We all talk about how ‘10000 hours’ rule inspired by Malcolm Gladwell, about how spending enough time on an activity would lead to mastery of it. The essential message of the book ‘The Brain that Changes Itself’ talks about why this is true biologically.
Intrinsically, this is a book that dispels common notions in science, putting forth research that should have been in the spotlight but isn’t because of its being overshadowed by conventional viewpoints. Every student of biology learns about brain maps in their textbooks, a diagram that divides the brain into distinct and well-delineated regions each performing a specific function. We were all taught that this was the schema in each of our heads, and this is what the author Norman ___ rejects. He provides compelling evidence to the fact that our brain is not hard-wired when we are born, but are constantly getting wired- this is what he calls “Neuroplasticity”.
The book starts by describing a woman given to bouts of imbalance because of an impaired vestibular system which is responsible for balance in our bodies. She is treated by a prodigious doctor who plants receptors on her back and magically makes her brain recognize input from another part of the body. Later, scientists show the converse. They treat stroke patients by training a healthy part of the brain to receive input from nerves that originally transmitted signals to other, injured locations in the brain. Both of these examples point to the brain constantly learning new things, including its own structure and connections that exist in it. Sure, these rewirings are faster in babies, which is why they are so quick to learn, but don’t use that as an excuse to stay in your comfort zone- all brains can rewire themselves with the right stimulation!
The book has a Freudian take on love and sex. It states (with numerous examples, but of course) that our proclivities in love and sexual partners are a result of some innate connections in our brain that are created during childhood experiences. It also talks about, and this might interest many, why we turn to romantic poetry and raptures of happiness when we fall in love. It’s because love produces the same responses in our brains as cocaine, as does an apparently non-addictive activity like running!
A man addicted to sadomasochism who is cured of his obsession, blind patients who can see with an apparatus consisting of a camera which transmits electrical signals to their tongue, autistic children who develop social well-being and children with improved IQ prove gripping instances that the author uses to illustrate his points.
The brain is one of the greatest mysteries to mankind, and the author unravels many of its workings eloquently making this a fascinating read. Dollops of interesting facts and trivia, and understanding the way we work and why we feel the way we do about a lot of things is thoroughly enjoyable. Without explicitly saying so, the book talks about how we are as much about our genetic makeup as about what we feed our brain and turn it into. All we must do to improve ourselves is apply ourselves to it and pay close attention. If you’re asking if there’s a way to learn to pay closer attention, well, the answer, is to pay closer attention! We are what we do, is what the author seems to say, and what he tries to show makes us greater masters of our destiny.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
17
Yesterday, my Bollywood-crazy, party-going,Marathi-speaking, sleeping-so-late-it’s-considered-early cousin sat back and called herself the ‘perfect Bombay girl’, the implication that I was, thus, not one hanging in the air. I bristled, as steam started rising from my ears. How DARE she claim this city as hers? How dare she even suggest that I don’t belong in a city that offers refuge to anyone willing to embrace it?
Bombay is a sorrier place if you label it and stamp your stereotypes upon it. The ‘dumb Bombay‘ stereotype or the ‘posh Bombay’ stereotype says nothing about the huge numbers (huge enough to form majorities in most other cities) which do not conform to these. In all honesty, I came to Bombay expecting people in these very moulds, only to find my dearest friends who are as much Mumbaikar as my Ganpati-adoring cousin. Sure, perhaps the average Bombay girl is represented by stereotypes, but were these the only ones ferrying food packets to stranded passengers during the floods? Are they the only ones travelling two hours on rickety trains across the city to earn their livelihood?
If the ‘Bombay girl’ were instead represented by the sense of humanity, empathy and tolerance, it would do more justics to this city that millions (many of whom choose to curl up at home with a book on New Year’s eve) call home.
Or perhaps, as my friend Anu said, make traveling by local trains the acid test for Mumbaikars. The numbers, as you’ll probably find out, will be more than those of the ‘perfect Bombay girl’.
Bombay is a sorrier place if you label it and stamp your stereotypes upon it. The ‘dumb Bombay‘ stereotype or the ‘posh Bombay’ stereotype says nothing about the huge numbers (huge enough to form majorities in most other cities) which do not conform to these. In all honesty, I came to Bombay expecting people in these very moulds, only to find my dearest friends who are as much Mumbaikar as my Ganpati-adoring cousin. Sure, perhaps the average Bombay girl is represented by stereotypes, but were these the only ones ferrying food packets to stranded passengers during the floods? Are they the only ones travelling two hours on rickety trains across the city to earn their livelihood?
