Our Life could be full of music...

... A continuous background score to the story of our lives together.

A lyrical alarm to awaken us from a night spent wrapped in the cover of our limbs; a peppy number that eggs us on to get through the day, like breakfast for our souls.

Our favourite songs will play on the car stereo as we drive to work. And, the one belting out as you drop me off with a kiss &; a wave will play in my head all day long as I try to finish work knowing you'll be back soon.

Photo Courtesy: Kumar Jhuremalani

A melancholy tune for the times we're sad. An angry one for the times we fight; a soft serenade as we kiss and make-up; and, for all the moments in between, a blissful melody.

Even in our silence, music will speak to us.

Journey

I woke up today morning with a strange longing for the quiet days I spent in the scenic and oddly spiritual hills of McLeodganj. And, then I recounted the evening I was leaving the little place for the big bustling Delhi, the restless night I spent on the bus, and the few lines I penned in a moment of epiphany, that lay untouched and forgotten in a memo on my phone...

The view from the Pink House in McLeodganj

They both sat in silence

Breathing the same air

Staring into the same space

Letting the same world pass them by

The same thoughts toying with their minds

Outwardly calm but tossing and turning within

The same troubles troubling them...

Unspoken, unheard,

Both struggling to make peace

Discussion is futile as expression is hard to find

The questions are the same

But both seek answers in different places

The search for truth may lead them down separate roads

But now united in silence

They travel together down the path of introspection

Unspoken Escape

I can't use clichés. Not when I'm spilling unspoken thoughts and feelings. 

So, no, I won't tell you that you complete me. You don't. My life's fuller and more complicated than that. You're not the only missing piece. You may not even be a piece in my jigsaw. 

I won't even tell you that I love the person I am when I'm with you. Because, sometimes, even you may hate the person I become when I’m with you. You can bring out the worst in me just as easily as you bring out the best. 

I won't tell you that you get me and understand me the best. There are other people who have known me longer and know me better. You know only one side of me and my other facets could leave you flummoxed. But discovery and surprise is what will make our journey fun, right? 

I won't use songs to describe how I feel. I won't say you make me feel like a teenage dream, though, you really do. Or, that I love you like a love song, though, I probably do! I won't say those words because those words aren't mine and they weren't written for you. 

I'd tell you instead that you have taken up permanent residence in my head! Signs start appearing in the mundane - I spot your name everywhere. And, I tell myself that it's a nudge from the universe, trying to subtly tell me that I was meant to find you & end up with you around no matter which road I take. Everything reminds me of you - innocuous signboards, songs you may like, food that I know you hate, dialogues on sitcoms that you'd appreciate, everyday stuff I could recount to you, earning a few laughs. 

Ah, the sound of your laughter - it fills me with so much satisfaction knowing that I have the power to produce those hearty, genuine, real reactions from you!

And, the music! Oh, the music! I can't listen to a song now without thinking about you. It's either a song you've introduced to me or one that you told me you hate, the one from that band whose history you recited to me when you were drunk or that one whose lyrics I passionately deciphered for you, something you sang to me once or those in which I see my myriad feelings for you reflected or something we listened together, unspeaking, unthinking, lost but together.

You're not my "best friend", not even close! I can't talk to you about everything. Not yet, anyway. But, in my unbiased, unclouded judgment, I think you could be that person. I love talking to you - our conversations are an exciting rollercoaster. You can drive me up the wall & then have me rolling on the floor with laughter within seconds.

I love how I don't want to be a better person around you; a different person. How I don't have to try. Because I know you take me with all the good, the bad & the ugly. You take the weird, the idiosyncratic, the absurd & the bat-shit crazy stuff and come back with some of your own crap in equal measure! And, we each put up with the other. And, when we can't take it anymore, I know I can count on us having one of our can’t-remember-why-we're-arguing-at-all fights.

I know I'd like to give you a chance. Give US a chance. Really, I would. 

I'm not scared of you; of getting close to you; of gradually opening my heart and head to the risk of you breaking me, hurting me.

So, you see, I have the words; all the exact words. So, when everyone around me advices me to "just tell him" how I feel - it isn't because I don’t know how. I know the words. I just don't know if you're worth my words. If despite all this, I'll get more than stunned silence in return from you. 

I'm tired of the signs I’m getting from the universe. Why don't YOU give me a sign? Why won't you just go on and turn that faucet that will allow my words to flow, to escape. Go on, take the first step.

"Eh... What's up, doc?”

