Forgotten

Those eyes.

Those eyes used to gaze at me with love, but now look at me without a hint of recognition.

Those hands.

Those hands held me before I learnt to walk, now hanging limp and lifeless by her side.

Those lips.

Those lips always curve up in a smile and shower me with kisses, now frozen, unable to turn on the smile that lights up her face.

How does it feel like to be forgotten?

It feels like dying. Like being killed.

Like your existence is wiped away from the world against your will. Not just from any world. But from the world of someone who loves you and someone you owe your life to. And the worst thing is that there’s nothing you can do about it, to claw your way into being remembered or somehow try to redeem memories of you in that world.

I am always someone in love with life. Yet, somehow I always have this firm belief that my days are always numbered in my Maker's Hands. And that when ‘my time’ comes, I will not try to hold on to life. But sitting by her bedside, holding her hands, calling her, without her having an ounce of recognition in her eyes, I wanted to fight: fight for my existence in her memory. I wanted to claim my rightful place in her past and her present. Never in my life had I wished to be remembered. Never in my life had I wanted so bad to live beyond ‘my time’. 

Just a little bit longer.

My Ma’s cousin, my other mother, my second mother who was with the family even before my eldest brother was born; ‘Ka Nu’ we called her. She was nothing short of a mother to me. Since Ma was a working woman, she was the one who took care of me, kissed each wound, dressed me, fed me and clothe me. A single mother, she moved away from our home after her only daughter got married in a sleepy little town down south.

May, this year, I was in battling the peak of Delhi heat when I got a call from my cousin who told me that Ka Nu was sick and that she’s taking her to Aizawl for medical checkup. A few weeks later, I was informed Ka Nu had multiple brain tumour and that  the doctors told her she doesn’t have long to live. Treatment wouldn’t work at her condition and her age, I was told.

The only thing I did when I heard the news was that I got on my knees and begged God to allow me to meet her and bless her before her time is up.

God is good.

Within a couple of months, I underwent numerous changes in my life. Not a thing was pre-planned. I moved to Aizawl and a month later, I was on a bumpy road towards the southern part of the state.

It was raining when I reached the town. And though it was September, dark rain clouds hovered with mists fogging up the town. And to make it worse, the whole town was out of electricity!! It felt as if the universe knew what sort of emotional state I was in and conspired to make sure I stayed in that state.

I reached her bedside, held her hand and whispered “Nu, ka lo thleng tawh asin!”. Her eyes look at me without an ounce of recognition. My cousin called out to her, “Nu, hei Senmami a lo thleng asin. I koh I koh thin kha!”. No response as she stared at me. Fresh tears spilt on my cheeks as I cried. It was guttural, it was a heartbreaking sob triggered by the pain that has been knitting inside my core for so long. I didn’t care who was there, there was no room for etiquette. And as I sat by her bed, staring at the lifeless limp body, frozen by stroke; a fresh doze of emotions shot through my heart. It was a mixture of happiness to just see her and pain to see her in such a condition. Don't get me wrong! I had my silent "thank yous" to my Father that he granted my wish. 

But to be forgotten by the woman who raised you… the pain was magnificent.

Right at that moment, all I wanted and all I wished was to be remembered.

Sometimes, when you wish for something that bad, you start a ‘make-believe’ world. Just half an hour by her side, I started creating my make believe world.

I would like to believe that every squeeze of her hands tells me that she’s glad to see me, that she missed me; that I make her proud every single day. I would like to believe that every blank flicker of her eyes tells me that she loves me; that she’s happy that I came; that she remembers every memory that we’d made together.

I would like to believe that though the words are missing, though there isn’t a flicker of recognition in her eyes, somewhere behind the thick clouds that cover her, there is still that woman who raised me into the person that I am today.

And though I can’t see from the other end of the view, though I don’t know what it feels like to forget, there’s one thing I refuse to accept.

I refuse to be forgotten. 

And I refuse to give up the fight until I am remembered...

A Father's Day post

Once during a Bible discussion group, a friend talked about how important a role that fathers play in our understanding and relationship with God, the Father. Misha went on to talk about her childhood and how difficult it was for her to understand God's love, because the only father figure she ever had in her life was a man who was abusive to her  for years and who, in the end, abandoned Misha and her mother for another woman. She later told me that the Bible story she had problems with the most was the parable of "The Prodigal Son". I remembered listening to her story often paused with sobs and sullen anger and for the first time, being really thankful for my father. 

That happened only a few years ago. I admit with shame that, before Misha's story, I had taken my father for granted.

So today, I'll take the time, get back on radar and blog about my dad. Forgive me if I brag, but if I do brag, let me brag about my thankfulness for having such a dad. 

I was 18 when my mother passed away. Until then, I must admit, I looked to my dad as more of a financial support than a parent. But these nine years without Ma has taught me how much of a parent he really is and how hard he tries to be a father to my brothers and I, each single day. I admire everything about my dad, but the one thing that stands irrevocably prominent is the Big Gesture that he made for me by allowing me to stay away from home for these many years. It might not be a big deal to some, but for me, it's the greatest sacrifice that my father can make!.

You see, I am an only daughter and I have been away from home since I turned 16. After Ma passed away, there hasn't been anyone to take care of and run the house. And with running the house, I literally mean 'running the house'. People who know me in person know that my father has a career in politics. And it is a known truth that politicians and pastors get criticized the most from the way their children lived their lives. Politicians and pastors again, need a good home support system. A support system which I, as an only daughter to such a father, should provide. No matter how hard I try to live my imperfect life perfectly, at the end of the day, I am but a daughter who stays a million miles away.

Soon after I graduated, uncles and aunts and what-nots have put constant pressure on my dad to ask me "to come home and take care of the house". And especially after dad lost in the last election, the pressure grew to "How are you going to support her? We all know how expensive living in Delhi is! Ask her to come home, a Master's degree is more than enough. Anymore than that, no one will marry her". My dad was quiet. And when it was time, he dropped me to the airport, waved me off and told me to go fight for my dreams. I know that all the uncles and aunts and what-nots, somehow, want the best for me and my dad.  They could see that my dad was all alone and he needed someone to take care of him and help him run the house. But despite their good will, giving me a chance at doing what I want to do was just out of question. Why? "Because you're a girl. Once you come of age you'll be married off. Why spend so much time and money on you?". And here I thought we are living in the 21st century!! Well, Hello!!

