Halfway Down the Street

As I get closer to my own half century mark, and this year is already beyond halfway down the street, I thought I would re-post this from way back in 2013 which is when I started this blog ! Hope you enjoy it 🙂


I have the luxury and pleasure of being able to walk to work and every morning I go down the street running the tickertape of household to do’s—was the machine loaded, what time does Anta need to go to class, did I pack my food properly, too bad about the milk……..and then I realized that there is a point, almost halfway through when the conversation inside my head turns to the office. The emails I need to send, the agenda to be drafted, the confirmation needed, the tax returns etc

In our 20s and 30s we have many more thoughts of the future –what will I do, where will I work, how will my life unfold, but somewhere at the halfway mark, probably where I am now, my thoughts turn to the past as I spend more time in nostalgia, retelling childhood stories for the girls, reminiscing with friends, saying those dreaded words—In my day it was not like this !

And then I start wondering about the halfway mark and how things start to look different from that magic point. Midnight has always been considered a magical hour. When one day is officially over and the next begins. As kids the excitement is in staying awake till hen to wish someone for the birthday or new year.

We speak of the glass half full, the job well begun is half done, going halfway round the world, being half hearted about something. We measure the half life of radioactive matter.

We have halfway homes for people who emerge from long incarcerations—a place which is neither a prison nor the free world. We cheer people on by saying they are already halfway home !

We love having balconies around our homes , whether it is a bungalow or a hig rise flat. It is a halfway space—neither inside the house, nor in the outside world. One need not dress up to step out and can sit there in ones pyjamas but be detached from the domestic chaos, maybe enjoy the sunset, the breeze from the ocean, sip a bit of Absinthe. Mull on what goes on in other homes, lit with a warm yellow bulb, bustling shadows, flapping curtains, wonder if the word haphazard also has its roots in half…….

Mao said women hold up half the sky and all the homes…….and we call our spouses our better half. Nataraja , the dancing god of destruction is famously also seen as ardhanatanarishwar—half man and half woman. And the famous yin yang symbol is also a reminder that we are all made as a composite of 2 halves. We do get half our genetic material from one parent and half from the other and equally contribute to half that of our children.

My daughters used to love a story about a boy who goes into a shop and find a magic book where he can read the story of his own future. But one half reveals what will happen when he makes all the right choices—honesty, loyalty, hard work. While the other half reveals what will happen if he does the opposite. The wise old shopkeeper tells him that each one of us has 2 halves inside us and what we become depends on which half we decide to grow.

And to end with this simple yet profound little poem by AA Milne

Halfway down the stairs
is a stair
where i sit.
there isn’t any
other stair
quite like
i’m not at the bottom,
i’m not at the top;
so this is the stair
I always

Halfway up the stairs
Isn’t up
And it isn’t down.
It isn’t in the nursery,
It isn’t in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn’t really
It’s somewhere else


3 thoughts on “Halfway Down the Street

  1. Very profound. Can you tell me where you read the story about boy and the magic book? I would love to read it to my daughter. I just got introduced to you blog in the best way possible – “The one we called Mother”! As a fellow Annite, it resonated with me and brought back some great memories. Her voice and words of wisdom still ring in my ears to date! Come Annites gather now, with faith unshaken.

    • Thank you so much ! I am so happy that my write up is resonating with all of us who loved Mother.
      That magic book story is from one of the Enid Blyton story collections. Blue story book ? Yellow story book ? One of those.

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