Going Home

In a little more than 2 weeks I will be going home.

Surely after nearly 30 years of sojourning at the other side of Pacific, home officially and logically should no longer be there but here. Somehow, habit has made it impossible to reverse the quote, even though in reality that home for the longest time never lived up to its name. Except for the language, nothing feels natural there: the culture, the life, the traffic, even the people that constitutes “family”.

Truth be told, time and space aren’t the guilty parties that contribute to this unfortunate sentiment. In growing up, there had always been much strain between me and the world I ever knew of such that I constantly felt the awkwardness like a fish out of water. I was the runt of the litter to start with: sickly, weak and needy. Later on, I failed to live up to the standards held by that of the culture and my own family. Despite all my good intentions and effort, I have not yet figured out how to live in harmony with them, let alone acquire their approval or even impress them. To them, I am forever a sad or sore thumb, undisciplined or too wild for my own good. I walk too fast, talk too loud and love and hate too much. Their open admonition or disapproval did not help either. Eventually I rightfully owned the ultimate crown, the black sheep of the family, in that I was nothing like them and thus inevitably followed the natural course to exile out of the country.

Such incompatibility between us continued on even with the safe distance of many oceans and lands. Whenever I am around them, the fear would overtake me despite of decades of life and experience I have gained from this part of the world. I would hopelessly reverse or regress to the same walking disaster as if I never left. The last few trips home in the past 10 years finally cured me of my homesickness. I came to the conclusion that less is more, farther is closer when it comes to visiting them.

Why is home not home? I have questioned time after time. Surely I couldn’t ask for more love and generosity than any family would give me. In fact I believe there isn’t anything that they would not spare for my sake. Unfortunately, my existence to them is better with distance or even in notion only. My last trip home was 4 years ago –and yet it feels like yesterday that I was back there on that top floor room, alone and abandoned like a caged animal – only totally gleeful and grateful. My family was all downstairs, carrying on with their life: my father watching his stock market’s up and down from the TV, my sister working on the computer, and my mother cleaning and cooking away at the kitchen. It was a safe haven for me: peaceful, quiet and away from all harm. When finally it was time to come down for meals, I’d trod down the 4 flies of stairs with my footsteps light and thoughts heavy with what I might say or do. In their presence, I would change into this guarded stranger that says little and listens much to avoid the wrong words to ever slip and incur their impatient yet well intended reprimands. To them, I have been this forever child, clumsy, unruly and helpless.

In contrast, this alien country has granted me much blessed asylum on the day when I landed. It didn’t take me long to realize that this “less civilized” culture with its tong twilling language, tasteless fast food and excessive modernization in fact did not at all try to condemn or conform me. I found it both liberating and fascinating that I was no longer under surveillance or better yet obligation to be who I should be. The family I have here started with someone with the most open mind and generous spirit who has accepted me since day one. Over the past 25 years, not a word of reproach has ever been raised against who I am, despite of our disagreements over many things. There is no need for tiptoeing or remorse with either words or works. My kitchen requires no scrubbing and my bed free to be unmade. I am my own mistress there! If I allow it, I can even feel confident and beautiful. I am home and free – almost. The only one that could ever disapprove me is none other than me.

My monologue seems to do its magic again, bringing my much troubled thought to yet another comforting revelation: No, I am not going home after all. I am already home. Nearly 3 decades later, it’s time for a change. I have done it in actions already, why not the name? As dreadful as the upcoming trip may be, I have this hope to keep me afloat in that while I am there I get to repeat the same words, “I am going home” - only this time with much joy and bliss.

Coming Home

I flipped open my cell phone to check the time: 4:20pm. Vinny’s was quiet and deserted for a change with me as the only customer and a few workers behind the counter chatting lightly. It was merely 5 minutes past the appointment time, but I couldn’t help fighting the anxiety within; I was worrying if K would not show and if she did show. It had been 2 years since we saw each other last, but that was not in the least why I had this dilemma. The truth was: my dear friend had just suffered one of the biggest losses in life and I was to face her first time after that.

10 minutes passed. I saw another car pulling up and sure enough K arrived. She stepped out, cell phone in action as she closed the car door and walked in. Her hair groomed and make-up light, she looked like any average woman who was meeting up with friends for a dinner. She spotted me and let out a beautiful smile. From outside, we were merely 2 friends reuniting after a long break with our happy greeting. “How are you?” “You look great!” There was no reason to believe anything otherwise, anything as remote as 2 mothers grieving for the death of a child.

