My family is a motley bunch. But we are variegated - not like a bunch of badly matched flowers in a bouquet, but more like the different fingers on a hand. Each one with their adorable peculiarities, their beautiful quirks, annoying habits and loving ways. We fight for every cube of chocolate with unnerving intensity, each one hates a different sabji, making sure dinner is always full of fireworks, everybody likes their coffee at different times, and blaaaaaaah. We look different enough to belong elsewhere, we like and dislike things planets apart, lead our separate lives and intertwine and disjoin at a million little places across several generations. And yet somewhere, the seams find each other, the differences blend into this cross patched quilt of colours, so warm, it makes you want to wish for a winter forever.
What in the world prompted me to write thus? Careen into emotions that rarely leave the insides of my subconscious? I guess it is that sometimes the mundane can trigger something so pure, its a miracle that we still quiver to be novel. And sometimes a moment is so precious, you don't mind it ending because it so graciously, so unassumingly allowed you to be a part of it.
Everyone was sitting in their individual comfort zones around the house. The women flitting across their numerous tasks (how just how are they so thoughtful...day after treacherous day?). Girl 1 was readying to curl up with a book, the rate at which she was devouring literature was alarming and awe-inspiring all at once. The man had changed into his kurta pajama (if India had a dress code and I had any say in the matter, all men would be in white kurta pajamas 24/7) and was about to play some mind-numbing/mood-stunning/blood-pumping/soul-drowsing music (depending on who you were and what kind of music worked for you). Girl 2 was settling into the Children's room that she had recently (re)claimed as her own, marking it with pictures and postcards, with her pens and papers, her faithful friend The Diary and The Laptop.
And then the bell rang. Everyone called out to the other to open the door (in spite of being the great, noble people we are, we are incurably lazy). Someone did. There was squeal. "Girl 1's driving license has come!"
"Whaat?" Squeals, shout shout, laughter, squeal, ha ha ing.
"She has an identity now!"
"They gave her a license in spite of her driving test." Wow
"It says LMV. Does that mean a bus?" Noooooooo.
And so we were standing. This crazy adorable bunch of somebodys. In the thin ohsothin gallery of our house, hyperventilating over a card (the new licenses even have a chip in them. No one knew what the chip was for. Way to go!). The card exchanged hands, chatter played, the soundtrack of the moment. And then we retired, back into our bubbles of individuality and momentary isolation. Nobody and nothing in the entire anywhere could take that moment from us. The somebodys who were everybodys for each other. When each moment holds the potential to be this pretty, how can we help but look forward to time?