Death of the last word...

We are a dying breed, well at least in my house. 

Every generation is getting more and more civilised and is painfully distant from the little joys of walking away with the last word, cheap thrills from those small victories and leaving an opponent momentarily speechless while he works out what you just said.

The thrills of the mastery over the nuances of a vernacular language, sayings with those lasting meanings which resonate long after they have been casually flung and in most cases are grasped much later as the light dawns on the recipient that he has been 'sunaoed'.

I always heralded my grandmother as the ever victorious queen of verbal war as I never knew anyone else with such a stinging tongue who could cut you in pieces and be long gone watching you from her perch on the balcony chair as you slowly fall to pieces.

Little did I realise that my years with her had automatically imbibed in me the tongue i so feared and that all it needed was a bakra to sharpen upon.

Opportunity presented itself in the form of a hapless husband who soon titled me the mistress of 'Taana maroing'. 

But now as I watch the next gen in my household grow up I wonder how will they ever pick up this art of lightly wounding with words as they get methodically softened by the new age teachings of being forever polite , etiquettes and manners. I also realise that I am a victim of being sandpapered on the edges by education and society and can't be cruel to all and sundry unlike my mentor. I save it for my husband and to the rest I roll my eyes and give away by feelings or just continue being a silent snob.

So now I know that to show the path forward rests on me. But do I risk them being isolated from their 'pat my back and I pat yours' peers or hand over the sharpener , not to make them mean or hurtful but passing on the legacy of wit and sarcasm. Or should I just let them be as it has little appreciation in our current narrow minded intolerant world.

I sadly realise that English is certainly not going to get them the same joy of sarcasm as a vernacular language would. And here I sorely fail.

And so this legacy will bite the dust one day while I sit back and roll my eyes.

Love is...

Love is in the mundane, in the ordinary, in routines and then a few times in the extra ordinary. 

To me love is when my grandparents who were as different as night and day would nag each other about their reluctance to visit the doctor.

Or my dad who never showed a flicker of the emotion called love in his mannerisms would tell the whole world what a poor eater my mom was and how much he tries to get her to eat her meals on time or my mom who would listen to my dad's stories for millions of times without as much of an eye roll.

Love is in a night time routine with a child and eventually lying next to them in darkness listening to their gentle snores .

Love is in that routine cup of tea with your mother in law in absolute silence with nothing to talk about.

Love is cleaning your cupoboard and finding that lost earring.

Some rare times love is in being a hero to your wife when she loses her passport in a different country or your hubby going that extra mile to do your relative a favour without any prompting.

But in most cases love is quietly nestled in nooks and corners of your lives that you walk past without a second glance . Love is more often comfort  and a steady resting heart rate rather than a quickening of pulses and swooning of common sense. Love is rarely just one person but a lot many who make up your life  giving you those little chances to smile everyday.