He was 21, she was 15. They had just become man and wife. He was away working in a city. She was with his family in village faraway going about her wifely duties. And those were the times when distance actually made the heart grow fonder. When poetries were written for the woman you loved. He wrote her a poem. It talked of gratitude, pride, longing and the love that he felt for her. It talked of how she was everything he had hoped she would be. It talked of how she was the perfect daughter-in-law to his parents and will be the perfect mother to their then unborn kids.
They were together for 66 years and had 9 kids.
She is 88 now and he is gone. But the memory of the poem written 73 years ago brings a smile to her now frail face. First she refused to recite it to us, said she was shy. And then when she did, she remembered every single word, and I could tell she read it just the way he had then. She paused in between the lines; I wondered what she might be thinking. Whatever it was, it was lovely, I am sure. 
Have I ever had someone write poetry for me? No I did not. Neither did my friends or their friends. Because somehow a holiday in Prague or a boot from Prada made more sense.
Would I want to tradeoff my 3 promised gifts for 200 words of tenderness? I guess not.
And yeah it was the age of wisdom and the age of foolishness. What does the season of SALE do to you? It gets the worst out in me. The evil, nasty, selfish, rude and wily self, the one that I keep under wraps, most months of the year. Case in point - I race with fragile strangers to reach that lone M shirt. I push the kids away en route to the 50% off section. And yeah as I stand in the 50m long queue outside the trial room I swear. That’s not all, the possessed me also screams at sales girls [which is swear I never do] when my alternations aren’t done, or when a promised shoe in my size isn’t found. Yes, it gets ugly. And at the end of the whole SALE season I feel very sorry for myself and whosoever crossed my path. My loot makes me happy but it leaves me with such a bitter feeling.
These are also the times when I get incredibly stupid, the times when I lose the sense of balance. And the memory of a depleted bank account suddenly vanishes. I buy a certain t-shirt in 4 different colours, do you ask, why? Because I like t-shirts. Because I like colours. Because it’s on sale. I buy a bag. Then I buy another, and then maybe another one, as I see 50 percent drop to 70 per cent. I do so because I like bags. Because I have a thing for bags. Because I have many things to keep in those bags. And because I am getting them cheap. Yes, moments of ‘oh it’s a steal!’ leave me happy and satiated but it also leaves me disoriented.
It could be momentary lapse of reason. Could be good ol’ greed. Or most probably in my case, could be a seasonal loss of memory, reasoning, intelligence and graciousness. Yes, the season of light, the season of darkness is upon us.
In the past few months not only have I not been able to write anything of interest, I haven’t had any interesting thoughts either. Yeah, scary stuff. No, it isn’t a case of being stuck or being bored contrarily there have been too many changes. A new job, a new home, new locality, new restaurants, new gym, the works; so it is not a case of the stale routine. And so, it must be what I frequently experience at work. A block. A big, big block. The writer's block. [ooh la la the word writer has a such a nice feel to it, doesn't it? that explains the peanutish moolah in advertising]
Back to the block, yeah I did attempt to write on a few occasions though, wow see the word attempt, c’mon an attempt to blog? How sad is that? So, after rounds of navel gazing, I decided to wait, wait until the words came flowing, such a robust flow, that no deadline, no lazy mind can stop.
Well, that was not to be. So I wrote. See the post below, says something doesn’t it, it was so forced? This time round, I am going to wait a little longer, yeah there’s a risk involved, that I never start again. That the ominous block refuses to go. Tough times. Sigh.
And on that note, I leave you with a question… just how seriously should a blogger take her blog?
He was 21, she was 15. They had just become man and wife. He was away working in a city. She was with his family in village faraway going about her wifely duties. And those were the times when distance actually made the heart grow fonder. When poetries were written for the woman you loved. He wrote her a poem. It talked of gratitude, pride, longing and the love that he felt for her. It talked of how she was everything he had hoped she would be. It talked of how she was the perfect daughter-in-law to his parents and will be the perfect mother to their then unborn kids.
