If

There was this song we used to sing in church. It kinda went like this- Count your blessings name them one by one and it will surprise you what the Lord has done.

Guess it’s worth a shot.

Counting my Blessings. Take 1.

1. I am thankful that I got to spend at least one year with Rajeev.
2. I am thankful for my family. I can’t imagine getting through this without you.
3. I am thankful for the life I got to lead with Rajeev- that we never once shied away from showing/voicing our love for each other (We were quite embarrassing). That we never ever took each other for granted.
4. I am thankful for Bridget Jones’ Diary, Solitaire, and pedicures because somehow, apart from my family, these are the only things that seem to keep me sane.
5. I am thankful for my friends. Even though I don’t return your calls.
6. I am thankful for…

This isn’t working.

If wishes were horses,

• I’d wish that this was all just some crazy nightmare.
• I’d wish that he died the way we had planned to die- Together, after the family reunion we’d hold on our 70^th wedding anniversary, and because we boogied too much on the dance floor and ate too much cake.
• I’d wish that he never got sick in the first place.
• I’d wish that I had let him eat that last brownie instead of saving it for the folks at his office. I had promised that next time I’d make a whole batch just for him. Who knew?
• I’d wish that people stop coming to me and crying. I really don’t know what to do then. Crying people make me cry and I really, really hate crying in public.
• I’d wish that life was like in the movies where teardrops were enough to wake up anyone in a coma.
• I’d wish that I could just fast forward to five years later and not have to deal with the todays.
• I’d wish that I could mess up his hairdo one more time.
• I’d wish that we got to take more ridiculous photos.
• I’d wish that we could both sing Wolfmother songs in the car again.
• I’d wish he were still around.

If wishes were horses, hell, I still wouldn’t have one.

So...

My husband died three weeks ago. Turns out he had a brain tumor that he did not know about. No symptoms, no signs, no nothing. He gets a headache one day, goes to the hospital, gets admitted into the ICU, and never came home again. He was in the ICU for 27 days and in a coma for 25 of those days. It’s good in one way because he did not have to suffer as much as he would’ve if he were conscious. It sucks because none of us got to say goodbye.

A widow at 25. Who would’ve thunk it? I was still getting used to being married at 23.

So much for all the dreams I shared with him. I dreamt of kids. One would be just like him- a boy with super straight hair, long gangly limbs, and a wicked sense of humor. He would be my favorite child and no girl would ever be good enough for him. I dreamt of Rajeev and me shopping for our home and arguing over which curtains to buy. I dreamt of family vacations with all of us wearing matching t-shirts and multi-colored crocs. I dreamt of tantrums in the supermarket. (What can I say? I really really like my Oreos.)

Well, so much for that.

It sucks that I can’t call him in the middle of the day just because I miss him. It sucks that I can never watch him drink his morning tea, or watch him gel his hair. It sucks that whatever future I do have, will still be a future without him.

And then there are the whys. And the hows. And the what-ifs. And the if-onlys. Each one more maddening that the first. I look for answers, but nothing helps. Then the other day, my friend told me something I will never ever forget- Sometimes, it just has to suck. And it’s true. There doesn’t always have to be one single way to deal with suckitude. You don’t always have to be strong and unflaggingly optimistic. Sometimes. Life. Just. Has. To. Suck.

Back to the Past

I once read that every good story starts with a “What if”. Of course that is pointless if all your stories are straight out of Shutter Island and involve some form of fire and/or unicorns.

As you can tell, my attempts at story writing were miserable at best. Joy.

So one of my favourite-est stories that I can remember right now, was the plot of that Bruce Willis movie where he did not die hard. You know, the one where his 5 year old self comes to present day and is all-round unimpressed with his 40 year old self? That was pretty cool. I wish I could do that too. Not the general all-round unimpressed-ness with self. That I do already. But I do wish I could go back in time and tell 15-year-old Sheryll the startling truths I know now. Words of infinite wisdom like “A mullet is not such a good idea” or “That one year old murukku will make you barf for days” or astounding prophesies like “In 2011, Westlife will still suck”.

Time travel is so wicked cool.

So I decided to make a molehill out of mud and write an open letter to Sheryll 10 years ago.

