My parents are visiting me. It was their wedding anniversary yesterday. I live twenty minutes from Niagara Falls, so we spent the morning there.
According to anniversary custom, they donned new clothes, and we set out. It was brilliantly sunny. After we got past the security cordon — the aftermath of the London bombings — I settled down on the grass by the falls, just out of reach of the flying spray. My parents scurried up and down the banks of the Niagara river like little kids. Occasionally, they paused along the railing, craned their necks, caught a blast of spray on their faces, and giggled. Meanwhile, I read and drew in my sketchbook, keeping them in the corner of my eye, making sure they were playing safely.
Back home, my dad made a heady Indian dinner, while my mom, oblivious to my vigorous protestations, descended to the semi-dark of the basement to do my laundry, pair my socks and fold my shirts. After dinner, we watched a soap opera together on the 24-hour Tamil station on satellite TV.
This morning, I was in a meeting. A colleague leaned towards me in her chair and whispered in my ear, "Nice tie, Girish,....and um....listen, I think you're wearing one blue and one black sock..."