Who will eat the bourbon biscuit?

Every evening I cross my legs and sit on a sofa compressing the foam of the seat in a way that bunches up the display even when I am not seated on it.

I make a cup of tea,which by proportions is also an indication of the greed I infuse,(actually greed is a negative connotation as pointed by my concerned dad,as he saw my future prospects dwindling with the opposite sex with each such unladylike becoming declarations. However considering I still have to come up with a convincing reason regarding why I have  tea in a mug that could fill out three cups,I shall stick to greedy and hope that none of the prospects chance upon this and then flounce out as easily.

Look at their brighter prospects , there will always be enough tea in my gigantean receptacle for the duality we would represent far into the rosy future behind fluttering flowers. Any green tea lovers out there?)

But coming back to the point where I am sitting with my mug surrounded by at least three different kinds of snacks.I don’t like to strike out very far when the munching bug strikes.To my list of desirabilities we could add 'resourceful', Dear Daddy.

This is me and meet my friends next.

All my friends seem to have gone onto the healthy treadmill diet ; health talk , treadmill walk,and diet food routine the minute the third decade of our lives slid in full throttle.

One of these lovely , grass and salad eating ladies hasn’t spoken to the other for the reason that the vegetarian snacks in a party thrown in general happiness were laden with Oil and that was the only vegetarian snack on the menu,obviously translating into her dictionary as a lack of care and a litany of other deductions followed,which may only suit a mind of no less than seventy decades old.(I was about to write sixty then realized my parents are into that decade and Coherency should not be a hostage of age,plus if they read this I could be in mortal danger of confirming their belief that they are old,I am trying to hoodwink them otherwise,every single day with PoooooF ! sixty is nuuuuuuhthing.)

But look  at the friendship which shredded like a rocket or lettuce under pressure from oil,through thick and not so thin ,they still speak through the veil of shredded lettuce,gritty,as though not cleaned.

Do we judge friends who do not shift with times,should we even judge friends?what am i doing writing about them,maybe this is my tri-decade defect.Ive become third party analyzer of others lives well on my way to becoming the nosy neighbourhood gossip.SHUDDER!!! Sanity hinges on the maybe.

Presently lets talk about my trip to the supermarket to stock up.

I have always loved Bourbon Buiscuits.As a child I would sit with a packet and finish the last crumb assisted by a bottle of water.Today  I Have a jar in which I stare at all my assortment of biscuits and when I sit with my tea with them and a mix of the healthy ones my eyes always longingly look at the bourbon which I secretly slide in making a mental note of exercising more.

In all my organizational skills,I slipped and my stock of health food was at an all time low when  one of my friends came to spend the night.But bourbons which I love cannot be an organizational blunder they come under 'needs' category so they were visible in their evergreen display.

This friend, she is not a part of the social butterflies i spoke of before,but yes she is a very old, as prehistoric as me friend.

It seems the age where everyone comes into their own, also is turning my friends en-mass into 'whole wheat' and' brown' rice ,eating monsters who will not touch a biscuit if it isn’t a digestive.Imagine the reaction when I lovingly took my bowl of only bourbons to her with morning tea( I am usually not this agile in the morning serving tea,only with house guests of short stay, is an exception,do note!)

Her  reaction was first to politely ignore the existence of the bourbons.

That polite refusal was of course not noted in my exuberance to feed her.

So I waved the bowl under her nose again.

And this time she went to exclaim ,” do you not have any healthier ones?”.

I went into shock firstly at my lack of hostess skills for not providing and secondly at the sleight to my bourbon.Both polar reasons,yet the effect was physically evident on my goldfish mouth.

Because obviously I didn’t have anything else.

We recovered that situation by her remaining nil by mouth ,and feeling a certain raise in her spirits as she weighed lighter in her conscience.

But the question is who will eat the bourbon?Not My specky friend,not my nitpicky vegetarian dragon friend,Not a whole lot of any others I know.