Dear 15-year old Sheryll,

1. You still have lousy grammar.
   
2. You will like lists. So much that even your letters look like grocery lists. You do not have that many friends.
   
3. You will become impatient with people who talk nonstop to people who don't care. You’re not one of them anymore. You have a blog instead.
4. You will meet and marry a guy taller than you. No, height is not such a big deal. But yes, it does feel nice.
5. Contrary to popular belief, you will learn to cook. And you’re not terrible either. Your husband only gets food poisoning once every three months. (Win!)
6. You will turn in to one of those people who get excited by fresh vegetables at the store.
7. You wear saris to church now. And like it!
8. By 2011, you will have attacked a lizard, killed a snake (ok you ran over it with your car, but still!), and braved an Indian public restroom, but you still don’t know how to ride a bicycle.
9. You will hate going to the beauty parlor. Your eyebrows now look like two woolly caterpillars on a date.
10. You will attempt to salvage your beauty with homemade procedures. Now you have a mama caterpillar and a baby caterpillar instead.
11. You will not look like the abominable snowman on your wedding day. Your dress will feature an enormous bow on your behind (coincidently, also enormous), but a Yeti you are not. Some people will actually say you looked pretty nice.
12. You will wear red shoes with your wedding dress and feel very cool and rebel-like.
13. No one notices your red shoes. But you like them anyway.
14. You will become so absent-minded that you will routinely forget your lunch box at work.
15. You will attempt to fix your absentmindedness with post-it notes saying “Take me home!!”
16. You will still forget your lunch box at the office.
17. You will learn to drive and become the family’s official chauffeur for 4 years until you get married off by the age of 23. (Yes! 23!)
18. In 2008, you will become very super acquainted with a little website called Facebook. It makes stalking fun.
19. You have finally learned to peel fruit all by yourself. Take that, Shiv!! Hah! I need you not no more!
20. You still haven’t mastered the art of a good ending so all your posts end somewhat anti-climatic-ally.

Love,
25-year-old Sheryll

Homeward Bound… And Gagged

It’s funny. I have all these kickass one-liners floating around this giant blob I call my brain (Bob for short), but the second I get down to writing something, all I can think about is cheese. Why do I suddenly want pizza?

Speaking of food, last week I finally faced my culinary devils and cooked a fish curry. You ain’t a proper Telugu wife if you can’t make a proper fish curry. See, while fish may be a staple food in Kerala, it is almost a religion in Andhra. (I’m a mix of both so you can understand my delicate mental state.) Well, I did it. And my husband still loves me. Wee!

Moving on.

So there’s this short story writing contest that has been brought to my attention. (The story is what’s short. Not the contest. Just in case you were wondering.) I’m really kicked about it but I’m also terrified. This blog aside, I really have not written anything worth reading. Sure, I showcased my tremendous songwriting skills at age 5 with “Comma Little Baby” (It brought together my two favorite things- infants and punctuation). But it’s been pretty much downhill from there (poems about oatmeal anyone?). So I have 16 days to do what I have not done in 25 years. Wish me luck!

I wonder if I can write a story about oatmeal.

P.S. The title used to have something to do with this blog post. But I waited so long to write this, I forgot. Procrastination. It kills you… eventually.

I’m Schizophrenic and So Am I

Valentine’s Day is a flippin’ awesome holiday. There. I said it. And it only took me 24 years and one awesome husband to do so. Wee.

Not that we did anything super fancy. Mr. Rao and I stayed home on our very first Valentine’s Day and I made a ganache tart. Of which I am supremely proud. Just to be obnoxious, here’s a picture. But be warned. Objects in the picture are smaller than they appear. MUCH smaller. But enough to satisfy two confirmed chocoholics.

My day did not start out all that extraordinary though. In fact, I was pretty bummed out that I couldn’t think up anything special for my husband on our first Valentine’s Day. Had we already morphed into one of those boring old married couples we constantly hear about? Gasp! Never!

Still, I was grumpy and I stayed that way until late afternoon when I got a very wonderful, uplifting message from Mr. Rao. It hit me then, in a very Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus kinda way, that it’s my life. Funky, fancy restaurants don’t make my life special. I do. And thus, my super awesome ganache tart was born. Sigh. Good times.

So the past seven months have been epic and I’ve had many, many epiphanies along the way. Of course, by “epiphanies” I mean “hot fudge sundaes” which is probably why my saris don’t fit me anymore. But really, it’s been realizations galore around here. Here are a few:

1. I really, really, really love to cook. Which is huge. 8 months ago, I could barely boil a potato (as clearly evidenced by the Great Potato Salad Debacle of 2001. Did you know you have to boil the potato first?) Today, I have the in-law stamp of approval. In fact, a few weeks after the wedding, we had the family over for dinner after which Mama Rao came up to me and said, “I’m so glad my son is not going to starve”. Yay me!

2. Miracles do happen. If you ask. And if you believe. Just ask my momma. Three months ago, she was in the ICU. Two weeks ago, she made fish biryani for 20 people. Miracles happen.

(For all of you waiting to start a comments war on this one, remember- just because opinions are like bum-holes does not mean you should be.)

3. Decepticons are way cooler than Autobots.

4. For anything in life that really matters, whether relationships or career or baking, you only get as much as you put in.

5. Pedicures are great for the soul. And feet too.

And probably the biggest one of all, it’s ok to be different to different people. It does not make you fake. It makes you mature. I can’t crack dirty jokes with my parents-in-law the same way I can’t waltz into my colleague’s house and start washing dishes. These are all just different versions of Sheryll. I may be schizophrenic. But I’m still me.

Winds of Change

No, this post is not about flatulence.

Moving on.

You know you’ve changed when instead of coming up with Reason #4325 – “Why not to have children”, you point at random babies then look at your husband and say “I want”.

Thankfully, he knows I’m only half serious. Heee.