There we were finally, nearly 1 month after the tragic accident when her 20-year-old son drowned at the Outer Bank. Our eyes looked at each other’s face and saw what hid beneath unsuspected by others. Suddenly, the fear of what to say or expect departed from me as our hearts spoke silently to each other the language only mothers would understand. When the real words did come, they filled in not only the blanks of the questions but also that hole of my heart. My ear listened to a simple story of a boy and his last camping trip with his brother and friends, and yet my eyes saw something exquisite beyond all expectation. The tragedy turned into this fairy tale with the most envious, happiest ending as I pictured this young man helplessly lost after 20 years of Sunday schools and Christian camps found his way home. I pictured his anguish as he burst open his parents’ room at 1am with his Bible in hands to start the inquiry of the faith that was taught to him. It did not make sense! How frustrated he must have been to discover his life turning from a period to a question mark and how escalated he must have been when God reversed that question only days later back to the assuring period, and then an exclamation mark!

Vinny’s was slowly filling up at 5pm. Soon enough, we were surrounded by a roomful of diners. And yet we were not there in that crowed, noisy restaurant. My tearful eyes now saw nothing but that young man and his joy at the Subway Station with his family when he disclosed his peace with God first time of his life. I imagined his excitement as he exchanged texting with his friends on the discovery of God’s word first time of his life. I wondered too if he, before the wave carried him away, saw the beauty of this world from the boundless sky to the endless sea first time of his life.

Oh, why wouldn’t these silly tears stop! And the pain too! I was fighting hopelessly with not only my tears but also the frustration. How could you feel anything but happy for that most blessed boy? In as short as a couple of weeks after being saved and safe, he lived to the fullest of anyone’s life time. I knew then that I might have cried for my brave friend there, but I cried more for the shameful realization of my envy. Would I trade my decades of drudgery and failure with his weeks of liberation and elation! What hit me to the core was the question that turned him back to God, which had been my own all these months: Am I saved? If I am, what of these unfruitful life, discontentment and misery? He was convicted finally of the contradicting sins and shames after 20 years of carrying the name of “Christian”, while I, nearly double of the time in God’s long suffering love, came face to face with the same confrontation less the excuse.

Two and half hours later with our dinner barely touched and many tears shed, the two friends finally wrapped up and bid our farewell. My eyes were all swollen from all that crying – I knew I must have made such a scene there at the restaurant, but that was the last in my mind on my way home. I felt this kinship with this young man there in that car as I shared not only his crimes but also the ultimate pardon from the same Judge. How I wished I had been there with him – that night before, when he and his friends laid down on the sandy beach looking at the starry sky and heaved with the deepest sigh the joyful exclamation: “This is the best trip of my life!” I was wondering as perfect as he felt then, he never would have known how true that statement was – only that it was in fact better than “best”, beyond all standards or envy. My young friend is home now, and thanks to him, so am I.

Happy Hour

Another coworker from our group was leaving. Young, competent and adorable, she has made her presence enjoyable for the past 2 and half years thus the news of her departure sad and regretful. Many activities were called to bid our farewell: lunch, potluck and even a drink after work on her last day. Potluck was no issue, therefore I gladly pitched in my share of contribution and patiently endured an hour of obligation of being crammed in a small conference room with plenty of pots and lucks for both eyes and stomachs. It was the lunching out and the after-work drinks that pushed the limit.

Truthfully, the lunching out or after-work drinks have always been there; they are just totally irrelevant for the social scrooge like me, who has learned her lesson well that less is more or none at all for the sake of the well-being of everyone. This unfortunate impediment comes in two forms: my inability to find the balance between give and take for conversation and the fated outcome of turning into the third wheel anywhere and every time. The tragedy, though, lies not in the curse itself but in its object, who is presumably old enough to be mature and graceful and yet anything but. Thus, I habitually turned my ear off with this invite, the reminders and the inquiry from the very beginning.

Friday, day of the event, came. There lingered in the air the excitement for both the special event and Friday itself. The day seemed to be relatively slow and lazy. A couple of persistent coworkers continued to solicit from me my participation for the “happy hour”. I’d either pretend not hearing it or joke it with something light to avoid the subject. All day long, the struggle was there between going or not going, agreeable or disagreeable, me or not me. “Not” would be the usual easy way out, but somehow I was feeling less and less “easy” by the hour as I struggled with something more than want I wanted. DS, who had left 2 months ago, would be taking time off, enduring the Friday afternoon traffic and going the distance to make the event. AND, it was her last day. Should I insist on my own comfort zone or my obstinate, selfish nature at the expense of basic human kindness??