If I asked my doctor THAT he’d probably say, “Well, seems like your fever, again. Blood pressure seems normal, though...” Sigh!

You know how we all, always, complain about the illegibility of various physicians’ handwritings? Yeah, well, indecipherable writing isn’t the only thing that’s plaguing our medical professionals. Along with, Handwriting 101, there is a desperate need to introduce a refresher course on “Subtlety, Soft Skills and Sense of Humour” in the syllabus of medical courses.

Why? I’ll tell you, why!

Case in point: My X-ray reports that showed nothing out-of-the-ordinary, except for this one glaring statement that claimed “Subject’s lungs are unremarkable.”

UNREMARKABLE? Really, now?! They could’ve said “Subject’s lungs function perfectly well”, or “Subject has normal lungs that do what they should do just fine”. Instead, they call my diligent, well-performing lungs, UNREMARKABLE. The thoughtlessness of it all!

And, what does it take for lungs to be deemed “remarkable” by the medicine people, anyway? Will pumping out oxygen to the rhythm of ‘Why This Kolaveri Di” do the trick?

As if it wasn’t good enough that my lungs, despite not having any visible medical defects, was qualified as unexceptional, my doctor, rather unkindly informs me that I have “small veins”! Did you even know there was an optimal size defined for blood carrying vessels? Well, I didn’t. You can just blame it on the education system (or, maybe, I was absent the day they taught this in science class). So, anyway, after the doctor had pronounced my veins “small” and nonchalantly walked off, I began my outrage:

“Small veins? SMALL veins? Small VEINS? What does that even mean? SMALL VEINS? And, how could he just say it quite like that and walk away without so much as a thought to my feelings? For people who are supposed to be life-savers, doctors can be so heartless.” (I’m not usually so dramatic. Getting overly emotional was one of the side-effects of the medicines I was taking at the time. Really.) “He could’ve just said I have delicate veins,” I suggested.

Mom who was glued to the newspaper and only half listening to her unwell daughter pointed out, “Delicate implies that you have normal-sized veins that are err... umm... fragile.” Whose side is she on, anyway?!

“Fine, petite, our-injections-are-too-big-for-your-fine-blood-vessels,” I continued brainstorming.

“The needles of injections are uniformly sized – there’s no such thing as a big injection,” came the wise interjection. Again, pick a side, MOM!

Weak me grumpily grumbled, “No such thing as BIG INJECTIONS, but I can have SMALL VEINS. HMPF!”

Mom, finally looked up from the paper, and kindly suggested, “How about this: Your veins are too fine for the standard-sized needles?” Hmm, that could work. Mommy could even deliver that S3 refresher course, maybe!

Well, to be slightly fair (I have recently stopped taking those pills that make me over-sensitive, so now I can be fair to people...), all that medical jargon crammed into their brains must hardly leave any space for Standard English words. Like, take for instance the cute intern who came to check-up on me (or maybe he was curious about the small-veined girl. Maybe, there aren’t too many of us. Maybe, I’m a relic for these intern types). He cutely stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels in a most un-doctor-like-manner, as the nurse checked my temperature. 102 degrees, she blandly informed McCutie. (My fever had learnt NOTHING from Sachin Tendulkar!)

And, then he knowingly nodded and muttered, “Yes, every bacterial infection has its own unique manifestation.” And, in my medicine-muddled-mind all I could think is “Wow. Sigh.” It was only after the effects of the mind-dulling tablets had worn off that I realised all he was trying to say is, “Dudette, I haz no idea why your fever won’t go away, yo!”

And, in another shining example of how doctors and their patients clearly speak different languages though it all sounds like English, is the time I tried to joke with my doctor about my illness-induced-weight-loss. Always the optimistic one, I proudly told my doctor, “Well, Doctor, I seem to have lost 5 kgs!”

Without looking up and while still scribbling in his only-slightly-legible-scrawl, he said, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll gain it back. If your weight has been around one area for a while, it will tend to go back up.”

Mind screamed, “Whaaaaa... is he implying that I was fat?!” Face assumed calmness, though a nervous giggle escaped and I quickly replied, “Oh no, Doctor! I’d rather not gain back the weight I lost. Instead, I’d rather lose some more! I mean, I wouldn’t want a relapse or anything. But I could shed a few more kilos. Hehe...”

Doc looked at me with seriousness in his deep-doctor-eyes and said, “A relapse has nothing to do with weight loss,” and he proceeded to give me a lecture on regular exercise and maintaining a healthy diet. Too late to add, “LOL, just kidding, doc!” right!

