act here. He has loads of potential and I've already invited myself (again) for the next show.

There was another performer, a beautiful young woman from Saudi, that grabbed my attention as soon as she started speaking. She narrated a letter titled 'Woman', a dedication of sorts to her 'yet to be conceived daughter'. It was the most stirring, soulful piece of writing I'd come across in a very long time. She received (much deserved) thunderous applause.

What made the day even more memorable is an unexpected meeting with Nada Faris, a very talented Kuwaiti writer and blogger. Her short stories and posts have become a crucial part of my weekly reading and I'm learning a lot from them. I spotted her across the room, recognized her immediately (having seen her picture dozens of times on her website banner) and patiently waited for intermission to go say hi. When it did come, I hopped over in excitement and after making certain it was her (I had a sudden thought that she could have a sister that looked exactly like her) introduced myself, and we enveloped each other in a bear hug. I love meeting people I know from the internet, especially the blogosphere. And especially when those meetings lack premeditation!

Saturday was spent in rumination and relaxation.

So that was my wonderful weekend, and I've introduced you to two awesome bloggers. Told you I'd make it worth your while.

The Sanctuary that Once was

Once upon a time in Kuwait, there lay a small sanctuary, deep in the ground, for lovers of the written word.

It thrived with visitors young and old, wandering through the aisles, the sight of the innumerable tomes appeasing their insatiable thirst for words. This lone oasis was all they had, all that was there in the desert that could offer them any satisfaction when it came to reading English books. The two guardians of the sanctuary welcomed them in and then let them be, knowing that they preferred to be alone with the great masters they were about to meet.

The sanctuary I speak of is the British Council Library, often abbreviated to the BCL, which once flourished in the basement of the British Council in Mansouriya. The two guardians were the librarians Khalid and Santana, who’d been working there for years.

When I was four, my mother initiated us into the BCL’s family membership. For years after that, I escaped from the mundane realities of school and homework by exploring new realms and sharing countless moments of joy with my companions on my many adventures—whether it was discovering the Golden Ticket with Charlie Bucket, soaring through the earth’s orbit with Willy Wonka in the Great Glass Elevator, stumbling into Narnia with the Pevensies, fighting battles by Prince Caspian’s side, vanquishing smugglers and kidnappers while camping all over the British countryside with the Famous Five or gorging at midnight feasts by the swimming pool with Darrel, Alicia and the other girls at Malory Towers. I led a very full life indeed.

When not saving the world or performing remarkable feats, I was absorbing facts on dinosaurs and the universe from Dorling Kindersley encyclopedias.  

We made our romp there every month. When my sister was born a few months after our first visit, my mother would carry her in one arm while browsing the Adult section. As my sister grew, she’d crawl all over the grey library carpet in the Children’s section. Once she started reading, she and I would dig deep for books we hadn't read, concealing some strategically to borrow on the next visit. We would then proceed to Mansouriya Market (the supermarket across the parking lot opposite the BCL), buy some groceries and Snapple’s Pink Lemonade, and then head to Hardee’s (right next to the supermarket) for a meal, all the while engaged in deep discussion of our loot from the library. It became an age-old family tradition.

There was a book sale once; the BCL’s Adult section was to be discontinued. Hardcover books were priced as low as a quarter KD. My mom went through the following week with an ecstatic smile after she bought bags and bags of books for a mere 30 KD. One of them, weighing at least two tons, detailed the entire history of the British monarchy. I remember excitedly tracing King Richard the Lionheart and Prince John’s line; I’d just read Robin Hood and had assumed they were fictional characters. Learning they existed made me believe the legendary outlaw was real, and I proclaimed him my hero.

The BCL adapted with the times; it even included a video library. This was where we would often find our mother, flipping through the video catalogues for BBC and other TV series, while our father would look for Bond movies to watch the umpteenth time. Through those catalogues, I knew all the titles of Dickens's work despite not having read a single one (unabridged anyway).

