The musings of Yet Another1

Moving On

2005-09-12T12:06:00.000-07:00

It's time to move on yet again.
This time I've tried to keep all my stuff under one roof, so to speak.
So visit me at Thought Raker, and let me know what you think.

Purple

2005-08-24T22:52:00.000-07:00

It’s always been purple for me. That seductive tight-rope walk between red and blue, the horizon where passion meets melancholy.

I was first aware of its power when they did a general house-swap at school. The smooth, pale purple, heart-shaped badge I wore treacherously changed color, inspite of my crossed fingers and silent prayers. Entering the realm of blue that drowned me in its cool depths, I longed for the comfort of my purple patch. My color had betrayed me. I never forgave it for that.

Yet, it beguiled. The purple frock, with its orange smock pimpled with tiny french-knotted purple roses. The heady combination of flaming orange and docile purple. I loved the feel of the soothing cotton on my bony frame. And later, I swirled proudly to the rustle of my new silk lehenga, feeling like a princess. A royal purple with a rich brocade border, weighing me down like a chocolate dessert.

During my solitary afternoons, it was the delicate purple of the flowers, scattered in the unrestrained wilderness of our garden, that kept me company. Mimosa Pudica – the shy plant that drooped at my touch - captured in our biology lessons, and in a piece I wrote for our school magazine.

The color of my childhood stayed young while I grew. I admired the impossibly tender red of fledgling mango leaves, the warmth of wide orange brush-strokes by a setting sun, the blinding white of snow, and the ultimate unshackling – the crisp blue sky of a winter day.

I spotted the final reconcilation in a pristine white sari, with lilac and blue flowers entwined. I possessed it with a passion that I needed to purge from my system, and then gave it up in a hermitic moment.

Reminders surfaced like flotsam: “Deep Purple” etched deep into a college desk; an ethereal salwar that reflected the twilight; a wedding sari with gold threads drawn like my memories; a tricycle that my daughter refused to pedal and move forward…

Earth-tones keep me rooted now, the reds and browns speaking to me with a maturity, but purple will always be my Peter Pan.

India Poems

2005-08-24T22:50:00.000-07:00

Here are the results of my experiment with different poetic forms...

Signs that lil D is growing up

2005-08-24T08:30:00.000-07:00

When kids grow up, they grow up all right. Overnight, they morph from helpless, indecipherable-sound-producing babies to authoritative, voluble toddlers. To say it’s amazing is an understatement.

Signs that my lil D is well and truly into her terrible/terrific twos:

1. She tells me “Mama, don’t get upset, OK”, when she knows she’s done something wrong, and I haven’t yet discovered it

2. She asks with a frown, “Why you acting like that?”, if we do something she’s not pleased with.

3. She treats her dad like her protégé and teaches him all her rhymes and games with great diligence

4. She insists on eating most propahly at the table; what’s more, she insists we follow her example

5. She behaved like a proper hostess with some guests, asking them to come in, sit down and have some apple juice (doubtless with the fond hope that she would also get some)

6. She behaved like a dutiful citizen, asking the saleslady at a shop where the dustbin was, and then disposing of her lollipop stick most appropriately, with no prompting from me!

7. The very first day at her pre-school, after washing her hands post-snack-time, she asked the maid there with a most puzzled look on her face: “Where is the towel?”

8. She’s grown strong enough to carry 4 small chairs at once – 2 in each hand! (Baby Xena, I wonder?)

9. July 28th was a red-letter day: she told me the magic words for the very first time - “I love you – I love you very much!”, accompanied by a big hug.

And the top sign is……

10. I exclaimed “Wow! You’re great!”, when she chose to eat more radish over potatoes at dinner today. She replied, perhaps unwittingly, but most appropriately: “I’m not great, I’m smart!”

Clean

2005-08-02T06:28:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem, or rather, song, here.

Short Ramble

2005-07-27T07:08:00.000-07:00

Speakers were finally refitted on my PC a few days back, and hence am enjoying some ear-phone free music.

Opted to listen to Mangal Pandey's songs from musicindiaonline just for a change, instead of listening to my favourite oldies as usual.

First intriguing thing: Singer is listed as Mangal Pandey. Hmmm....interesting.

Idly glanced at Related Stories section. Looked like old news: Bhansali moves to new perfection with ‘Black’. Whatever.

Last intriguing link: Shabana habitually loses her keys!

How was this related to Mangal Pandey? Beats me.

Checked it out anyway, and did a double-take on a couple of sentences.

"It is really heartening to see that today people are ignoring small movies when their content is strong. I really wish that sponsors back such movies rather than just support big budget films," she said referring to Reliance's support for "Morning Raga".

Heartening? Hmmm…

"I'm not worried about vulgarity and nudity on TV and movies as we are all adults and can deal with it. But what worries me is the image of Indian women dancing in a chiffon sari in Switzerland. Why are women shown and treated as second-class citizens?

Chiffon sari in Switzerland=second-class citizen? Hmmm…

:)

Slick

2005-07-27T06:33:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

To A Marked Tree

2005-07-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

2005-07-20T01:10:00.000-07:00

He offers me the sweets proudly. He's just landed a job at IBM. The entire room is abuzz with optimism, and the people I see around me are all pumped off, ready for take-off.

Shanti Raghavan has done it – she’s well on her way to realizing her dream, with every step of the way being an accomplishment. I remember when we met at the Indiranagar Coffee Day, almost 5 years ago. The enthusiasm hasn’t dimmed yet. EnAble India has come a long way from then. Her latest statistics are impressive: she’s managed to find employment for over 60 hearing impaired/visually impaired/physically disabled people within the first year of operation, 60% of them earn Rs. 4000 or more, and most of them have been placed in IT companies.

Her optimism is contagious: I see that in every person who has come to the class I’m taking. Few of them training on Excel, a couple on configuration management, and I can see that her magic has touched everyone. It’s hard not to get excited by such an atmosphere, to feel you’re part of a miracle that’s unfolding right in front of your own eyes. I’ve missed this for some time now - it feels good to be back.

***

I check my order status in a glum mood. Shipping, it says. WTF does that mean? They’re loading the pages one by one into the delivery van?

My niece is on the phone, ecstatic that she’s beaten me to the latest Harry Potter book. I try not to sound too thrilled when I hear that she’s actually having tests and so she can’t really read the book pronto. Jealousy is a strange beast, I tell you.