Anyway, after the lecture on merits of eating “only home-cooked food for the next one month” had ended, it spiraled into a sermon on the merits of “resting well”. I took this as my cue to enquire about when it would be a good time for me to return to my 10-hour-work + 3-hour-daily-commute schedule. I diplomatically ventured, “So, Doctor, how many days of rest do you think I need before I can get back on my feet?!” (See, what I did there. Real smooth. Something my doctor could learn from me. The art of subtlety. Yes.)

Automatic response: “10 days at least.” A pause. Close peering over doctor-glasses happens. Then, “You’re in college, right?”

I blush. I giggle. I respond. “Err. No, Doctor. I’m a working professional.”

Back to scribbling, automatic response: “Oh, ok, in that case 7-8 days rest!”

Well, there’s no rant here. I’m just flattered he thought I was still in college and that makes up for the tactless “small veins” remark. Good save, doc, good save!

Six Degrees of Separation

Did you know that if you stood a step away from all the people you know and they in turn did the same and the sequence continued, then you would be at most 6 steps away from EVERY SINGLE PERSON on EARTH...? Of course, for all practical purposes this theory has not been tested, so we’ll never know its veracity for sure. But, nonetheless, it is a theory that has never ceased to fascinate me...

Six degrees of separation... Imagine that!

It is no wonder then that at the most unexpected (and sometimes unfortunate) moments you run right into someone who knows you... or worse still is a friend of your mother!!
Think about the times when...

... You complained about an aunt’s nasty habit of gossiping and you turned around to find her glaring right at you... No points for guessing who the target of the next malicious rumour will be!

... You cribbed about how bad the food was, the day AFTER the party, only to find out that the person you’ve been cribbing to is the host’s sister... Well, you won’t be on another invite list for a while, but at least that will save you from dangerous cooking!

... You bitched about a classmate only to realise that she is sitting right beside you... You definitely won’t be exchanging cards over Christmas!

My story, well, THAT could be potentially more detrimental than these... And, for those of you concerned for my well-being, here’s the story...

I am in the train... I am with my best pal and we are both bursting with news... Gossip and girl talk... What better place than the Ladies Compartment, right?! (Or, so I thought!)

My friend begins... Juicy gossip first...
“Guess who broke-up... Oh, and... Guess who just got engaged... AND! You will never guess who still HASN’T found a guy... I mean, come on, her parents have been looking out for an eligible bachelor FOREVER!!”

And then, she smiles wickedly and lets me in on her story... She has a secret admirer. His only identity – his 10 digit phone number. And they flirt over SMS!! Naughty!!
She shows me a few of the messages which bring back some funny memories of my own. I warn her, like a good friend should, “Stay away! He reminds me of McCheesy!!”

And, now it’s my turn... I smile demurely...
“I talked to HIM for about 2 hours... And it was a GOOD conversation... But, we’re Just Good Friends! Well, I said... and then he said... and then I said, “It was disapPONTING that Australia lost the match”... And he thought the joke was funny...!!” (Dreamy sigh)

And, at that instant my friend needed a tissue. (No, not to wipe her tears at my sweet love story, but to wipe her chocolate-stained hands.) So, I dutifully fish for tissues in my seemingly-small-but-surprisingly-large hand bag... And, then I thoughtfully also dig out my hand-sanitizer... My friend, in the meanwhile, spies my new perfume and asks to try it... And as I pull out the bottle, the lady opposite me comments, “You have EVERYTHING in that bag don’t you...?!” And, as I fake-smile at her, I think to myself, “This woman sure is nosy!”

Undeterred, she goes on... “Are you by ANY chance so-and-so’s daughter?”
I am mortified, and embarrassed, and bewildered, and shocked, and stunned, and astounded and amazed, and SPEECHLESS...
Slowly, I reply, “Yes, I am!” and think... “Oh! Sweet Lord! I wonder how much she has heard... WHO is this nosy woman... AND how on earth does she know ME... More importantly she knows MY MOTHER???!!!”

My latter doubts were cleared as she offered me explanations... But I don’t think I will ever know the answer to my first question. I hope I NEVER have to find out...