 

Bit of an odd name, that. 

My sister and I often borrowed VHS tapes of documentaries for information vegetable, animal and mineral, along with children’s movies or series. I dreamed of sailing the high seas like Horatio Hornblower as he marched the decks of his ship, let my imagination soar with the incorrigible Pippi Longstocking (1988), and sang all the songs of Oliver! (1968) over and over while secretly crushing on the Artful Dodger. I recall rewinding the song 'Consider Yourself' over and over while laboriously writing down the lyrics to ensure I got the words right! 

When the age of the personal computer began, the BCL brought in the internet, computers and a variety of interactive CD encyclopedias and games. I had an intense fascination with dinosaurs and would occasionally spend an hour or two surfing a particularly informative CD on the reptiles. It was around this time that I encountered Harry Potter and broke him out of Privet Drive with Ron and his brothers in Mr. Weasley’s Ford Anglia.

The blissful times at the BCL were not to last, for the Dark Forces were at work. Six years ago, we received the fated phone call from one of the guardians, with news that evoked a great deal of sorrow. The library was closing down.

There was a time when books held more worth to children than the latest thingamajig dominating the tech market, when what was deemed worthy of showing off was how many books you’d read, not what your score was on the game in vogue on the App Store. My childhood is intrinsically linked to the BCL and life would not have been as rich without it. I grieve for Kuwait’s loss, while cherishing a secret hope that the sanctuary will miraculously spring up again.

Addicted to Downton Abbey

The mother's been trying to get me to watch Downton Abbey for the past two years. About two or three weeks ago, having exhausted every other TV series I had, I finally played the first episode.

I'm hooked.

Downton Abbey is a country estate in Yorkshire that belongs to the Earl and Countess of Grantham. The British series follows the lives of the Earl's family and servants, and is set during the reign of King George V. The primary plot line of the series is the question of inheritance, since Lord Grantham (Hugh Bonneville) has no sons. Who will the heir to the estate be? Will he be well-bred? In walks Matthew Crawley (Dan Stevens), a practicing lawyer with no respect or understanding of the aristocratic ways of the Crawleys.

What I love about Downton Abbey is the journey through Britain's most interesting days, how writer Julian Fellowes has weaved in historic events and their effect on mindsets and lifestyles into the story line. The Spanish flu epidemic for one, bare shoulders and reducing hemlines for another—the sinking of the Titanic, World War I, the installment of electricity and subsequently the telephone in the house, flashy new automobiles, the suffrage movement, the Irish struggle for self-government, the imprisonment (and later execution) of Czar Nicholas II and his family, even a mention of Charles Ponzy! In the course of 8 years (1912-20), everything changes for the Crawleys, and so much of it is because of World War I. I suppose the war did some good too—women wanted more from their lives; they wanted to employ their time and mental faculties in meaningful and useful pursuits—but it was all at such a high price.

I have experienced a wide array of emotions while watching series 1-3. Delight at the Dowager Countess's (Maggie Smith) delicious dialogues, delivered with tongue firmly in cheek. Respect for the head of the household, and his American wife for adjusting so well to an English society. Disgust at the Earl's 'moment of weakness'. Intense dislike and perhaps even awe for the lady's maid O'Brien and the first footman Thomas for the ramifications of their connivance and intelligent manipulation. Sheepish grins whenever Matthew Crawley walked into a room. Head-splitting grief at the death of one of the most beloved characters on the show. Heartbreak at the third season finale (unfortunately, the mother is a walking spoiler divulger, and I knew about the horrific finale before I even started watching the show).

Not to mention longing and admiration for the beautiful vistas, and the grandeur and resplendence of the house that is Downton Abbey. Every time the scene took shape of one like the picture below, I'd pause the episode and click a snapshot of it on VLC Media Player, which evoked the remark, "you're such a Japanese tourist!" from the sister.

It sure is a sight for sore eyes.