Will my childhood love sit it out in stores ,spending lonely nights whereas newbies and digestives will fast move off the shelves into loving homes and fuller stomachs?

I cannot let that happen.

Is my bourbon biscuit my answering metaphor to anything chocolate?yes.It is  a specific desire yes,but it is also a symbol of  the fact that my mouth waters at the sight of anything in a sinful chocolate avatar.Or caramel.And Am I willing to drop it in my midlife sanyas virus(sanyas is a hindi term for renunciation of worldy pleasures)that seems to be an epidemic among my friends?

Maybe by this point you think by deduction that greed is weighing me heavy,literally.

I should  point out that the gravitational force is also responsible for my cushions foam having compressed designs,I love to walk every single day,I love to stretch in different yoga poses that contort you weirdly and I only help the gravity by a quarter of a century in Kilograms.

And no my metabolism is not my genetic inheritance , in fact,in that department I do not have any inheritance,Health is an exercised form for me.Like a huff and a puff away.

I know and have always known the answer to who will eat the bourbon?  I will.

I will be the Organic whole wheat eating( I am not completely out of tune here) bourbon and chocolate incorporating anomaly to a generation in early transit to Satvik(simple)food.Making space for these on my recipe planner app,(yes! I am strangely tech savvy), while I pump away on the treadmill.

Bonn appétit!Crunch munch.

GOLDEN TICKETS

Imagine a Hotel where a tail coated gentleman opens the doors and when you walk in you can hear a murmur of voices over glasses clinking.People turn and smile at you as you try and elegantly discipline your body to walk up stairs trailing a path lightly touched by your hands on the curving wooden banister, and accept a smile and a glass of champagne as someone says congratulations and propels you into the celebration.

Venue: Fortnum and Mason. On the google maps for your reference, Piccadilly.

A hot hot tea and loads of Gin and Tonic had gotten me shiny tickets printed like business cards,a service rendered with a smile that directly delivered me to this cocktail Venue.

I should remember to smile often, and practice a genuine one for like eight hours at least may be then the lady with the 18 Golden tickets(what does she do????) will feel me at the rung below her count. But still here I was.

‘Ismein kitna mileage milega?’, (how much mileage for my money, loosely translated) even the television advertisements mirror what my heart desired for the one year I photocopied and filed these tickets for appraisals where I felt like  a rock star. But I am not the lone Mother Teresa floating around, just the ending ripple of a nationalistic desire for more out of less, so with a couple of golden tickets I wanted to fly around the world and leap back to Delhi and wear a crown for the rest of the year ,at the very least.

Apparently this desire is a global Trend as Frank Van Der Post also joked that for the question that everyone asks, “what do you do with these golden ticket winners?So I say, go out tonight and enjoy at British Airways expense,something that doesn’t happen often”, Hands spread he was master of ceremonies with a Cheery twist.

He also cracked a few world cup jokes which wafted over my head, what sunk in was, eat all you want.

And mind you, every one of the guests along with our esteemed gold plated guests and awardees irrespective of nationality laughed loud at the remark, witty Gentleman Frank, had broken the Ice.

The only problem was,eat what?Variety was an understatement for small food called canapes.

I have a tendency to generally encompass what’s written and let the details follow later, so I was en route to the gala evening, dressed in magenta finery of draped six meters, holding up my stomach, which was strumming food music, thinking roast  chicken at least.

Marilou the gentle Mexican ICC sharing my cab was the receiver of all my hungry groans. I did say gentle, so that was how she broke the news to me about the canape’s overtaking the dinner photographs in my mind. She obviously reads an invite better than me.

So there I pull back to where I was wondering what to eat. I decided to attack Canapés following a thorough inspection.

Maybe you could not miss my magenta streak across the room and that is how Amy walked up to us ( Me and Marilou)with an inviting smile, My dress was literally screaming I’m from your Team, She pulled us into the worldwide Crew cocoon.

And also, see I need to document these things , so we accosted Amy and got some selfies, which weren’t very flattering at least to me, clicked.