Once after overhearing such 'pressures' being put on my dad, I exploded. I went to my grandparents, bawled my eyes out and even went to the extent of telling my grandpa that my uncles should 'just shut up'. Word must have gotten around. It's been years since such 'pressures' were put on my dad. What was so precious to me was that my dad put his foot down against the family and choose to give me a chance at an education that I've always wanted. Even though he knew, by doing so, the house would be empty and he'd have no one to take care of him or keep him company.

My dad has always supported me in what I want to do, where I want to go and even who I want to date. Unlike many Mizo fathers who stay away from their daughters' emotional escapades, my dad has been there for me for the biggest heartbreak of my life and right now, giving me constant support through, yet, another heartbreak. When you have a father who cherish you as such, you'll never settle for second best. And when you have a father who trusts you so much, breaking his trust is the last thing you want to do.

Today, I want to tell my dad that he is my hero and his love is the reason why God's love seems so real to me. I want to tell my dad, that I fought for my dreams only because he fought for me; that if I am a trustworthy daughter, it's only because he has been a trustworthy dad. That if I am a woman who is respected, it's because he taught me to respect myself; that if  I ever meet a man who truly loves me, it's only because  my dad taught me how to love; that if I'm a good human being, it's only because I learnt it from him.

Pa,

Min hmangaihzia leh ka tana i inpek nasatzia ka hmuhin, Pathian hmangaihna ropuizia min hriatnawntir thin. Nang ang pa ka neih che avang hian, Pathian hmangaihna hi a takin ka hmu nawn fo thin a; Pathianin malsawmna min pek zawng zawng zinga ropui ber chu nangmah hi i ni asin. Pa, ka hmangaih che!

Happy Father's Day!

Of 'imperfect' families and 'fitting right in'!

At first, I thought it would be a quiet dinner for two friends who hardly have the time to catch up. Since there's no song practice after church, we had an impromptu plan where we'd catch up over a plate of crispy dry chilly lamb. The evening turned out to be more than we expected.

My friend, a very responsible daughter, soon started outing tearful tales of her family problems - problems, I know, bad enough to be shared with someone who's not family. While I listened to her, wishing there's something I could do, I also somehow admired her for having the strength to share problems so intimate and personal yet I felt so inadequate to be the one hearing all of the problems. We went for a short walk after dinner and she took an auto home. 

On my way back, as I closely hugged my jacket against the dipping temperature, it got me thinking about the complexities of life and family and about my own in particular. I don't have the perfect family. And I will lament on the incompleteness of my family for a lifetime. After all, losing a mother can never be fair to any human. There will be certain personal clashes in the family. After all, despite the fact that we share bloodlines, we are all born with different personalities. But at the end of the day, as dysfunctional as we are, we are still family. And in times of need, we will somehow turn to each other and stick by each other.

My mother was my role model. Right from the way she was active in church to the way she used to dress only in neutral colors. Till today, I look at situations and problems and try to envision my mother handling those and I try to do the same. She was my superwoman  who could defeat everything that could even slightly harm her family. My father is my hero. When I was a child, he was the man who could do no wrong and the invincible man. But it took me 18 years to realize that my parents were also human beings. My mother was but a woman who loves her family fiercely but who also, in the end, succumbed to cancer. My dad, somehow, was also just a man who was lost without the love of his life, his wife and the mother of his four children; a man who somehow struggled to stitch his life back together after burying his own heart. 

It turns out, my mother was no superwoman and my dad is nowhere near the invincible man I envisioned him to be. They turned out to be just human beings after all, prone to mistakes, problems and who could also be haunted by the bad decisions they made years ago. And my brothers... ah! my brothers! I could write books and books about their irresponsible behavior and how frustratingly human they can get.

The funniest thing about life and family, I feel, is that in life we don't get to choose our roots yet we get to be a part of them for the rest of our lives. And as dysfunctional or imperfect that our families are, we get to be a part of that imperfection for our lifetime. I've heard of people who've turned their backs on their families and choose to face the world alone. Definitely not me! I'm such a loser when it comes to facing the world alone. I don't want to face the world alone, I don't want to face problems solo. At the same time, I don't want to celebrate success alone and I don't want to go through milestones in life without someone to share it with. I need my family behind me, to celebrate with me and be proud of me when I succeed and to fall back on in times of loss.

I know I don't have the perfect family. But I have a family who stands by each other, a family who loves and respects me. My brothers and I don't always get along but we all want the best for each other. I have a Dad who loves and  values me in a way no man ever will. I had a mother for 18 years of my life and aunts who worry over me, sometimes too overwhelmingly. 'Overwhelming' meaning setting a meet-up between you and some 'eligible bachelor'.

I have nephews and nieces who all fight for a sleepover since I am the cool A Ni who lives in Delhi and comes home once a year. I never slept in a bed during my summer in Aizawl, my bed or even my dad's giant bed was too small for 3 sometimes 4 little bodies who'd suddenly take up four times the space of their body size when they fall asleep. So we always end up sleeping all over the floor!! I have a niece who's the spitting image of me and who even sounds like me, and another who shares my name (at least half of it).

I know I'm so much less than the perfect daughter. Despite all my goodwill and my 'genuine' love, I know I'm the daughter who stays a thousand miles away, the daughter who's hardly home for Christmas and the daughter who's hardly there for my dad even when he gets sick. I am but the aunt who disciplines the nieces too much that sometimes their mother refuses to speak to me; the sister who's everything but docile; the cook who's always close to burning water in the kitchen; the tigress who's ready to bite if anyone leaves a footprint on my freshly waxed floor and the sister who gives a long lecture while doing laundry for the brothers she hardly takes care of!

So somehow, I fit right in with my imperfect family. And I know that if I conquered the world or even landed at the bottom of it, my family are the people who'd be there with me. So what if we have problems we sometimes  find it difficult to weather? We're in this for life! And while so, we'll learn to live with and for each other!

So here's to my dysfunctional family. I'm proud and thankful to be a part of the imperfection!

Now and Then: Of 11 year olds and 'normal' childhood

For a few weeks, I've been giving English Classes to an 11 year old.  Lets call him Sam K. for the time being. Sam, an only child of two scientists, is in Seventh Grade and scores above 90% in all of his subjects except in English where he scored 84%. And I am brought in to give him an hour long class, four days a week after his school. 