I call the Fabmall customer service first thing on Monday morning. They are politely surprised it hasn’t reached me. Yeah right! Please call us back if it doesn’t reach you today, they say. Tuesday morning, I’m back on the phone with them. No, I didn’t get it, and no, I did not step out of the house the whole darn day! The courier service calls up later: no one came yesterday? I am icily calm as I reply in the negative. All idiots, bah! Feels like someone’s cast a Petrificus Totalus on my book!

PS: It did come yesterday mid-morning, and I did devour it all down at one sitting. Life’s not so bad after all. My review: ASSAM as usual, full speed ahead for last leap.

***

The acting was awesome, but the theme was utterly revolting.

It was a production of “Filth” by Irvine Welsh (author of Trainspotting), adapted to stage by Harry Gibson, performed by Black Coffee, a pretty active and good theatre group in Bangalore. Preetam Koilpillai directed the play that starred the lone actor, Rajeev Ravindranathan.

It was sick to the core, portraying the filthy life of a cop Bruce Robertson, with all the dark, dank and sordid elements of life thrown in. Drugs, racism, office politics, pimps, sex, prostitutes, transvestites, genital eczema, toilet talk, and a monologuing tapeworm: Rajeev did it all, and was simply amazing: switching accents, postures and roles.

I came away feeling terribly low and repulsed. What an utter contrast to the splendid optimistic morning I had at my class. I wish Art would uplift, not depress! Perhaps I should have stuck around and had the complimentary Kingfisher beer (courtsey of sponsor), to cheer myself up.

Shanti Raghavan

2005-07-20T01:04:00.000-07:00

Her boundless enthusiasm is infectious, her mischievous eyes twinkle, and she sweeps you away with her passion. Meet Shanti Raghavan, Founder and Managing Trustee of EnAble India, an NGO with the mission to empower people with disabilities.

Shanti’s initial encounter with disablity was right at home, when her brother was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, a degenerative eye disease which leaves the patient progressively blind with the passage of time. She and her husband, Dipesh, (who is also a Trustee of EnAble India), played an active role in rehabilitating her brother. This was not just limited to orienting him to speech-enabled computers, or identifying tools and techniques for his studies, but also to various outdoor activities such as cycling, rafting, and snorkeling too!

When Shanti returned from US to India in 1997, she decided to set up her own organization, so that she could use her invaluable experience in empowering other disabled people too. EnAble India took birth in 1999, and since then, has been actively involved in Education, Employment, and Rehabilitation of people with disabilities. It currently has over 80 people registered with it.

Most popular is the Computer Center, which caters to nearly 30 students currently, of mixed age groups and education levels, using speech-enabled computers. She has involved herself in many volunteer-driven technology projects that would aid the disabled. She has also associated with various industries for creating awareness and generating employment. She has also conducted several workshops for parents of disabled children.

Shanti’s unique ability is to think big and yet focus on the details. She thinks of herself as a “road builder”. “Everyone”, she says determinedly, “has the right to have a good road”. What really motivates her is the thrill she gets out of realizing the “impossible”. “I’m still a child inside,” she says with a laugh. “I love to see things being done differently – things which are dismissed as impossible, made to happen”.

A multi-faceted woman with an MS in Computer Science from Monmouth University, NJ, Shanti gave up a lucrative career in GE Aircraft Engines as Program Manager and Engineering Manager to concentrate full-time on nurturing EnAble India. She uses her 12 years of experience in the software industry to give substance to her vision, and manage its affairs. Shanti is talented too – she is a Carnatic music singer who has sung in concerts, she’s an excellent mimic, she plays golf, and she loves cycling.

“Live life to the fullest –that’s my credo!” Indeed, she is a living example – a truly inspiring woman!

My Favourite Things!

2005-07-04T02:49:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Bangalore

2005-07-04T02:17:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Forget-me-not

2005-07-02T18:39:00.000-07:00

Read my new story here.

Happiness

2005-06-30T22:22:00.000-07:00

Happiness is always abstract and most of the time, realized in retrospect. It's rare to capture an elusive moment of the emotion, to actually hold and feel it.

I had that rare fleeting experience yesterday.

It was dinner-time. Lil D now joins us at the table for her meals.

Steam from the national* rice I had cooked gently rose from our plates, as we all quietly tucked in. Parveen Sultana's mellifluous voice filled the air with strains of Raga Ahir Bhairav - one of my favourite CDs. Contentment seemed to be radiating into every nook and corner.

I turned to DH and smiled, "If there's bliss on earth, this is it, this is it."

* national, coz it's neither plain rice, nor a full-fledged pulao, and it has carrots, beans and peas in it for the nation's colours

Storm in a Tea-cup

2005-06-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Total Recall

2005-06-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here

Footnote

2005-06-21T01:10:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Lost in Translation

2005-06-19T23:46:00.000-07:00

Read about an amusing exercise here.

Words! Words! Words!

2005-06-13T05:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, writing all the time can get on your nerves.

Waking Up

2005-06-09T05:50:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Youth

2005-06-08T10:41:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Book Review: The Shadow of the Wind

2005-06-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

Author: Carlos Ruiz Zafon

This was one book that had me hooked right from the first page.

It starts with a ten-year old boy Daniel, who is taken by his father to the "Cemetery of Forgotten Books", and he "adopts" a book written by Julian Carax called "The Shadow of the Wind". Daniel plunges into murky waters when he tries to read all of the author's works.

There's plenty of mystery, romance, interestingly woven threads, and well-etched characters. Some of it is predictable, some isn't. The writing is awesome in some parts, quite patchy sometimes.

In short, I loved the book. Do read it if you get a chance.

Spice of Life

2005-06-07T00:48:00.000-07:00

Read my new nonsense rhyme here.

The Insecurity of Being a Woman

2005-05-24T06:31:00.000-07:00

Over 50% single women feel unsafe in the city they live in.
71% single women feel they can’t wear what they’d like to.
85% married women do not feel safe about going out unescorted after 10 pm

That was from the latest India Today, reflecting the insecurities of the urban female population. It brought back many unpleasant memories of incidents that are best forgotten. Though now I live in my own little cocoon, believing perhaps unwisely that these things will not probably happen any more to me, deep down, the little core of fear still survives.

It was during the initial euphoria of my job. The heady feeling that I was at last spreading out my wings in a brave new world, all of my own, had still not worn off. Every assignment was accepted with great gusto and zeal, eager to perform, hungry to achieve. So, when I was told that I needed to fly to Vadodara to get an important sign-off from the customer, I was ecstatic. The industry was still in its dledgling stages, and such assignments were a bit unusual. Here was proof that I was deemed responsible enough to handle such an important interaction.