After meeting everyone I was again back on my agenda, as the chief said enjoy, who am I to flout orders.

I ate delicately perched salmon on crackers, I ate peas out of little glasses with silver spoons. I substituted Pimms with Champagne,(Sacrilege I know).Sparkling water with Ice and twist of lemon and circled with a crowd that puts money under our wings.

I got Loads of photographs clicked where whenever the shutter went down I was caught thinking, should I smile showing my teeth or should I just make a curve with out them, thankfully just my Back featured in the Publicized cover, otherwise I would be hiding all under BA sofa’s in every briefing hereafter.

I walked in following the tail of a coat and walked out holding my Sari to save me from floating instead of walking out.

I still nurture desires of zipping free around the world on my tickets, but a ticket to an event like this is also a pat that I don’t want to shy away from.

I’m rejuvenated and feel felicitated and if this was a speech like the Oscars, thankful to BA for letting me in on the secret that Canapés can indeed fill your stomach and the elusive tickets do shine a path to glittery ends. So I will be serving hotter teas with warmer smiles, to see what next.

Elvis's night out

Hurtling along at shattering speeds of eighty kilometers per hour,and no they wouldn’t shatter anything along the way,its just my jalopy kind of shudders at speeds above this divine threshold.

So shattering elvis’s(my ride) peace, yet taking care of my testy yet reliable drive,and my hosts warm spread which awaited we shuddered along,

As we turned up at the gate,grimy may I add,it had the protesting looks of a sullen piece left out in the rain rolled in mud in defiance kind of look,I had managed to clean his looking glass,but the rest of his Armour well still hid its shine behind the camouflage of brown dust.

So suspiciously eyeing Elvis the guard at the gate approached with his register in hand gingerly,trying to peer in to identify me.

I helpfully pulled down the window, and looked innocently as I could at his slim frame pouring all it had into that register trying to get elvis ‘s number yet avoid any contact with his being, like a compliable citizen I provided my details.And requested for the gates to open to accommodate me and my drive.the gates however remained firmly shut.

I tried the visitors parking card,which was reported to me full,making me feel like I was standing in a blockbuster movie line and the counter just shut in my face.Sigh!

Maybe it was full maybe it wasn’t so I sat awhile and beseechingly again looked at him made him my dearest relative’bhaiya’,usually a card that familiarizes the males in our society with supersonic speed,germinating in them a desire to come to your rescue.

Alas My ‘Bhaiya’ Card flopped ,maybe he had already germinated in his chivalirity,and gotten over with it in the face of over utilization of the term.whichever was the case he smilingly covered the refusal of space for elvis by pointing us in a direction that was just across the road.

My ‘abla naari’ card (defenseless woman),though delivered with a smile and the pointed fact that how will I walk across that great unsafe road alone at night when I do want to drive back,outside the safety of the gate?

A question which actually triggered his protective instincts.No,not enough to open the pearly gates for me,but to provide me manly shelter in my trek across the road at night.

So as we had forwarded ourselves to line the gate ,we smoothly(please note smoothly) peeled back,(hearing reassurances that were a space to fall vacant elvis would be first in they would call) and went sulkingly to stand behind an exceedingly ugly opel.Away from all the BMW’s parked inside the gate whom elvis would have done well to interact with.however now my stomach was leading me on.

Flowers in hand and again helpless where to go ‘abla naari’ question at the gate,I announced my arrival.

There are some men who brag and some men who brag some more.while popping into various groups and listening in on enlightening conversations,in some where the enlightened men were discussing the future trends of property and the next and more interesting group who were discussing Ferraris,Now for elvis’s sake I should know the latest in the field so we parked our feet in that group.in the we is included me and my lively glass.

The gentlemen who was lead bragger in the group happened to be one of my friend’s husband,and having been protestingly dragged to this party he had decided that tales about his latest acquisition(actually I do love that car) audi Q7 ,will light up fires of jealousy in all present quenching his desires, as he himself is always alchohol free.sealing his presence in jealousy,

But I do love trying to wrestle an invitation to drive it out of him,actually at the present stage I have been walled off at the’ may I sit in your car ?’stage.but there is still hope,in the bleak distant future.I grin at the mere thought of feeling the airconditioning blast and curving my hands on its steering.