Sam : a voracious reader who reads everything from science encyclopedias to Harry Potter; a science wiz who can spend an hour just educating me about the black hole and also still a pre-teen who sometimes complains to me about his mother who, he says, nags him a lot and about a certain classmate who sometimes bullies him. Sam, the smart kid who argues with me for 30 minutes on why 'Scylla and Charybdis' should not be used as such an idiom because with Charybdis, the whirlpool, you still have more chances of survival. His argument? The right centrifugal force and inertia can propel your ship right out of the giant whirlpool. I didn't have a comeback for that because it's been eight long years since I've read about centrifugal force, inertia and all that jargon.

This evening, I just spend a couple of hours with Mrs. K discussing about Sam's progress and drawbacks. And I am taken aback by what is expected of him. I can't blame the parents. It's a competitive world after all. But somehow, deep in my heart, I feel pity for the 11 year old boy who is already in Seventh Grade and who is under a lot of stress and pressure at that age. Mrs. K talked about her concerns with Sam, his performance and also his relations with his classmates in school. She noticed a lot of personality change in the past two years and she, as a mother, is concerned when Sam refuses to discuss what is happening in school. In short, she literally wanted me to dig into Sam and learn about his personal problems in school, get him to talk and learn what is bothering him so that the parents can take certain measures. And here I am, with the overwhelming responsibility of 'shrinking' Sam, an 11 year old who is already fluent in four major languages of the world.

On my way back, as I hugged my cardigan against the chilly evening wind, I could not help but compare the 11 year old me with Sam. I was in Class 5 when I was 11 and made my first major slip from 'O' grade to 'A' grade in my second term exams. My parents were unhappy with me but somehow let it slide. After all, there were only two 'O' graders in my class. I don't know half the things that Sam knows, yet I don't have half the pressure that Sam has. My mother, a high school teacher, never nagged me into doing my homework but helps me when needed. But if I didn't do my work, my teachers in school were more than ready to cane me or give me extra work. I was never forced to take extra classes or tuition classes after school as my parents were contented with my grades. I know it is unfair to compare my life with Sam's when I was his age a decade and a half ago, but I just could not help it.

My uncle in Aizawl wanted to put his 8 year old daughter in a boarding school in Delhi ever since she was 5. "I wanted her to have better opportunities" he told me. My cousin, a strong-headed girl for her age, strongly refused. Last summer when I went home, my uncle told me to somehow coax her to come to Delhi. "She looks up to you, she will listen to you" he quipped. When I talked to Esther, her little face fell and she cried when she said she doesn't want to live in a place where she can't see her siblings everyday. I stopped then and there. I never resumed the conversation again. I thought the coaxing is unfair to her.

I cannot say the way we were brought up was the best. My parents never raised bars too high for me and my brothers. One sibling is never compared to the other. 'Each of you have your own personalities and your own calibre' my mother used to tell me. So we grew up contented with whatever marks and results we got. My  parents never had the finances to send us to boarding schools until we finished high school. My mother told me she never found the need to send me to a boarding school, when I got accepted in 'the best school in Aizawl'. I don't know if that would be the same, had we the finances.

Everyone in my generation grew up wanting to be doctors, engineers or IAS officers. Though we don't even know what those were at first. Kids, these days, grow up wanting to be much more - dancers, artists, rockstars, CEO's, lawyers, cardiologists, astronauts. I wanted to be a doctor when I was a kid but I decided I wanted to teach during my secondary school. My parents were fine with me when I changed my stream in college and my dad was ecstatic when I decided I want to go into research after a Master's degree instead of hunting for a job. The case, I believe, might not be the same for another generation. 

I want to be a mother at least by the time I'm 35. Sheesh!! I cannot say I will have the same attitude as my parents with my (future) kids. The bars will certainly be raised by the time they get to high school. After all, it will be a more competitive environment than the one we had. But will I make my son go through the stress and pressure Sam has to go through everyday? Will I want to send my daughter away to a boarding school at a tender age in order to give her 'better opportunities'? 

I know that my children cannot have the sort of childhood that I have. It's a changing world after all. But I would want them to have a stress-free, pressure-free normal childhood where they grow up with their siblings. I would want to share their test marks, their school picnics, their first crushes and their turbulent teenage years instead of sending them away to a boarding school. But then again, 'normal' changes after every decade or so. So by our kids' generation, maybe a stressed, pressured childhood would be the 'normal' childhood. To each his own. But then if the case is such, I will definitely teach them how to 'live outside the box'.

But then again, why do I even write a post on such topics?? I'm not even married yet! What can I say? I am, but, the myopic girl who suffers from perpetual hypermetropia.

Childhood Tales: Of OCD and the sheep (never) jumping over the fence

The good thing about growing up in a family with four children and lots of cousins, I realized, is that minuscule childhood problems are never blown out of proportion.

When I looked back, I realized I suffered from OCD when I was a kid. My parents never even knew that my meticulous peculiarity was a disorder. In fact, I was treated as a kid with propriety despite growing up with three rowdy boys.  So my parents were happy that I was a neat kid who couldn't stand mess.

That was far from it.

Looking back, I knew it was a case of OCD with the way I can't fall sleep until my books are all changed and arranged according to the time table for the next day. Even after going to sleep, I'd promptly wake up in the middle of the night if I didn't have my school bag in order. Once my dad caught me in the middle of the night  changing my timetable for the next day, rummaging in the dark.

I hated the shape of the rhombus during Geometry class because I want everything to be at perfect 90 degree angle. I got into deeper trouble with the hatred issue when we started studying the other shapes like the pentagon, hexagon and others. I crushed many an egg attempting to make it a perfect round shape than the shape that it already had and I had a problem with irregular shapes and patterns that all my Krismas kawr for around 5 years were either checked, striped or plain. Everything has to be in sync!!!

The worst thing I could remember was me refusing to step on a line, any line at all including imaginary lines. I'd never had a toe or heel peeping out when I walk up and down the stairs and I thank God that my feet were still small enough to fit in the squares when we had that checked carpet in our house.

My OCD walk used to happen in the path down near Tennis Court in Aizawl. I'd walk up and down that path every Sunday on the way to and from the church. There were huge concrete blocks laid end to end covering the drain which was used as the footpath. While walking on the footpath, I'd take extra care never to step on the line which joined the two blocks. My brother, after finding out my careful walking, pushed me and made me step on the line. I cried that day, and walked up the same path to take another walk down the footpath without stepping on the lines. I must be around 7 at that time. 

No wonder I was so good at the Butter Cheese game because I never ever ever stepped on a line!

