Confusing the Improbable for the Impossible

Everyday life seems to be just that. One foot in front of the other. Believe. Believe that that is important. To just go on. That it is critical, to eat healthy, to not have the water tap on while brushing, to fill that bucket for your bath, to brush, to exercise, to wear cotton clothes, to eat fiber. To go our separate ways every morning, rushing through the routine. Believe that, at the end of the day, when we sit down and take stock and feel good about the day and look forward to the next, believe that it is these details that matter.

It is of course highly improbable that there are more terrorists among us. More young people with guns and grenades and whatever else ammunition. That they have a highly organised plan in place for the next round of this. That they have already established local links, developed spreadsheets of data on the target location and populace. Of course, it is not impossible. And that, unfortunately is the 'big picture' now. The opposite of the details.

It used to be the questions. What am I here on this earth for? What is my role as a mother, a producer of life, about? Is my life a happy one? In a spreading outward and inward sense, is it a good life? Am I compromising my morals, my ideals, my core beliefs? Are my relationships in order? Not very big questions, probably not questions a spiritual guru or acclaimed philosopher would spend any time on. But I am neither of those. Just an average person who wants to be good and happy, thinking about her very average life and compulsions.

I was in a reality show of a movie of sorts on a large ship, in my dream. I saw with my own eyes overly familiar buildings come crashing down, our neighborhood. I saw the grand canyon shift under me and change. That made really very limited sense, my dreams are usually very easy to understand, I have a simple mind I guess. Have not been to the G.C. in ages now, and when I did go it was not as if I fell in love with it or anything. Water levels were rising and rising some more. I woke up. Put both my hands out. For once glad of the sandwich of long limbs I sleep in.

Last night, I had a pile of clothes to iron. My homies were driving me nuts. One was on my case about paint and cartoons and water and cake. The other was watching a particularly appalling tamizh movie called Chatrapati (Satrapadi apparently). It was loud and involved particularly wanton violence. To get them out of my hair I tried to shoo them out of the house to crossword. They were almost out of the door (uff. finally) when suddenly I yelled at them to stop. What if something happens when they are out? Why separate the family unit when there is a choice? I switched the iron box off and went with them. It was tiring and loud in the store. We did not talk to each other (of course; we were busy with our books). But we were there within touching distance. It mattered.

Dream with me now

Last night was full of dreams. The real kind that appear when you are asleep. Of course I do dream all the time but somehow I remembered them this time. Maybe because I wanted to.

We had a dog. Don't know what kind. I was taking a bath with my usual pink mug and smelled a strange smell. I sniffed and started to blame the child for monkeying around, or the husband for using it for shaving, but then I realised it! It was the smell of dog. I still blamed the husband though for using my pink mug to bathe the dog. Where was the dog bathed? Did the husband person take care of all the shed dog-hair? If so, how? How did he dry the dog? Did he (shudder) use my towel?

I moved locations and went trans-atlantic to Cambridge, MA. I had a meeting. My boss of old had lost oodles of weight and was looking kind of snappy in his black pants. I was to have a meeting of about fifteen minutes. Then I was to take my child to the wonderful MIT museum with its splendid inventions and what not. And then we were to go to the Bengali place next door for lunch, with my sister. My sister was in Boston, being corporate. Perhaps it was a close friend and not my sister though. The child was suddenly beamed over to me and was with me as we navigated the Infinite Corridor in search of my meeting room. We had to go in the basement and I was dragging her along since I did not want to be late (to the museum, not the meeting). And then when we reached the meeting room I left her with the surly assistants at the door and went in. There was a projector and slides and I counted 37 slides. YIKES! We could be here all afternoon! I want to go to the museum NOW!

And back in Mumbai, I have avoided reading newspapers, watching the television, or in any way being in touch with reality for the past three days. I am reading Randy Pausch's book now which is giving me delicious memories and lines and posts in my head. Not to mention dreams.