I still love you Elvis all these commando drops in conversations are so I can drive you better.

The air circling in the group was being breathed in with a doze of how the audi found parking inside the pearly gates.(did I mention these people arrived almost as my Cinderella hour was up? so My ‘bhaiya’ had not delivered.)

There was an outraged cry by all present,actually it may just have been me,making up in volume for the rest of the group.

My chagrin was announced and allayed by tales of money shifting hands.

So not only had the smooth talker blinded my ‘bhaiyas’ with the scrubbed clean by servants at home exterior of his nameless audi,but they were also taped shut by the note that miraculously lined their hands,and automatically motioned them into opening the gates.I can just imagine a smart salute thrown in.I was officially upset that I decided to enroll my friends husband to escort me back,to elvis rather than depend on the money eating guards.

I sometimes wonder how our country could be a porous sponge.held up my money that seeps in from all angles,seeping into the system,clearing an individual path,forming a monetary core that is fragile susceptible to outside rain and yet inflatable like hay when dry and crackling,still inflammable.

The lining of our (pockets) core has become so intrinsic to the functioning and identity of our nation as whole that were it to be vacuumed and cleaned out it would leave a hollow space,and we may just implode or if we don’t ,then we leave ourselves vulnerable to some other kind of filling.

This is our identity,inflammable. And only a leap of faith for total transformation by all ‘bhaiyas’ and ‘behans’(sisters) together ,a desire for all to sit inside the pearly gates ,simultaneously would make a change possible otherwise if it isn’t synchronous we may all land in different places,leaving the fabric of our country irreparably torn.

But for a nation like our mini elephant to be synchronous, needs a common motivation,a spark of which was ignited by the AAM aadmi party,but a spark is not enough to launch a nation into action let alone reformatory action.especially an unstable spark that flickers.

Now what that spark would be I know not the last effective one that smouldered the nation was ‘azadi’

But political reasons aside, me and Elvis still on date were found on the poorer side of the capitalistic fence.

Maybe had I taken time out to clean Elvis,I wonder. But in my job list priority was an hour long bath followed by an equally important hour long beautifying rituals followed by a mad dash to the flower shop leaving precious little time other than clean his glasses.

So in my optimistic Avatar, as I cannot change the register holding guards mind with my wand,and I am definitely not changing elvis for the boasters q7(Ok maybe trade for a week I could be convinced to do)what I can wave magic into, is my schedule and find time to spruce up elvis’s act and hope for the best.

(I shall also in the mean time practice more emotionally moving dialogues that attack the mind and pierce the heart,If I'm to be a lone forager I’d better carry my deadliest skills in a soft glance of helplessness)

NATURAL TOX

There can be no eyes that are more penetrating or judgemental like when you’re under scrutiny sitting hot in the parent trap.

Their hexa status bespectacled by the rims that survey the world with squints without their glinting presence, is no hindrance in their x-ray vision that surveys in surprise their genetic product who has somehow toddled off into the world and is ungainly in their existence without their touch.

So begins the examination that led to the conclusion that I have acne due to stress.Stress a word that somehow my parents find  answers to all health issues,a magical diagnosis that doctors could well heed to.Your skin is dry,comes a wry observation as,or the dark circles around your eyes,become a scarring comment,that makes you run for lemon,if a cucumber has already not been placed on my eyes,i.e.

Which brings me to the point that I should introduce my famous parents of the previous para fame.they come as a team,father and mother diagnostics,function as a dual observatory but the healing is in the hands of my mother who in her recently developed google world,has added cinnamon and aloe vera to co exist with my child hood memories of trying to make faces under a mask of gramflour and yoghurt.The same mixture was first scrubbed on me to the musical score of a crow taking away all dirties ,which were addressed in my innocent childhood as ‘chee ,chee’.

