The Pits and Pieces

  I’d read several glowing reviews of this author, before picking up this book. HONOR by Thrity Umrigar tackles the heavy topics of honor killings, and how religions divide us, creating deep rifts, stripping away our humanity.   I really enjoyed this book, not just because of the story, but also because it was set in India seen through the eyes of its protagonist, Smita, returning decades later to the country she left for America. Smita sees India now with her Western eyes, sees a country steeped in customs and traditions that keep women subservient. Kindness is mixed with a bewildering backwardness. She struggles with the enigma that is India. Westerners see what they want to see, so do Indians living there. But what about those who return to India after having spent years in the West? How do they perceive the country they once called home? It’s difficult not to look at it with a Western mindset. She’s on a seesaw, swaying back and forth from one feeling and opinion to the next,

  What anchors you when the distractions and demands of everyday life pull you in different directions? The more common term used today is ‘grounded’. What keeps you grounded? I think I prefer the term ‘anchored’. Like an anchor that keeps a ship on course, preventing it from floating away, buffeted by waves. We may have passions, interests, and distractions, even those that give us enormous pleasure, like books, movies and sports; lunches and dinners with friends; tennis and pickle ball matches, birthday parties and brunches. But when all that is done, what returns us to the solidity of who we are inside? For me, one of those things is walking. Walking anchors me, returns me to who I am after hours of absorbing external input. I know when I’m feeling a bit off kilter and in need of a walk. Walking is not a form of exercise. It’s an act of contemplation, a ritual of communing with nature and self. Quiet mornings are another. The first hour or so after waking is sacred. No scrol

  It is rare that we get summoned to do our duty, a summons that, by law, one cannot ignore. This week I received a jury summons, and I was glad to go. Not just glad but intrigued. I’d never been summoned before, and this would be a new experience. I vowed to be attentive to every detail. I arrived dutifully at the courthouse well before the appointed time of 9.30 a.m.   We filed in, showed our summons and ID and were registered and sent off to different courtrooms. Overflow potential jurors remained in a cafeteria area, communicating with the courtroom via video. I was seated in the second row, right in the courtroom. We were packed into the benches, possibly about 100 people in all. The court registrar explained the proceedings. The crown counsel and defence lawyer entered. We waited. The two lawyers exited the courtroom to confer privately with the judge. We waited. The lawyers returned to the courtroom, this time, the defence lawyer with his client, the accused. We waited.  I

I pulled out this collection of small bottles of port from the back of my kitchen cabinet where they’ve sat forgotten for years. I bought these in Porto in 2015 when I did my Portuguese Camino. I bought them of course strictly because of the name – Pinto. My maiden name was Pinto, and with my heritage being Goan, my roots can be traced back to Portugal.  There used to be a car that Ford made that was called a Pinto. It got a bad rap. “Hit it from behind and it will blow up,” they said. And yes, I heard that joke a few times. As well as a Pinto being a horse and a bean. But I gave up my maiden name when I got married. I went from being Pearl Pinto to Pearl Richard. In our youthful naivete, my to-be-husband and I struck a deal: he would quit smoking, I would change my name to his. I kept my side of the deal. When we separated after fourteen years of marriage, and eventually got our divorce years later, I did not revert to my maiden name of Pinto. By then, we had a daughter who carr