3:30 pm. People were wrapping up and getting ready to head out to the party. I was keeping quieter than ever, hoping to dodge any last attempts. I heard the guest of honor’s footsteps and there she popped in. She was to bid farewell. “Just in case you don’t come…” We hugged and then she was gone. I was left there, struck by not only the implication of her last presence to me but also the assumption of my last to her! Suddenly I was not alone. There crept out that greatest sin of mine - the contrarian or rebellious button that could not afford to be pushed. And that was exactly what that farewell did: me in the company of the worst ally. My whole being had been in turmoil all day long till that moment when revelation hit me and set me free then and there: I would go because you guys expected me NOT to go.

I arrived with another coworker an hour later. He was feeling guilty for not going, while I was feeling something far from guilty: brave, liberated and determined. Our appearance though surprising did not cause much commotion as I had anticipated. We sat at the end of the table and started our share of spirits and fun. The water outside of the porch was a hue of dusky blue, the sun gleaming above a soft golden, the beer cold and laughter merry. Ere long, I forgot what the party was about and who it was for and why I was there. It was just me talking, listening and laughing without much care. I had made plan to stay for a half hour show. By the time I hit the road, it was 2 hours later.

Sober and alone in the car, I was hit by the unavoidable realization – the warrior who had come to conquer and claim was in fact the traitor. I would like to blame it on the beer, or the hypnotizing wave under the lazy sunset that turned me into that shameful defector, drinking and laughing like one of them. Still, I have to ask if the reversed outcome was in fact another trick of life in that the house, nature, always wins despite of our ploy and scheme? Or like movies, you should always go with the least expectation to have the maximum enjoyment? Either way, the truth remains that the happy hour, sadly, turned out to be happy after all – even for this rebel.

The Game of Love

AH im’ed this morning: “And the soap continues”. “Soap”, shortened for the soap opera that has been going on with his love life since 2 weeks ago. He had had a fight with his girlfriend for 2 years over a dinner, after that phone calls stopped, number deleted and personal belongings returned. A week later, he met another girl and thus the “soap” started when the old girlfriend called with a change of mind.

I am amazed how instant modern relationship has become after 25 years out of the game. Never proficient in this arena during my young single days, I have always regarded love, or dating game, exhausting and excruciating and thanked God for the good fortune on the day when I was exempted forever as I stood at the altar and gratefully swore in my “I do”. Unfortunately, I continued to be exposed to this frustrating mystery through friends whose marriages or relationships failed. While they go through their up and downs, tears and joys, I too weep and laugh as a good friend would do. Still the truth remains that I have no clue on this impossible task, as to its complexity and oddly its simplifications nowadays.

When young, love or romance was irresoluble for a girl like me with a big appetite but much less in budget. Sadly, I was also cursed with 2 sisters and plenty of friends whose assets allowed them to pick and choose as they desired. For the longest time I sat on the sideline watching them jumping in and out of the field perpetually and effortlessly. With my older sister, who is merely a year apart, I was more than an audience. The inevitable sibling rivalry made her turns an intense and personal experience thus I envied and resented her accomplishments with secret tears and curses. As for my girlfriends, it was thankfully more of an enjoyable entertainment less the involvement.

Maria, my best friend in high school, provided me with such benefit from high school to college. Popular and wild, she was the frequent player in the game. She was also funny, smart and for reasons unknown loved me and patiently endured my awkward dejection in those days. Her glorious triumphs in life (and boys) never presented a problem in our friendship. What do you do with nature wonder such as moon, stars or rainbow except admiring and applauding? Morning after morning, we’d pace up and down on the school’s court yard, pretending to be studying together while she disclosed yesterday’s “development” in details. After high school, our “rendezvous” continued on to college. I remember taking the bus from my college to hers, walking on that beautiful, wooded campus to the office where she worked part-time, all excited for her lunch break when we’d close the office door and lie down on two desks for her to resume the drama. I would always start with a semi-serious jest like “which one are we on now?” and she would reply “which one do you want to hear?” The iteration continued with me complaining how hard it was to keep track and her come-back like how much she should charge me with that much of thrill. Thinking back, I now realize how carefully she must have concealed with the details of the romances to protect the innocence of her sheltered friend. Even so, the ancient old lover inside of both of us, though different in life and personality, remained forever passionate toward this thing called “love”.