I packed my bags amidst several reminders and cautions from my parents, and set off. The flight to Bombay was without incident and there, I managed to spend a few hours with my sister also. At the Bombay office however, there appeared to be some mix-up, and they gave me vouchers for a different hotel than the one I was supposed to stay at, with the marketing manager. Glad just to have a place to stay, I accepted their explanations and proceeded to Vadodara.

I took a taxi from the airport to the hotel, and checked in without much ado. I called my parents and my sister to let them know I’d reached safely. After dinner, I took out my documents, and began rehearsing my presentation. It was important that everything went off smoothly. I’d been told that this customer was very sharp, and so I tried to be as prepared as possible.

Around 10.30pm, I stowed away everything neatly in my bag, watched TV for a bit, and then settled down to a good night’s rest.

That’s when the nightmare started.

I got a call on the phone. Since I had left a message at the other hotel for the marketing manager, I assumed it would be him. When I picked it up, and said hello, there was just heavy breathing on the other side. I banged the phone down. After a few minutes, it rang again. I picked it up this time and remained quiet. The voice at the other end began mouthing all sorts of obscenities. I promptly put the phone down. A few minutes later, it rang again. The same thing.

My initial reaction was to scream back into the phone, but I controlled myself. Be calm, I told myself, just think of the worst case scenario, and see what you can do. I decided the best thing to do was to ignore the calls, just lock my room up, and go to sleep. I switched on the light, and went to the door to check the lock. Horror of horrors! I realized that the door had no other inner bolt – the only lock was the one which could be opened with the key. This was not a safe room! I looked around, and none of the furniture items were heavy enough to be dragged and placed against the door for safety. Panic levels began to rise steadily.

I went back and sat on my bed. The jangling of the phone made me jump out of my skin. It rang and rang, till I nearly screamed. Be calm, I told myself. There’s nothing that can’t be resolved with a bit of thinking. Obviously, it was someone from within the hotel who was calling me. How would anyone else know that I was a lone female? Perhaps I could call the hotel manager? But what if the manager himself turned out to be a slimeball?

It is hard to describe the kind of thoughts that burst into your head at these moments. It’s sickening to realize that to some people you’re just a piece of female flesh – to use and abuse. It doesn’t matter what else you are. The thing is, you’ve always believed that you are much more than that. When the other viewpoint is thrust rudely in your face, you balk for a second. You cannot believe it, but there it is, staring you in the face. The worst thing is that you cannot argue with it, you cannot persuade it to believe otherwise. Instead, you have to “defend” yourself against it, for just being yourself!

I finally made up my mind that I would call up my marketing manager at the other hotel. I did, and he came across, picked me up, gave the hotel reception staff a piece of his mind, and arranged for a room at the hotel where he was staying.

I stayed awake for a long time that night. My bubble had been burst. I had come to this place feeling so confident, feeling like an achiever, but now I felt somehow diminished. The overwhelming feeling was one of violation.

If such a small incident could result in such a sense of violation, I can’t even begin to imagine what deep scars other sorts of abuses on women leave. Women have always felt unsafe in India, as far back as I can remember. The stories get more and more unpleasant. Policemen abuse their rights in broad daylight. Even girls as young as 8 or 9 years old are not left untouched. The capital of India is the also the capital of crime against women.

Will this ever change for the better? I guess that’s purely a rhetorical question. :(

Broken

2005-05-20T06:34:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

Inexplicable

2005-05-18T00:45:00.000-07:00

A poem and a story, which somehow wrote themselves - there's something inexplicable about them.

Great Expectations

2005-05-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

I was wearily wandering the aisles of our local supermarket. Not that you can really wander around – it’s rather small, with everything piled up and spilling over into the little spaces, and buyers simply push their way around, or use the red and blue baskets with broken handles to the same effect. It caters to just our apartment complex, so there’s no need for fancy stuff. Moreover, most people generally prefer to order home delivery, so that they are saved the exercise of walking home weighed down. Most people prefer community exercises instead, such as yoga at the clubhouse, or yoga at one of the resident’s apartments, or the top-notch gym nearby, or even the minimal gym within the complex. Or the final recourse when the community has failed in giving generously enough: the exercycles and treadmills in their homes.

Anyway, the thing is, this “supermarket” makes random purchases extremely easy. My parents always used to, and still persist in using the monthly grocery list to buy all that fall under the name of “sundries”. I have a sneaking suspicion that my sisters do the same thing, but have never dared to ask, for fear it will expose my own weakness of not having a monthly list at all. I did try: for three brave months, I sat dutifully and filled monthly lists online, and sacks and boxes were all miraculously delivered. Then I got cold feet. I sat amongst the piled-up remnants, and decided that, in order to preserve my sanity, I would deplete my inventory completely, and switch to Kanban instead.

So here I was, wearily wandering the aisles, looking up shelves to see if anything rang a bell, since I’ve now given up on To-Buy lists also. That’s when I saw it. It sat there, in a gleaming purplish box, and the words emblazoned on it beckoned me like a moth to the flame.

“Star Wars”, it said, in the typical lettering. There’s no point in explaining my weakness or fascination for Star Wars. You either understand it, or you don’t. It was a Kellogs Chocos box, with a huge light-saber streaking across. Now, I’ve completely stopped buying Kellogs for lil D, because of articles I read somewhere, long ago, about the nutritional value, which put me off.

Not to be beaten, Kellogs came back with an infallible carrot. “Star Wars”, it said on the package, and promised light-sabers within each pack. Collect all 6, it exhorted. Well, I’m not exactly that stupid – I didn’t buy 6 packs. What if they were all the same color? I bought one instead. The excitement was building up within me – I could hardly wait to get home, tear open the pack and swish the light-saber around dramatically, breathing audibly like Darth Vader.

Lil D was of course, simply excited to see me back at home, laden with what she most probably imagined were chips and chocolates. While I arduously prevented her from rummaging through the bags, I shouted out to DH.

“Open the chocos pack – there’s something free, which we can give lil D”. As if.

I waited impatiently, listening to the sounds of the rip of cardboard, the scissors biting through the packet, and the rustle of the chocos.

“Well?”

“There’s nothing in here”.

“What do you mean? How can that be?” I was hysterical. I abandoned lil D and rushed to the box. I peered in – zilch. I raked through the chocos in the packet – nada.

“What the hell! I’m calling up that guy right now!”

