In response to a rare compliment on certain aspects of her looks, a wildly popular someone said,
"Ah! Shush... Real beauty is a reflection of the spirit. But then again, one shouldn't exaggerate much. After all, my spirit might have some miniscule failings...”
Some people are born modest.
Perfection
It was a soup stall. “Pasumai Thamizh Soup Nilayam”. (Translated as “Lush (could also mean evergreen/refreshing) Tamil Soup Stall). All of four shiny stainless steel pots and a burning fire. The radio in the bus blares. The health ministry ‘s awareness broadcast. “ Insist on clean utensils and covered food”.
A man in spotless white behind the 30-inch frame . There are no customers. But he is busy. He places one pot on the fire. Opens the lid just enough to insert the ladle. Stirs. Deliberate circular movements. Removes it off the fire, with a towel whose whiteness would put a swan to shame. His hands move at rigid right angles. Robot-like.
Puts up a new pot to heat. Bends down to inspect the surroundings of his stall. Clears a little dust here and there. Pushes a scrap paper aside.
Is this perfection? Or a novel method to tide through the lean periods of trade?. Is it his first day at work? Who is he trying to impress? Am I getting impressed? Would I prefer his soup to the one at Subway? How long will he be able to do it? Wont he get bored soon?
Satisfied with the ambience, he gets back to his kitchen. A few yards away, a potential customer relieves himself of his fluid waste.
***************
Mastery
A dingy market corner. A rotting wooden box. Upturned. Spreading behind it is a huge figure. Squatting on the ground. Dark and hideous. Perspires in gallons. A fiery fire on the pump stove. With sweaty palms, he pulls and pushes. The dough is putty in his hands. Magic pours out his fingers into the bubbling oil. Hot jilebis. Orange spirals of sheer delight. A motley clientele waits. Mouth watering. He pushes aside his messy curls. The flesh of his dark bulging arms reverberating with the effort.
The jilebis look tempting. My mother can never make such good looking ones. Such craft. In such a setting. Perhaps the sweat and the grime adds to the appeal.
Yewww… how disgusting can I get!
***************
Acknowledgement:
The last one about the jilebis is second hand. Was related to me by my mother. But the closing commentary is solely mine. The reaction of course, was hers.
The greatest fear is the fear of failure.
Go on, get on with your lives... Dont worry about me, I'd be alright.. (And leave me alone, for Godsake!)
The best kind of tribute is silence.
There has to be something good about everything.The question is, whether one wants to see it or not.
The best time on earth is when one can own every passing second.
The bigger picture is always better;The details being miracles.
Music becomes melody when the words dont seem to matter.
The strange can become familiar, and the familiar strange. Time is the greatest trickster of all time!
Love is a flattering feeling.
Its easy to be mysterious, but tough to be open.
We are all born with a burden, that of pleasing ourselves.
Disclaimer:
Some of these are my two cents on life. The rest, unforeseen consequences of too many Prav's world forwards .
