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Worm's eye view?
Because the views are immense from down here. And no, I don’t just mean the skirt upshots. What will I do with those?


Writing?
Because I was stuck! Stuck in a town where I knew no one, where I could not find an art supply store that sold anything more than finger-painting paper, where the snow was still hip-high in late spring. So, I decided to write. Least resources expended. And as this is the home page, that is what I am going to talk about. A stripped down, non-preface monograph of ease, love, and anything and everything that matters- Home.


I was born a blond haired, grey-eyed baby, just like my other siblings (they came later though, darned chronology). Some bits from Dad’s Mom, I guess, who belonged to a place called Lyallpur in what is now Pakistan. Those genes were either ephemeral or just overcome by greater powers of nature as none of us have any semblance of either of those features. But, that is not important. It is the accident of birth that is important. That, which decided where I was born, and to whom. The witty guy fell for the shy girl, charmed his way into a relationship and then a marriage. The entire thing seems right out of a Bollywood movie (the ones they made earlier, non-dark ones), complete with furtive glances, him following (dare I say- stalking) her, bike-rides in the rain, fighting with parents et al. These kids with  great faith in love and absolute submission to each other were to become my parents, exactly 1 year-1month-1week-1day after their wedding (Yes, I calculated that for a real reason. So stop rolling your eyes!). So for the longest time I believed that is how a relationship always is. 


I always heard how I resembled Mom and it irritated the hell out of me. She was too quiet, too demure, taught me to talk less. Not that she is conservative. Very unconventional and individualistic, actually. But, mostly reserved. I rebelled, rebelled hard against her trying to turn me into her. I cut off my long hair, got a whole lot of piercings, never gave a straight answer, learnt enough gaalis to give the over-friendly neighborhood chhokra a complex. A phuljhadi, she called me. But, patience, thy name is Mom. So after all that, and some more that I would not dare mention publically, what did I become? My Mom (obviously, external factors discounted). Very anti-climactic this was.


I met Dad when I was six months old. Some crazy-ass relative gave him a neighbor’s kid as a joke before he could ever hold me. He seems to be still making up for the lost first love sometimes. I am his pride and joy and all other clichés you can think of. He spoils me, and I him. We get each others’ jokes. I also get his taste buds (doesn’t help with any weight-loss programs). They make the most normal, loving couple and it can get embarrassing/amusing when they go out on “dates” while making excuses to us kids, or hold hands during evening strolls after 30 years of being together. He brings humor; she brings reason to the marriage. She gives silent treatment when angry; he follows her around till she laughs. He declares his decisions; she lets him think that he made them. She keeps me grounded, he makes me fly.


After me, came the cloyingly-sweet, emotional girl. The jaan of every party, one who laughs the loudest, dances till her legs get pulpy, pakki nautanki. Someone once told us, she looked namkeen (“You cannot get bored looking at her”) and I, meethi (Yeah, opposite of earlier parenthesized text. So, go figure). And then much later, the boy. The one that weighed 10 pounds at birth, looked like Cupid (swear to god), is much taller than me now, and plays the drums. No matter how aware of their ages I am, they always manage to surprise me by their maturity, in spite of the brats they grew up among.


Then: I met them in college. These six women- 5ft to 5ft 8 inches vertically. A mix of crazy, laid-back, nerdy, rebellious, caring, child-like, adult- all in varying degrees. Always on my side in the game. No questions asked, no explanations given. The ones who give fashion advice, quiz before exams, hold your hair while you puke, give a piece of their mind when needed. The ones that have ruined my any miniscule chance of making new friends without thinking how utterly un-awesome they would be in comparison.

While others come and go, these remain my people.  Mere log.

By blood or otherwise. For better or for worse.