When Me met Me

[This is what my 40 year old self told my 30 year old self when they accidentally shared an empty coach. My 50 year old self may have very different things to say- maybe I should get them to meet.] 

The first thing I noticed was her book; Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird". The train was almost empty, but I chose the seat directly opposite her.

She was in her late twenties, though the severe hairstyle made her look older. Her clothes were too big for her­­––perhaps she hoped to cover the excess fat, but she only looked shapeless. I noticed she was using a boarding card as a bookmark––definitely a professionally qualified executive.

She must have sensed my scrutiny, because she looked up. I met her eye, and smiled.

"I was looking at your book", I said. "I have exactly the same copy."

"It's one of my favourite books,” she confessed. "Must have read it at least a dozen times."

"Me too." We got chatting.

"Who runs?", she asked, looking at my backpack with the logo of a marathon.

"Me. I've done four half marathons, and one full."

"W-O-O-W", she drew out the syllables. "I can't even dream of running 5 kilometers."

"Why don't you try? You might surprise yourself. That's what I keep telling my kids."

"You have kids? You don't look it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're so slim."

"Well, I do work out."

"I wish I had the time."

"You can always make time." I knew how superior I sounded.

"I guess so! But tell me", she said, changing the subject. "Is motherhood all it's made out to be?"

"I can't imagine not being a mother", I replied. "But have kids only when you are ready to put your life on hold for them."

Her station came. "Been great meeting you. Hope to run into you again,” she said grabbing her bags.

"We will." I reassured her. "And one other thing. Harry Potter. Do start reading Harry Potter!"

I don't understand why my friends are dreading turning Four-Oh. My twenty-nine-year-old self had not recognized me, and she was clearly impressed by what I had become. How many more surprises are in store as I advance further into the best age––the middle ages.

Originally posted here

Turning Forty

If I meet my 30 year old self, what would I tell her?

Would I tell her that 2 children and 10 years later, she will be fitter, stronger and slimmer than she dreams possible? Would I tell her that every difficult choice she makes will only lead her to yet another one, but that the journey will be well worth it? Would I tell her that she’ll not recognise who she will eventually become?

I would tell her all that. And one more thing I would tell her- to cherish who she is, because she is worth being cherished.

_____

 Flashback 2011- February

The photograph, taken on Valentine's Day never fails to remind me that while diamonds may add to a girl's charms, nothing makes a woman as beautiful as experience. This photograph forms a part of my Pictoral Flashback of 2011.

The Surprise

"You are coming for your run tomorrow, aren't you?", my friend asked.
"How can I not?"
My Saturday runs are precious, and having a birthday on Friday, was no excuse for bunking a run.

I woke up with a back-ache, but didn't want to miss my first run of the decade. I struggled during my run, but was still glad I'd made it.
When I made it back, there was music belting out, the mood was festive. "What's the occasion?", I gasped, before catching sight of the white chocolate cake.
Nothing can beat the joy of a surprise birthday party!
_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Happy Birthday, Me.... and Us

"Forty is the beginning of the end", said a friend. "No, it is the end of the beginning", said another. If there was any difference between the two, I could not find it. Both sounded rather morbid to me. Like an artificial date drawing a line down my life. Beginning? End? Who really knows? Or cares? Maybe half my life is over, or more or less. Can anyone know?
Isn't it better that you are here and now. Happy. Healthy. Productive. And likely to remain so. Why think of the past, or the future, when today is more than enough.

Birthday shoutout for the two Thursday ladies I share half my birthday with (go figure) - Tami and Leigh. Love you both. Here's the only thing a writer can give you- words (even if not my own)

Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons.
–Ruth Ann Schabacker

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A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

A splash of pink

The splash of pink caught the eye. Paint spilled on the lush green carpet. A wildflower blooming by the side of the trail. A month back, it had been a tiny seed waiting for the monsoon showers to breathe life into it. A month later, it would have faded and died, after scattering seeds that will wait for the next monsoon rain.
I knew not the name of the flower. So ephemeral is it's existence that I might never see it again. We shared a moment in time, a point in space. And life will never be the same again.

_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

The Choice

"Come on, choose", he said. One hand held the camera-lens-cap I'd lost. The other a chocolate biscuit. Dark, tempting, irresistible.
It wasn't meant to be taken seriously- no matter which I chose, I would have got both. But it somehow became the most significant choice of my life.

'Life can't be too bad as long as there is chocolate', is my motto. I celebrate with chocolate. Chocolate is how I deal with pain. I was being asked to choose between that is fundamentally me, and something I wanted at that moment.

It's scary how close I came to choosing wrong.
_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

The "older woman"

On my morning run today, I saw a bunch of saree-clad women taking a walk. Their clothes, their gait, the way they were talking, everything branded them as 'older women', and I was secretly thrilled that women of 'that age' from older families were starting to get fitness conscious. As I jogged past them, I overheard snatches of conversation, and deduced that most of them were my age. And yet, even on an absolute scale, I had dubbed them "older women".

Am I getting delusional about my age, or are you really only as old as you think you are?
_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Prematurely mature

"You are distorting my sense of age", my twenty-five year old colleague complained, when I informed her that a person she thought of as "old" was just a couple of years older than I was.
"She's just prematurely mature", I replied. Perception of age has nothing to do with either maturity or genetics- the lady we were talking about chooses to act her age, just as I choose to keep the child in me alive.
Don't know which is right and wrong; or even if there is a right and wrong. I just know that I am happy being me.

_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.