This floor tile would've drove me crazy when I was 7!!

I was also that kid who always tossed around in bed unable to sleep. Milk and honey before bedtime never worked so my mother told me to count numbers till I fall asleep. Counting numbers... could never count beyond a hundred because my mind would stray to more interesting things. My brother later told me to count sheep jumping over the fence instead. It never worked, it kept me more awake.

For I was too busy creating a prefect setting - the wooden fence by the old toolshed, half-broken, weathered by the monsoon rain with green green moss slowly creeping over the side. And the sheep never jumped over the fence because I reared fat, clumsy sheep who tripped on the fence and instead of jumping over it, and fell into the big muddy puddle just by the fence. 

Then, I would run with a hose to clean up the dirty sheep, soap up its wool and hose it down. Then I'd sometimes decorate it with ribbons, sometimes put lipstick on them, sometimes make them wear 'ram hmangaih kawr' and take them to the battlefield against the pigs!! Sometimes I'd sit them down in a straight line and teach them how to sing. I have never seen a sheep in real life, but I have countless memories of washing a sheep, putting bows, makeup and countless success stories in teaching sheep how to sing!! 

And my brother introduced the sheep to help me sleep!! Sigh!

Pic: www.123rf.com

So I was a kid with OCD and much too active imagination. What's with me now?

Forget about crying when I stepped on a line, I would sit on, push and even draw a new line now! Maybe there's a little OCD in me somewhere which would surface now and then. I still sleep only in plain bedsheets but last semester, I went ahead and bought a printed bed-cover which does not have a geometric print. My first in many many years! But if there's anything that kept me up half the night, It's definitely not the OCD!!

The imagination still stays! Though not vivid as it used to be, and it hardly involves singing sheep, it's the one thing I'll always cherish even though it still keeps me up... most nights!

My Rainbow: Colors in my Life.

I love colors. And even though I have my sepia tone days when I enjoy being in one tone and all alone, most of the time I relish the colors in my life.

If you ask me what is my favorite colour, I'd quickly reply 'Rainbow' without even missing the blink of an eye! There are people who make my life colorful. Crazy, one of a kind people who make my life bright and happy. I love their little sparks and their little details, and to use a word from a certain movie, their 'ness'!!

So here's a tribute to the Colors in my life and their crazy little details!

The Color called Nancy : The Roommate

A paradox personified. A tomboy scared of mantis, grasshoppers and insects; a Buddhist who is partial to stray animals who enter our floor and writes a blog she prefers people not to read. She is so scared of ghosts that every time we tell ghosts stories, she'd sleep with a totem of her deity under her pillow! The selfish Buddhist! She suffers from a mild case of OCD and is also a big sucker in love... Huge!!

A Facebook quitter but a Blackberry addict who labels the stray dogs in campus as 'personality-less' and says they 'howl without class'. Recently, she admitted to losing all her dance moves! I wonder why!? Of all the roommates I've had in this University, she's definitely the best!


The Color called Kuki : The Future Maid of Honor

Someone who lives outside the box. She lives in a flat which had been burgled once and has been haunted annually for the past four years.  Yet she hosts the best parties I ever went to.We were born on consecutive dates. Except for the year. She's known under three terms - Social worker, Loudest Soprano in choir, Sunday School teacher. An antihistamine addict with the perpetual chubby cheeks. She's a Super Aunt to the three most energetic boys in the world and her most prized possession  is a picture in her teenage years taken with Aamir Khan.

The last time I checked if she really wanted me to be my MOH if I decide to get married, she gave me the Cobra Stare "Hmingthanzual, min hman loh chuan i na ang"

The Color called Thangpuia: The Boyfriend

The boyfriend for four and a half years who's a failed choir singer, failed dancer, failed musician, failed photographer(What did I get myself into?)  and mathematician. (ah! that explains it all!). He's been told he  looks 35 ever since he was in college. Tall, not so dark, handsome (OK... I'm prejudiced!). The Lai man who  talks to me in Lai only when he wants to get to my good side and smokes only when he wants to spite me. He hates Facebook, my short haircut and converse shoes but loves Shrek, Kungfu Panda, Kelly Clarkson and Adele. A formal dresser who started wearing jeans only after we went out.

Recently he tells me he wants to buy a good camera. 'The photographer in me urges me to' he quips. My reply? 'An expensive camera doesn't make you a photographer!'

The Color called Engkima : The Loudspeaker

My honorary brother who is the LOUDest person I've ever known. We live in the same hostel and his room is my refuge when I get sick or once during an earthquake after-shock. A kohhran Upa in South Delhi Mizo Inkhawm!! I'm not kidding!! Writer, academician, poet with such magnetic personality which even attracts bed bugs. A strong-headed man with the weirdest fashion sense. Yes! he wore only a Mizo-made chappal till he got his master's degree and refused to wear a belt till he completed his MPhil degree. His worse habit is chewing on his dentures! I always get scared that he'll accidentally swallow it! He gains an insurmountable level of confidence from his mock-relationship with the Color Nancy!

His latest conquest? Chheihlam minus the bending!!

The Color called Ben : The Rockstar

My Sunday School co-teacher who's known as Big Ben or Ben Ten among the kids. It amuses me sometimes that he teaches teenagers when he looks like one. We make the perfect ten. He the one, I the zero. I once ran up to kiss him onstage during our Student's Union rock nite (on the cheeks.. Relax!). He got himself a groupie that night, and I happily ticked off a point in my 'List of Things to do before I turn 30!". He doesn't eat pork and has two addresses in Delhi - a weekday address and a weekend address! He's got two elder brothers and hence is named Pazawna. When I learnt he has a younger brother, I asked if his brother's name is Pahlira. Nope!! He's named Lalchhuanawma! :D

My favorite singer who's in charge of the music in the upcoming Delhi Mizo Kut. I made a request for him to sing a Justin Bieber song, just to spite him. It worked. He didn't even smile when I mentioned the J word!


The Color called Becki : The Dictator 

The hairdresser who made the drastic change in my hair length. She's the head contralto in the choir who'd give acid stares to anyone who hits the wrong tone. Hence earning the title - the Dictator. A frequent meal skipper who looks half her age. A carpenter, seamstress and artist all rolled into one. She buys boots only in summer and already had her wedding dress designed which she wants to handstitch by herself. All we need now, is a guy to marry.