I marched over to the phone, and began hurling accusations at the supermarket guy at the other end.

“Madam, I think the free gift comes with the Rs. 225 pack…”

“No! It says here on the pack that you will find a free light-saber maze (maze? hmmm) INSIDE this pack!”

“Madam, then I will have to check with the manufacturers…”

Right on cue, a little plasticky thing surfaced. What was this? I picked it up, and read the fine print on the plastic cover: Light Saber Maze.

“Ummm…I think I found it – it was right inside…it’s ok”. I mumbled sheepishly, and kept the phone down.

I stared at the thing which could hardly have been more than 3 inches long. I could feel the disappointment beginning to drip inside. I ripped open the cover – there was some switch-like thing on the side that wouldn’t yield to pressing up or down – bah! a dummy switch! Then there was a little greenish plastic tube peeping out. After much twiddling, it finally shot out.

Wow! My very own 4.5 inch green light saber. With no glow. With a little ball and maze within. No swishing possible. The only thing possible was the Darth Vader breathing.

I gave it away disgustedly to lil D. She held it at the very edge, as if it were a delicate calligraphy instrument, and pronounced delightedly, “Dishoom!”

“Dishoom!” I replied gloomily.

Signs that lil D is growing up

2005-05-03T22:03:00.000-07:00

Since I’ve been asked many times why I use lil D, I thought I’d clarify: it’s because she’s my Little Daughter, just like DH is Dear Husband.

And nowwwwwww (sound of drum rolls), the top ten signs that lil D is growing up:

1. She touches nearly 3 feet in height

2. She has attained mastery of the word “Don’t”. It’s what the little lion trainer uses to keep us at whip’s end: Don’t read (snatching the newspaper), Don’t see (switching off the TV), Don’t sleep (catching us by our hair and slapping our cheeks), Don’t talk (covering our mouths with a little hand).

3. She has attained mastery of the word “My” also. She combines Don’t and My very effectively – “This is My Book, Don’t touch, ok?”

4. Every speck of dirt, visible or invisible, is dutifully brought to my attention. “Mamma, full dirty! Chee!”

5. She identifies Shah Rukh Khan anywhere with a gleeful “Oye Bubbly!”. By the same token, any cricket match or the Tata Indicom is greeted with a huge laugh (perhaps deservingly?) and “Ganguly Uncle!”

6. She’s already become an ardent Harry Potter fan. Her favourite scenes are the train at Platform 9 and ¾, and the sorting hat.

7. She’s developed the knack of asking for exactly what I’ve not cooked. The day I’ve made carrots, she asks for tomato soup; if tomato soup, then radish; if radish, then beetroot…Sigh! You get the point.

8. She makes sure we practice what we preach. She follows me around: “Mamma, wash your hands, wash your mouth, ok?” after my meal.

9. She’s now competition for the remote. Any change of channel results in a wail, with “Papa/Mamma, I want to see…!”

And the top sign is….

10. She’s become a true junkie. Her dream menu is probably have chips for breakfast, chocolate for lunch and Maggi for dinner!

Traffic

2005-05-03T12:19:00.000-07:00

There's a long queue of vehicles at one of the city’s busiest intersections, impatiently waiting for the green. A little girl peeks out of a white car, and excitedly points out a poster to her mother. The father is tapping the steering wheel distractedly, lost in his own thoughts. A ripple of engines revving up passes through the line, and honks fill the air. “Onward! Onward!” seems to be the battle-cry.

Just as the white car begins to move, a copper-hued Toyota Qualis beast swerves dangerously into its path from the right, and forces its way onto the road. The father is furious, pressing his horn loud and long, shaking his fist at the errant driver. The mother is shaken, clutching onto her precious little one, and yelling at the driver ahead. The Qualis driver zooms ahead, still driving rashly; the father suddenly decides to give chase, and begins tailing the Qualis. The Qualis is a taxi, and the father tries to note down the number so that he can complain.

The Qualis suddenly turns left into an MNC building and disappears. The father, not to be deterred, swings right behind, and is stopped by security. He explains angrily that he wants to speak to the authorities regarding the dangerous driver. The security guard, sensing the futility of stopping the enraged father, waves him along. Further down the parking lot, there are rows of Toyota Qualis parked, with their drivers idling within, fanning themselves cool in the heat.

The father parks the car, and walks towards a uniformed security guard in the vicinity. They speak for a few moments, and then the mother watches them disappear behind a row of cars. The little girl, perhaps sensing the mother’s anxiety, quietly sucks her thumb. The mother sees the other drivers begin to get out of their cars and make their way to the same spot. Though her instinct tells her that everything will be alright, her hyperactive imagination decides to turn the scenario into a Bollywood dishum-dishum scene. She waits for her husband to return, trying meanwhile to admire the hibiscus jiving in the hint of a breeze.

After what seems like an eternity, she sees her husband emerge, still engaged in furious discussion. He gets into the car and slams the door shut.

“What happened?” she asks.

“What else? The guy refuses to admit he made a mistake. Says he overtook from the right since there was a gap!”

“Did you tell him that you had a child in your car?”

“Yes, I told him, but as if he cares!”

“Did he apologize at all?”

“Yes, finally he said, sorry sir. Anyway nothing happened, why are you so worked up, sir, they ask! What fellows!”

The father starts the engine, and then says with an unexpected smile, “But you know what? I’m glad I chased the guy down. Normally, I would have let it go, but I’m glad I went and confronted him. It might not make a difference finally, but at least I got it out of my system!”

I look at DH and smile, lil D smiles at both of us, and we happily (and safely) make our way home.

Sting Like a Bee

2005-05-02T02:39:00.000-07:00

If you have the time and inclination, check this out and let me know what you think.

I'm not here anymore

2005-04-29T01:12:00.000-07:00

A curious feeling, an absolute lethargy has crept over me. This is how I feel

The Sun and The Song

2005-04-27T10:20:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile, so forgive me my trespasses, and read this poem that quickly degenerates in more than one way...

The Paper Princess

2005-04-18T22:18:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was the Paper King. He had a sheaf of daughters, all very pretty and white. He had so many of them that he just named them One, Two, Three, and so on. His favourite was the youngest, whom he called Theend.

Read full story here.

I like this guy...

2005-04-11T11:02:00.000-07:00

His name is Gael Garcia Bernal.

I've seen four of his movies, viz., "Amores Perros", "Y Tu Mama Tambien", "Bad Education" and "The Motorcycle Diaries", and I think he's extremely talented.