Years later, my beautiful wild romanticist friend and I parted as I travelled across the Pacific and settled down on this side of the water. We lost contact but I continued to hear from our mutual friends that she had got married soon after college, followed by a heart wrenching divorce. I heard too how she continued to pursue love even to as far as Canada, only to be left deceived and desolate. Our last encounter was nearly 20 years later at a small class reunion in a restaurant back home. The once dashing star proved to be successful and assertive in her career and yet still lost in love. She disclosed to us her relationship with a married man and incurred from me a reflexive blunder when I exclaimed “but you deserve so much better!” Her indignation was never eased off even after my repeated attempts of explanation and apology. We parted this time unamiably. The last I heard from her was that she had packed up her life and career to follow her lover abroad.

AH’s 2 week’s drama is far from that of my friend’s 30 years of combat in its magnitude and nature. He continues on as a resilient warrior 2 divorces and many romances later, except that he has sworn off marriage despite of his long-suffering endurance. I have to wonder: is it sex, culture or even time that contributes to the drastic contrast of my 2 friends’ love life? Both have been the repeated players, one rolling in and out without wait while the other diving in without concern for point of no return. My heart marvels at one’s resolute effectiveness at the same time aches for the other’s total abandonment. Comparing to my 2 courageous friends, one new and one old, I remain as sheltered as ever. Somehow my competitive nature does not seem to be bothered this time. In fact, I am thinking how fortunate I am – the late bloomer, the tortoise, the dark horse, who barely got her turn to play actually scored and made it there safe and sound. The trophy I have received, in my own estimation, surpasses any thrills and kills that those players could ever claim.

"Charlie made me cry!"

This weekend I played with Charlie.

We had gone out to dinner a few weeks ago – 2 couple’s night out at Carrabas. It was great fun: good food and warm conversation as always. In fact we had had so much fun that D and I requested an encore. This time I decided to do something different: dumpling party at home instead of dining out. Charlie can be stubborn, but I am bossy. With no room for persuasion on my end, he finally caved in.

Dumplings, or Chinese raviolis, to be more exact, are the delicacy and rare honor at our home since I started working full time. They are labor intensive from chopping vegetables to dough kneading. After that, there is yet another hour of pastry making and dumpling wrapping. Nevertheless, they are not only family’s favorites but also a most-requested dish from friends. I could not think of anything better then that. So the party went on – we were at the kitchen island making dumplings and conversation for a good hour and half. He was looking pale after all that chemo treatments and radiations but none the less jovial. The dinner turned out to be somewhat a let-down for my standard, but my company did not seem to mind. Their gracious forgiveness allowed me to overlook my less than satisfactory performance and soon instead of the disappointing dishes we feasted on a better substitute: hours of intriguing conversation, which was far more scrumptious and enjoyable than any gourmet delicacy I could think of.

During the conversation, he mentioned he had been asked to substitute for a substitute at our sister church the next day due to a last-minute cancellation of the guest speaker. It’s been 2 years since he turned in his interim pastorage after our new pastor came. He had not returned to our podium since. After months of the severe attack by the ailment and far-more-hostile treatments for the ailment, he stopped taking invites from other churches. This news came both miraculous and wonderful! How many times have I relived those moments when my troubled heart and wandering eyes were set straight with God at the rise and fall of his voice? Sunday came and the bad student skipped the school to play with Charlie. The church was a pitiful sight outside and sadder inside with but a handful of congregation left. How ironic it was when the guest speaker was almost as frail and forgotten as the building itself? And yet there he walked in, on his cane or “third leg”, which he humorously quoted, his eyes twinkling and face smiling. When the long anticipated preaching finally started, with his first word the unexpected, ridiculous tears came! It was déjà vu when this Philemon was brought home again to make peace with both God and men. The magic continued on when he preached on none other than Romans 8, starting with God’s unconditional pardon through “no condemnation” for the most wretched sinner then, me, and ending with God’s immeasurable provision in “no separation” for His most suffering servant there, him. There he stood, his body stubbornly leaning against the podium to support his pain stricken legs, baring his soul how he had cried for that 20-year-old boy whom he had shepherded and lost to sea just a few weeks ago. And there I sat, with no tissues for rescue, all silly and weepy for reasons beyond the young man’s death. He was testifying to the adequacy of God’s grace through the father’s faith and example when all that reminded me was that of his own, along with his trials and tribulations, which he so sneakily avoided. I was fighting for control with my face buried low for fear of being found out what a cry baby I was, but when that last hymn “Amazing Grace” started the battle was lost. I had to flee out of the chapel. I would not be seen with my makeup all messed up like that! Word for word, the song pursued and persecuted me through the closed door. When I finally returned, the last verse ended. I turned, only to find Pat just as teary as I was. We stared into the same pain through each other’s eyes and cried together.