Needless to say that my skin under such expert guidance and scrutiny bore no pimply fruits during my teenage years as my father put me on a only soap and oil diet.sans chemicals my vocal protests against demands for creams and nail polishes met with a firewall,but my skin gleamed.

If you practice a thing regularly for three weeks it becomes a habit,if you practice it over decades it pores into your genes,so making faces through gram flour still brings me joy,cracking eggs expertly removing the yolk lining my neck with a newspaper that is torn just so,to apply the mask in my hair,and protect my clothes is an expert application that I have mastered,still it makes me the most revolting thing on two feet within a thirty meter radius,but the joy in me while picking that egg,and the sight of me looking like one with my hair jammed together in a concentric crown of egg yolk cement may just put the neighbours running inside,but I get away, because though I may shy away from henna(having experimented with its colorful delights too though,how could I resist!)the whole country is pretty tolerant to egg heads courtesy seeing generations of hennaed mops.

I may not be orangy but patriotic to the core and as the nation does so does me,with variation. im not alone in my desire for natural cures,I have placed mine directly onto my parents feet,as I inadequately tried to explain my conditioning before.

But my experiments are sometimes to the extremes,

socially speaking banana is a fruit for the skin that works inside out best,but if you were to test the adhesive skills of banana I could probably write you a PHD,one day I decided in a way to benefit my skin I should probably apply a layer all over my body and then scrape it off,idea simple on the paper of my mind but execution got sticky,literally.

But I slip sometimes safe in the fact that I'm incharge of an obedient ward,being my skin,

But the bespectacled lookers don’t miss a hairline crack so recently noted was the dryness of my skin and the acne that surrounds it.

It was surprising when eruptions emerged victorious at last, after years of suppression,seeing me become  best friends with lacto calamine,I was also at this stage flooded by my parents and friends fueled respectively by their hereditary knowledge at the solution that lies behind,I shed off the medical pills and lotions suggestions , having a tendency to naturally avoid anything artificial.

Usually in my kitchen everything edible has by now found a way onto my face tomatoes,potatoes,rose water,aloe vera measured in kilograms( I draw a line at eating it though,but to admit I'm secretly willing to try it too)and of course the faithful gram flour.

And now in this crisis I drew on my ever present faithful ingredients.

In all this one cure stood out the seller was a very coaxing and believable saleswoman,she is the same age,(which makes her more believable somehow)she had all the right words I have never had it all my life and even the odd  one would vanish in the face of her pasty cure and most convincing of all its easy to make.deal sealed. ingredients : juice of ginger mint and tulsi leaves.Im on the job pronto.

But as is the slip between the cup and the lip,as is me in motivation from the desire to the actual ingredient lid.

I reduced them to two because of lack of sourcing and then finally one due to sheer laziness at plucking so what remained was ginger.

.

Do you know in me Is also a desire for instant results,so I apply it to my skin ,and have to curb my want to run to the mirror,just to see if any benefit has transpired in a nano second,I control the urge under my adult veneer, though I do walk extremely close by one as I go on my travels later to the land of kitchen or washroom I figure out a mirror in each path.bowing to my child within.

All hands on deck,I applied the paste .what I wasn’t prepared was for the seeping in of the ginger leaving a burning blaze in its wake. My skin was on fire and as I sat in front of the tele trying to wish it away.

My mind hypnotically turning the thought,it will go away,its only natural,no side effects,but these thoughts are along with a niggle of , 'Is it?maybe the other ingredients were the scale balancers',and ' I shouldn't do the one woman army decisions of removing ingredients at will.'

In my eagerness for results I had not even googled whether it was good for the skin or not.I had just believed the advertiser and marched on to the mortar and pestle.

I mean it was all good for tea,I love grinding the ginger and getting the juices to soak into the water along with the tea.but skin I wasn’t really sure so sitting there with a burning face I realized I may have been a tiny bit hasty.

