Foolish Promises . . .

The year her father-in-law died was also the same year, their family dog, Skittles passed away.  Dad was 90 years old when he passed.  He'd lived a long, full, and sometimes difficult life.  He'd celebrated countless births, marriages, and milestones.  He'd also witnessed multiple deaths, disturbances, disorders, and disasters.  She thought Providence had granted her family enough notice so that they could let him go without the usual cacophony of grief that surrounds the death of a family member.

What she’d failed to account for was that Yamdoot, the Indian God of Death doesn’t choose a time and place convenient for its victims when He comes calling.  As Dad lay dying of old age and organ failure, their beloved white Westie Terrier,  six-year-old Skittles began to heave his last breaths. 

“Don’t die.  Please don’t die,” she hissed at Skittles.

This Thing Called Aging. . .

Bear with me.

I have to tell you something.  It's about a thing called aging.

When I was in my 20s, a Jane Fonda devotee, an aerobics instructor at Delhi’s Surya Sofitel Hotel, I laughed inwardly  seeing my 40s-something class huffing and puffing through my routine of high-impact aerobics.  “Jump into the air,” I would yell from my four inch-high bench while my pot-bellied unisex audience would strive to catch their stalling breath.

When I was in my 30s, a young associate at Pillsbury and McKenzie, I dropped my son off to daycare, ran into Department 4 at the San Francisco Superior Court on McAllister Street, trudged home after a long day's work and still made the time to hop on the treadmill and run a mile.

My Adventures at Jindal Nature Cure. . .

My ride picks me up from Bangalore airport, and we traverse congested roads bustling with cars, cattle, people and more people. After an hour, we arrive at closed iron gates leading to a compound behind which is a tall, sterile-looking, concrete building.  Spider webs reflecting the light from a street lamp create a silver weave on a sign that is covered with a thick film of dust but still readable: "surrender your cell phone here.  It will be returned to you when you depart." The iron-grill gate closes behind me with a clang, and I jump, feeling as if I may have entered a jail of my own free will.

I walk a little further and see an avenue of leafy trees under a blue sky and people walking briskly with a smile on their faces.  Nobody's commandeered my phone yet, even though large, conspicuous signs stating, "Cell-phone use strictly prohibited.  You can use your cell phone only in your accommodation" abound.  I breathe in fresh air, soaking in the green outdoor environment.  I see ripples on the transparent, turquoise waters of the (man-made) lake separating a traffic-laden highway from this oasis of tranquility, and I feel myself beginning to relax.  

Dubai Dairies: The Desert Safari Experience

There is a place where golden sand is so fine it melts like butter through the spaces between your fingers, where lizards cartwheel down dunes and where an animal's two rows of extra-long eyelashes make it the envy of every woman alive. You may not believe it but this place really does exist, and it is called the Arabian desert.

I was in Dubai recently for a milestone birthday celebration, and the most memorable part of my trip was a desert safari organized by Platinum Heritage Luxury Tours.

Twas' the day before Thanksgiving. . .

A few days before Thanksgiving, I took a Bart train from San Francisco to the suburb of Pleasanton.  It was one of those mornings that signal Thanksgiving is near-a cloudless sky, temperatures bracing enough to warrant diving into the coat closet to locate a scarf and gloves, and the sight of fallen leaves swirling in a neighborhood park as I walked to the Bart station.  A billboard loomed above me, advertising a turkey dinner for only $39.99 at Marie Callender's.

I love the week leading up to Thanksgiving because of the anticipation of my family coming together again.  I love the reminders on T.V., on radio and on social media to be grateful for what you have and hold because it allows me a moment to close my eyes and thank the Universe that my house echoes with laughter and joy again.

Locked out. . .

"I've never had an elevator break down on me," I said to the brown-eyed, auburn-haired stranger, I was riding it with on 450 Sutter Street, San Francisco.  

"Shh, shh," she admonished, laying a finger on her lips.  "Don't say it out loud.  This one's already broken down twice."

"What did you do, then?" I asked with morbid curiosity, a die-hard suburbanite visiting San Francisco for the day and looking for some tame adventure.  Being rescued from a stuck elevator would qualify.

She shrugged and exited the elevator with rapid strides.  I continued on to my floor and was a little disappointed when I arrived without any upheaval.  The lingering disappointment remained with me after I'd been examined by my doctor and found 'healthy as a horse.'  Time to go home to placid Pleasanton.  

Dressing up for Halloween. . .

"It's so much fun to dress up for Halloween," my ABCD (that's short for American-born-confused-desi) friend, Aarti opinioned.  "The Jones always put up a huge tent in their yard and invite everyone who lives on the block to it."

I'd just migrated to California and Halloween, and block parties were as unfamiliar to me as a fish to desert dunes.  Why would you ever want to dress up for Halloween, I thought, with a slight shudder?  "Ghouls and ghosts and everything bloody and gore! No, thank you," I continued.

It's always assualt-style weapons: an immigrant's perspective . . .

"America is not my chosen home, not even the place of my birth.  Just a spot where it seemed safe to go to escape certain dangers.  But safety I discover, is only temporary.  No place guarantees it to  anyone forever.  I have stayed because there is no other place to go."  - Irene Klepfisz, "Bashert"

I was in Vegas last weekend.  Three days after the massacre at Mandalay Bay.  I expected to find a ghost town or at least a city crawling with police sirens; 'Do Not Cross' yellow tape; and/or gun-toting security patrols. Nope. Instead, while the world watched as another American male murdered other Americans on American soil, Sin City was business as usual. The poker tables at Bellagio where I stayed were full.  The slot machines were humming.  Later that night while attending a private celebration at the Hakassan night club, I observed how quickly the dance floor got packed with young nubile bodies.  At midnight there was a line snaking outside the women's restroom.

Is it because this is America's new reality, I asked myself.