Currently in a dilemma on how to survive the harsh Manali winter while helping care of her soon- to- be -born nephew/niece. "I'll buy gloves. Good ones!" she quickly add. I smiled. Gloves? For the freezing Manali winter! Indeed!

The Color called RSa : The Friend 'n' Foe

Most sarcastic person I've ever known who is passionate on picking on me. 'Ready made' person when it comes to the 1 AM phone calls I'd make from the airport. He'll diligently pick me in 20 minutes. And thus earned his name Tuaitereka. Person with worst sleeping habit. Older girls find him cute **wink**. A grown man who's scared to sleep in the dark. A tea addict who tells me I'm the worst badminton partner ever yet who's a member of our 'baby-sitter's club'. Blessed enough to have the warmest family in town. A computer nerd, a good tenor and has the best footwork to an old Grease song! I can't think of a day spent with him without him insulting me. I can't think of a day spent with him without me insulting him either!

He texted me two days ago telling me that he'll remember me bailing his birthday dinner, for a long long time! The 'long long time' takes exactly 26 hours! My friend, my foe!

The Roommate, The Boyfriend, The Future MOH, The Loudspeaker, The Rockstar, The Dictator, The Friend 'n' Foe!

And how could I forget my Colors from last season! Nope, they're not out of style, they're vintage!

The Color called Jonathan : The Hug Bear

My best friend in college who at lost for words, told me that we'll share his mother the day my mother passed away! He used to date a girl half his size in college and now dates another girl, still half his size. A Shrek enthusiast who bloated up after we moved away for our Master's degree. A blogger, a writer, a singer, a songwriter and a musician all rolled into one. But, unfortunately, is a failed dancer. I once got bruised ribs from dancing with him.

After living away from him for 3 years, I thought we're not that close anymore until that one night when he puts me up on the phone all night after an exhausting day with absolutely no concern! Or guilt when my sinusitis peaked the next day! His synonym? No apologies = best friends!

The Color called Ronald T : The One who got away (with calling me 'fat and funny')

My ex co-group coordinator in the campus Christian fellowship. The one person who dares call me 'fat and funny'. Sad I still can't get back at him. Hence, 'the one who got away'. An experimental photographer who I don't really trust to be my wedding photographer. Just yet. Another Blackberry Addict in my rainbow, a tweetheart, blogger and the only guy I trusted enough to have a bottle of Breezer with. A mediocre singer and sadly a failed dancer (Remember the weird hands in the Potter choreography?).

Last time he was in town, he wanted to surprise me with dinner but then I missed his call. The next day, I got lectured meticulously (complete with the finger) for spoiling his surprise and then dragged off to the nearby mall in my sleep sweater and crocs! When protested for inappropriate clothing, he raised his voice, just a few octaves higher "Just think of how expensive your crocs are"!!

The  Color called Sam : The Midget

The one who presence always make me shrink. Literally. A 6 foot tall (I think. At least he looks that tall) Tamil who eats pork. He's also the first Tamil guy I met who didn't sport facial hair. Which, now I realized, was just a phase he was going through!! A tweetheart and a blogger who swears in the middle of a bible seminary and has the most infectious grin. The Ex-worship Secretary and the Groovy dancer in spite of the height. Yep I can still see him dancing on the Rocks at Easter Sunrise Service a few years back.

'If I'm a dancer, you'd be the pole' I used to say.  5 years later, I realized I don't need to be a dancer for him to be the pole! He's still the perfect long line!

The Hug Bear, The One who got away, The Midget

I know that hours after posting this, I will receive texts, Facebook messages or phone calls from these people accusing me of stealing Facebook pictures or publicizing their little details.

I have only one reply " I Love you too. Muah" :P

Happy 24th "Da Who"

Today, I mean, yesterday was my baby brother's birthday. He just turned 24. 

I am such a bad sister. I didn't talk to him. Not that I forgot, but when I couldn't get through after six attempts, I guess it kinda slipped my mind. Which, I know, is absolutely no excuse! I am such a horrible sister. Period. I must have gotten distracted over the much-hyped Dhaba dinner with the girls and another, which never happened. Shame on me, and shame on you too, Duat Vin and Madamji!! When it finally registered that I didn't call the birthday boy, it was already past midnight, which means it's already too late to call him.

But anyway, it's 4:19 AM on my clock as I am typing this line. I've gotten up again after an unsuccessful attempt to sleep with the guilt. It turns out Guilt is the worst enemy of an insomniac. So here I am writing a special post about the 'man' who means so much to me.

I remembered the first time I met Hutea. It was on the day he was born and I was just two months shy of three. I remembered peeping inside my parent's room when they were changing the baby, and asking my Grandma, "Pi, tinge naute ek hi a dum vek a?".

I remembered the first time I broke his toy, the 'crawling soldier'. I cried louder than he did.

I remembered feeling jealous of the bond that he shared with Ma. Him being the youngest, he got a lot of attention from everyone.

I remembered that one time when I babysat him when he was sick. I made a mistake in measuring the medicine and gave him double the dose of what I was suppose to give him. I remembered crying aloud and refusing to eat when he was taken to the hospital after he suffered from seizures.

I remembered that day when we cut off Ma's favorite PJs to make him a superhero costume. Boy! Were we scolded bad!!

I remembered that day when he had the accident that tore out all his upper teeth. He fell from three floors to the road. We all thought he'd die that day. And he was just 4. The little buster was such a fighter after all. I still hate the doctors, that day, who stitched back his gums without a shot of LA. Hutea later told me that it felt like they were putting a burning coal in his gums with each stitch they made. And through it all, he didn't cry. My brave fella!

I remembered that night when we read a horror story book and he was scared to go to his room. He slept with me on my bed that night.

I remembered the way he'd make fun of Westlife (my favorite, back then) just because he wanted to see me go mad.

I remembered him threatening my first ever boyfriend. His exact words "Hurt her, then you'll have to deal with me"

I remembered him crying, hanging his head low, on Ma's funeral. I remembered hearing soft sniffles coming from his bed that night.

I remembered his final words to his constantly cheating ex-girlfriend who always wanted to come back after, "Ui bakin a luak a ei ngai hleinem. Ui i ni ami?". Harsh words right?? Don't blame him. He learnt it from me.

I remembered the day he called me up to tell me he graduated. I was so proud to have a baby brother who's an engineer.

Yet, I remembered him coming up to me last summer when I was home, with something as simple as his dandruff problem. 