When the ginger did get propped up on my google screen eventually,it was a validatory vision.

And when I read the affirming word my heart did a little jig,it was like life long applications had suddenly seen the light of technological approval.they were in cyberspace floating like a fact amongst the million others but it was there,my fact.and it was correct.

So I went to the fridge and pulled out some more and applied

As i wrap this up ,Im still not the glowing beauty but  a faithful follower still.

 By the time I write again I will be drowned by drinking water,caked in bananas chlorophylled by tulsi,fumigated by turmeric,baked in a steam room ,crushed under tomatoes and burnt by ginger.

Are you listening mumma?Im a hopeless convert,by choice and conditioning.You can rest your x-ray machine I have turned into a self diagnosed naturo-path lab assistant.

Till my next post,may the egg smell I write with leave you with my gooseberry oil,smearing forever by its stingy fruity smell and singeing your memory by my signature‘natural ‘goodness. Even google says so.

Diver's Stream

Diving is all about letting go.

I could probably sit cross legged and give sermons on how, but I’m sure by the end of my experience you’ll realize to enjoy the full pleasure scuba diving,what I foretell is actually a biological must.

Diving.

Once the idea was planted in my mind, images of me with fins floating around, circled a deep hole in my conscious existence.

That’s how I found myself dangling over the side of a boat masked and weighed by a cylinder full of air, and self pumped with knowledge that volume of air is inversely proportional to pressure.

Which basically means that if you’re somehow hovering above your group under water and were you to breathe deep in then that bubble inside you that fills out with air, will make you rise like a phoenix and you may find yourself bobbing along the boat that shot you down, chatting with surface men rather than the fish below,and diving is not anthropology its a part of zoology so staying down is a must 

I did have a friend on the course who had much the same affinity to the boat and deep breathing as I did to exhaling, so I was mostly found closely examining the sand on the ocean floor and my friend was found interacting with the boat staff.Our lovely instructor would be found somewhere in between pointing towards the lovely Flora and Fauna,to observe, which is the basic reason we pick this skill of under water diving.Or did you assume that I did this heavy cylinder training under water just so I could paste a cool photo of my self on a certain site so my friends living their mundane lives could go green as they saw it from their desks buried under work.

To be frank most of my fish lining the script of my diary of my 8 long dives are basically ones which I processed as my instructor said it and I stared at him blankly for a second then went,right! and scribbled it down.

The first time I went under water with my equipment and weights to do training I thought I'm a professional,the sign of all Ok became like my personal mantra.I felt like a queen ,though a queen with a bursting bladder,on that I will just elaborate.

The feeling of royalty was systematically demolished by nature's conspiracy. Let me explain how.

It is said that drinking water early in the morning is a great way to start your internal organs working,and I'm a huge fan of it's said.Well after hopping on to the boat ,(which I must point out was after a halt to the washroom),within an hour my fully functional internal organs were ready to cleanse my body of toxins again.I felt that pressure,a small tinge and my internal alarm went off,but I calmly smiled at my instructor who was showing me how to drop weights and rise in water,how to signal all OK..

Basically once the feel to go takes hold then go, I must.

It being an all male crew I was looking around for some kind of female intervention,someone to hold hands with and just swing by to the nearest washroom,now the deal with under water is you don’t just swing by anywhere,words used for motion in diving are stepping or back flipping off a boat,clambering back on,and then swimming.Swinging, No. It would take an hour minimum were we to declare emergency and cancel training and head straight back.

The point was how to air the doubt,and that all was not OK,tell him why and still maintain the elegance, in front a group of men.

Faced by such situations I must admit, putting on a brash face and coming directly to the point is handy, My directness was  met with a laugh by my instructor and he gleefully informed me that I was floating in the world largest’ free to go’  place.

Curving his hand around the ocean with a proprietorial air, owning to the fact that my hair which were I repeat coiffed back in a bun, slightly waving in the water (to my delight) were being washed around by his processed morning water.

