Sunday Morning Pancakes

Sunday mornings and pancakes go together beautifully.

I remember groggily walking into the kitchen on a Sunday morning (generally, a morning very close to being blended into afternoon) hopelessly hungover and praying to find pancakes. And a lazy, slightly mischievous, but mostly relieved smile would wipe across my face when I saw them there. They were always there. Neatly stacked up on our chequered table, almost like they appeared by magic. I liked to imagine elves creeping into our kitchen at midnight to make us pancakes, while we were away drinking and dancing and generally behaving badly as you do on Saturday nights. Of course I knew the pancakes weren’t the magical creation of kindly elves. But it was hard to imagine Anna battling a brutal hangover and waking up at some inappropriately early hour on Sunday, just to make sure I got the perfect pancake breakfast I loved so much. Pancakes with Anna defined my Sundays for a whole year. I looked forward to them, talked about them with other people and even marked them in my diary, as you do with all important events.

Anna liked hers with sugar and lemon. I had mine with bananas and chocolate sauce. Sometimes we exchanged and sometimes we both had them with fruit. Our pancake sessions generally lasted about two hours and in that time, we discussed any number of relevant things. Details from last night’s party, the weather forecast, the predicted direction of our careers, why the neighbours shagged so loudly, why Anna missed her mum so much but refused to call her, how we didn’t care that we didn’t have boyfriends and what would happen if we just packed our bags one day and left for Argentina without telling anyone.

The Argentina plan was generally discussed last because that very thought, that very slightest existence of possibility, would whisk us away in to a world of fantasy from which it was rather hard to recover and come back to the realities of our seemingly mundane existences.

But I knew that Sunday was different. And I knew the conversation wasn’t over once we had landed at Buenos Aires airport.

I knew from the way Anna looked at her nails as she talked to me and from the way she laughed a bit too wholeheartedly at my rather juvenile jokes. But most of all, I knew because of her eyes. Because her eyes suffered from an inability to conceal. Her eyes always wanted to give you the full story.

‘Cancer.’ she blurted out, in the blunt, cut-to-the-chase manner that was so characteristic of Anna Campbell. ‘They reckon I have another year.’

Her manner was calm, somewhat unmoved. But her voice was tense and ever so slightly shaken.

Ten minutes later and I was still silent. Why was I silent? How come none of the thousand questions bursting in my head made their way through my mouth? How come I didn’t hug her, or burst into tears or display any sort of emotion for that matter? I just sat in my chair, numb.

She looked at me and smiled. It was a smile I knew. A delicate but firm smile. A smile which told me she had accepted and moved on, so I had better catch up. A smile which said she didn’t want to talk about it, but she would listen if I felt like talking.

A smile which gradually became bigger and bigger until I realised there was something else I didn’t know about.

‘I talked to your boss’ she said, as she put down two tickets to Argentina on the table in front of us.

Midnight Dance at Covent Garden.

I don’t know why I left the club early that Friday night. The band was great, the drinks were flowing and most unexpectedly, I was sort of being chatted up by a semi-cute guy. But somehow, after my second mojito, it was time for me to get going. My friends were surprised; after all, we had'nt started dancing and didn’t I always say a Friday evening wasn’t complete without a bit of dancing?

Walking towards the underground station, I found myself smiling. It was one of those rare occasions where you don’t know the reason why you are smiling. Or perhaps, you know that there isn’t a reason at all, and that is precisely what makes your act of smiling so special. I take these unexpected, jubilant, reasonless smiles as a reaffirmation of the fact that I am exactly where I am meant to be. I don’t know why I am here and most certainly don’t know where I will be next. But none of that matters, because none of that is right now.

I had almost reached the underground station, when on an impulse I turned back and decided to go for a walk. There were a few drops of rain. Rain light enough to be charming.

I walked around the piazza, with my hands in my pockets. As I walked, I thought about everything, whilst thinking of nothing. I felt lonely, while enjoying my solitude. I walked knowing not why I was walking but because it felt like the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

I turned round the corner, and then suddenly stopped when I heard him. A busker. Telling me I looked wonderful tonight. Eyes closed, he sang with fervour, intent and sheer delight. A captive audience of five looked on. They were all smiling. I wondered if they knew why.

I felt his music in every way that it is possible to feel music. The rain was a bit heavier now. But neither the rain nor the strange looks I received from some of the passers by were going to take me away from this dark, magical corner in Covent Garden where I found myself dancing for no reason on a Friday night.

Unexpected greeting cards.

While email is fast, convenient and often practical, it isn’t quite as charming as traditional post. I sometimes wonder what kind of a world it would be if we didn’t have the option of conveying messages electronically. It would be a slower world for sure. But would it also be a world filled with more excitement, thrills and surprises? Would it be a more personalised world? A world where having to wait for something, even something small, would enhance the joy of finally receiving it?

This Christmas, one of my personal missions was to send greeting cards to three people who would have never expected to hear from me. And of course, the plan was to send these cards by post- the good old ‘stamp licking’ and ‘waiting in the never-ending post office queue’ kind.