Nontheless, he's a great brother, a strict and irritating uncle, a confused soul (sometimes), a good son, an athlete, an entertainer, a musician and a whole lotta more.

He's 24 now.

Yet he will always be the 8 year old who'd behead my barbie dolls and the 14 year old who'd draw a missing tooth on my treasured Mark Feehily posters.

He's 24 now.

Yet he still asks me to scrub his back in the bath or sometimes even shampoo his head for him.

He's 24 now.

But last time I shared him my boyfriend problems, he grinned excitedly "Hey, break up with him already. Of course, you know I'll never let you get married until you find someone who can take care of me like you do".

He's 24 now.

But when I'm around he still insists I help him pick a shirt, a sock or even underwear.

He's 24 now.

But he'll always be the baby brother I adore.

"Da Who". 

I love you.... more!

Happy Birthday

I promise to call.... before church today!

Hutea with his favorite niece: Total foodies and wai wai addicts!

My favorite pic in the summer (ignoring the blur). Genuine happy faces! 

Of a Mizo woman and her (complicated future) bride price.

A friend of mine here in Delhi often declared that she didn't want a bride price when she gets married "Kei chu cheng za li leka hralh chi ka ni lo". A well-educated modern girl, a self-proclaimed feminist with a well -to-do background refusing to have a bride price. 

I recalled an incident with a distant relative. The wife was one such woman who refused to have a brideprice. The couple got into a fight one fine day and the husband called her " Man pawh man zo lo nu". She went to her brother's house and refused to come back. They reconciled later after her family demanded her brideprice all over again!!

I must say I am a feminist too! (Sheesh! What woman wouldn't be after reaching University?). But I am not a man-hater, I celebrate womanhood. 

Adam walked with God in the cool of the day. 

Yet, God saw that he was lonely. 

Therefore, he created a woman. 

Yes! I am proud to be the woman that God, in all his wisdom, created. Yet, I know I will never be equal to a man. Wait! Hear me out before you call me incompetent. I believe there's a reason why God made sexes and genders. We were made to compliment each other. Even our areas of expertise are completely different. Talk about the bad driving of an average woman, and an average man lost in the names of different colors. There's a reason why we are different right from the chromosomal level. We aren't meant to be equals, we're meant to complete each other. 

I also know that with being a Mizo woman, comes my culture and my tradition. And tradition, lost in colonial misinterpretation, claims that when I get married, my brideprice will be Rs. 420. Wait!! No, I am not of the Lusei clan, I am a Lai. Which means the my brideprice is more than that! 

But if I have to be finicky, exactly how much am I worth? No... let's rephrase that. You can't put down a human being's value in terms of currency. What's my brideprice? According to the standard Lai brideprice, it's Rs. 1500 (at least in India). 

Yet...
12 years ago, my cousin got married in Sangau, a little village in the South where my Dad proudly hailed from.  Her brideprice, I remembered, was Rs. 8000 excluding all other tokens in the form of animals or other heirlooms. 

Yet...
I remembered my Dad saying that my grandfather gave instructions that none of the women in the Hranglung family should not be 'sold' for more than Rs. 60!!!!!!! (What???!!!!) Dad later explained to me that there used to be instances of people who wanted to but could not get married because of the high bride price (Rs. 420, a hundred years ago, was a lot! Rs. 1500 can financially cripple you for life.)  My Grandpa, seeing the thing that kept many people from spending their lives with the ones they loved, decided to lower the bar for the bride price at least for his family. So Grandpa, being an elder of the village and married to the chief's sister, decided that brideprice was just a token and gave such instructions to his family. 

Yet...
Inspite of all the instructions, my cousin was 'sold' for such a hefty amount. The reason was that a girl's bride price was decided by her maternal uncles. Ah!! The complication!! So much for being a Rs. 60 worth Hranglung!!  

I also remembered when my mother asked an old uncle about the codes and norms of the brideprice. The uncle, who stayed with us for medical treatment was a proud old uncle Pu Pak Er better known as  Cithang-pa.  Well, in the South, people are better known by their  eldest children's names. Note to self: Should give my eldest a really pleasant name if I marry in the south. The old uncle listed down the brideprice. I didn't see the list, but my mother exclaimed as she read  "Ka pa, if this much is the bride price, no one will ever marry our daughters."

Later I learnt that the list he made includes 4 mithuns, a dozen of copper vessels, a gun and a lot more. And that is excluding the Rs. 10000 cash. That old uncle may be a little bit too much. Before he passed away, there was a joke going around with the young men in Sangau, a rather morbid one "No one should marry a Hranglung girl before Cithang-pa passed away". Him being the eldest living Hranglung in the village, his words were always heeded obediently especially when it comes to norms, codes and ethics. Brideprice being one of them.

You see how much can a brideprice differ even in one family even though the brideprice fixed today for a Lai girl is Rs. 1500. 

Sounds complicating does it?

Well, getting out of the whole mess, the point I'm trying to make here is that a brideprice is just a token of cultural practice and tradition. Who can ever chart out a human being's worth in term of money?? Even if you do so, I don't think even the richest man in the world would afford it so. A human's life is worth more than anything.

And lately, did I hear about the MHIP deciding to raise the fixed brideprice?? To what?? Where do you draw the line?? How much, would you compromise, a woman is worth if you decide that the 420 token is not enough?? 

As for me, let my brideprice go according to what my family decides. After all it's just a token of culture and tradition. I respect tradition enough for me to have a brideprice. I am definitely not my feminist friend who refuses to have a brideprice. I will not enter another family without going through the traditional norms and ritual of a brideprice. I don't really care if I go for 60 or a Lusei 420 or the Lai 1500 or the hefty 10000. A brideprice, I repeat, is after all just a traditional token, still nonetheless necessary.

So than 10 years from now, when I fight with my husband (hopefully!) he would never use the man man zo lo line on me!! I'm just kidding of course. But on a serious note, for the non-Mizo reader, if you think of ever 'buying' yourself a Mizo girl with the literal traditional token, I will hunt you down... Personally!

Of Weddings and Funerals.

Overheard in a certain girl's hostel room at a certain University.

" For my wedding, I want it to be a small affair with only close friends and family. I want it to be held at some resort not necessarily the..."

"Oh Please!! As if that's ever gonna happen in a society like ours"

Rude interruption to cut off a blissful dreamlike wish!

The rude girl was me. Excuse my language. But I stopped dreaming a long time ago. Not about weddings but about small affairs.

I wasn't always like this though!