Well, don’t worry, my disbelief and embarrassment did not last very long... As soon as I had gotten off the train (and away from “Aunty”), I found the whole situation quite hilarious... And, I couldn’t stop laughing till I reached home.
I even greeted my mum with a silly grin as I entered... When she asked me the reason, I thought it best to tell her... Of course she received lesser details than even what I have revealed in this post!
I expected an outburst... “Hai Daiyya! Log kya sochenge... Kalmoohi, Namakool... Tumne hamare khandaan ka naam mitti mein mila diya...”

But none came... She seemed to have gotten over it quite quickly and seemed to be more interested in the colour of “Aunty’s” saree and the number of bangles she had worn...
Well, I was lucky... You might not be... So, true or not, it would do you good to remember “Six Degrees of Separation”.

Beware!!

Mama Told Me Don't Be Talking to a Stranger...

I met a stranger today. Since I don’t live in a sappy romantic movie, it wasn’t love at first sight with a tall dark handsome hunk. And, since I don’t live in an action packed thriller novel, my life wasn’t hurled into a series of unfortunate events. I live in fact in enchanting reality – a medley of emotions, a sequence of precious moments, a rollercoaster ride of highs & lows. I live in a reality where time is rare & trust rarer. I live in a reality where life often passes us by in a blur. I live in reality – and it is this fact that makes a chance encounter and polite conversation with an utter stranger noteworthy. And Reality looks something like this...

I wait for 20 minutes, amidst a weary crowd, for the local train to arrive so that the next 30 minutes of my travel are a tad more comfortable. And as I wait patiently, I watch 5 trains go by – all brimming with people. People alight and just as many board the train, all seem lost in their thoughts. All seem to look and none see, all hear but none listen... I wonder at this thought as I bound into my train. Here too hardly a word passes between strangers. Even when necessity forces people to talk to each other, the exchange has only precise words with measured courtesy. Marvelling at how we so literally took our mothers when they told us sternly, “Don’t talk to strangers”, I fall into a fitful sleep.

I alight half an hour later at the bustling suburb I call home. If you thought that siblings could only be separated at the Kumbh Mela, you obviously haven’t been here during “peak hours”. You can lose yourself in this crowd. Without any effort you will be propelled forward by the sheer energy in this throng of thousands (which is a euphemism for saying “you will be nudged and pushed until you have no option but to move with the crowd”). And here, even if you wish to disobey your mother’s instructions, you will be unable to do so!

As you finally step out onto the road, you barely have a minute to drag in a deep breath as you instantly have to begin dodging traffic. And as you, along with hundred others, vie for the attention of the auto drivers, all civility and common courtesy is lost.

And in a cruel world like this, to actually exchange a smile with a fellow fatigued traveller is as likely as Mumbai not getting flooded after even a drizzle. And in the rare mood that I was, I smiled sympathetically to another stranded victim of Mumbai’s transport system. The smile was returned and followed by a question, “Which way are you headed?” I answered and threw in a question of my own, “What about you?”

As it turned out we were headed in the same direction, so we decided that 2 is better than 1 when it comes to tackling the arrogant autowallahs. Our combined efforts paid off and soon we were on our way, relieved to be bumping over the familiar potholes rather than wading through them. The stranger heaved a sigh of respite and I grinned in response and then we were talking – what we do, where we live, work and studies, the pain of travelling in Mumbai till the stranger’s home arrives...

And after that spontaneous conversation I couldn’t help but smile... We may never see each other again, hidden in this mob of millions but if we do I know that we will at least stop to smile.

Now I marvel at the amazing feeling of sharing an instant connection with another person – a knowing smile, a kind word, an unexpected compliment, a helping hand, an encouraging look, a reassuring pat, or a conversation with a complete stranger...

The Order in the Chaos

Dan Brown’s audacious book, The Da Vinci Code, is a fast paced thriller that has captivated audiences, capturing their imagination and catapulting them into an adventurous medley of history and mystery. But of all the speculation the book brought to the fore and of all the far-fetched long-forgotten theories it brought back into the limelight, there was one line that seemed to hold an infinite truth - “For all the chaos in the world, there is an undying order.” And who better to vouch for this fact than a person who has spent a few years travelling by Mumbai’s most trusted and over burdened mode of transport – the trains.

Chaos – utter disorder – is not hard to imagine when you are travelling in a local train especially during “peak” hours when millions of office goers are packed in compartments like sardines in a tin. And will it be too hard to imagine the chaos that might prevail in the Ladies compartment?

Station after station women, weary with the world, hop on before the train can halt completely. Their only hope is to find an empty space sufficient to at least rest both feet firmly on the floor. Frazzled women eager to get to work or home to their families and chores make a beeline for the exit in a bid to scramble off before the train resumes its somnolent journey.