I must say it was quite a challenge trying to find their addresses. Of course, I could have just emailed them to ask. But that seemed like a gross contradiction to my old-fashioned approach. And of course, a perfect way to ruin the surprise. After several hours of Facebook scavenging and making random (not to mention, slightly awkward) phone calls to common friends and friends-of-friends, I had the addresses. It was surprising to learn that none of them were in the countries where I had first met them, several years ago.

So I bought the cards and as usual, failed miserably at my attempt to write ‘brief’ messages. I rambled on with lengthy updates, eager questions and lots of well-meant wishes. And at the end, I included my current postal address, thereby suggesting that a thank-you message by email would simply not suffice. I also underlined my postal address in bold red, hopefully implying that I would kill them if they didn’t send me the hand-written reply I expected.

As I walked home from the post office later that day, I was thoroughly pleased at the thought of my friends in different corners of the world browsing through bills, bank statements, advertising pieces and other items that are usually stuffed into one’s letterbox, and then suddenly finding a Christmas card from a faraway friend.

Purposeful presents.

Buying presents is a simple and fine art. I would even go as far as saying that finding the right present for someone can be more fun and pleasurable than the actual act of giving the present to them.

For me, a good present is one with purpose. One may be tempted to argue that almost any present can be purposeful. For instance, even the hideous yellow blouse with large purple flowers I once received from a distant aunt served it’s purpose by being donated to a charity shop and hence clothing someone less privileged. But this isn’t what I mean by a present with purpose. Purposeful presents are unique. They are backed by immense research and they relate to some specific, individual and passionate interest of their intended recipients. Purposeful presents tell stories. They are thoughtful. They have been found through a process that was painstaking and time-consuming but thoroughly enjoyable. Purposeful presents are those you keep searching for, even when you can get away with buying a bottle of wine.

The best time to buy such presents is when you are not required to buy them. In other words, it is more likely that you will find the perfect turquoise necklace for your sister (which would match her favourite cocktail dress and also enhance the depth of her light blue eyes) as you are walking down a market in a foreign country during your summer holidays than at a big christmas sale in one of the high street stores.

But even buying the right present is only half the story. I find that wrapping it up and personalising it is just as important. I believe that presents are not things. They are wrapped up little experiences. And I like to heighten the experience my present offers by including a little message, a quote, a drawing or perhaps a private joke. I like the present to have a touch of me. Like it is a piece of art that I want to sign my name on.

This year, I had a wonderful time buying presents for my friend Ben and his family who had invited me to spend Christmas with them. The presents were few, but I hope they were found purposeful.

Private jokes.

There is something uniquely beautiful about sharing a joke with a friend; knowing that the two of you are the only people in the world who understand it. These jokes will never seem funny when explained. They are not meant to be explained. In fact, the explanation destroys and disrespects the humour. These jokes are simply meant to be cherished. Cherished by those who create them. They are meant to be remembered. Remembered as fond memories, that can be recalled once in a while. Because when recalled, they have the ability to make you laugh till you cry. They have the ability to inspire you, remind you of wonderful times and help you realise how easy it is to be happy.

Drizzly visions from a coffee cup.

An ordinary Thursday morning in the midst of the monsoon found me seated in a quiet cafe; my empty notebook and a hot cup of coffee being all the company I had.

I had chosen my favourite seat next to the small window in the corner of the room. I'm not sure why I liked that particular seat so much. Probably because the people outside gave me the illusion I was not alone without disrespecting my privacy.

Outside, I could see children wrapped in colourful raincoats, getting drenched in the monsoon showers, splashing around in puddles, ignoring their mothers' concerns about catching a cold, teaching me a thing or two about a worriless existence. Nature too seemed to have given herself a makeover and was now dressed in a layer of lush green.

A young couple was walking down the road sharing a single umbrella, whispering and laughing, sometimes pretending to be annoyed by the rain as they evidently enjoyed every bit of it. I smiled as I wondered whether they were genuinely oblivious or whether they were choosing to ignore that second umbrella lying unused in the girl’s shoulder bag.

The roadside tea seller, normally intimidated by his corporate competitors was wearing a big, broad grin as customers kept lining up, faster than his hands could work. For he knew he could not offer them the fancy décor and the comfortable couches and the trendy music. Or even cups and saucers which matched for that matter! But who needed those luxuries when they could be seated in natures lap, relishing some hot, sweet chai.

The entire city seemed doused in a monsoon mood. The rains had arrived and brought with them hope and enery and life defining spirit.

Here and Now

Being awoken every morning
By the chirping of the birds
And the sunlight pouring through my window
I stop and remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment

Sitting in a quiet seaside café
Breathing the aroma of fresh coffee
Reading a book
Listening to the song my father used to sing to me
I smile
I stop and remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment

Hugging a friend
Saying ‘see you later’ and not ‘goodbye’
Telling her she has made my life more beautiful
My lips start curving into a smile
Just when my eyes well up with tears
I stop
I remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment

Writing a poem
Watching my pain manifest into words
Being broken
Being inspired
I stop and remind myself
Of the beauty of this moment.

It often seems to me
That life is nothing but an appreciation
Of beauty
Of simplicity
Of the present
Life is nothing
But the here and the now.