Saturday, February 6, 2010


Most Saturdays, at about 7:30 am, I can be found in one of Moscow's wonderful bakeries. I usually get myself a sausage croissant or an everything bagel with cream cheese and read for a while before heading over to one of the cafes or to the public library.The next few hours I spent either reading or writing. Of course, a mug of coffee is never too far away from me.

There are few things I look forward to more than this ritual--all by myself--that I try to undertake at least once every week. At the end of those few hours, I feel rejuvenated, as if I have physically removed cobwebs of exhaustion, unnecessary conversations and arguments and the clutter of every life.

When I am at Wheatberries, every Saturday morning, a group of about eight septuagenarians comes in and they join two table together to sit down for some food, coffee and conversation. I overhear their stray sentences every now and then. One of them will reminisce about an event that took place forty years ago, another will chime in to remind him that something similar happened just yesterday with someone else. I always listen to them and think how wonderful it must be to grow old with friends you have had and known for so many years. What an accomplishment, what a true gift!

Now please tell me your rituals.


  1. Yes, if some people can remain friends for many years, it is a true gift because good friends are very rare now-a-days...Most friends seem to be there for a certain time period and then vanish,even if we have many means of staying in touch with them.

    Oh, by the way, I think I recognize one of the places in your pictures. Its Haridwar ,right?

  2. My ritual? Staring at my grandfather's typewriter every Sunday. Gives me more thoughts, reminds me of how he typed and what he spoke of while sipping his elaichi chai. Makes me want to type though I always think I'll ruin it. It's a ritual that lets me be, enjoy his warmth that's not around any longer, but with me still. In those sheets. In those notices he wrote, in that letter he wrote to me on my eighteenth birthday.