I'll be home for Christmas.

Frank Sinatra is crooning 'Walking in the winter wonderland' in healthy competition with the whirring of the ceiling fans, gangs of barking dogs outside, the simultaneous chatter of mum, dad, children, us and whoever else breezes in and out. The weather is mild this time of year in Mumbai. 25℃ and pleasant, as the Mumbaikars are wont to say. The familiar, humidity enhanced, plasticky smell of the Christmas tree still in it's box mingles with the spicy Sorpatel wafting in as it simmers with contained fury on the fire. It's aging process underway. Frank Sinatra, completely in his element, proceeds to 'Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow'. Someone turns the volume up a notch. In a little while the tree will be assembled and the kids will be encouraged to decorate it and then get praised for what looks like a wind blown jumble of confused ornaments, all suspended around the same height and centered on one side of the tree. Giving it the unfortunate effect of one, flat dimension. All through the season it will stay like that, in respectful appreciation of the kids efforts. My mum will fiercely defend the arrangement against changes. Improvements are hastily un-improved to restore the original chaos. Later that night, Christmas will be ushered in with another couple thousand people at an open-air mass at midnight. It's a riot of colours and fashion and music, this mass. Vibrant, brocaded Sarees, tailor made dresses, children proud in shiny new Christmas clothes. The choir churns out impressively multi-linguistic carols in notoriously unmindful falsetto. Not only English and regional Indian languages, but also the German 'O Tannenbaum', mutilated beyond recognition! After mass, as tradition has it, my dear mum with her big Bambi eyes, will land me with a giant ball of crumpled gift paper and her 20 something gifts for grandchildren, children, husband, neighbour, friends, 44th cousin, dogs, etc., that elf-me toils the night away at. Mumbai is apparently Santa's last stop. Christmas morning is greeted with the ginormous hound, i.e house pet, feeding on some of the freshly wrapped pressies. It will go unnoticed, my mum is at her regally radiant best this morning, everyone is as happy as can be.
This is Christmas as I know and love it.

It will be traded in this year for Christmas with the charms of Europe. No deviously implausible scheme to flee it this time. Christmas preparations commenced at our European home in November to mitigate bouts of homesickness early on. There will be a real tree (steeling myself and kids for it's inevitable cremation afterwards), the romantic smell of pine, Frank Sinatra without competition, gambles over a white Christmas or no white Christmas, the real 'Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht' to a candle lit church gathering at an earthly hour of 04:00 in the afternoon. A quiet Christmas. This is a Christmas that I know now too, a kind I have learned to love.

Santa has just stopped by and headed on. I wonder....which elf will help with the heap of gifts in Mumbai tonight?

40 and counting.

In Westerheim you have grown,
in a quiet, idyllic country home.
From there you ventured on early
on many an adventurous journey.

From Augsburg and Memmingen. 
From Munich to Mumbai.
You came, you saw, you rocked!
Had it not been for your skin colour,
the Indians would even call you brother!

So, what is your most winning asset?
Maybe it's just that you're cheerful to a fault. 
Taking life like it is. That is all.

To one who smiles through winter's and fall,
What is 40 to you? 
You'll just rock on!

Slipping through my fingers.

They bring us up. They teach us. About freedom and simplicity, about magic sans a prefect illusion, about fantasy, about forgiveness and boundless love. I'm learning about unicorns and horses and dinosaurs. That mature miniature Stallions exist, and of Skewbalds and Golden Palomino's. I learnt that horses are measured in Hands. I learnt that the Apatosaurus kept rocks in its stomach to 'chew' vegetation that was swallowed whole. My living space is shared with a 3 feet high black plastic T-Rex skeleton, now an integral part of our family. It was T-Rex skeleton's birthday yesterday, all sorts of stuffed and glittery animals were invited. It was a special day for T-Rex, whose bony frame seemed plump with happiness.