Horror crept up my insides,and I cannot describe how I calmed my mind and reminded myself of all the beautiful fish in the ocean and how cool I look in my gear, that I only go under water with my regulator in mouth and soothingly reminded myself of buckets of shampoo standing in my room.

  

Calmness prevailed,albeit short lived.

That we loose body heat 25% faster under water, they told us, but what they didn't say is , its because you’re streaming jets of warmth out of your body. At a rate faster than intake,and to my dismay a much higher frequency too, as I was later to discover.

Years of training were up against a challenging situation which literally had the solution ‘out of the box’

I’m sure my mother diligently drilled into me at an early age to signal when I was ready to go and then as I grew I was pointed to the direction of the washroom.

My training was floundering in face of the lack of proper steps to be followed. Faced with a new area of being, had seen me first signal my desire to go, but the direction I was being pointed to, was definitely not a washroom I could find a door to.

So I muttered my thanks at his helpful gesture, ignored the male calls of joy at crassly shouting about their exploits of firing jets under water, and with a hurting tummy went in for my first dive.

I had decided not to do what men did, topping that I was sure the women in other groups would do no such thing.

So I followed my instructor along with my bobbing friend to see schools of fish. If my words could paint a picture you’d see in national geographic, then that’s what I’m telling you. Picture the prettiest setting under water with sunlight streaking through a calm wall of blue, fit some colorful rocks in, and then leave a shoal of yellow fish in it and snap this shot as they swim by you in a geometrically aligned wave pattern, freeze this.

This pretty scene in my eyes,was making Kodak memories. Right about then I felt a little nibble on my ankle,(here I should tell you I was wearing a knee length wet suit, giving access to biting fish ,corals and yes the sun to my legs, knee below, giving me a tan which six months hence also lovingly circles my knees in dirty contrasting rings. Never again, full coverage next time) anyway back to the nibbling fish. Which my instructor later informed me casually was the pretty little clown fish, whose jovial way of looking cute and nibbling you is basically telling you to get lost and its actually shouting at us, but his speech gets lost in inter-species translations and the disparity in our sizes. We are the intruders here, I was told. Now that word also didn’t go really well with my definition of what I was doing, as opposed to my self image of an explorer.

Well an explorer with a now quite an urgent bladder.

In my mind the mantra was repeating itself lets go lets go.My mind was now effectively diverted from clown fish, insistently nibbling or not.

But my bobbing friend suddenly found the ocean floor and was  following our instructor with great interest,signaling mindlessly his best understood signal,at odd moments.While I tailed behind forgetting I was trying to copy his swimming style from behind. Pondering over the seriousness of my uncomfortable situation,took on massive proportions..I toyed with the idea of ‘why should boys have all the fun’, and then decidedly said no.

We went ahead some more,with me in a haze of my own and the argument seemed to take hold of my mind and suddenly the side where no one needs know was tilting the scales.

I quickly reached the decision point, and decided to let go, But as in life, its very difficult to let go, two words that could make our life heaven,(I should know)going against my life long potty training, was rebelling against my insistent pressure.

But as I was taught effectively pressure is inversely proportional to volume, as my pressure was increasing the volume had to go down. Science. Pure Science.

I will not describe the actual process or my ritual would loose its secrecy in male type cries, but all I’ll say is it’s warmly heaven, and all those who have been there would connect with this release.

Well there is my handy little tip for diving coming to an end, I am sure when I do dive again I will need to be reminded of all of Boyles laws again, because registration is not my strong point, retention weaker still. So I will leave the expert technical tips for now and just say that for a great dive and a clear mind,eat less breakfast, as my bobbing friend would attest to(I eat like a horse, but THAT is his story to tell ,this mini tip  just to cover every base),but even if you cannot control your gastro pleasures like me and it all wants to regurgitate, do one thing promptly let go,just let go and back flip out and for the former, jet it around.(pun intended)

COFFEE OR TEA

I miss coffee.

