Much to the annoyance of friends and family, I am naturally nocturnal. In order to integrate into society, I have made concerted efforts over the past few months to wake up early enough to greet the new day head on. Every now and then, though, I find my duvet far too soft, my sleeping posture far too perfect for this to be feasible. This was one of those magnificent days:
I headed down for what I conveniently call 'brunch'; though with the clock nearing 2 PM, it is what most refer to as lunch. On such occasions, living at home is wonderful. I come down to a sumptuous, healthy home cooked lunch by Nana with my Ammumma (grandmother) and Appuppa (grandfather) for company. It is days and moments like these I missed most during my time in the UK.
This particular day, however, my Ammumma was in a truly aggressive mood - she was having what seemed like a marathon argument with my Appuppa. Left, right and centre she was leaving no syllable unexpressed in explaining her reasons for current failings in Syria. People take guard, the house shakes and I prepare my stomach for the salad I will have to consume (far easier than not, given the circumstances) when my Ammumma is in one of these moods.
All through the 'blasting', my Appuppa listened patiently and calmly. He filled his plate with brown rice and daal whilst carefully measuring a reply; a key lesson I've learnt from my grandfather is to always weigh a response adequately before you unleash it (especially against such a formidable foe).
As a tense silence filled the dining room, I nervously filled my plate with as much salad as I could find and racked my brain to find a suitable conversation topic lest my inability to engage in conversation is my Ammumma's next target. In such tense moments, I've personally (painfully) learnt that making yourself the smallest target in the room is clearly game theory optimal (if confronted with flight or fight, there is no doubt in my mind what I would choose). My heart did go out to my grandfather, but right now - YOYO, Appuppa (You're on your own).
A few seconds of silence and then my Ammumma reached over and stroked my Appuppa's hand. Startled, he asked, "What, Rayma?" Quietly, my Ammumma responded with the kind of love I only know her to exude, "Nothing, Gopi. I just wanted to stroke your hand."
I headed down for what I conveniently call 'brunch'; though with the clock nearing 2 PM, it is what most refer to as lunch. On such occasions, living at home is wonderful. I come down to a sumptuous, healthy home cooked lunch by Nana with my Ammumma (grandmother) and Appuppa (grandfather) for company. It is days and moments like these I missed most during my time in the UK.
This particular day, however, my Ammumma was in a truly aggressive mood - she was having what seemed like a marathon argument with my Appuppa. Left, right and centre she was leaving no syllable unexpressed in explaining her reasons for current failings in Syria. People take guard, the house shakes and I prepare my stomach for the salad I will have to consume (far easier than not, given the circumstances) when my Ammumma is in one of these moods.
All through the 'blasting', my Appuppa listened patiently and calmly. He filled his plate with brown rice and daal whilst carefully measuring a reply; a key lesson I've learnt from my grandfather is to always weigh a response adequately before you unleash it (especially against such a formidable foe).
As a tense silence filled the dining room, I nervously filled my plate with as much salad as I could find and racked my brain to find a suitable conversation topic lest my inability to engage in conversation is my Ammumma's next target. In such tense moments, I've personally (painfully) learnt that making yourself the smallest target in the room is clearly game theory optimal (if confronted with flight or fight, there is no doubt in my mind what I would choose). My heart did go out to my grandfather, but right now - YOYO, Appuppa (You're on your own).
A few seconds of silence and then my Ammumma reached over and stroked my Appuppa's hand. Startled, he asked, "What, Rayma?" Quietly, my Ammumma responded with the kind of love I only know her to exude, "Nothing, Gopi. I just wanted to stroke your hand."