They will grow up with or without me, my children. The will be adults and they will make their own mistakes. They may learn (or not) from them. I am dispensable, no illusions there. Only incidentally am I the parent. In return, I am enriched by the experience of observing minds and bodies develop. I get  another go at childhood. I am honoured with the power of influencing it. It is a brief, intense experience and I'm trying to keep my eyes open, deflect distraction and pay attention. It will be my loss if I don't, not theirs. I would miss out on a precious, essential detail.

I overly dramatised their starting of school, crying my eyes out as the school musician strummed his guitar and sang Abba's 'Slipping through my fingers' at the welcoming ceremony thereby successfully, cunningly nailing every melting mother out there. Me, he got twice over, in succession, for each twin! My son's searching eyes were just a little annoyed when they looked and found me, among the collection of teary parents with trumpeting noses. 'Sometimes when people are really really happy, they start to cry', was my lame explanation later. Telling him only half the truth, the other half being that I was also sad. Sad that the beginning of the end of their innocence had commenced. The official training in preparation of the big, bad world was now underway. Over dramatising, admittedly. That and frustrated at my memory at not keeping up with all that should be documented, not being able to freeze dinosaur birthday parties for posterity.

'Don't worry mummy' she said then, 'even when I go to school, I'll never forget you. You will always be in my heart'.

Du wirst nicht älter, sondern besser.

A little bit like cheese, and a little like red wine,
you get better and better with time.
Mature and not stinky, ...ok, maybe somewhat kinky!
Deep red, not cor(-/c)ky, with something like resveratrol to keep the heart happy.
Keep all that. Keep smiling. Cheers, and have Birthday's aplenty!

The pearl.

On a mission of sorts. A messenger of doom. The message, a concentrate of the absurd. She had the ground pulled under her. Now she was passing on the favour. To pull the ground from under another. Traveling light. 40 years of accumulated baggage to lug across 3 continents, so she was traveling light. It was the middle of the holiday season and the airport was oddly not buzzing with the usual bustle of traveler's hyperactivity. As if in respectful quiet of the loss being anticipated. Mourning in solidarity. With ample time on her hands she drifted absentmindedly through the airport formalities.
"Yes just one piece to check-in. Thank you".
Finding the right words to hand out a verdict without a trial was hard. The right words, nothing more to offer. She was going over her lines, discarding them, making new ones, discarding them. Nothing more to offer but the right words.
"No, no liquids M'am. No sharp objects. Can I have my shoes back?".
What was it about conflicts that made such a powerful claim on her allegiance? She could instead have just stayed with the passive side.
"YOUR PASSPORT PLEASE!" resonating out of the ether now, beaming her mind back into the present, for only as long as necessary. And then it wandered off again. Far off into the distance.
The sign-board said 'Raum für Gebete und Stille. Meditation and Prayer Room', complimented with the Ohm, the Buddhist wheel, the Cross, the Crescent moon and star, the Star of David and an arrow pointing up. Grateful now for the time at hand, she followed the directions almost in relief. The door led to a black walled corridor that wrapped around and led to a square room.  The room itself had a white floor and was flooded with bright white light. There was a thick tree trunk in the center going from the floor through the ceiling with an array of inscriptions etched into it. Oriental kneeling rugs were stacked up on one side. She stepped into the room, and almost immediately stepped right back out again feeling uncomfortably exposed. Retreating instead back into the dark corridor, seating herself on a bench. Comforted by it's blackness. Happy for the solitude. She sat there a while and looked around, now dedicated to her thoughts without distraction. Breathing. Sitting there, not hearing, not noticing. And when she heard a voice say "Hello......what are you?", She almost instinctively responded with "Desperate". Instead she took a moment to register that she now had company in this room of Prayer. Another similarly aged woman, of fair skin and frizzy golden hair. Going by her bags and attire, also a traveler in transit. Her accent was elusive, pointing somewhere south of Europe. "What are you?" she repeated. Not pushy, not gentle, simply asking. Realizing now what her question meant, came the delayed response "Christian". "Here then, keep this". Her cupped palms opened to reveal a coiled white rosary. Nesting there, it shone with hope and strength and peace. A pearl.

What we want.