The show also reminds one of how cruelly unforgiving the world was and still is, with regard to Lady Mary Crawley and the housemaid Ethel's pasts. The price they, especially Ethel has to pay, for one mistake is much too great.

It's funny how modern they believe they are. Today we're narcissistic enough to believe we're modern and open-minded, but I wonder how backward we will seem to the generations to come?

One of the funniest (and thought-provoking) dialogues is uttered in the scene where Matthew Crawley and Lord Grantham dress in black tie for a very la-di-da dinner. Black tie appears to be a form of undress, as the occasion demands nothing less than coattails and white tie. Their informal appearance invokes horrified looks from Lord Grantham's family, and his American mother-in-law (Shirley McLaine) comments: "You two look like you're dressed for a BBQ."
A black tie for a barbecue! Imagine that!

The series is rife with brilliance in terms of dialogue. A gem from the Dowager Countess, Lady Grantham:

Lady Grantham: "You are quite wonderful the way you see room for improvement wherever you look. I never knew such reforming zeal."
Mrs. Crawley: "I take that as a compliment."
Lady Grantham: "I must've said it wrong."

I've finished watching the series and am so bummed that season four will begin in September. It's no wonder the show has received rave reviews and broken so many ratings records. It's brilliant, well-written, well-directed and informative. Nobody's perfect (except perhaps Matthew Crawley, honestly he seems too good to be true) and some of the characters have many layers to them. Each trial and hardship they must endure peels off a layer and reveals something about them.

September is just too far off.

just me and the road.

A zephyr blows tirelessly, accompanied by a drizzle. The light rain patters down on my hair forming an effect of early morning dew on a spider's web. Toes clutching onto my cousin's chappal* two sizes too big for me, every step I take is accompanied by a risk of the abysmally large footwear flying off and exposing my feet to the dirt, grime and muck that lie in plenitude on the streets of Bombay.

Damp hair hurriedly pulled into a wild bun with a side ponytail while they're still manageable, make for a bizarre 'do. Having forgotten my scarves in Pune in the last minute rush to leave, I had to make do with a peach chiffon scarf my nani** lent me to mismatch on a light grey tee which on account of its stretchable cotton material, had grown a size.

Completing my ensemble with a nonchalant scowl, I walk fearlessly like I own the road, enjoying the gorgeous weather that is so hard to come by in this city. People go by unconcerned; everybody's minding their own business. It's just me and the road.

I think that's what I miss most.

*chappal: flip-flop.
**nani: maternal grandmother.

(Bombay, July '11)

Resolutions for 2013: Writing, Reading & Continuing Education

Some of my resolutions for 2013, in conversation with myself.

Writing Resolutions:

1. Post at least once a week. Don't ever abandon the blog again.
2. Start reviewing books on Goodreads instead of just reading and forgetting about them. Get into the character's skin and the author's mind.
3. Give some thought to converting this blog into a website.
4. Send articles to publications every month and build a writing portfolio. Rewrite and edit the unfinished write-ups from last year.
5. Have a tryst with Fiction. Eradicate the mental block that you're no good at it. You did it before, you can do it again.
5. Make a wholehearted attempt at writing a screenplay.
6. Continue recording dreams. Skim through past records for potential material.
7. Add to the vocabulary arsenal and draw from it.
8. Get in touch with like-minded bloggers and writers; read and comment on their work.
9. If the words start flowing, put them on paper/Notes app/Kleenex/currency notes/what have you IMMEDIATELY.

Reading Resolutions:

1. Finish reading The Elements of Style; read more on English grammar.
2. Read Stephen King's On Writing again.
3. Dwell in more classic literature, including works by Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Elizabeth Gaskell, Anton Chekhov and, when in dire need of mirth, PG Wodehouse.
4. Read 25-30 books this year.
5. Read and learn about Impressionism from the books you bought in Munich.

