The family doesn't like passion. Everything is sniggered over, everything is loved. Declarations and confessions are made after much throat clearing, but catch anyone letting go of the source of discomfort. The family has no attachments but is loath to let go of things it obsesses about. It's weird. Take the father, for instance, the things he loves to do are pursued in the most covert ways possible. He plans silently for ages and then announces and takes off, like on his yearly trek. Now the mother in her own way loves to take off (all kinds of baggage in tow) but chooses to be a sport. It doesn't matter much to me, but then there's no escaping the passion. It's always silent, so there are offhand light remarks about us not having had a family vacation since Kerala early last year, which didn't really count as a vacation because it's home, isn't it, even though we're hard put to not feel like aliens when on Mallu soil. There are these foamy frothy statements about men having to do what they have to do. There is laughter even. And then, all of a sudden, there's a phone call to meet at Elgin, oh so dispassionate, nothing much, just lunch.

And then she buys me a jacket. Like it's all part of a plan. Like we're planning to take off too, pretty soon. Like it's women having to do what they have to do. The family's this tight, well-organised hangar and everyone runs out of fuel sooner or later, but what will really do me good, I think, is to stomach the jacket without saying a word (thanking people is an English concept, we merely accept what elders drop onto our heads) and wait for a really cold night when the runway's all dark and then fly off like there's a plague. The family doesn't ask for love, it assumes it, which is all very good, but then I hadn't counted on PPR being such an epic failure. We learn everyday. Tomorrow I abandon hope and start studying.