Stories By 'Smriti Ravindra'
The first few times in the ladies’ locker room in the US were a shock, to put it mildly. Coming as I did from Nepal, I was not very familiar with nudity. What familiarity I had, came from Western movies, Sidney Sheldon novels, and my own imagination.
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I step out the waiting room and through the building housing the Intensive Care Unit. It is dark already and there is a chill in the air. I have been at the hospital for nearly eleven hours and should be tired but I am not.
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I am sure my childhood was not as amusing as my recollection makes it out to be, but even so, when I think of the early eighties, of the years before I turned ten, I remember a delicious chaos. Streets were not yet crowded with vehicles, parents had not yet learnt to be afraid of every stranger walking the roads, and most nine-year-olds ambled to school without a chaperone or a care in the world.
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Parenting is a fine juggle. Take this as a point in case. There is a rage in our house and neighbourhood over a game my son and his pals have named Pen Fight. Essentially, Pen Fight is playing gucchas, or marbles, with pens-- one pen knocks another off the table, and the person with the strongest pen (read, heaviest pen) wins.
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Tags: Pen Fight
White sounds of unceasing rain land on the puddles that look like small lakes. Fish could live in them. My father-in-law is in the room with me, drinking tea and staring out the window. Tea, they say, originated in China. Has to be. I am restless as I sip, like I want to jump off the window and take a vigorous swim in the Arabian Sea frothing somewhere behind us.
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