In "The Motorcycle Diaries", there are some scenes of him on a boat. It reminded me so much of Satyajit Ray for some reason, and a thought crossed my mind - how wonderful it would have been if they had done a movie together! Bernal looks like Ray material to me.

What I like best about him is that he seems so malleable - he seems able to morph himself into the character so well. He's also got that strange combination of intensity and vulnerability.

I hope to see many more of his movies.

Book Review: The Line of Beauty

2005-04-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

To be honest, when I first began reading The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst, I found it a bit difficult to embrace.

I had picked up the book mainly because I had read an article regarding the Booker prize contenders, and how very close the competition had been.

I was determined to give it another go only because I cannot bear to leave any book half-read. And when I turned the last page yesterday, it was with a sense of reluctant relinquishment that I put down the book.

The story is about young gay Nick Guest, who moves into the home of his Oxford classmate and crush, Toby Fedden, whose father Gerald is an ambitious Tory MP, with lovely wife Rachel, and manic-depressive daughter Catherine.

Nick slips easily into the indolent and luxurious life of the rich and famous: he loves the beautiful things life has to offer, he snorts coke, he loses his virginity to a black council worker he picks up from the classifieds; he finds himself a wealthy lover of Lebanese origin, with whom he attempts a foray into publishing and films. The backdrop of Tory conservatism, AIDS, and the scandals that break out inevitably provide a rich foil to his story.

What makes this book so eminently readable is the superbly cool elegance of the prose. It is almost languorous and makes you feel heady, like after a glass of wine. It is neither harsh nor maudlin; there are no rude jerks or sudden peaks; no flourishes or swaggers; it is gently undulating all the way. The phrases are crafted with the finesse of a master craftsman.

Consider
Perhaps being old friends didn't mean very much, they shared assumptions rather than lives.

or about a public telephone
So he had never breathed this terrible air, black plastic, dead piss, old smoke, the compound breath of the mouthpiece --

or about a pianist brought in for a recital
She had clearly been ferociously schooled, she was like those implacable little gymnasts who sprang out from behind the Iron Curtain, curling and vaulting along the keyboard.

Practically every page in the book is strewn with such gems, and it is richly rewarding to read this book at a leisurely pace, and it becomes almost mandatory to stop and admire every once in a while.

Some may find the gay stuff a little awkward. It was the first time I'd read such a book, and I felt it was treated most naturally, and I didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable.

I'd definitely recommend reading this if you love stylish prose.

Immortal, Perhaps

2005-03-30T20:43:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed the different interpretations of my previous poem, so I felt the urge to write another one in a similar vein, the only difference being that this has been done consciously, and hence rather poorly.

So, let me know what you think this poem is trying to convey! :)

In Passing

2005-03-27T21:30:00.000-08:00

Read my new poem here

A Memorable Concert

2005-03-20T23:48:00.000-08:00

The curtains went up sharp at 6pm. Bowing before us with folded hands was an artiste par excellence – Nityashree Mahadevan. Granddaughter of the legendary D.K. Pattamal on one side and the late Palghat Mani Iyer on the other, with DK Jayaraman as her grand uncle, Nityashree’s musical credentials are, without doubt, impeccable.

But it was the banner behind her that made me catch my breath, and my eyes suddenly brimmed with unexpected tears.

The banner read "Programme Sponsored By Sri RR in memory of Smt R". Memories of R surfaced unbidden – the way she smiled, the way she pulled at her dress while talking, the way she tugged at colleagues’ ties, and stamped on their shoes…

R was my colleague – we both joined the company in the same batch. She was fun-loving, very pretty, and was a deadly combination of innocence and seductiveness. I always envied her candour and complete lack of inhibition. She bantered with both managers and colleagues in the same carefree way. In one session, all of us sat around exchanging notes on how the lucky ones had met the love of their lives. Hers was straight out a movie – a ragging session in college followed by some serious wooing by a stricken senior. They were going to be married soon. In fact, we all attended their marriage. We lost touch after my marriage, since we moved away almost immediately.

So, I experienced the deepest sense of shock when I received an email (almost 9 years ago) saying that R had passed away. On a picnic. In quicksand. Ironically, we had read about the accident online in Deccan Herald, but had never imagined that it was someone we knew. DH and I simply could not believe it – she had been so young and happily married, with a little son. Fate could not be so cruel. We kept reminiscing about our past moments with her, and suddenly life seemed so unpredictable. Every time I thought of her, and her last moments, I would feel a rush of emotion and a kind of helplessness.

I later learnt from a friend that RR, her husband, had been totally devastated. I cannot even imagine what it must have been like for him during that phase. He has since moved on in life (bless him), but every year, he organizes a cultural event, mostly Carnatic music, around the time of her birthday, to honour her memory. This year, I finally managed to make it.

The music was simply divine. I was transported to another world as it permeated my very being, and I listened in fascination as Nityashree alternately cajoled and commanded the swaras around, concocting a veritable feast for the soul. It was so beautiful that words simply cannot do justice to the experience.

At the end of the concert, satiated and blissful, I stood up and surveyed the crowd, who in all probability did not even know R. Even in her absence, R had touched the lives of so many people.

It’s so easy to be cynical about love as over-rated and over-hyped, but somehow it brought to mind the reason why Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal.

Loneliness

2005-03-18T04:57:00.000-08:00

Read my new poem here

Street-Smart

2005-03-18T00:12:00.000-08:00

It's a quiet afternoon. The whirring of the fan and the distant rumble of a vehicle are the only sounds that puncture the silence. The sun is high in the sky, and people have escaped to shady refuges, possibly for a snooze.

All of a sudden, a banshee-like wail pierces the air. It startles a few birds that chirrup in protest. Afternoon naps are disrupted rudely, and people are cross.

It's the man with the decorated bull and the nadaswaram. His strategy is perfect.

Pick a time when people hate to be disturbed.
Play the instrument as badly as you possibly can.

And voila! He is assured of his "hush-money".

Recipes for the Impatient

2005-03-07T10:58:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well! Surprises never cease. I would have thought I would be the last person to share recipes with anyone, since I have as much interest in cooking as an ant presumably has in life on Mars. However, some instincts are to be simply respected, and gotten over with.

So, here are two recipes. The main USP is that they are extremely simple and very quick to make -- ideal for bachelors/bachelorettes. One makes a perfect crunchy evening snack to go with a hot cup of chai, and the other makes for a very filling breakfast. Both are poha-based (poha=avalakki=pressed rice?).