Resolutions pertaining to Continuing Education:

1. Finish the Argument course on Coursera, absorb and apply the knowledge gleaned from it.
2. Pursue and complete some more courses on Coursera, at least two from: The Modern and the Post Modern, Gamification, Greek and Roman Mythology, The Modern World: Global History since 1760 and Learn to Program: The Fundamentals.
3. Learn some Arabic.
4. Revise French grammar and vocabulary. Attempt conversations in French. It's all there in the back of your mind.

______________________________________________________________


What are your resolutions for 2013?

2013: My Year of Change.

It's that time of the year again. Time for another audit. Yes, I realize it's the second of January and that the time has passed us. It matters not.

You know the drill - note progress on last year's resolutions, mull over the past, set new resolutions for the year ahead.

Let's get to it.

2012 Resolutions:

1. Perform three good deeds everyday.

I lost track of this—not that I performed so many a day, mind you, there may have been days when I didn't do any at all—because I believe kindness should come unconsciously. Glad to note I'm nowhere close to losing touch with my humanity.

2. Never. Stop. Learning.
Never did =)

3. Exercise complete capabilities and mental faculties in the execution of a task.
I sometimes forgot about this. But the little voice inside me always spoke out when I was doing a shoddy job, albeit in a low voice. It never failed to gloat with "told you so!" when the shoddiness was noticed and I had to repeat said task. I need to pay more attention to it.

4. Continue having awesome experiences and meeting awesome people.
Check!

5. Read more classics.
I didn't read as many as I'd have liked, but did read more than I did in 2011. Jane Eyre, a PG Wodehouse novel (Jeeves in the Offling...CLASSIC!) and about two-thirds of the Sherlock Holmes series.

6. Get published. 
I DID!! I just neglected to tell you. Sorry about that. A piece was published in Bazaar Magazine's July-August 2012 issue; it was about the misadventures from the first Euro trip. If you've been around the blog, you've probably read some of the content in longer posts; the article was condensed.

7. No rice. No bread.
Pftttt. Pish tosh. I followed the 'no rice' rule for about 6-8 months, giving in generally but not too often, and then completely ignored it. Let's not talk about the 'no bread' policy.

My track record for 2011 was better.

2012 was a pretty decent year—I got a kick-start in marketing, I went to Europe again for 3 weeks, met some more people, spent some time with a couple of very close friends I hadn't seen in ages, had a few unique experiences in Kuwait. Went to India for my cousin's wedding and had an AWESOME time bonding with my family in Bombay. Watched The Hobbit on my birthday after waiting for it with bated breath for three years and fell in love with Middle Earth all over again. Also fell desperately in love with Sherlock Holmes (the literary character, NOT the British TV series—post on this in drafts) as I discovered the series on iBooks in Innsbruck, Austria, reading fervently against the backdrop of the Alps.

Again, I felt nothing as the new year dawned, not even a tinge of excitement. Just a realization that another year has passed and not too much accomplished. My whatsapp was abuzz with wishes from friends and even a couple of cousins whom I never thought would deem the occasion important enough to text. Apparently it was. I spent the last few hours of 2012 at home, cleaning up, watching the striking fireworks erupting from Burj Khalifa on Dubai Television (pretty sure TV viewers of the event had a superior view than the 1.7 million people in actual attendance of it, so many of whom witnessed the spectacular display through their  smartphone or camera screens while recording it) and writing my resolutions for 2013.

Resolutions for 2013? I went all out this year, contemplating on what aspects of my life need change. I ended up compiling a somber list of resolutions that fell under different categories: health including dental (yup), finance, religion, general, work-related, education, environment, reading and of course writing...some are goals, others are guidelines I intend to live by and weave into my lifestyle, hence the title of this post.

