clean-up

Reached the airport hours earlier, for one reason and another. Then, the flight was delayed.

An old lady, bright, smiling eyes, tip-top English accent came and sat down beside me. She was going home to meet her 89 year old father.

She'd grown up in Colaba, when the fire brigade workers came every evening to wash down the roads. She said, Mumbai was so dirty now, the Muslims from the Middle East had come, and made everything a mess.

I couldn't quite see the connection. But was too sleepy, and as usual, too polite and tongue-tied to comment. Felt like a fool, for hours afterwards.

The storm

Faced with the fact of Dhanno's growing up, Teja and I panic. Every boy hovering around her becomes a dangerous menace to society. Every girl, giggling and whispering about boys, becomes a bad influence on our precious girl.

But try as we might to cuddle her, and make believe that she is still our baby, nature rages fierce and truthful against our windows. The panes rattle in fright, certain they are to be broken today. Dhanno, still struggling to be sweet for our sakes, hovers uncertain around the house, because she knows not why, the storm outside seems exciting, more exciting than the safety of the house.

Wiser perhaps to open the windows, and let the wind pass through the house, unhindered. The monsoons may be leaving Mumbai for the year, but it is still pouring around our house.