So as you are probably well-aware by now, I got married. It’s been a wonderful two months. I like this marriage thing mighty much. So much that I’m recommending it to everyone I meet. Siblings, friends, colleagues, random woodland creatures. Suddenly I have no friends. Hmmm… curiouser and curiouser I say!

I’ve heard so much about how difficult the first few months/year of marriage is (are?). Especially since you have to get used to a whole new family. I’ve been told that it’s like learning a new language. Which scared me to death. I’m lethal with new languages. The last time I tried to speak a new language, I asked a petrol station attendant to make me some gas. I thought I was so cool and bilingual till my friend informed me that I was in fact, not.

But I’ve been lucky. I’ve got a great extended family. To paraphrase my favest blogger, in the past few months I’ve inherited an extra set of parents, two sisters, two brothers, two nieces, two nephews, and a husband. And they’ve been great. My birthday was two days after my wedding and I spent it with my husband’s family (well... mine now. ALL MINE!!! MUHUHAHAHAHA! Ahem… sorry… I do like ‘em evil laughs. Even when they’re totally unnecessary. Actually, especially then. Yay Bob!) Yeah, so I spent my 24th birthday with my new family and I knew that I’d love them forever coz I got not one but TWO birthday cakes. (My affections come easily. Usually pre-mixed and in a Betty Crocker box.) Plus flowers and gifts and artwork from my nieces and nephews. And about 5 million “Happy birthday, wife” cards from my husband. Out of which, 4,999,999 cards were bought by my sisters-in-law. “At my husband’s request” it seems. Lucky for him, I still find that adorable.

I never thought I’d be one of those “married at 23” types. Heck, I even had my cat names picked out. (You know… for when I die alone?) Life never turns out quite like you’d expect it to. And boy, am I thankful for that. I would never trade this life with my husband for anything. Our mad dashes to ice cream parlors at 11 in the night, ridiculous photo shoots in wedding regalia, random spur of the moment house hunts, and lovely lovely lovely looooong drives air-guitaring/drumming/singing along to Wolfmother. Sigh. Life’s good.

But be warned! Not everything about married life is pretty. Along with marriage comes advice. Lots of advice. From everyone and their household pets.

Here’s some that I’ve received over the past few months.

Mom: Be nice.
Friend: Don’t do it. Marriage is for old people.
Sister: Don’t announce your opinions like they’re facts.
Dad: For heavens sake. Stop talking about food.

And finally, my favorite: Marital becomes martial when you misplace the ‘I’.

Everybody slap your foreheads. And say it with me- Aiyyo.

P.S. I’ve learned to make dal.

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iCook

So there’s this blog I’m currently obsessed with. It’s one of those food plus anecdotal kinda blogs written by this woman who has a job and a husband and a toddler and two dogs and is working on her PhD and finds the time to cook glorious glorious food AND blog about it and blog about it well. Plus she works out regularly. Lord knows what’s in her Bournvita. I happen to know her personally and that in itself makes me feel accomplished by association.

One of the things I’m looking forward to in my life post-June is having my own kitchen. Now I’ll be honest, I never had any 1950s housewifely ambitions before. But much has changed since Nigella and her Express met cable TV. Now I’ve managed to half-Nelson my mom into giving me the spare oven as a wedding gift. We’ve had it in our family for ages – almost 10 months. It’s practically a family heirloom. Or not. Hee. I can barely wait to start making dishes I can’t even pronounce. So what if my better half thinks that dessert is a joke unless it’s chocolate? Choux Choux, I say!

My first foray into the kitchen was when I was 3. I vaguely remember whisking and then freezing this vile combination of milk, raw eggs, buttermilk and ice cream. I gave it to my brother who (and I’ll love him forever for this) ate it. I also remember making miniature chapattis with my momma. We’d make one for me and one for baby Shivonne. Of course both chapattis would somehow always magically end up on my plate. (Hey, how was I supposed to know that 6 month old babies did not eat solid food? Remember, I was 3 and I’ll admit, not that bright.)

And then there was the Potato Salad debacle of 2001. Did you know that you have to first cook the potato? *Blink blink* Shivonne never let me live that one down. Sigh… with family like this… I was kitchen-shy for the longest time after that. Post 2001, I’d only venture into the kitchen to bake Betty Crocker cakes and the occasional pot of rice. Gradually I got braver and braver and eventually started baking from scratch. Now I can safely say that my cakes and cookies are world famous in my house. More than one person said so. OK. One. OK so it was just me. But work with me here! I even baked a chocolate cake for the fiancé once. After I handed over the cake, he leaned in close and whispered, “Sheryll, you DO know how to make dal, right?"

Hmph.

So as of today, I have exactly 5 weeks of Sampson-ite-ness left. It’s a really fascinating time. I never knew planning a wedding involved so much well, planning. It’s wild. It’s fun. It’s for an hour. I love it. It’s also a little scary. There are so many new roles to fill. I hope I do them justice. I hope I become more patient and understanding and mature. But most of all, I hope I learn how to make dal.

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