It's a daunting list, but I figure I must adhere to it so as to truly lead a more fulfilling life, get the most out of it and give in return. What troubles me is that I have issues with commitment and discipline, lack time management skills, am lazy and often lose sight of goals and other things that matter (I have a lot of faults), so this will be challenging for me. And because of these God-awful habits, I've decided to have a quarterly review in 2013, instead of the more traditional year-end audit. I doubt I'll post the entire list on the blog, just the ones pertaining to writing, reading and education, and will probably dedicate a new page to them, so they remain in plain sight and don't get lost in future posts or lie forgotten in one of my journals.

Wish me luck!

Good luck with your goals and resolutions if you've set any; may they bring out the best in you. Happy New Year!

Do-buy Part 2: sharks, spiders and pythons, oh my!

Once the seminar ended, I ventured out on my own.

My last trip to Dubai in April, I didn't do my homework (old habits die hard) on what to do and where to go. I just stopped by the Mall of the Emirates, did some quick shoe shopping (TWO pairs of shoes my size on SALE! ah bliss) and admired the Burj Khalifa as I passed it on the way to the airport. The tower was awe-inspiring and I thought the next trip I'd marvel at the view from the Observation Deck. It didn't happen. I would have loved to see the sunset. It must be a heavenly sight; why else would the online tickets for the sunset time slot be sold out two whole weeks before the date I pick? A weekday at that!

So I stuck with checking out Dubai Mall, its Aquarium and Underwater Zoo. Which in retrospect, is good enough. I didn't have time to see the famed Dubai Fountain or 'the beam of light shining upward from the fountain' that is supposedly visible from space. I dislike being rushed; everything splendid must be done justice to. I downloaded the Dubai Mall app on my phone and freaked over it. It was very convenient and helped me locate all the shops I needed to go to instantly.

I had it all figured out. It was 5 pm when I reached the mall. I gave myself three hours. Half an hour dedicated to making the required purchases - shoes and a couple of books. Two and a half hours at the aquarium and zoo. I was all set.

After buying a pair of shoes, I set out to find the mall's only bookshop, Book World, with the app guiding me. I finally spotted it beside Virgin and...

Oh. Mein. Gott.

It was the biggest bookstore I have ever seen.

This is just half the travel section.
I was too busy gawking to take more pix.

I thought Landmark in Pune was big. It's got nothing on this place. Book World by Kinokuniya (headquartered in Japan) is MASSIVE. A bibliophile's fantasy. My eyes widened like Belle's did when she saw the library for the first time in Beauty and the Beast.

"I've never seen so many books in all my life!"

(For readers living elsewhere that have seen so many books in all their lives on numerous occasions, you are fortunate to live in places where books are valued.)

Shelves and shelves stuffed with books of all genres imaginable, neatly categorized. Customer service assisted me by finding the book I asked for; less than two minutes later it was waiting for me at the cashier on the other end of the store. Talk about efficient.

And of course my timed plan went awry. The sheer vastness of the place and the number of books around me were overwhelming, even intoxicating, and I squandered precious minutes there.

Finally, I tore myself away, consoling my grieved heart with buying a book on writing, and dashed off to find the aquarium. It wasn't too hard to find—you can't really miss the signs or the gigantic panel if you're in the right section of the mall.

After twenty minutes (the thought that there would be a queue didn't occur to me), I finally got my ticket and went in. Before stepping into the aquarium, a photo session takes place in front of a green screen; you can collect the photo (I heard the attendant say it would cost 200 AED!! I'm pretty certain I heard wrong.. 200 AED for a lousy Photoshop job?!) once out of the aquarium.

The aquarium was actually a glass tunnel going through the tank. At one point in the tunnel, a ray had parked itself on the roof, inspiring tourists and visitors to make silly poses under it.
It was quite breathtaking, watching the sharks lurk past you and the rays and schools of fish swim by.

On to the Underwater Zoo.
So many colours!

Dory! Marlin! NEMO!

Water rat nibbling on a carrot =D

The not very fearsome looking lion fish, dressed in all its finery.

I love this colour on fish.