Once inside the chaotic medley is unmatched. Women will be standing in every nook and cranny available and in positions that even expert acrobats would find it hard to imitate. It is nearly impossible to move without upsetting another’s balance and without dropping something. And what makes this disarray even more interesting are the number of activities that are accomplished despite the crowd and such activity only adds to the chaos – appointments will be fixed; children will be placated; maids and husbands will receive their instructions; weekends will be planned; many will doze on their neighbour’s shoulder; hawkers will somehow find their way in the melee and there will always be those who will haggle with them; office work and even household chores (like cutting vegetables and knitting!) will be attended to; prayers will be muttered; food will be eaten; many will read or listen to music or solve crossword puzzles; gossip will fly; fights will erupt; and the din will be overbearing.

Amidst the jostling and the jeering, the yanking and the yelling, there is an inherent order that can only be spotted by a few - either the astute observer (who is involved in none of the aforementioned activities) or the seasoned traveller or the truly bored yet imaginative (yours truly)! As a service to the general, unsuspecting public let me introduce you to some of these very elaborate, seemingly chaotic but exceeding orderly procedures…

The doorways will always seem to be cramped with women in the most haphazard manner. Yet there is an age-old and unbreakable code of alighting and boarding the train. Only half the exit will be used for such purposes at a given station while the other half will be occupied by women queuing to exit at the next station. This alternate pulsing in the flow of traffic in the compartment continues till either the crowd has thinned considerably or the train reaches its destination. Usually it is the latter that is first to come about.

And that is not all. There are elaborate rituals when it comes to queuing to exit at a particular station. When the compartments are jam-packed leaving barely enough space to squeeze through, women have a typical manner in which they make their way to the exit. This usually involves systematically tapping the shoulders of those already stranded in the corridors ahead of oneself and enquiring if they too have lined up to exit at the said destination. If they are, then one carefully positions oneself behind them and makes a general enquiry if all those ahead of them will also be alighting at the same said destination. This, of course, is a thoughtful query to avoid even further confusion when the said destination does arrive. This should not be misunderstood as an implication of the enquirer’s superior judgement.

If, however, the poor trapped soul has to alight at a destination after your own, then the efforts begin to painfully move ahead while the said person struggles to move out of harm’s way in a less obstructive place (if there might be such a place). One follows this process of tapping-enquiring-struggling-to-push-past process till one encounters another who has to alight at the same said destination as oneself.

While on the issue of alighting let me enlighten you as to what the official rules state. “Allow passengers to alight first” is the norm laid down and expected to be followed. But it is a known fact that the dynamics change dramatically when, during peak hours, the train is pulling into its final junction and is set to take off again to another destination after a brief halt. Everyone knows the unspoken law of the land, where passengers waiting to alight have to remain relegated to a corner out of harm’s way while others board, nay bound and leap, into the train while rushing to grab prime seats.

There is also a different set of etiquette for “reserving” or, as is known in local parlance, “claiming” seats. As the train gets crowded and seats meant for 3 are occupied by 4 passengers (a matter of seconds during peak hours after the bounding and leaping). The ladies left standing (read: Ancient art of balancing) begin the systematic ritual of “claiming” seats. This system is so inherent and prevalent that often verbal cues are redundant. The code of conduct while claiming seats is simple. One always begins from the prime seats (near the window on the “breezy” side) and makes one’s way methodically towards the lesser-favoured ones. Attention is sought by taps and jabs and sometimes, though extremely rarely, a polite “excuse me”. Next one simply points at the recipient of the tap or jab and the person replies (often grunts) their destination.

The often unspoken deal is struck if 2 conditions in the prescribed order are satisfied – 1) The person seated will alight at a destination before oneself and 2) one will receive sufficient time to catch up on some sleep after being seated & before one has to alight. The deal is sealed, again, by non-verbal cues. Usually the cue involves pointing to one’s self and then to the owner of the seat implying that one will occupy the seat once the person seated vacates it. Very rarely is a smile exchanged between the jabber and the jabbee, though it is known to happen.