If the ‘Bombay girl’ were instead represented by the sense of humanity, empathy and tolerance, it would do more justics to this city that millions (many of whom choose to curl up at home with a book on New Year’s eve) call home.
Or perhaps, as my friend Anu said, make traveling by local trains the acid test for Mumbaikars. The numbers, as you’ll probably find out, will be more than those of the ‘perfect Bombay girl’.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
16
“Repeat what you heard”, the cold voice from the shadows said.
“The end of July will bring forth the child who has the power to kill you, my Lord. This child has been prophesized to be the one”.
The Dark Lord stood pale as death, drawing his breath in a hiss that sent shivers down Snape’s spine. “My killer...”, he whispered. “Let’s see how well the slayer does at the hands of his prey at the powerful age of 1”. It had been a year since the prophecy had been made. Now was the time to strike.
“ We leave now. Snape, with me.”
“My Lord, you promised...to spare...the child’s mother...” spoke Snape hesitantly. “I remember, Severus”, replied the Dark Lord with a touch of irritation “The Mudblood will be left for you. Now leave.”
In a whirl of wind, they were gone. Simultaneously, in a village called Godric’s Hollow 200 miles away, two cloaked figures appeared at the doorway of Number 31. It was a quiet evening but for the birds chirping. The Dark Lord flicked his wand casually and the door blasted open. A meoment later, James Potter came running out from an inner doorway, spells bursting froth from his wand. Snape hesitated, then stepped beside the Dark Lord and fired a curse at Potter. As things went crashing around the house, he watched as a framed picture of the Potters fell to the floor, as if in slow motion. It shattered to pieces as Snape said, “He’s dead, my Lord”.
They moved to the bedroom off the living room. There she stood. Lily Evans stood defiantly in front of her son, shielding him from them as golden sparks erupted from her drawn wand. She shot Snape a disgusted look before turning to The Dark Lord. “Step away girl”, said the Dark Lord. At least he was keeping his promise, Snape thought.
Lily wasn’t playing, though "Not Harry, please no don't kill him, take me, kill me instead —"
"This is my last warning —"
“Okay, take him”, she gave in!
The Dark Lord, with eyes furrowed, uttered a curse that would shoot a stream of green light at the babe and kill the prophecy. It blew up into smithereens. James Potter turned into Rudolfus and Lily into Bellatrix as everyone yelled “SURPRISE” and a banner streamed from the ceiling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY LORD VOLDEMORT- From your Death Eaters”.
---------
Disclaimer; None of this belongs to me, it's all JK Rowling's!
“The end of July will bring forth the child who has the power to kill you, my Lord. This child has been prophesized to be the one”.
The Dark Lord stood pale as death, drawing his breath in a hiss that sent shivers down Snape’s spine. “My killer...”, he whispered. “Let’s see how well the slayer does at the hands of his prey at the powerful age of 1”. It had been a year since the prophecy had been made. Now was the time to strike.
“ We leave now. Snape, with me.”
“My Lord, you promised...to spare...the child’s mother...” spoke Snape hesitantly. “I remember, Severus”, replied the Dark Lord with a touch of irritation “The Mudblood will be left for you. Now leave.”
In a whirl of wind, they were gone. Simultaneously, in a village called Godric’s Hollow 200 miles away, two cloaked figures appeared at the doorway of Number 31. It was a quiet evening but for the birds chirping. The Dark Lord flicked his wand casually and the door blasted open. A meoment later, James Potter came running out from an inner doorway, spells bursting froth from his wand. Snape hesitated, then stepped beside the Dark Lord and fired a curse at Potter. As things went crashing around the house, he watched as a framed picture of the Potters fell to the floor, as if in slow motion. It shattered to pieces as Snape said, “He’s dead, my Lord”.
They moved to the bedroom off the living room. There she stood. Lily Evans stood defiantly in front of her son, shielding him from them as golden sparks erupted from her drawn wand. She shot Snape a disgusted look before turning to The Dark Lord. “Step away girl”, said the Dark Lord. At least he was keeping his promise, Snape thought.
Lily wasn’t playing, though "Not Harry, please no don't kill him, take me, kill me instead —"
"This is my last warning —"
“Okay, take him”, she gave in!
