GANGA : The Arrow of Destiny

The Diary

Perched on a stool at her kitchen counter; Gita re-read the letter sent by her grandmother, Vidya or as she fondly called her, Gia.  Ari, her annoying little brother always teased her for her love of hand-written letters. "Snail-mail," as he called it for the speed at which they travelled. She didn't care. Gita treasured real hand-written letters, especially ones from her Gia. A few of her father's friends called her an "old soul," which she learned was actually a way of complimenting her.

Gita was quite nostalgic for the written word. She loved the fact that people once communicated with hand-written letters for thousands of years. They took the time to put thoughts to words and then committed them to paper, giving them a sense of permanence.

Plus, letters in envelopes were tangible, and the fact that her grandmother's hands had once held the same paper made it seem as if Gita was now holding those very same hands. Finally, Gia,  had put those words on paper and these words had more weight and meaning than a thousand rants and raves exchanged at the speed of light. 

After pushing her thick braid of raven-black hair behind her shoulders, Gita curled her toes around the lowest rung of the barstool in her quaint little home on Penick Lane and once again began to read the letter.

Engrossed in it, she was taken by surprise as Ari, breezed into the kitchen and slapped the paper right out of her hands.

"Booooo-ring!"

He exclaimed, as he glided over to the refrigerator with music pulsing out of his earbuds.

"Well," Gita thought, "things are really back to normal now...Dad upstairs working, Ari being annoying, Gita alone. Yup, this makes perfect sense to me." She collected her letter from the ground, placed it on the counter and began to prepare dinner for the evening. 

After an hour or so of busily cooking from one of her Gia's recipes. She managed to make Daal Makhani, a creamy lentil dish – and vegetable biryani, a mixture of vegetables and rice baked like a casserole. She was trying to learn how to make a few traditional Indian dishes, even though neither her father, Anit, nor Ari seemed to care what they ate. 

Her little brother was positively a pig when it came to food – eating with his fingers, barely even chewing, and slurping down pop or orange juice like baby giraffe at a watering hole. Just watching him was distracting and disgusting to Gita. Not only was he a sloppy eater, he ate huge amounts. She often wondered how he remained so skinny, eating as much as he did.

With some trepidation Gita called Ari and her father to the kitchen to eat. Anit staggered into the kitchen hunched over a report. He always treated dinner like an extension of work. With papers in hand, Anit took his place at the head of the table, busily scanning and shuffling through the papers.

As Gita put the food on the table, she finally took the time to notice the wonderful smell of a home cooked meal. That's a good sign, right? She thought to herself.

She looked up from the table and yelled for Ari one more time before taking her seat next to her father. After a moment, her brother ran down the stairs and slid into his seat. His earbuds still blaring senseless tunes.  As usual, without waiting for anyone, he began to gulp down the food on his plate like a starving zoo animal. "You're positively repulsive, you know that!" Gita blurted out in anger, looking to her dad for support.

Anit looked up just long enough to say, "He's a growing boy, Gita," and then turned back to the article he was reading.

"I wish you two weren't so absorbed in your own worlds, there's another person in this house too you know!" Gita replied, with some exasperation.