For a long time, I didn't find the need to send wedding invites to 'removed' people like my Dad's high school friend or my aunt's husband's family. I would complain with the pile of wedding invites when cousin's get married. It didn't make sense to me why people who knew me only as my Dad's daughter should be invited to my wedding. Well, for starters, it's MY wedding and not my Dad's. I didn't find the need to send out wedding invites to people I know are not attending or the need to kill so many animals for my wedding feast (I'm a carnivore turned non-vegetarian!).

The idea of me wearing a white gown and white shoes didn't sound appealing at all. Or the fact that I have to be all prim, no smiles, no laughter, all serious for the ceremony. Why can't my dad walk me down the aisle instead of my brother?? Why can't I flash a smile at the man waiting at the altar??? Or why is it inappropriate to have fun, sing or dance at my own wedding reception?? Why can't it be only close family and friends for my wedding?? Why Why??

The funeral I went to last month was an exceptionally sad one. A young woman of 30 years died in her rented place in Munirka, Delhi. She had been sick for a long period and lack of treatment and negligence seemed to be the main cause of the demise. And no one knew about her. No friends, no family. The most painful thing was that there was hardly anyone who could come forward to talk about her life (or her death) during the service. The person who came forward to talk was an old friend of her mother who haven't even met the girl in person yet! As we sit there after the service, we questioned one another if they knew anything about anything at all. There were so many questions yet no answers. 

Which got me thinking.... 

When my mother passed away 8 years back, people we don't even know pop up from everywhere. People who knew her when she was a child, people who went to school with her, people who knew her family, people who knew her kids, her husband, people who were vaguely associated with her. Half the people who cried with me and half the people who held me and prayed for me were people whose names I don't know. And later as I rearranged the flowers and the puans, I have to call my dad and asked who send them because I didn't know the person whose name was on the cards. To see so many 'removed' people care for me and my family, moved me immensely.

If I have to pick only one thing I love about being a Mizo. It would be funerals. Hands down! I speak from experience when I say that having people mourn with you, friends and acquaintances who show up out of the blue to be there for you at a loved one's funeral gives you comfort that words can't describe.

The comfort that I felt at my Ma's funeral echoed through the years. Here in Delhi, everytime I receive an SMS telling me that someone passed away, I always make it a point to be there for the service and for the night. It doesn't matter who the person is. Being there is the least I could do to give back. And I am at peace when I give back.

Now everytime I think about how many people I want for my wedding, I also think about how many people  would be there for my funeral. Everytime I think about all the 'removed' people I have to list down as my wedding invitees, I think of all the 'removed' people who will show up at my funeral because I am a daughter of an old high school friend.

I admit, I still want to go offbeat for my wedding. (If there ever comes a day) I'll wear green shoes for the ceremony and keds for the photo-shoot. I would be more of a laughing bride than a shy smiling bride. I'll wink at the man standing at the altar, say my vows loud enough for the whole church to hear (what's the use of the witnesses if you just whisper your vows?) and scream "I'm married" right after we walk out the door. OK! Maybe that's a bit too much. But one thing I would go strictly traditional with would be the guest list. But I'll leave that to my uncles who always do the job of combing through every locality, every street, every town, every city and every village to find families, friends and acquaintances who should be send the wedding invite. It won't make my day to see animals slaughtered for the wedding feast. But let's face it, people are more important than animals. And I'll safely turn my blindside to it! Sorry PETA!!

Call me a conformist but if people I hardly know, are graceful enough to be there on the saddest, loneliest day of my life, I would be too selfish of a person to leave them out on my happiest day!! And I am sure this would be one privilege I wouldn't enjoy had I been born out of this colorful, compassionate tribal community that I love. 

You may say that there is no intimacy and less privacy in such events, but there is definitely more compassion and more self-sacrifice. I hope to have a big fat Mizo wedding and I pray that I will also have the Mizo funeral. And once again, I am proud to be born and to live life as a Mizo!!

Ka Nu, I tan...

Ka Nu...

I haven't used that word in a long long time.

Eight years ago, on this day, my mother succumbed to cancer. No one allowed her to go even though she's been sick for six whole months. And we all knew that the dreaded day would come. It was a rainy foggy Sunday night. Church-goers were returning from the evening services and their chatter could be heard with the sound of the rain from the bedroom where she lay. She was tired of sleeping, my dad held her up on the bed. She smiled and said she liked it and then she told my dad she'd go! And she went... without a fight, without tears, without hesitation.

That afternoon, I sat quietly at a church in Shillong listening to a sermon on John 15:1-6. Pruning had been the topic. I remembered telling myself that, that time was the pruning phase in my life with my mother's sickness and all the problems that we've had within the family. I also remembered telling myself that the painful part will soon be over when new leaves start budding with new life. Little did I know how my 'pruning' would go!! After church service, my hostel bus went for a joyride at Golf Link. I stared at the setting sun for quite some time, feeling as if I've lost something great. A friend of mine, knowing my family situation and seeing my empty eyes, asked me if I wanted to pray. We did, in the meadows.

4 hours later, I received the phone call.

My 11 hour journey from Shillong to Aizawl for my Ma's funeral is another story in itself. A story, sometimes, too painful for me to retell.

However, this post is not about me reliving that painful day when I have to bury the woman who meant the world to me. This is about me attempting to pay homage to her memory.

If ever there was a life abundantly lived, it would have been my mother's. I learnt a lot of things from my mother's short yet abundant life.If I even try to list half the things I learnt from her or how much she meant to me, this post would have no end.

My Ma was no fancy woman. The only gold ornament she ever possessed in her lifetime was her wedding band. She never walked in expensive shoes or dressed fancy. She might have wanted to, she's also human, but she never did. She was one of the few women who kept others before themselves; one of the few who learnt that there's more to life than just loving, indulging and pampering oneself. I know that my Ma's no perfect woman. But here was a woman who lived such a full life that she helped prepare and plan out her funeral and stitched the cover of her very own coffin. My Ma, even on the valley of the shadow of death, walked with such grace and courage.  Knowing her, I couldn't help but say, she's the closest a human can get to being the Proverbs 31 woman.  

I hope to be like my Ma someday. Of course, I know I will never stand up to her. But trying doesn't hurt.

If these years of living without a mother taught me one thing, it's this: There will never come a day, when I'm old enough or matured enough to not long for a touch of her hand, the scent of her skin and the sound of her voice. In fact, I would give the world to hear her call my name just one more time.