The 'Creepy Crawlies' section had plenty of ominous looking reptiles and a few roaches (ugh!) and spiders.

The Burmese python.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

A shy iguana? Or maybe it was fed up. It never showed its face.

I half-expected the chameleon to change colour. Wish it did.

Now that's Stoicism and poise for you.

A gecko imparting the cliched lesson: 'If at first you don't
succeed, try, try again.'

This little fella kept trying to climb the glass walls it was confined in, refusing to believe that its feet, so adept at grasping at branches and scurrying through sand, were quite useless here. Its determination reminded me of the story of King Bruce and the Spider. When it saw me approach it scuttered away, almost embarrassed, eyes peeled for when I would depart and it could return to its half-baked but commendable attempts at escape.

The Arabian Toad (below) seemed a bit starved for attention. As soon as it noticed the glint of my camera lens, it hopped out and posed, almost regally, with its head in the air, as if it were the king of beasts. Disgusted with my inability to get my camera to behave and take a decent shot of it, it turned its back to me. It allowed me to click a couple of pictures of its backside, and then, deciding it had humoured the stupid human long enough, disappeared into the darkness with a hop.

"Buzz off, you half-wit."

Somehow I missed the penguin colony and the octopus. And a lot more. I think I accidentally skipped two sections. Pity.

There was a 'Fish Feeding' included in my ticket package; I assumed it to be a tank feeding with divers involved. Turns out you get to feed the fish yourself from a platform above the tank with the stinkiest bits of whatchamacallit. I tossed the pieces at the sharks but there were smaller, quicker fish that darted in and out, devouring the food in the blink of an eye, unafraid of coming within so close a proximity of the sharks' jagged teeth.

The Aquarium also offers cage snorkeling, shark dives and diving lessons for people who aren't certified divers for AED 875 (cost of lesson + dive). I think this is reasonable, but I would much rather go scuba diving in the open sea than in a claustrophobic tank with insipid tourists all around, furiously clicking away on their smartphones (yes I belong to the same class).

I also took a ride in a glass bottom boat! It was slightly unnerving to have just a pane of glass separate you from the sharks and rays. After watching some of The Glass Bottom Boat (1966) on TCM a few weeks prior, I was a little fascinated with the idea. It definitely wasn't the same, for one thing the glass was quite scratched (wonder if any of the sea critters are responsible for it—mental image of a shark going berserk and attacking the glass). For another, it was odd to bob on controlled waters in such a cloistered environment, with a roof on top of your head. It didn't deter me from enjoying the wonders of nature beneath my feet. The sharks skulked by the boat and below it, tolerating the mortals trespassing on their territory.

Next day trip, the unexplored areas of the zoo and the Dubai Fountain.

Part 1

my birthday gift to me.

Sixteen years ago, when we shifted into a new apartment, I got a spanking new study table for the room I was to share with the sister. It comprised of a desk, a shelf and a small cupboard. I lovingly arranged my Enid Blyton's and Roald Dahl's on the shelf and thrust some encyclopedias into the cupboard. When I had to 'study', I'd place one of Blyton's many adventure books into the pages of my text book, leaving the cupboard door ajar while reading, so as to conceal my transgression from my parents if they happened to pop in to enquire of my progress.

The study table underwent a startling makeover as it bore the brunt of our transitions, from childhood all through the teenage years. For one, half the Blytons, were replaced with the Harry Potter series. The smooth pine colour was scrawled upon with names of all the awesome men I or my sister crushed on over the years-the Backstreet boys, John Stamos (Full House), Gareth Jones (How 2), Tulio and Miguel (The Road to El Dorado - No. 1 on my list of all-time favourite animated movies), Aragorn and Legolas (The Lord of the Rings), even a couple of Bollywood actors at one point-in blue permanent marker. One entire side of the cupboard was covered in names of all our favourite witches and wizards from Harry Potter in whitener. Later, half the names were shrouded with a poster of The Emperor's New Groove (that'll be No. 2) from a teen magazine called Young Times. We were young; we were fickle.

