The Little Girl November 3, 2007

A little girl aged about seven and a half came skipping into the room as her mother sat at the table having lunch. The visitor at the table went unnoticed as the little princess clutched her nose, gave an impish smile and said, “Pooh! Stop that smell!” The smell being that of papads being fried a little too well in the kitchen. And then, before the grown-ups could react, she leaned closer and whispered to her mother, “I’ll tell you something that will make you stop eating at once. There’s a smelly dead rat in the garage!” And she ran away giggling.

The visitor absorbed this whirlwind in her little green uniform, her tunic just about reaching mid-thigh, her ponytails from the morning undone, her still baby-soft hair falling down her shoulders, the fringe falling in her eyes and glint in her smile that said, “I’m up to something, but I won’t tell you what!” as she bounded over to the balcony watching something no grown-up would ever be able to see or appreciate. And ran all around the house and then came and sat down at the table for lunch. The visitor still went unnoticed. She giggled through the meal, threatened mischief in every gesture and unable to bear it anymore, the visitor blurted, “You know, I really like you!”. And for the first time the little girl didn’t know what to say.

She shared her chocolates with the adult who liked her (not just the ones she didn’t like but also ones that she did like) and gave her best smile.

She clung to her mom all the way down the stairs once lunch was done. And when her mother said to her, “Take off your socks, they’ll get dirty” she replied, “If I take them off, my feet will get dirty.”

It was quite some time since the visitor met a little girl who seemed like a little girl and not a miniature grown up. It was quite some time since I went back to being seven and half again. With all the freshness and giggles that come with being young. I take pride in myself for not abandoning the child in me. But this little girl… This little mischievous imp… What can I really say about her that would not kill the spirit of being seven and a half?

Waste of Time

It’s an hour’s drive each way to work for me. I have never been used to long commutes (An hour is long enough for me) and this ride would unsettle me in the beginning.

I tried doing a lot of things while riding in the train or sitting in the back seat of the car… Reading, writing, listening to music, planning for the day or analysing it, discussing ideas with my father, sometimes going as far as completing my daily face cleansing routine on the way back. But it just didn’t seem right.

Anyhow, after several attempts at ‘accomplishing’ something while in the car, I asked myself… Can you not spend two hours a day with yourself and your own thoughts for company? And it’s rather surprising. Because we spend several hours in the company of people we like and don’t like at home and office and we have, of late started to call the whole thing “Quality Time”. But when it comes to spending time with ourselves, giving ourselves our own undivided attention, we seem to falter… Why?

The two hours I spend with myself everyday seems to me to be the best gift that I give myself. Better than my “I Love Me” diamond ring, better than the Namaste London music I allowed myself to actually buy because a song was stuck in my head and waay better than other assorted indulgences. In these two hours, I find myself thinking a lot. And clearing a lot of thoughts that crop up in my mind. I find myself catching up on a little sleep, a little dreaming, a little brainstorming of the non-work kind, thinking a little about the things that I want to do (like maybe a little embroidery. I suddenly find myself wanting to weild the needle) and all sorts of things. And when I step into office in the morning, I find myself completely alert and productive. And I’m not as cranky and irritable when I go home in the evening either.

Sometimes, I guess, the best thing to do is to just be. Everything falls into place with that…