There was a phase in life when I would be hanging around my mother while she made me cold coffee after I ran in sweaty from playing in the clambering summer oppressive heat.

Sometimes it was a tall glass left in the fridge and sometimes made fresh in front of my ricocheting energized eyes…

I have to be fair though how I stare at mango shake is more reverential, now that is a KING shake if there was any,if that is in the fridge my heart sings yummy yummy en route to the fridge and half way across town.

The thought of it sitting in the fridge gives me a smile,(though truth be told mango shake is best had fresh, the stage where the pulp settles and the milk floats on top all chilly and cold is not very appealing, Cold coffee on the other hand is a decent keeper in the chilly climes.)

But I still miss it.

First let me answer why did it have to walk out of my life and even after a few years in exile, trying to show it the door in , has failed to raise my stomach up to a toast.

Hungry is a feeling I love. I love to follow my nose to the table and we have a mini affair in the hungry period of my life.

Uptil I was sick with a pathogen that floats in the water and invades your stomach,relegating you to the back burner of metabolic stages for the rest of your life,incapable of digesting milk in simple things like tea and coffee, specially those.

Uptil then I could sip coffee like a snap.And yes digest leather.

When some people talk about  “in my hay days I could digest leather”days…I don’t mind as they are about sixty decades down the countdown,one can forgive their dedication to the rudimentary problem on creeping years..I on the other hand beat everyone to that grasping rant by three and a half decades.

In short coffee is not an apertif for me it’s a whole course, it leaves me feeling like the coffee with milk or tea with milk has taken over my stomach and shouldered out all empty spaces,leaving me full.

So after a few years of flailing around sipping all varieties of black teas and infusions,as a grown up(not giving into to kiddish demands of hot chocolate)The deafening queries of insensitive forgetful lifelong friends ,who hammer the question down my ears,do you want coffeeeee????I mean what happened to tea??that too black.My favourite answer should really be ,I still don’t drink it NO.

So why do I miss coffee?

Its how you miss a thing when you know your greedy graspy hands are just flailing

In thin air and what you want is tantalizingly a mirage oasis.

 However there is something about holding a hot cuppa in a crowded café while you reminisce about all mundane problems, constantly touching your cup to reassure you of its ebbing steamy presence,that kept pulling at my strings.

I don’t know how many of us would raise hands to this but asking for green tea in a starbucks queue with people waiting to steep their tongues with coffee, is an explanation waiting to fall on ears that judgementally come paired with ‘o you poor sod eyes.’

So to flow with the crowd on a caffeine haze ,wrapped in concerned conversations,peering into my coffee to take a contemplative break to find a great insightful comeback in the conversation ,I jumped into the fray by deciding on the black,which without milk in it, should technically not churn around merry in my stomach.Rather I think it shouldn’t.But body chemistry is all about experimentation.

That’s how I found my self in starbucks queues miming like the rest for black coffee.

(Its after going a couple of times Black no milk no sugar ,I discovered world over in all cafeterias you just say Americano…and it miraculously produces a black coffee.Why is Americano  “black” ?not being politically correct but geographically layman anthropology it should be Africano..PARDON!!!)

Drifting back.

However maybe my racist mentality is suffering from the snobbish demands,and Americano now moves inside me with a sluggishness that makes me want to pull at my hair,and walk for hours in circles trying to beat a heavy head and shake out the lead like caffeine from my system.

I'm tenacious it has to be said.I gave my crowd instinct driven desire more than a couple of shots.

I However today solemnly decide after walking an hour around the block after today's coffee  to shift back to green tea.I mean how many dinners could I skip just to hold a hot cuppa.

 I have yet not been able to identify my problem.Should I knowledgeably with a practiced painful air of the chronic describe the malady as a lactose or caffeine intolerance?Its not a known cause as my lazy bones haven't dragged themselves to the doctor yet.

But what I do know is the answer to your question.Coffee or tea??Meet me next time  at a tea parlour(thankfully which are fashionably catching up) and we shall practice my answer over an unfurling jasmine tea ball.