After school, we moved to Pune and I shipped all the Blytons, Dahls, Potters, classics, novels there-I don't EVER let go of my books. I designed a study table cum bookcase for our room there, the mother got it made, but the sister hijacked it. When we moved back to Kuwait after MBA, I decided the table here had to go. I was a mature twenty-three year old and this embarrassment in no way validated that. I needed a new bookcase to house the books I'd bought in India (you may think I'm crazy carrying books back and forth across the Arabian Sea, but do you know how hard it is to find decent books in this country??).

I also wanted a writing desk. I actually really wanted my paternal grandfather's which was in Hyderabad. Ever since I learnt of its existence, I demanded to have it sent to me. I've been told it's a huge, beautiful, classic piece of teak furniture. I've never seen it but I'd like to own a tangible piece of family history, especially one that's akin to writing. I was also told it was just not practical. So I conceded to buy one.

Two years went by; my inertia coupled with my dislike of every piece I saw in Ikea inadvertently put off the purchase. The books however, kept coming in, mostly from clearance sales at bookstores closing shop, and would end up stashed under the bed and in every corner of my room because there wasn't an inch of space on or in the superannuated study table. But then, a couple of weeks before my birthday last Monday, I finally set eyes on this secretary desk in a furniture shop in Farwaniya:

and was enamoured with its antique appearance. I bought it instantly.

Kuzco took the words right out of my mouth.

I also found a bookcase to go with it. The two pieces were delivered to me after a week, during which I finally tossed out the aging study table, after painting over the names of my old flames and erasing all traces of my teen years.

I kept my tattered poster though.

I spent a happy weekend organizing my books and other bits and bobs that I've held on to, into the shelves.

Twain, Tolkien, Wodehouse...no
longer refugees looking for a home.

The postcard is a print of Caspar David
Friedrich's La Tonnelle. Google it, it's gorgeous.

My first thought when I bought the desk (besides that it was soo bee-yootiful) was that every night, I would spend an hour or two writing narratives and articles that had Pulitzer Prize-winning potential (just potential - eligibility to the relevant category is limited to American citizens) but the universe has been conspiring against me, I barely get to rest my elbows on it for an hour the entire week.

I may not have a lot of time to use my desk at the end of each day and there may not be any masterpieces drafted upon it smooth surface, nevertheless, just seeing it first thing in the morning makes me, as Kuzco puts it...sooo happy.

The Watch Tower on Vetal Hill

She met them after spending a year abroad, greeting them in excitement. Friends of old, the three had decided to spend the early morning hours with a short hike up one of the hills in the city. Paths connected the hill to others, as well as to an abandoned quarry. There was a pool of murky water lying at the bed of the quarry; the three had once skipped stones there. She had failed miserably.

Ye olde abandoned quarry. 

They trudged up the trail that ran through thick shrubbery, listening for faint calls of the peacocks that lived within, reminiscing about other times spent there.

"There's a tower on this side," one of them said when they came to a fork in the path. "It has an awesome view."
"Is that where we're going?"
"Yup!"

An image of a turret immediately flashed into her mind. Two recent summer trips in Europe and watching Disney films since infancy had conditioned her imagination. She drew a mental picture of a high, (no not too high, she thought, the top would show from above the trees), of a medium-sized (she had no reckoning of height) tower, made of stone, with a pointed tip and a window - no glass of course. The kind of window from which Rapunzel would toss her hair down. There would be a wooden spiral staircase inside.
She wondered how they'd never stumbled upon it on earlier trips there. Then, she knew why.

"Here we are!"
The mental picture shattered.
"This?" she said, almost hysterically. "You call this a tower?"
What stood before her held no resemblance to European architecture. It was a rickety structure (high, not medium-sized), the frame was made of rusted steel bracing crisscrossing in the style of X's, over and over. Planks of wood ran up all around it at angles. It was leaning slightly on one side, as though the wind was commanding it to bend.
It looked like a dilapidated water tower. Without a tank of water at the top.

