June 2004 Archives
I kneeled by his wheelchair, holding his hand, wearing a smile, and I chuckled as I looked at him; born in 1918. Nineteen bloody eighteen. What in god's name am I next to this? He looks my way and all I can come up with in the moment is "You must be so proud." Eight kids, all now grown and given rise to the nineteen that I know of as my maternal cousins. They, in turn, have already begun, here and there, to do that whole baby-making thing; my family is a giant snowball in the rolling, and this man, along with my grandmother, set it on its way.
He smiled, and dismissively flicked his hand and rolled his head in that idiosyncratic south-Asian way that says neither yes, nor no, and by-golly I enjoyed being asked all the same. As with the Queen Mother, his age has long mellowed a once rather harsh and highly opinionated character into something entirely amiable, and that is how I've always known him, but whereas he was, only a short time ago, very active and pretty boisterous too, he is now quiet, frail and more dependent upon his family than he ever was; he's still strong, I see this, but the nature of his vitality is changed - he was hit by a fast moving car as he left the mosque in Karachi a few months back, and surprisingly, he lived.
When I heard the news, I felt my concern physically, down in my stomach, but he was okay and I let it go. When, some weeks later, I found in my room some pictures of him in hospital, battered, swollen, but smiling, I burst into quiet tears for my poor grandfather, the stubborn, lonely and proud fool who insisted on living alone, back home in Pakistan away from us all. And I loved him all the more for being such a goat, because I knew that I'd be just the same were I to live to such an august age.
So today, I put him on a plane bound for Los Angeles, not knowing whether I'll see him again or not; I expect to, as is our nature to do, but rue the fact that I haven't any control over what will and what won't.
Being conveniently placed at the airport and having said my goodbyes, I was able to wander over to arrivals, where I met my friend, Robin, on his arrival from the US, as well as his hosts-to-be during his stay in the UK. My hello turned into a rather wonderful afternoon with the three of them, out in the sunshine, with good food, drink and conversation, and a dreamy musical set which I clearly know too little about to go into. On parting company, I ended up walking down the Euston Road in a most fantastic downpour, dried out on the cruiser back into Cambridge, and was promptly kidnapped on arrival for desserts and drinks on the outdoor terrace of the local Café Rouge.
I like being kidnapped, when it's voluntary, and particularly where it involves warm apple tart and chocolate ice cream. I also like good company, and meeting new people, and taking it easy when everything else seems such a stress. I even like going to bed exhausted. Blogging when exhausted? Bleh - you can bloody well check my grammar for me.
About twenty minutes ago, I achieved twenty-four hours of wakefulness. Given how accustomed I am to sleeping between the hours of ten and eleven thirty at night -- given the chance -- the fact that I'm not remotely tired now comes as something of a surprise to me. Still, I've eaten my bodyweight in food, pissed an amount equivalent to the volume of my body as a result of excessive consumption, caught a glees performance and a swingband, ridden gondolas under lamplight, seen a hypnotist, an audience dismemberer, the Bootleg Beatles and Big Brovaz, a manic fireworks display accompanied by O fortuna over the Trinity College backs, and all in the best of company. Enough to keep the mind going through the night and past sunrise.
Now back home, I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself; it seems a shame to crawl out of the black tie and dress shirt, since they never see the light of day otherwise, but mucky I feel, and shower I must, and maybe then, for sensibility's sake, I'll crawl into bed and watch the sky brighten through the open windows, its brilliant blue already showing through the pale yellowness of the sunrise. And maybe sober up along the way.
Today's entry comes to you as an audio file (238 kb). Low bandwidth users will inevitably feel cheated at the long wait for a lot of nothing, so the text, pretty much as it's spoken, can be read if you click below (otherwise there's really no point).
The skies are grey, and on my way in to work this morning, it even rained. No novelty, by any stretch, but it's wonderfully warm out there, carrying a personal hint of childhood nostalgia; of playing games out in the warm, equatorial rains, with none of the discomfiting anticipation of each cursed, icy pinprick of the usual northern-latitude skywater that breaches my defences to land spasmodically on my warm neck. In my hardier moods, it's a contrast that I sometimes enjoy, but not often.
Today, the wetness playing down my neck is mild, refreshing and welcome. After a weekend that has left me with a second set of tan lines -- t-shirt, this time, tank top, the last -- this little bit of grey, and the humid breeze upon which it rides, makes me happy. Before I recover my wits, here's to the fabulousness of drying off soggy toes, of pulling off damp trousers, and of watching the skies pour from behind the frame of an open window whilst bundled up in an oversized bathsheet.
And kudos to hand-held-two-way-radio boy for his excellent first-timer punting skills; Matt didn't fall in, he kept it going in a straight line, and he didn't crash. The bar is set high for the next person...
...cough, cough, héh Jònéh!