The Dark Lord, with eyes furrowed, uttered a curse that would shoot a stream of green light at the babe and kill the prophecy. It blew up into smithereens. James Potter turned into Rudolfus and Lily into Bellatrix as everyone yelled “SURPRISE” and a banner streamed from the ceiling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY LORD VOLDEMORT- From your Death Eaters”.
---------
Disclaimer; None of this belongs to me, it's all JK Rowling's!
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
15
I’ve spent the last 4 days in Mahabaleshwar for a scientific conference that has made me wiser with respect to at least three things. 1) Scientific conferences are largely a colossal waste of time and money. 2) Most scientists either do great work or present well. The proportion of researchers falling in both of these categories forms a minuscule number. 3) The most interesting scientists are all evolutionary biologists!
We’re staying at the Club Mahabaleshwar, which is an exceedingly beautiful place tottering from a colonial hangover. Established in 1881, this place is severely old-school with “No Chappals or shorts” permitted in the dining rooms and guests allowed by invitation or via contacts only. However the hammocks strung in the picturesque gardens, the chairs you sink into and the pervading air of calm make us wish we could stay longer, minus the 30-odd lectures we have been subjected to. And the food, oh the food! The best jam I’ve ever had, sumptuous curries and desserts that just melt in your mouth have been our rewards for the aforementioned lectures. We’re already worried about how we’re going to manage with the food at North canteen once we get back. And yes, kidnapping the chef is an option that has been considered, thank you very much.
The lectures. Ah. I sleep through most of them while being worried that in my trance-like state, I will blurt out something loudly in the midst of a bunch of distinguished researchers. Not fun. lectures aside, what the conference HAS done is is narrow that barrier that separates ‘us’ from the ‘real scientists’. I haven’t spoken to as many of them as I would have liked, because of the fear that the first thing they say to me will be “So I saw you sleeping during my talk”. But they seem less distant when you see them swinging their kids on their shoulders or discuss marathons with them or listening to them saying things they shouldn’t be because they are drunk (but that’s a different story). You arrive at the conclusion that scientists really are kids at heart (maybe even a bit mentally) and you know there are few options you would care for more.
We’re staying at the Club Mahabaleshwar, which is an exceedingly beautiful place tottering from a colonial hangover. Established in 1881, this place is severely old-school with “No Chappals or shorts” permitted in the dining rooms and guests allowed by invitation or via contacts only. However the hammocks strung in the picturesque gardens, the chairs you sink into and the pervading air of calm make us wish we could stay longer, minus the 30-odd lectures we have been subjected to. And the food, oh the food! The best jam I’ve ever had, sumptuous curries and desserts that just melt in your mouth have been our rewards for the aforementioned lectures. We’re already worried about how we’re going to manage with the food at North canteen once we get back. And yes, kidnapping the chef is an option that has been considered, thank you very much.
The lectures. Ah. I sleep through most of them while being worried that in my trance-like state, I will blurt out something loudly in the midst of a bunch of distinguished researchers. Not fun. lectures aside, what the conference HAS done is is narrow that barrier that separates ‘us’ from the ‘real scientists’. I haven’t spoken to as many of them as I would have liked, because of the fear that the first thing they say to me will be “So I saw you sleeping during my talk”. But they seem less distant when you see them swinging their kids on their shoulders or discuss marathons with them or listening to them saying things they shouldn’t be because they are drunk (but that’s a different story). You arrive at the conclusion that scientists really are kids at heart (maybe even a bit mentally) and you know there are few options you would care for more.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
14. The Crimson Throne- Sudhir Kakkar
“India is not the only country where momentous events are too often caused by insults to honour, or as a result of envy. Historians ignore this truth and indulge in vain speculation as to the causes and courses of agitations that shake up empires.” says Nicolass Manucci, one of the book's narrators.
Against the backdrop of 17th century India, we witness, in grand and simultaneously minute detail, the succession struggle following (and, in fact, during) Shah Jahan’s rule between his two worthy sons Dara shiloh and Aurangzeb.
“Your birth starts the process of dying”, prophesizes an ancient crone about the mighty Mughal empire. We follow the events of the struggle from two voices both prescient about the imminent demise of the empire, and who touch their accounts with a sense of the importance that will be placed on the events surrounding them in the pages of history. Nicolao Manucci and Francois Bernier, our narrators, are as starkly contrasting as can be, both in their personalities and in the sides they choose to align themselves with, united only by their naked ambitions and their colonial outlook on India.