Crunchy Evening Snack
Ingredients
2 cups ~~“soft”~~ thin poha
½ cup peanuts
1 tsp mustard
1 tsp urad dal
4 red chillies
1 pinch asafoetida
1 pinch turmeric
5 tsp oil
Salt to taste

Please bear in mind that the measures given are purely incidental. I’m not really sure if what I use is a teaspoon or not, and I just pour in the groundnut and poha till I feel it’s enough!

Anyway, heat the oil in a pan, add the asafoetida and mustard, and when the latter pops, add the groundnuts, chillies and urad dal. Fry till the stuff is kind of reddish – if it’s turned black, you’ve gone too far – abort the operation and begin again. You could toss in other nuts too, I guess, unless they decline to be fried.

Dump in the poha, sprinkle turmeric and salt, and keep stirring, preferably on low heat, till the corners of the poha grains kind of wilt, and the poha turns crisp. Let the mixture cool before you start munching, unless you prefer burning your mouth. I like it best when it’s still hot, and love to shoot spoonfuls down without pause.

Breakfast Bowl
Ingredients
2 ½ cups ~~“hard”~~ thick poha
2 medium sized onions
1 tsp mustard
1 tsp urad dal
1 ½ tsp dhania powder
1 ½ tsp jeera powder
½ tsp pepper powder
1 ½ tsp chilli powder
1 pinch asafoetida
1 pinch turmeric
5 tsp oil
Salt to taste

Wash and soak the poha in cold water. Chop the two onions into small pieces. Heat the oil in a pan, add asafoetida and mustard, and urad dal after the latter pops. Dump the onions and fry them till pale pink. I guess you could use green chillies too, but I don’t since our house is still PG-rated. Meanwhile -- notice the parallel processing -- drain the poha, add the dhania, jeera, pepper, chilli and turmeric powders, and the salt, and mix well. Add this mix to the pan, and stir well for about 6-8 mins. A generous dollop of ghee added towards the end and stirred in, together with chopped coriander, makes for a yummy, filling breakfast dish, in under 15 mins.

Enjoy maadi!

Indian Idol

2005-03-05T09:33:00.000-08:00

So, Abhijeet Sawant is The First Indian Idol!

I remember seeing him in one of the earlier shows, and what stuck to me was the memory of someone who appeared very gentle and calm. Maybe appearances are deceptive, but whatever I've seen of him in the last few episodes seems to confirm that impression.

Though it's easy to dismiss the whole thing as one big tamasha, what touched me the most was when they showed the parents of Abhijeet and Amit. It brought home the fact that behind all this glitz and glamour, there were real people affected by this show, whose new-found fame and fortune were very real to them. To see their sons singing and dancing like superstars in a Bollywood movie must have overwhelmed the families, to say the least.

The other thing I liked was the sportsmanship (if I can call it that) exhibited by all the finalists, including the winner, after the winner was announced. It didn't seem like it was an act - it seemed quite genuine.

I am just amazed at the abundant talent that thrives in our country. And what is particularly heartening is that nowadays more and more channels are opening up for people to earn a livelihood in what they enjoy doing the most - that's true liberalization for me.

The Return of The Gifts!

2005-03-03T21:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I went to one of these “Departmental Stores” to buy a gift for yet another birthday. I am positively puking with the number of birthdays I’ve had to attend these past few weeks! And I’ve developed an abhorrence towards Winnie the Pooh. I used to think of Pooh as adorable and cuddly and sweet; now, I detest the very sight of that red-vested, honey-hogging glutton of a bear! One of the birthday parties I went to had the critter plastered all over: in cut-outs, wrappers, stickers, and what-not! To top it all, the “return gift” was a book with Tigger bouncing all over the place! I wanted to bounce right out of the party.

Which brings me to another crib. Who started this habit of return gifts? Doubtless some adult who didn’t feel like going all the way to the store to return something he/she didn’t want anyway. Has anyone ever experienced the sheer frustration of choosing a return gift which satisfies ALL the following criteria:

1. Looks good
2. Looks substantial
3. Is useful
4. Within budget
5. Store has enough pieces

Which brings me to the topic of lil D’s birthday. We didn’t plan on celebrating it with cake-vake and stuff like that. My mother was aghast. What do you mean, she thundered over the phone, how can you inflict such punishment on your little girl? Don’t you know the rule? You HAVE to celebrate birthdays till kids are five years old. (After that, they’ll organize the parties themselves – by issuing all the invites unbeknownest to you, of course!) I meekly surrendered. Mothers know best, I consoled myself. And made my TO-DO list in greatest detail.

1. Streamers
2. Balloons
3. Cake
4. Snacks
5. RETURN GIFTS

I optimistically marched off to the nearest supermarket. Alas, foolish me! Little did I suspect what lay in store for me. I found cute photo-frames – sorry madam, we have only these 8 pieces. I found cute bowls – sorry madam, we don’t have any more unsealed pieces. I found cute boxes – way above budget. I found a humungous collection of plastic brushes – I couldn’t see them being useful except for mothers to spank their kids, which new-age mothers don’t believe in anyway. I found another set of cute bowls – with black marks in EACH and EVERY one of them – what HAD they been used for?

I was weary from trudging 5 kms up and down the aisles of the brightly lit store, and panicking every time my mobile beeped with an SMS from baby-sitting DH. Out of desperation, I closed my eyes, picked up the first thing I could see, and lugged a crateful to the check-out counter before you could say “Winnie the Pooh”.

Utter chaos characterized the party with spilt Coke, smashed cake, crushed chips, overflowing garbage bags, and an overstuffed fridge. But I must admit, mothers do know best: lil D had an absolutely smashing time and was thrilled to bits by the whole affair.

I’ve digressed so much from what I originally wanted to write about (about the departmental store and memories of other stores, just in case you're curious), so I’ll just stop here and save that for another blog.

Judgement Day

2005-02-28T09:59:00.000-08:00

*** BEEP BEEP BEEP ***
*** P. J. WARNING ***
What do you call a retired Terminator?
An Ex-Terminator

Blogging Break?

2005-02-11T10:40:00.000-08:00

Methinks I need to take a break from blogging.
I have gotten involved in so many other things right now that I need to re-prioritize. I hate to be away from the instant gratification of blogging, but perhaps it's time to use the remnants of "emotional intelligence" that still lurk! :D
To quote the famous words of the Governor of California - "I'll be back"!! :)

The "Un-Professionals"

2005-02-07T23:28:00.000-08:00

The “Un-Professionals” are like a piece of food stuck in your molars: they irritate the hell out of you, and finally coerce you into profoundly ungainly behaviour in public, when you open your mouth wide and excavate it like Tutenkhamen’s tomb.