Friend circles are formed among those with similar interests or backgrounds – harrowed working women, college girls, or members of the same society or workplace. These groups often indulge in one or more of the aforementioned activities. But in addition to that, these groups are also known to celebrate birthdays or anniversaries (with food and drinks et al), sing songs and hymns, play activist roles whose agendas may be as varied as allotment of seats or the functioning of fans or the more profound moral policing.
There are other patterns and peculiarities that emerge in this daily affair of travelling by trains. Women, protective of their accessories, will stow away their jewellery and stoles and scarves safely in their bags. No sooner do they get seats (usually after leaping and bounding or following the rules of “claiming”) than the meticulous process of dressing up begins!

There are also enough displays of compassion to restore your faith in humanity. The way women who are standing inside the compartment assist the ladies stranded in the passageway by taking their bags and stowing them on the overhead racks is touching. And when a kind lady offers her precious seat to another tired one it just stirs your heart.
The pattern in the peculiarities and the method in the madness is evident when one looks closely –, the unique rules of boarding or alighting, the elaborate system of “claiming” seats, the myriad of pursuits accomplished, in the deft tactics employed in making one’s journey a mite more comfortable... Indeed, the order in the chaos exists in the entire gamut of minute manoeuvres that ensue when travelling by our beloved trains!

The Perfect Vase - Someone Somewhere is Made For You!

“Someone somewhere is made for you” – a cliché that has been the theme of many a mushy movie, an idea that has inspired several soppy stories, a wistful promise that many of us unknowingly hold onto…The cliché further inspires another stereotype – that elusive “someone” who is in hiding “somewhere” but is yet perfectly “made for you” always conjures up romantic reveries. The tall-dark-and-handsome; the damsel-in-distress; the strong-and-silent.

When, however, this age-old truism is rationally analysed, what it reflects is the basic concept of compatibility. It conveys a hope that there is in fact one person, in this multitude of millions, who complements and completes you. So who has defined criteria for such people? Why is it that in most cases this dictat is linked to romance?

Quite often that mysterious “someone” could be a person one has always known – a parent, a friend, a relative, a neighbour, a pet… Like, for example, when we set out in search of that perfect vase – the one you’ve always dreamed of – the one that you’ve always pictured in your mind as being ideal for that spot on the mantle. You set out in search of that elusive vase and return disappointed because you find not a single piece of ceramic or metal that meets your notion of that perfect vase. Then one day, while you are rummaging through stuff you already own, you stumble upon this ornate picture frame – a long forgotten gift. A gift that now seems, to your eyes, so pretty and amazing that you cannot imagine why you ever thought less of it. You turn it around in your hands, holding it carefully, like someone would cradle a new-born or a rare solitaire, and revel in its ornate exquisiteness. And just as a sudden shaft of light brightens the darkest of corners, realisation dawns on you, and you walk up to the mantle and delicately arrange the frame there, your mind has already absorbed the perfect fit and is now imagining which lucky picture would be brought to life in the magnificence of that lovely frame, once just a casual part of your existence but now the light of your home and joy of your heart!!!

On the other hand, that “someone” may not be readymade for you – one may have to tailor the relationship as it comes along... Like, for instance, the skilled mason who brings to your home his incredible skill and expertise yet listens to your every whim and fancy about the vase you wish to have. He offers his advice and sometimes you take it. Sometimes you don’t and he gives in. Finally he moulds the clay and brings to you the vase – you take one look at it and know that YES! This is it! Your proposal and his proficiency, your vision and his work, your heart and his hands – a few compromises, some synergy and Voila! We have the perfect Vase!!!

And a few may find an instant match…Someone who understands you to the deepest recesses of your mind and heart… like that perfect vase you find unexpectedly, the one you’ve always dreamed of to adorn your house, the one that you know will fit so perfectly on the mantle and will blend into the fabric of your home so seamlessly yet its inherent beauty will make it stand out from the rest of the furniture and ornaments that bedeck your house. The perfect vase, the one with the stunning curves, painted that perfect deep shade of red, with an intricate design carved into its smooth surface oh! So delicately! The perfect vase, the one that enlivens the atmosphere around you, that charges the air with an inescapable energy, the one that brightens your day, the one whose vibrant hues fill your heart and home with happiness, that perfect vase – with a deep shade of red, a red that stands for passion and symbolises a never ending love!

At the end of it all, it really does not matter who your soulmate is – just the knowledge and discovery of that one special person who understands you to the depths of your heart. I do hope that each of us find ourselves our own Perfect Vases and when that happens, to borrow lines from a famous movie (Stop! Or my Mom will Shoot), – reach out and grab the person with both hands and don’t let go! May you find the “someone somewhere who is made for you” –and may you live happily ever after!