It was a beautiful, sunny day on the way home. The sky was blue and air was cool. The Sunday’s traffic was moving steadily like any other Sundays, oblivious of the trauma that I had just gone through. I couldn’t shake off that image: an old and almost forgotten church, the musky and gloomy sanctuary, Charlie smiling up there and me crying underneath. I was thinking, he may be afflicted by that “chronicle condition” or on that “third leg”, as he so eloquently put, he was none the less a bully. I should have known that before going out to play with him. I wanted then to tattletale on him: “Look what Charlie did! He made me cry!”

My walk, my Bach and my blog

September has finally come. After 2 months of intense heat and humidity, we are more than ready for a change of season. Even though for southern Virginia the reality might not take effect for yet another few weeks, the official change of the month digit from 8 to 9 still brought much hope for some reluctant summer’s captives like me who cannot wait to be set free. September means cooler days, golden leaves and dancing air. September means light jackets and boots. It also means shorter days, change of routines, such as my walk.

With the summer’s blazing heat, I had to shift my mid-day walk to morning, and further on early morning (6:30). The route I have been taking has its reputation of “NOT safe”, thus I was cautioned enough not to temper with even further (or earlier) change. Impulsive and undisciplined I may be, I am also a creature of habits that breathes on routines such as my 3:30am wakeup time, the exact parking spot under the same tree, and, yes, the 16-block morning walk to and fro. The insatiable, restless nature in me finds no other better therapy than that 30-minute walk during which all care and fear evaporate soundlessly and effortlessly.

Why would such simple activity that costs so little, time-wise and equipment-wise, does so much good for my mental well-being? I wonder. Every day as the dusk turns to twilight, I would feel the same antsy excitement leaping inside my chest. I put on my walking shoes and grab my IPOD, all ready to revisit the same buildings, streets and trees. With heart thrilled and strides swift and long, I magically morph into that carefree creature, feasting on the birth of another day in its display from the air in the sky to the meager grass on the roadside. For reasons I don’t know still, I am exhilarated beyond words. The paved walk next to the Credit Union takes me to the street back home in my moody and awkward 14-year-old days. The crimson blossom of the crape myrtles above my head reminds me of those beautiful tropical summers when cicada echoed high the thrill and hope of the graduation season. Time has done its magic to heal the past wounds, thus I find myself no longer haunted but smiling at the remnant memory with nostalgia. The street is lined up with mixed architectures, some of which century old and some modern and grand. Those old stone buildings with peeled off paint would instigate my vivid imagination of their past glory while the gated new establishment triggers my curiosity of its new inhabitants, who they are and what their hope and dreams may be. A few more streets further down is the corner where I take my returning direction and meet the breeze from the waterfront that almost teases me to tears every time. It is only 6:45am and there I walk on – streets still half awake, the stone pavement under my feet worn but crispy clean. Across the street sits the park in tranquil beauty under the veiled twilight. And there on the bench was the same man with his computer, quiet and motionless. I wonder if he too is under the spell of the morn as I am.

And let’s not forget my Bach Sonatas and Partitas violin solos – how brilliantly and perfectly they play on, resonating with every emotion I relive. Morning after morning, their magic never fails or fades. Past the city courthouse and banks is where the traffic of the morning crowd starts to pick up. Thankfully my friend Bach provides ample disguise or excuses for me to remain a speculator rather than participant as I march on, surveying the world without any obligation for social etiquettes. For yet a little while longer, there I am still, ageless and fearless, looking at life in a brand new vision. From a pale blue sky surfacing above to a world resuming her day and activities below, everything seems the same and yet so different. It’s amazing how a little distance and distraction can yield such a change of perspective. Even as insignificant and ordinary as a tree with a hint of autumn on its leaves would take my eyes away from the consuming care of this world. I am instantly reminded of how little and brief this life is and how majestic and endless another one will be. All my pitiful strivings appear, once again, ridiculously fruitless in His omnipotent presence.