Both these narrators take turns to provide narratives that fit into the jigsaw of the royal succession. While they have sworn to their honesty of their accounts, the authos beautifully brings out the unconscious manner in which our prejudices colour the way we view incidents. While Manucci is a carefree liberal who regards native Indians with mild amusement, Bernier is a serious, often pompous conservative who talks about Indian ‘idolators’ with open disdain. One for Prince Dara, and the other for Aurangzeb, the story of a bloody overthrow is no longer the dull uni-dimensional collection of facts presented to us in history textbooks.
What the author brings forth the best is his attention to detail to the lives and customs in times of the Mughal empire. From the windowpanes of the gentry's houses, attitudes to sexuality, religion and societal structures are presented in a manner that is understated yet precise. Royal harems are the hotbeds of gossip and palace intrigues, and homosexuality is widespread and accepted, even encouraged. When Bernier adopts an African boy for companionship, the prevailing assumption is that the act is primarily for sexual purposes. The game of political intrigues is less riveting, yet provides glimpses into the foibles and personal rivalries of Mughal royalty which are captivating and another rejoinder to history textbooks.
The text can be plodding, the story more interesting than its telling, with vast swathes of the book laborious to read. This makes what could be a possibly engrossing book closer to ordinary.
Against the backdrop of 17th century India, we witness, in grand and simultaneously minute detail, the succession struggle following (and, in fact, during) Shah Jahan’s rule between his two worthy sons Dara shiloh and Aurangzeb.
“Your birth starts the process of dying”, prophesizes an ancient crone about the mighty Mughal empire. We follow the events of the struggle from two voices both prescient about the imminent demise of the empire, and who touch their accounts with a sense of the importance that will be placed on the events surrounding them in the pages of history. Nicolao Manucci and Francois Bernier, our narrators, are as starkly contrasting as can be, both in their personalities and in the sides they choose to align themselves with, united only by their naked ambitions and their colonial outlook on India.
Both these narrators take turns to provide narratives that fit into the jigsaw of the royal succession. While they have sworn to their honesty of their accounts, the authos beautifully brings out the unconscious manner in which our prejudices colour the way we view incidents. While Manucci is a carefree liberal who regards native Indians with mild amusement, Bernier is a serious, often pompous conservative who talks about Indian ‘idolators’ with open disdain. One for Prince Dara, and the other for Aurangzeb, the story of a bloody overthrow is no longer the dull uni-dimensional collection of facts presented to us in history textbooks.
What the author brings forth the best is his attention to detail to the lives and customs in times of the Mughal empire. From the windowpanes of the gentry's houses, attitudes to sexuality, religion and societal structures are presented in a manner that is understated yet precise. Royal harems are the hotbeds of gossip and palace intrigues, and homosexuality is widespread and accepted, even encouraged. When Bernier adopts an African boy for companionship, the prevailing assumption is that the act is primarily for sexual purposes. The game of political intrigues is less riveting, yet provides glimpses into the foibles and personal rivalries of Mughal royalty which are captivating and another rejoinder to history textbooks.
The text can be plodding, the story more interesting than its telling, with vast swathes of the book laborious to read. This makes what could be a possibly engrossing book closer to ordinary.
Friday, January 20, 2012
14.
Vapi, a little industrial town sandwiched between Gujarat and Maharashtra, greets you with the acrid odour of industrial exhaust. This happens to be perhaps Vapi’s only unfortunate problem (though the beer-guzzling adversaries of Gujarat’s dry status might disagree). It’s a city like most of India’s small cities, though better planned by those standards. Characterized by small streets, chaotic traffic with more than its share of two-wheelers, and a bustle that is accompanied by a laid-back tenor, Vapi has very small-town feel to it, though better-planned compared to most of India’s other small cities.
A bridge separates old Vapi with the ‘new Vapi’, where commerce thrives. Vapi is a front-runner in the GUjarat government’s plans for industrialization of the state. The newer part of town is more prosperous, green and has a fresh look to it. The one apartment complex I had the opportunity to visit compared to any housing complex in Bombay when it came to facilities.
Vapi is a lovely place for a child to grow up in. There is a multiculturalism, though a Gujarati essence thrives. In my cousin’s building, the elevators are turned off during non-peak hours to conserve electricity. That’s apparently how conservative Gujaratis are when it comes to money! Every facility a kid could need, with the friendly neighbourhood that, for some reason, is the property of the small city rather than the big ones, makes Vapi a very pleasant environment. Except, of course, for that unfortunate smoke.
