Ice Ice Baby

The good thing to look forward to during the summers is the chilled (iced) drinks. I like my drinks cold. American cold. So when I want to have a glass of juice, I first freeze the juice till its almost getting slushy, and then I go ahead and add on about 6-8 cubes of ice. I know. Really cold.

But the downside of it is making ice again. I find it to be a wee bit, not-so-interesting a task. I mean, I love the result of having loads of ice ready at my disposal, but I don’t find the will in me to fill the ice trays. It’s a very stressful situation, I feel.

First, filling the tray – now I don’t have the patience to pour water slowly. So, I dump water into it every single time, and obviously, most of the water flows away, and despite pouring two glasses of water in, only half the cubes are full.

Second, carrying the tray to the freezer. When I said earlier that I couldn’t pour water slowly, it’s because I am always trying to multi-task. So again, I can’t amble to the freezer. Then in my haste, the water still flows off the tray, and the whole procedure continues for another round.

Now I know that the easier way is to get it right the first time, but nah ah. It doesn’t happen. But then again, we got to do what we got to do, right? Else how else will I get my super iced drinks at my disposal? How would I get to feel pain, a numbing sensation, and teeth sensitivity all at once, eh?

#If there is a problem, yo someone solve it.

Would It Be Fair to Myself If I Started Talking to My Step Sister?

My dad left us when I was in the first grade. No one was sad about it. We all moved on with life. We carried on living the miserable heights-of-OCD-life with my mother. But we never complained. When I hit 6th grade, dad said he wanted to meet us kids. We were delighted. Meeting him was an escape into an ordinary world. We jumped and frolicked around him, until he said, “There’s something that I need to talk to both of you about.” We knew instantly that he probably came bearing some not-so-good news.

We sat in the car, and he said, “I have decided that I will marry aunty Rita.” We were speechless. Numbed. Not because we were hurt, but because we didn’t know how to face mom and tell her of this new development. Rita was a prostitute he hitched up with, 5-odd years earlier. My brother asked him, “Why?” Dad said, “Because I am a man of principles. I got her pregnant, and now I must get married to her.” We never bought that.

After my step sister was born, he tried to get us involved in his life for years. But we wouldn’t because we were mom’s soldiers. Still are. We gave her unconditional love, unwarranted support, and believed every word she uttered – which were accusations of the unjust life given to her. We lapped up every bad thing she said of dad, which was mostly right. But irrespective of it all, we loved dad and still do. Sadly, the one thing he wants from us is something we can’t give him. He’s been asking us to talk to Samantha – my step sister. He asked my brother if he would take care of her when he does pass away. My brother responded in the negative.

I do feel bad for dad. But then I wonder, would it be fair to myself to start talking to her, laughing with her, and sharing girly stuff with her? My mum, brother, and I had a tough time – financially – ever since he left. We barely managed to eat a square meal a day, while he splurged all his money on her. I had just a pair of pants and two shirts when I was in college, while she had a whole wardrobe of clothing. I struggled to get to college from home and vice versa, while she went on trips to foreign lands.

To sum it up, she had everything while we had none. So now, would I be fair to myself if I should forget everything that happened and get pally with her after all these decades? I do love my dad, so would it be fair to give him the one thing that he wants?

#life is always unfair; so do we go with what makes us feel good about ourselves or what makes someone else happy that could eventually make us kind of happy too?

A Road Accident That I Witnessed Today

With the lockdown going on, it gets difficult to get out to shop for groceries. The best time to do so is between 7 and 8 in the morning. That’s when the fresh vegetables come in the market, fresh milk packets are sold, and when I can take the bike out without getting caught by the police (because neither do I have a license nor a helmet – which I intend on getting once the lockdown ends).

I went for the first set of shopping – vegetables. I got home and mum said she wanted to have bread and a good sausage omelet. But we’d been out of bread for a few days; so I stepped out again to figure where I could get bread from. I stopped at the regular supermarket, but they blatantly gave me stale bread. I demanded the fresh bread that just came – I mean I saw the bread truck unloading a whole load of fresh bread, but they said the fresh bread was for another store and gave me the option of either taking the stale bread or nothing. I was in a dilemma. Mum wanted bread and I had to get it for her – but I was not that desperate to buy old bread. I walked away and decided to go further to another supermarket. Luckily I got bread there and I was on my way back home when I saw a crowd had gathered in the middle of the road ahead.

I knew instantly there was a mishap (obviously). As I rode nearer to the crowd, I saw two bikes lying on the road. The bikes were upturned and the wheels were still whirring and whizzing, but the riders were not to be seen. I inched closer and saw that one of the bike riders was lying on the road, motionless. He wore a red t-shirt and black pants. I panicked. Everyone was panicking. He was dead – or so it seemed. Until a few minutes later he opened his eyes and looked straight at me. I flinched and was instantly filled with a  feeling of guilt. A range of emotions sped through me – fear, relief, anxiousness, and helplessness.

By God’s grace, he gradually gained consciousness and people were trying to help him up. I wanted to tell them to stop moving him around in quick, jerky movements. But I was transfixed to the spot. As they tried to lift him up, I saw a pool of blood had accumulated under his head. He was bleeding profusely. Then I saw the second rider. He was hovering over the bruised rider and was probably praying to God that the former had survived the crash. The second rider has scraped his face, but he was fine.

I started my bike and rode on towards home. What could I do there anyway? I would just be contributing to the roadblock. Neither was I being productive, nor helpful. And that’s when the realization struck. It’s so easy for us to always blame onlookers when an accident takes place. As news readers, video watchers, and the like,  we always say “that guy/girl could have helped out”. But that’s not true. We will never know what emotions the onlooker is going through; what their speedbumps are and what their limitations are.

I got home and handed over the bread to mum and started thinking. Shit happens all the time to everyone. We all think that we are going through hell, but the fact is that everyone goes through the same share of shit every day. This is exactly why we have to be thankful for all the small mercies in life.

#happy for all the good things I have been given by God!