She said so in great disdain.

The other two looked at each other.

"Are you coming up?"
"Of course not! I have to attend a wedding in two days and I'd like to be there in one piece!"
"Come on! There's nothing to it, even my sister went up this. We've been up lots of times. And the view is just amazing."

She did want to see the view. She'd missed the hills.

"How am I even supposed to get up this thing?" The first step was at a height of about five feet, there were no stepping stones. Heaving herself onto it was out of the question, the plank looked like it would disengage with excessive force.

One of them hoisted himself up to one end of the 'tower', strode across the bracing at the bottom and onto the steps, comfortably ascending them. He waited at the 'first floor' stair deck, which comprised of a single plank of wood nailed across the ramshackle frame on either side.

She followed suit, gingerly climbing onto the frame, walking across while hugging the structure for dear life (she was three feet off the damp ground), and then advancing onto the first plank of the steps. She took another step up, and felt the entire structure lean to one side, as though it was being weighed down. She screamed and retraced her steps back to the safety of the earth.

"Dude! Come on! We thought you were more adventurous than this!"
"I'm telling you, the view is to die for! And the wind is just amazing!"
"I have to go back to work in a week, there isn't enough time for me to recuperate if I fall from this thing!"

A group of young trekkers stood some distance away, watching. She waved a fist at them.

The two beguiled her into trying again with fabricated anecdotes of the structure's safety and promises of the awesome view and wind. The rigmarole was repeated in its entirety.

"I can't do this! Just go up, I'll wait down here until you return."
"I'm telling you man, nothing's going to happen! My sister is the biggest darpok* and she went right up to the top!"
"Fine," she snapped, making her way to the steps again. "But if I die, my mom's going to kill me."

When she got to the first step, she ordered one of them to go on and the other to wait until she'd reached the first 'platform'. She went up slowly, there were spaces between steps where a plank had fallen through. She held the round railing tight and wished there was another one on both sides, running between the sole rail and the flight of stairs, so as to reduce the wide gap that a person could easily slip through.

She cursed the added kilos that had leeched onto her in Kuwait, and the wretched gym membership she had spent so much on. She deigned to work out once a week or two but apparently one had to be more regular for there to be an adequate effect.

Twice, she looked down. Bad idea. She had a sudden visual of slipping through the wooden boards and dashing against the steel. She forced her head up, muttering a prayer and concentrating hard on getting up to the platform atop the structure and back down with all limbs intact. There was more safety in bungee jumping, she thought crossly.

Finally, they were at the top. A lone rail on each side was all that separated them from certain death. The platform was missing a plank and she refused to go any further, declaring she could see perfectly well from where she stood and that the sights wouldn't improve by taking another three steps.

That isn't her foot. In case you thought so.

The trees of the surrounding hillside were still a lush green, courtesy of the departing monsoon. She was glad she hadn't risked her life for a browning view. The clouds rode low, shrouding the sun, and the morning mist threw a haze over the city that looked so distant from where they stood. There was a slight wind, although it wasn't as 'amazing' as promised. The view had been worth it after all.

Civilization obscured by the morning mist.

The derelict 'tower'.

After a few pictures, they descended, making their way to the bottom. There were no incidents except one, when the structure shook slightly. The climb left no physical evidence on her, but for jittery knees and a strong reek of rust on her palms.

She went to the wedding and enjoyed it. A week later she was back at work in Kuwait, a longing for the hills buried deep in the recesses of her heart.

______________________________________________________________

Notes:
*darpok [dar-poke] - fraidy-cat

Based on actual events that occurred at the watch tower on Vetal Tekdi (hill) in Pune city. 
Dedicated to the two maniacs that took me up that tottering pile of planks.
Narrative and dialogue may have been embellished (just a little) to increase reading pleasure.