My walk ends. I have returned to where I started, all sweaty and messed up outside and somewhat improved inside: Calmer, quieter and, for a little while, wiser. The hope follows me as I quicken the step to walk up the stairs, knowing that when my limited effort and vision end I have too another faithful friend, my blog, to help me recapture the revelation. Who else is there like my blog, whose ear is always ready, silence like gold, and patience never ceasing? Indeed it is through the walk that this old gal meets her young soul, and through timeless Bach those two make their peace, but it is my Blog that receives all that irreconcilable differences after the walk. I could not be more blessed than in the company of the threesome like my walk, my Bach and my Blog.

Back to School

Over two decades later, I was back to school.

I recall clearly that day when I handed in my last final thinking to myself: that’s it, my last exam. I wanted to pat my shoulder to congratulate myself for a job well done in persevering to the end for the past 19 years of schooling days. Like my fellow comrades, I fought a good fight, kept the course and now waited for that well deserving trophy – the last diploma. I remember too promising to myself as worthwhile or meaningful as it had been, I had had enough of schools and that would be true end of an era.

Windows 7 broke that promise. With the computer world evolving continually, we the IT support face the reality of keeping up with the changes. The company then decided to send us all to school for a whole week. Incidentally my sign-up week fell on the time just when most schools started. So here I came, backpack and lunch bag packed, marching along with the student crowd for the same mission, much more in age and apprehension and unfortunately less in joy and hope.
What do students expect of the first day of school besides new outfit and gear? From a world of different time and space, it hardly ever revolved around new shoes or clothes – uniforms took care of that and school supply was merely new pencils and erasers since the rest was provided by school. On that same road back to school after a 2-month summer vacation was a child with a book bag nearly empty yet a heart filled with much anxiety: Would I make new friends? Would they like me? Could I finally make it to the “good students” list so my teacher would love me as they loved my sister? Many, many years later, there I was again, standing in front of that classroom – still the same child within and yet so different in many ways: instead of walking, I had driven my cross-over utility to school; instead of growing my hair is now thinning and brain shrinking; instead of many ambitions and resolutions for a better me, my head stirring with only one question: how do I survive this week without looking like a fool?

My classmates of the week may be from different groups but were of the same floor, so there were no strangers to deal with. Our “teacher” was but a well-paid outsider who cared no grades or disciplines thus no one to seek approval from. Yet, I still intuitively sat myself at the far end aisle seat next to door for easy, necessary escape. My survival instinct was miscalculated when another coworker took his seat right next to me seconds later. He was not at all in the category of “strangers” since we had had our occasional “dealings” back at the office in our IM sessions and chocolates tossing across the partition between our cubicles. This unfortunate mishap actually cost not only my safety but also my sanity for the whole week as my “no-stranger” neighbor dutifully performed his daily instigator and tormentor role. Instead of hiding behind the enemy line, I was tossed out mercilessly in the war zone with him pushing the button and I yelped and cussed despite all effort. All eyes or heads would turn at me with frown and disapproval while I sat mouth wide opened and defenseless. Gone was all well designed safeguard, gone was productivity and gone was, most sadly, propriety. In short, I successfully committed the exact crime I had feared most: becoming a fool.

A week has passed since the school day revisit. As much as I would like to pin it on my enemy, I am well aware that I couldn’t help being baited like a silly 8-year-old. I had anticipated everything in that classroom – everything except teasing, as harmless as it was, something that the younger me had known a thing or two about and the older and wiser me taught my own children of. All that experience and wisdom rendered useless in a setting of reality. Do we ever change over time and space? Across the Pacific Ocean and another continent with many, MANY years of wisdom and experience acquired, I went back in that classroom as helpless as I had been on the very first day of school. I think of my other “classmates” there, many of whom I knew little of except crossing path at the office, still I am sure they too had reversed to be their younger selves in that classroom: some reserved, some dutiful and focused and some teasers or bullies as they had been since day one. The truth is: they never left the classroom.

So how was training? Some asked. I smiled with my usual wise answer: “Best thing was the last day: we had 3 dozens of donuts and 1 batch of chocolate cookies”, when the real revelation in fact was: Forget Windows 7, forget pens and pencils, but don’t forget the bullies.