It's not about the destination, but about the journey. It's not about the acquisition, but about the quest.  It's not about the accomplishment, but about the challenge. It's not about the conquest, but about the fight. What we want is who we are. Desire of these, is fuel. Attainment results in a sluggishness, a disillusionment. Till the fuel of new desire is sparked again. It's a continual cat and mouse chase. Round and round, dizzying, spiraling, disorienting, lost?

Maybe not entirely. Maybe it's about nursing our own little bubble perceptions of our world. Built on the boundless freedom of fantasy.  Precariously blown bubbles, elated into the illusions we want to nurture. Illusions we can't, don't want to differentiate from reality. To stay on the journey, to never arrive. To continue to acquire, to never have. To continue to fight, to never conquer, or be defeated. To continue to covet, to never posses. There is excitement in an elusive outcome. Something infinite. An endless sense of possibility. How final (and disappointing?) it is to posses your dream woman/man, your dream home, your dream car and realize they don't quite resemble your fantasy of them. It doesn't provide quite the kick you were anticipating. The dream in your mind was beautiful, perfect. The reality of real things, real people with real faults, bear but a distant resemblance to the bubble in your mind. Yearning was occupying, fulfilling. It's what makes the painful rejection of unrequited love so pleasurable, an image of continuos perfection, a one sided yet 'happy love' without any movement or action. Isn't the consummation of love where all love stories end? There is an analogy here to most things we seek. The glossy, exotic pictures of the dream holidays built in our minds that don't consider the reality of travel. To struggle and strive for the ultimate job, only to turn back and see the fun might already be over. Impossibility is intoxicatingly attractive. As long as it is impossible.

Wanting the impossible, wanting all our dreams to come true.
That is what we want. To want.

Qué será.

She's so intense, so deep and complex.
Ever so often, I'm left perplexed.
She's taking on more than her little palm can hold,
not quite 6, and far from ready to go.

"How will I live when I grow up?", she worries.
Here, let me get that....take you're time. We're in no hurry.
How can I tell her so she will believe?
Our lives are for living. And the living is free.

I cower under her annihilating ambition.
Undeterred, she continues on her mission.
"I want to be the best pianist, I want to be a painter,
 I want to be a boss too, or will that come later?"

Shush, my baby. Slow down. I'm here.

Don't join the race yet. You're still holding my finger.

"When will I practice, how will I get better?"

She knows too much.....can't reach her. 

Could I actually have been her mentor?

"Teach me the numbers tomorrow once more,

I'm still confused with 14 and 40, like before." 

Good night, sleep tight, the morning is nigh.

"What will I be, Mummy?"

You will be just fine.

The morning after.

We wake up this morning jubilantly hung-over. We play a sport and we are damn good at it, it's official. I've said this before in the context of another audience and another kind of ball, now it's been done again. The ball has united us, a much smaller one this time, accompanied by a bat, but it's power still unmistaken. Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Sikhs, Zoroastrians, Buddhists. Today we are all Indians, we have one religion - Cricket.

