100 Naked Words — Day 6
Reflections, Ripples and Ramblings of a Restless Mind
It’s a new day, a new week and the rain is gently caressing the back of my neck as I — who am I kidding — it’s a grey day in London, the perennial downpour about as welcome as the tax man on an April morn.
Days like these, I just want to curl up somewhere and disappear into any kind of words. They don’t need to be fictional, they don’t even need to be top of my (exponentially growing) reading list, they just need to evoke some kind of feeling, some kind of knowledge.
I realised today that you, dear reader, only know me from my intentionally ambiguous bio and if, should you have been sufficiently curious to take a step further, from my self stitched LinkedIn profile. I am Facebook Lite so not much meat there and whilst you may get an idea of the sorts of things I like to photograph (buildings, design, landscapes and beautiful things) from my 500px page or a glimpse at my bittersweet soul through my poetic musings on Instagram and other scribblings here on Medium, these are but the thin layers of me I choose to expose to the world. And though stacking them may approximate a rough rendering of the whole, like any facsimile, the ink will has smudged over some of the detail, and glitches in the connection may have led to a stuttering of delivery, lines criss-crossing the image.
So today, dear reader, the words I’ve chosen to immerse myself in will give you a different glimpse of who I am and some of the things that made me, well me. My aim is not to lecture or expect others to extract example from my life, simply to tell the story.
In the Beginning
Unlike Obama, I was born in Kenya, the son of second generation East African merchant class Gujaratis, so many of whom had followed the trade routes and the Raj to escape famine and drought in North West India. My father’s family were industrialists and he sat right in the middle of ten siblings. His father, my grandfather, shared my birthday, was active in improving the lot of his community and was, I understand a gifted poet. Sadly I was never to have known him, he passed all to young, when my father was but seven.
The stories of those times, if ever I shall know them, are not mine here to tell.
My parents moved us, my elder sister and me to London, England, more specifically North London. And whilst for me, Kenya is HOME, North London is home, irrespective of where I’m laying my current hat.
Privilege
Mine is not a rags to riches story, nor of riches to rags. My life was easy, made easy by my parents and those around us. We lived comfortably, though not in opulence, we wanted for nothing but didn’t get everything we wanted. Philosophies I’m trying to impart to my children.
My mother would have you believe I was a precocious child, reading at the age of 2 or 3, and whether I did or didn’t, one of my earliest memories is of reading. And whether it started at the age of 2, 3 or beyond, reading stuck.
The first few years of my life I only spoke Gujarati at home, then as I entered nursery I forsook it for English, my first language love, and the most enduring.
Those early years of my life are not much more than a blur for me so I’ll not linger on them longer, nor waste your time, dear reader. Suffice to say I had love in my life and my life didn’t lack for anything. That’s a testament to my parents. To my family.
For me, vivid life as I recall it started around 1985. And tomorrow, that’s the story I’ll tell. For now my mind is flooded with warm memories of those early years, I think I might just sit back and let them wash over me.
About me: Citizen of the World. I love writing, photography, travelling, reading, learning and growing. Medium is another journey in my life, let’s see what sights we may see.