A bridge separates old Vapi with the ‘new Vapi’, where commerce thrives. Vapi is a front-runner in the GUjarat government’s plans for industrialization of the state. The newer part of town is more prosperous, green and has a fresh look to it. The one apartment complex I had the opportunity to visit compared to any housing complex in Bombay when it came to facilities.
Vapi is a lovely place for a child to grow up in. There is a multiculturalism, though a Gujarati essence thrives. In my cousin’s building, the elevators are turned off during non-peak hours to conserve electricity. That’s apparently how conservative Gujaratis are when it comes to money! Every facility a kid could need, with the friendly neighbourhood that, for some reason, is the property of the small city rather than the big ones, makes Vapi a very pleasant environment. Except, of course, for that unfortunate smoke.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
13.
He locked himself in his room and then proceeded to hit himself on the head repeatedly till he couldn’t help crying out in pain. He sobbed, stopped to savour the throbbing in his head, and continued beating himself up. He needed the pain; it helped keep away the frustrations that had built up within. Who’d ever guess that cheery ol’ Jason beat himself every night?
That saying he had heard, like most other sayings, he thought wryly, was true. There truly was no greater burden than great potential. He had been the star of his family- star student, star athlete, star kid. All his relatives had predicted greatness in his future. His job did not match that definition at any level. Neither did his friends. Sure, he had a job that paid decently, and a life that was comfortable, if not cushy. But what that meant was that he was merely treading that dreaded path to ordinariness. Where were the great things destined for him? Why was he in this rut of obscurity?
Why didn’t he quit? He was scared. What else could he do? He lived in the hope that his job would get better. It never did, but as long as there was that glimmer of hope, why take chances? He tried to accept the circumstances gracefully, but this was not what life was supposed to dish out to him!
This unfortunate mix of fear and ambition did him no good. Pent-up energy converted itself to productivity only when left alone by frustration. He hated not being able to take responsibility for his situation, and self-loathing got added to the mix.
There was a knock on the door. “Jason?”, his mother called. There’s someone I want you to meet. Mrs. Robinson, this is Jason, my son. He works in a software company as a manager, and we couldn’t be prouder of our wonderful little boy”.
That saying he had heard, like most other sayings, he thought wryly, was true. There truly was no greater burden than great potential. He had been the star of his family- star student, star athlete, star kid. All his relatives had predicted greatness in his future. His job did not match that definition at any level. Neither did his friends. Sure, he had a job that paid decently, and a life that was comfortable, if not cushy. But what that meant was that he was merely treading that dreaded path to ordinariness. Where were the great things destined for him? Why was he in this rut of obscurity?
Why didn’t he quit? He was scared. What else could he do? He lived in the hope that his job would get better. It never did, but as long as there was that glimmer of hope, why take chances? He tried to accept the circumstances gracefully, but this was not what life was supposed to dish out to him!
This unfortunate mix of fear and ambition did him no good. Pent-up energy converted itself to productivity only when left alone by frustration. He hated not being able to take responsibility for his situation, and self-loathing got added to the mix.
There was a knock on the door. “Jason?”, his mother called. There’s someone I want you to meet. Mrs. Robinson, this is Jason, my son. He works in a software company as a manager, and we couldn’t be prouder of our wonderful little boy”.
12
At a time when ‘coming of age’ is a term much overused, K Sridhar verbalizes coming of age as it happens- in the mind. Set in Bombay of the eighties, the book revolves around three twenty-something year olds- Prahlad, Laila and Ananya who are coming to grips with their changing lives and with themselves.
This books makes us revisit college days as the trio meet over tea and heatedly discuss matters of philosophy. What is as poignant is how their sure-footedness with philosophy disappears as they begin to apply to their own lives...and loves. The relationship between the trio becomes messy when Prahlad realises he is in love with Laila, and when Laila is attracted to the mysterious and profoundly intelligent new entrant of their lives- Dorai.
The book brings forth tenets of Vedanta and much from the canon of Indian philosophy (being unacquainted with much of Western philosophy, I can’t say much about its presence in the book). Destiny, the meaning of life, and meaning of love are questions that have cropped up in every individual’s head, and the three protagonists voice them out with great deliberation. Philosophy and spirituality underpin this book at every level, and give the book its essence and defining quality.
