sidewalk scribbling

Autumn came for a short visit this year, strolling along, lightly trailing her yellow fingertips along the tops of trees, painting them with liquid sunshine.   She didn't stay for long though. I guess she had better places to visit.  Always leaves in a huff, as if she's mad about something. Maybe it's Winter that drives her off, with his bitter cold winds that whip the pretty gold orange red leaves off branches, scattering them in crispy colourful paths along the ground where they slowly curl up and die. Winter this year strides in in-synch with the second wave of Covid, followed by what should have been an expected lock-down in England but caught me unprepared. The remains of the First Wave had yet to recede and this Second Wave has already crested and crashed upon us. I remember cheering myself up during the first lock-down on how amazing it would feel once things went back to normal...  How great it would feel to hug friends, to go sit in a cafe and have a frothy cappucc

Babies (from my extensive experience of raising just one for approximately eight months), it seems, are naturally joyous creatures. On the rare occasions when I wake up before Zain, I get to see how he wakes up... a yawn, a stretch that couldn't be cuter if it was done by a big eyed Pixar cartoon - and within fifteen seconds he is wide awake and absolutely delighted. It doesn't matter if it's dark and dreary outside, or cold, or whether he had a bad night. It is a new day and he can bring his stocky legs all the way up and taste his toes, and what could be more wonderful than that? From the misty eyed bewilderment of a newborn to the studious gazing and tentative touching of a 3 month old, Zain, at almost 8 months, is now constantly leaping and stretching for anything and everything like an overzealous acrobat or new yoga enthusiast. Everything is exciting and inviting and mesmerising, things we don't notice anymore, like the cloudy vapours escaping the kettle, or

It isn't very adorable but so many things about living in times of a pandemic are like surviving the first months of becoming a parent. Like washing your hands persistently.  Like restricting shopping jaunts to the online world. Like not going to the cinema. Like realising how little is actually in your control. Like wondering if life will ever be the same. As tiny and sweet as newborns are, I must say 3 months onwards they get so, so much more fun. At almost 6 months, they are just too freaking edible (I have to say, however, when people say 'enjoy this, it's the best age', I get a bit worried because when did you ever enjoy a situation all the more because somebody reminded you of its temporariness?). I still wash my hands fairly regularly but they don't feel like chipping tree bark anymore. I can't say I enjoyed the utter fragility of newborns either. The gummy eyes, the flaky skin, the red spots, the constant "watch his head, his neck,

Wollaton Park must be beautiful right now - trees bursting in a kaleidoscope of greens, wildflowers carpeting the track that goes around the lake, willowy branches casting dancing shadows on the walking trails and the beautiful mansion standing regal on the hill top, framing the blue summer sky. Wouldn't it be nice to go for a picnic, pack some sandwiches and crisps, pick up coffee afterwards from the cafe, lay out a blanket on the grassy slope along with scores of other people, with their dogs and babies and footballs and talking parrots (it happened once!).  But of course, the 'New Normal' has rendered the above scene pretty impossible (for now). On the other hand, I have seen my tiny backyard become more enchanting this summer than ever before. The neighbour's tree leans over the fence, it's branches casting a perfect shade on our side. It has leaves of an indescribable colour, each a rainbow in itself with shades of green and rust and maroon and brown and

I think all parents in the world are in on a secret that they keep hidden in the deep dark silken pockets of their minds - giving birth is no walk in the park but the actual trek up the mountain starts the day you bring baby home. The first month is a whirlwind, especially the first two weeks where you lie in anxiety ridden sleep deprivation, wondering if you will ever be able to read a book and have a cup of tea again, and will life ever be the same? Two months from then, I can safely say yes to the first question and no to the second one. But then nobody plans to have a child with the intention of keeping their lives the same - even the most inexperienced of us have a solid inkling that life is going to change significantly once we have a tiny tot in the crib. After my initial conviction (despite friends and families' assurances to the contrary) that I am the one odd lady who just won't be able to handle parenthood, I think I have, for now, cautiously disembark

Who knew armageddon would look like this?  Playful clouds skipping in the sky, so bright and blue. Rays of sunlight spilling over, marking out a yellow brick road along the asphalt.  Signs of spring are sprouting everywhere, cheeky daffodils and white blossoms and tightly curled green buds just waiting to surprise you. The birds seem happy, twittering and hopping between still bare branches of trees.  I see a cat lounging in the neighbour's driveway. Where is the smoke, the burnt down warehouses, the broken cars, the parched streets and eerie wafting fog of post apocalyptic worlds we see in movies and video games? Instead of furtive survivers ransacking forlorn stores we have lone walkers and cyclists exchanging slightly abashed smiles as they step further away from one another to maintain the recommended 2 metre distance. The streets are quiet but the houses are full, people in their kitchens, children in backyards, painted rainbows sending messages of love and ho

 Even if they hold your head firmly and gaze deep into your eyes to say, words cannot describe the initial days of becoming a parent, and then repeat it a million times, at the end of the day, words cannot describe that feeling of becoming a parent. When you are finally home with a baby in the car seat that you bought months ago, not realising that life was going to soon explain what it really means to not have enough time in the day. The first night home when your  body is battered still and your mind at 1/100th of its capacity. The utter overwhelming love overpowered by a thick gray fog of fear and heart-stopping anxiety-  what is going on and how am I going to do this? Nobody can explain that it is not just the sleepless nights that are suddenly so long, cut into hazy portions by two hourly feeds, it isn't the sleeplessness but the cresting waves of anxiety that rise higher and higher and then when you finally lie down and close your eyes, they come crashing over you in

“What’s up with them?” Fahad says, looking at a couple of Asian students rush out of the train. “Must have gotten on the wrong train,” I reply, settling down, relieved that we had found empty seats.   [Our train journey to Grantham had been spent standing because the train was so busy.   I made my way down the aisle and stood right next to the priority seating, my jacket open, sneaking sulky looks at the oblivious young people sitting there.   ‘I thought English people are supposed to be polite,’ I muttered darkly to myself.   There’s that lack of confidence in foreign countries, the penalty of leaving home where you can demand your rights a bit more hotly.] Anyways, it hasn’t been a minute and the train has just picked up speed when Fahad says, is this train going to Norwich? The next stop is Peterborough. The tiniest spark of anxiety puffs up, and I look at the blue screen confirming what Fahad said.   We are most definitely not supposed to be going to Norw