Why am I ranting about this particular breed? It may amuse you to know that I had this particularly vivid dream that I woke up from this morning, with a pounding headache, and stress levels the height of Mount Everest. I dreamt that when I suggested to a former colleague of mine to investigate the features of a new version of some software, she turned ballistic, and I had to strenuously reinforce to everyone present that I was only trying to help, following which I got so upset that I marched up to the CEO – an unknown-to-me bloke named Roger – and quit the job most unprofessionally. I woke up to Roger attempting his best HR phrases on me, which I angrily spurned.

I have absolutely no idea what triggered this dream, but it brought back memories that I would have cheerfully give an arm and a leg to forget about. I remembered them all: the one who didn’t complete his work on time because “he did not feel like it”; the one who promoted his new math of 3 months=1 year of experience with almost evangelistic zeal; the one whose idea of work consisted of waltzing in an hour before lunch, taking an hour-long lunch break, and “working” for another hour after that; the one who assumed marketing calls included hour-long pit stops at his house; the one who came in at opening time sharp and left at closing time sharp, and played games throughout her day; the one who didn’t meet his deadlines because others in his group simply did not have his “enthusiasm and devotion” to work; the one who wanted to quit without any notice period because he could presumably finish in half-a day one month’s pending work; the one who argued vociferously about his raise not because of his performance, but because they was expecting a child (wonder which performance he had in mind)… ok, I’ll stop now!

Worst of all is the politicking. I’ve been in groups as small as three and four, and it amazes me to see how everything other than work takes precedence. Maybe it is just a case of sour grapes, for I’ve never been able to play the game of “one-up” well!

Which reminds me of an article in today’s paper. I digress, but this was pretty interesting to me. The Deendayal Research Institute in Satna district of Madhya Pradesh estimates that the direct monthly public expenditure on each Member of Parliament is Rs. 3 lakhs (supposedly a conservative estimate, and not including indirect costs), which is 150 times the per capita income of an Indian!! There are 543 sitting MPs currently, not considering the 5,269 MLAs and MLCs! The mind truly boggles!

On a lighter note, at a birthday party recently, my ex-colleague asked me if I had taken on more people in my practice. I was most emphatic in my reply. Never again! I had had enough people management to last me a lifetime! To my chagrin, I noticed the look on his face as he moved away – he had worked on my team! It was too late to undo the damage, for he was one of the most professional people I had worked with!

So, what's your best worst experience?

Futility

2005-02-03T21:15:00.000-08:00

She had it all. A perfectly decent middle-class existence, which nearly two-thirds of the population would envy.

Read the really short story here

The Landlord - Part 2

2005-02-01T21:17:00.000-08:00

It was a strange feeling sitting in a bus after so many years. I could not even remember when I had had my last bus ride.

Read Part 2 of the full story here

The Landlord - Part 1

2005-01-31T01:04:00.000-08:00

“Good morning, Mehta saab!”
The cheery voice could belong to none other than Krishnamurthy.
Read Part 1 of the story here

A Delightful Republic Day!

2005-01-26T20:35:00.000-08:00

Company get-togethers can be quite boring affairs for spouses. I realized that after I stopped working with DH. I would go to the event, and come away quite bored. However, the Republic Day outing was one I really enjoyed, because it was so very different, and brought back some dear childhood memories!

It was held at the Shankara Foundation (not to be confused with Ranga Shankara of recent fame), which is a sprawling campus with many interesting nooks and corners, and a lovely open-air amphitheater. The event had a complete village theme, not restricted to just the ethnic clothing, as is usually the case.

We were greeted with the nadaswaram-drum-decorated-bull ensemble at the gates, followed by welcome drinks of tender coconut. Bananas, "paanaka", butter-milk, and slices of water-melon kept us snacking healthy. Food was awesome with "jolada rotti", "neer dosa", many sweets and spicy pickles, all served on traditional banana leaves, with "paan" to top it all off!

The games included robust Kabaddi, played most enthusiastically by the guys who didn't mind a roll in the dust even in their silk jubbas; "Madike aata", which was a race with couples balancing 3 pots on the female's head; "Koli Katch", where a hapless hen was chased and caught within an enclosure (we did lodge our protest on cruelty to animals!); "Lagori" or seven stones; "Govinda", where guys had to climb on each other's shoulders and break a pot, whilst the opposing team threw water on them.

Balloons, kites, and "horse-jutka" rides entertained the kids immensely! Palmistry, bangles, mehendi, and try-your-hand-at-pottery were ongoing in the welcome shade.

The higlight of the evening was a demo of Kalariyapattu by folks from a leading school in Kerala. I was too busy with lil D to catch the complete details narrated by the host, but the show itself was totally awesome!

I think I'm having a "delightful" spot in my life right now - this was a really delightful way to spend the day!

Katha Collage - A Delightful Evening!

2005-01-23T23:38:00.000-08:00

When I saw the invite to Katha Collage - a production directed by Naseeruddin Shah, sitting in my inbox, I was sorely tempted.

DH offered to baby-sit lil D; I contemplated my list of possible companions, and finally settled on someone who's always fun to go out with - my mom; dinner was ready, checklist for lil D was stuck on the fridge, and I was all set to head out to an evening of entertainment! Just at the gates of our apartment complex, I decided to check out the tickets for the time and seat numbers - and guess what?! The tickets I had were for the next day!! What a letdown!!

The next evening, we went thru the same routine, and off I went! It's been ages since I've been to an event of any sort - the last one I can remember is Elton John's concert. So, I was really eager to have a taste of theater, and I'm glad to say that Katha Collage did not disappoint!

It was a collection of three stories, presented as one-act plays. The sets were minimal, the lighting and sound were just perfect, and our seats offered a fantastic view. The best part was that the audience was a darling, coming right on time, absolutely no annoying mobiles ringing in between, and very responsive!

The first was Bade Bhai Saheb by Munshi Premchand. It was a study in contrasts: a young, innately brilliant boy, who loves spending his time playing rather than studying (played by Imaaddin Shah - Naseeruddin's son), and his very studious, but very mediocre older brother (played by Jameel Khan). The act had the audience in splits, especially when the older brother began describing the difficulties of studying English history ("na jaane kitne Henry, Charles, aur William the - koi aur naam nahi mila kya?") and writing compositions ("chaar panne me likho, lekin sankshep mein, aur sasura, woh panne bhi itne lambe!" [showing a foolscap sheet length])

The second was Shatranj Ke Khiladi by Munshi Premchand, made famous with the movie by the same name. What was admirable was the way the two actors, Ahmed Khan and Khaalid Muhammad, brought alive the story with such minimal props.