The importance of Bombay in the book cannot be understated. The author draws a detailed portrait of lives in the city that Mumbaikars will latch on to with relish. Surely a doff of the hat to the city, is this. As their stories unravel, the book brings the question...just how much do our choices change our destiny, as opposed to carrying us along the path laid out for us? ‘Twice Written’ throws out all these questions, and keeps you riveted as the protagonists, and consequently, we, find answers that we might not always understand. Give this book a read, it’s one you will relate to and give you something to think about.
This books makes us revisit college days as the trio meet over tea and heatedly discuss matters of philosophy. What is as poignant is how their sure-footedness with philosophy disappears as they begin to apply to their own lives...and loves. The relationship between the trio becomes messy when Prahlad realises he is in love with Laila, and when Laila is attracted to the mysterious and profoundly intelligent new entrant of their lives- Dorai.
The book brings forth tenets of Vedanta and much from the canon of Indian philosophy (being unacquainted with much of Western philosophy, I can’t say much about its presence in the book). Destiny, the meaning of life, and meaning of love are questions that have cropped up in every individual’s head, and the three protagonists voice them out with great deliberation. Philosophy and spirituality underpin this book at every level, and give the book its essence and defining quality.
The importance of Bombay in the book cannot be understated. The author draws a detailed portrait of lives in the city that Mumbaikars will latch on to with relish. Surely a doff of the hat to the city, is this. As their stories unravel, the book brings the question...just how much do our choices change our destiny, as opposed to carrying us along the path laid out for us? ‘Twice Written’ throws out all these questions, and keeps you riveted as the protagonists, and consequently, we, find answers that we might not always understand. Give this book a read, it’s one you will relate to and give you something to think about.
Monday, January 16, 2012
11
Baby Jaishna now has cheeks. Cheeks that are chubby enough to make you want to pinch them all the time. It's incredible how you can notice a baby grow in the mere span of 48 hours. Every day I see her take a little step forward in the transition from babydom to childhood.
Today, the little tyke lay calmly on her giant bed as her mumma spoke about how she had refused to sleep the entire day. If she chose that precise moment to sleep so she could ignore her mausi, I'm very upset!
Today, the little tyke lay calmly on her giant bed as her mumma spoke about how she had refused to sleep the entire day. If she chose that precise moment to sleep so she could ignore her mausi, I'm very upset!
Saturday, January 14, 2012
10
I smell of baby. I have realised that very few things compare to putting a 15-day old baby to sleep in your arms. Baby Jaishna (my niece, yay!) is one smart girl. She whimpers and twitches till her mumma or her aunts pick her up and only then will yield to sleep. I gave it a shot yesterday. I rocked her to sleep, and her little bright eyes slowly closed shut. As soon as I stopped rocking, her eyes shot open- "What is going on here? Why aren't you doing your duty, mausi?" Nothing skips her attention!
When awake (and not crying), she stares at you with those shiny eyes of hers, her wide-eyed stare taking things in, making you wonder what's going on in that tiny little head. She smiles a lot while dreaming, making you think that there are pleasant things inside. She's growing so fast, and her legs are so long you want her to be a footballer. Well, I want her to be a cricketer, so close enough!
Being around her makes you forget the world outside, a pleasant drug with no side-effects. I can't wait for her to grow up, while simultaneously dreading it because I won't be around to see her grow and cuddle her and be her awesome-est aunt. I'll be the aunt she sees once a year, who she'll know by name. Everytime I see her, I'll exclaim over how much she has grown, and she'll smile politely. I don't want that. Ah well, lots of time to worry about that later. For now, I just want to smell the intoxicating scent of baby.
When awake (and not crying), she stares at you with those shiny eyes of hers, her wide-eyed stare taking things in, making you wonder what's going on in that tiny little head. She smiles a lot while dreaming, making you think that there are pleasant things inside. She's growing so fast, and her legs are so long you want her to be a footballer. Well, I want her to be a cricketer, so close enough!
Being around her makes you forget the world outside, a pleasant drug with no side-effects. I can't wait for her to grow up, while simultaneously dreading it because I won't be around to see her grow and cuddle her and be her awesome-est aunt. I'll be the aunt she sees once a year, who she'll know by name. Everytime I see her, I'll exclaim over how much she has grown, and she'll smile politely. I don't want that. Ah well, lots of time to worry about that later. For now, I just want to smell the intoxicating scent of baby.
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