Experiencing this Cricket world cup in Germany was quite unforgettable. The 8 weeks of the world cup went all but unnoticed. The Germans remained fascinatingly indifferent to the charms of Cricket. Going about their normal lives and routine, as if nothing was happening. As if the curse of 28 years was not about to be lifted from 15% of the world's population. It was hard containing my excitement, especially as we drew hopefully closer to the coveted trophy. So I attempted to infect my surrounding with some of the Cricket fever. I discovered that I would have to start right at the very very beginning. I respectfully point out that the German's have no clue about Cricket, what-so-ever! Frequently compared to baseball and exasperatingly confused with Croquet (??!!). At the end of the first crash course I volunteered to my very congenial colleagues, I was just a tad disappointed when one of them pointed out how poorly things looked for India against Australia. It was the first Inning of the quarter finals, with Australia batting. The score stood at 70/1, interpreted as, Australia: 70, India: 1. I guess I'm not a very good teacher, so I went back to the very very beginning and tried again. After all, they seemed curious about the sport. I'd like to believe it had more to do with their genuine interest than submission to my irritatingly imposing excitement, and the need to share and celebrate it (I preserve the most annoying of Indian traits). Well, as the India Vs Australia game progressed, I was both touched and impressed to watch them follow the scores with better comprehension and yes, enthusiasm! Infection successful!!
On the morning of the D-day (yesterday), my English friends, the newly converted German cricket fans, my Brazilian friends, my half Australian friend, my South African friends, all moved me by swearing legions to India. Today they were also all Indians, the infection was becoming a pandemic! My German partner, fired with enthusiasm set out that morning with the resolve to learn, understand and support Indian Cricket as well. Alas, that fizzled out in an hour. He is programed for a 90 minute, maybe an extended 120 minute sport related excitement, so the rest of the 7 hours happend in spite of him. My children, their friends and our partners watched with concern and some fear as my dear South African friend and I spent hour after hour staring into the streamed broadcast of our collaborative performance (the Indian coach is South African) on a computer screen, letting out quaint sounds of pleasure and pain. The passing of each hour, increased those decibel levels. The last over was accompanied by our hysterical cacophony against the silent backdrop of a Munich suburb. All inhabitants had now taken cover, or had run. Then it came, the spectacular sixer that lead us to that glorious, dizzying victory!

My South African friend and I almost got 'help' from the neighbors when we ran out of the house screaming. Crazed with the happiness of success! One newly converted Cricket fan called to congratulate me on our winning 'home run'! Home run ??!! Oh well, you win some, you loose some ;-)!

Games we play.

Honesty, transparency and integrity are virtues not aspired by any politician or government. In this tumultuous past week, we have looked on as the world's most flourishing, high-tech economy is propelled into a state of subsistence. As nature brings on it's wrath on Japan, the astronomical damage to lives and property take on a new dimension with the ticking of nuclear reactors. As one goes off and others  threaten to follow suit, the true state of the plants, their effects and consequences are being downplayed by the Japanese government and elude the worlds scientists. These formidable devices have been built to feed the wheels of our economies, now they are our Frankenstein's. We turn in desperation back to nature to quell our self-made demons. Salt water from the sea to cool them down, the Hail Mary pass. God let it work! This is now our predicament, to wait and watch because we can neither control nor predict where this is headed. Cover our bases is all that is left to do to curtail further loss inflicted to human existence. The environment, the ocean and all its inhabitants, assumed as collateral damage.

And what happened to Libya this week? Could they have had worse timing for a revolution? How conveniently it seemed to be working out for the West, who can now (justifiably) be distracted by the the colossal Japanese disaster. The Libyan air force is moving with swift ruthlessness as they brutally pound away at the opposition. The US and Europeans dabble and deliberate over the idea of a no-fly-Zone. To support or not to support? Almost bored by the task. In the meanwhile the key oil port of Ras Lanuf has fallen, the people continue to rapidly loose ground. As the US deems it 'unwise' to intervene on a political level, their stance seems significantly ironical considering that with Iraq and Afghanistan, the US were so self assured in their siege and conviction about the people needing liberation and improvement. That worked very well top down. How come this time around, the people are calling out for liberation and support and help, a revolution from the bottom upwards, and the US and Nato won't yield despite support from the Arab countries? Why is it the UK and France are the only ones showing some gumption? We can pretend it has nothing to do with cozying up to a functioning dictator that ensures profitable trade, as opposed to a new democracy with which the same would have to be renegotiated. We can also only hope that France's support of Libya has nothing to do with deflecting attention from its 80% dependency on nuclear energy - the highest in the world.

These are a few of my favorite things!

Red bows, red wrapping above green clover leaves,

Gold and enamel with little pearl trimmings,

Spa treats, massages and rose scented creams.
"Mummy, my gift to you... all I don't need!"
These are a few of my favorite things!

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
and then I don't feel so bad.

Cheers!

Blow hot. Blow cold. But hold.
Live, love, loose. We choose.
Violins. Roses. Measured doses.
Thundering. Lightening.
Frightening. Delighting.
10 years. Some tears. No fears.
Cheers!