Eight years ago, I stood by a window, rain fogging up the glass as I looked towards the cemetery where my mother had just been buried. I can still feel my heart breaking while realizing that I can't shield her from the rain and from the cold earth that enveloped her. I remembered opening her wardrobe and taking her scent in, wishing there was a way I could capture and keep that scent from fading. I remembered lying awake at night, thinking about her lying all alone in the cold, wet earth wishing I could do something to keep her warm. I remembered that feeling of utter desolation, of magnificent pain and gruesome loneliness. That night I made a promise to myself. And through these years, I've always reminded myself of that promise lest I succumb to the pain and loneliness.

Today, I make that promise once again.

Nu, I promise to always cherish your memory without forgetting how to live on...

Thantluangi Zathang  (1952 - 2003)

Jumble from Summer in Mizoram...

I was home for a month and a half during the summer. I went home after two whole years of being away in the sweltering Delhi heat, and I must admit, during the two years, I have partly forgotten how to miss my family! (Sheeesh!! So much for being the fanu neihchhun!! ). I was home at Aizawl for a month, I spend 11 days travelling south, had my taste of an 'Aizawl wedding' where I had fun seeing people overdress (Facebook Albums just don't lie!!) and met a dozen new cousins, nephews and nieces who were born during my two vagabond years.

I must admit, I was a babysitter/nanny/cook/housemaid/PS/PA to dad/ housekeeper during my month at home. And I loved every single moment of it, down to the moment when I have to scrape ar ek from the chicken coop or when I have to help my brothers with their stint in woodcutting. I realized how much I missed being home and taking care of it. I had slumber parties with my nieces and all of our dolls, watch my youngest niece's toothless smile turn into a two-teeth-smile and went through 10 year old letters from high school! Ah! Nostalgia!

They spend half the night rearranging the dolls and the other half kicking me in their sleep! 

I'm all for Green Mizoram. But the tree on our upper slope got too big and too dangerous for Monsoon. Hence we cut down the branches. Made a huge mess in the terrace too!

Social life in Aizawl?? I have no social life in Aizawl. I went to funerals in my locality with my aunt and condolence services with my dad. I must admit, I feel extremely awkward at church. The few handful (unmarried) people I know were already youth leaders and are already too busy with meetings and other duties to be in the same pace with me. I decided to go to choir practice but I was told that the choir was a closed group! :(  SAD!! So I went to church with my dad and left with him! I spend my Sunday afternoons visiting families of relatives who passed away while I was away. Of course, half the time, my dad went with me. So basically, my dad was my partner during my month in Aizawl. Hey!! I'm not complaining, I don't know how long will I continue to be daddy's girl. **wink**

I took my baby brother out for shopping twice. And half the time people looked at me as if I'm taking my 'boy-toy' for shopping. A lady at one shop asked me 'In pa ta tur hi ami?'. My brother and I, we looked anything but siblings. He's  tall, broad, handsome and fair and I am otherwise! :D I must say Hutea brings out his child-likeness when he's with me. And most of the time, he'll be all over me, hugging me, grabbing my shoulders or my hands even in public. Can't really blame him, he's the youngest in the family and was only 15 when Mum passed away. And I have been a 'mother-figure' to him since then. Well, what term else would you use when a 23 year old engineer came to you, almost in tears, asking you to give him a head-bath because he couldn't get rid of his dandruff!!!!! And him calling me Seni without a 'U' didn't help identifying that he's my brother.

This summer I had the amazing experience of witnessing chickens (and quails) hatching from the eggs. It might sound weird, but I felt so maternal watching the eggs crack open while chicks and quail-chicks(??) kick their way out into the world. I felt as if I witness the miracle of birth. My big brother bought himself a digital incubator when he came home from Brighton. Believe me, the ar-pawm veteran took great pride in his machine! The machine worked well and during my stay, we incubated three batches of eggs. The night before I left, it was hatching time for the batch of quail eggs. We hardly slept that night!

The phoren 'world-class' digital incubator with the quail eggs! I should learn how to  cook quail before I go home again!

The first-born just a few minutes old!!

The little fella after 4 hours!! FYI: Quails mature in a month! :D

I traveled south for 11 days and had the most amazing time meeting people, new and old. I stopped and stayed at 9 towns and villages partly for my fieldwork and partly because of the heck of  wanting to travel. I met old grannies, whose language I could hardly understand. Sometimes, I'd need an interpreter. Its got to do with my rudimentary Lai and also with their seasoned-dialected Lai. The biology of language and the overwhelming generation gap!

I must admit, I also made the biggest mistake of asking men about colours for my fieldwork. The different colour charts I took with me didn't help at all. 

 My interview with Mr. Hmun Hre at the LADC office in Lawngtlai happened as such:

Me: Ok, what is 'red' in Lai

HH: A eng

Me: Isn't 'a eng' in Mizo called 'Aihre' in Lai??

HH: Yes. Seni!!! Where did you learn that?

Me: Oh! I speak Lai too! **Grin**  Then what about the colour of oranges?

HH: Yes, that's a eng

Me: You mean 'aihre'??

HH: Yes, aihre.

Me: Then what about this colour? (I showed him a green leaf. Leaf green, not lime green or flourescent green)

HH: That is also a eng.

?????????????????????????????????????

Believe me he wasn't the only one. Another man I met at Sangau stated 'a sen'  to every single colour I pointed except for black and white. Yet another man from Lawngtlai admitted openly that blue and green all looks green to him. Maybe a case of blue-green colour blindness for him? But for the others, I don't know!! I just don't know!!

My lowest of low moments during my summer was at Lengpui airport where I got into a hassle with an airline ground staff (Another namesake, sadly!!) who asked me to weigh my handbag 'since it's a cabin baggage'!!!! My first time in my 26 years of life. And it had to happen at Lengpui airport. And that little imp had to use her 'accented' English even when talked to in Mizo. But weighing a handbag where I had my netbook, a book and a few toiletries never happened at any other airport before. I wanted to ask her if I should also weigh myself since I was also going in the aircraft. I'll make sure I never fly in that airline again. Cause' if I run into her again, the vampire in me might just awake, 'tear her into pieces and wear her ribcage as a hat'!! ( Lorena of True Blood talking!)

Well, that's a bad tone to end my Summer at home!! Isn't it??? Well, what can I say?? Summers end in autumns too!! Just the law of nature! And I'm just a part of it! **GRIN**