The last was the poignantly amusing Sankraman (The Circle of Life) by Kamtanath. Set in a middle-class home of Uttar Pradesh, it has the retired old father (Naseeruddin Shah) complaining endlessly about his son (Jameel Khan), forever shutting off the lights and fans (that definitely struck a chord with the audience - the guy behind us was whispering - "My father always does that!"), bemoaning his son's spendthrift ways, and recollecting the good old days.

The son in turn, presents his point of view (but only when the father is not around :D), remembering the days when his father would stay late playing cards at his friends' houses, and so on. The long-suffering wife (Seema Pahwa) quietly endures both. In a somewhat hilarious ending, the father tries to repair a leaking tank in the loo with M-Seal (after seeing an ad on TV), falls and breaks his leg, and needs to get operated on. He dies after they discover that he was actually diabetic and a heart patient. The son now strangely starts resembling the father - switching off all the lights, trying to save on money by buying wheat grain instead of packaged wheat flour, sleeping on the charpoy outside to save on the power bills....the mother begins to wonder.

I was both laughing and crying in this last play, because it reminded me so much of my dad, and so many other old people I know. It was absolutely hilarious, but at the same time, struck a deep chord.

Jameel Khan was simply amazing, both as the Bade Bhai, and the son in Sankraman. The audience was in splits with his delivery, and spontaneously clapped several times during his performance! The entire cast and crew was given a standing ovation, but Jameel Khan received the loudest and longest applause! (Just to contrast - the papers today had an interview with Imaaddin Shah; not that he doesn't deserve to be interviewed, but couldn't they have highlighted Jameel instead??)

I laughed so much throughout that I was in tears by the end of the show! All in all, a delightful evening!!

Trend-setter

2005-01-20T01:18:00.000-08:00

I noticed her maybe three months ago.

She is a young mother, who obviously takes fitness quite seriously. She had started walking around the complex. That's not unusual - we have scores of people doing that. What was unusual about her was that she would do at least 3 laps, walking very fast with the-baby-in-a-stroller, and another 3 laps with the-baby-in-her-arms. I noticed her only because lil D's play timings coincided with her walks, and lil D loved to go running behind her on her stroller laps.

People looked curiously at this odd sight initially. It seemed to me that she tried to avoid catching anyone's gaze, walking determinedly on at a brisk pace. Soon, I began to see other mothers going for similar walks; all briskly pushing the stroller and staring ahead.

Now, it's become like a congregation of mother-walkers-with-baby. She's got some good company, and they all walk and talk.

I like the way she's single-handedly changed the scene in our complex, by just going ahead and doing what she thought was best.

Song (and Dance)!

2005-01-19T09:07:00.000-08:00

It all started with Neels. She *sang* a song for me on my doodle-board, and I felt most obliged to respond in kind.

We then played song-tag, (a new(?) game) where we picked up words from each other's songs and *sang* other songs. Before I knew it, we had a game in eternal progress, with daily updates from many who joined us in our *singing*!

Which brings me to the well-know game of Antakshari. I wonder what is so fascinating about Antakshari. I think most Indians are quite familiar with this game, and have played it some time or the other in life! (To those who don't know the game, it's very simple: one person starts singing a song from a Hindi film (mostly), and the next person has to sing another song starting with the last alphabet of the previous song.)

I remember the game being a top favourite of my childhood years, coming from a musically-inclined, and movie-inclined family. All of us used to play it - including my parents. Dad used to sing real oldies by K L Saigal, which we could rarely challenge. Mom's favourite song was "Nahi nahi, abhi nahi, abhi karo intezaar - chodo naa!" The chodo naa ended at a higher inflexion and sent us into peals of laughter! We sisters used to compete to end a song with the most difficult last alphabet. We loved starting up cycles which would always end with the letter "ha". We would hunt down songs like rare diamonds and stash them away, only to produce them with a triumphant flourish when others were stumped! It was also an effective tool to keep me from feeling bored, when I was alone - I used to play the game with myself! :))

I was quite taken aback when I grew up and met people who actually didn't enjoy playing Antakshari! I viewed specimens who groaned at the very mention of the game with a great deal of suspicion. I was convinced that there must be something seriously wrong with them!

Nowadays, of course, with all the TV shows, the game has been elevated to quiz-status, where one needs to know not just the song, but all the trivia associated with it! Enjoyable at first, but gets to be a drag after some time.

I wonder how this game got started in the first place. Anyone out there, who can throw some light on this unique Indian phenomenon?

The Draupadi Episode

2005-01-12T21:17:00.000-08:00

Some of the things I've been reading these past few days reminded me of questions I had toyed with earlier.

Most of us know that when Arjuna won Draupadi's hand, and the five Pandavas brought her home. This excerpt does most of my work for me in the narration, so I'll just reproduce it below:

Reaching their small hut, Pandavas announced their arrival and told the mother Kunti to guess what they have brought that day. Innocently, Kunti, thinking that her children must be talking about the food they had received, said, "O my dear sons, I know you bring wonderful things; as usual divide the gift amongst yourself and enjoy."

This terrible command applied to Draupadi now. As the custom went they had to obey every word of their mother as final order. Kunti also became worried about the difficult predicament. Can a wife ever divided amongst five brothers!

Sri Krishna came to know all about and he advised the Pandavas to accept Draupadi as common wife of all the five brothers. Thus Draupadi, also known as Panchali, became wife of five brothers.

Sage Narada advised the Pandavas to honour the privacy of Draupadi when she was alone with any other brother. Whosoever entered the room of Draupadi when she was with other brother would be forced to self exile as the punishment. All the brothers agreed. Thus the problem of one wife and five husbands was solved!

The lesson we are all supposed to draw from this is to follow the lead of the Pandavas, and obey our parents unquestioningly. At least, that's what I think the popular lesson is.

However, if Kunti's words were to be obeyed as the final order, surely she had powers to revoke such orders? Was there no such thing as "Sorry sons, my mistake! Please rescind earlier command and follow what I say now".

Or was the lesson actually to think before you speak?

On another note, was this episode simply a touched-up version of the solution to the woman-to-man ratio problem that threatens India even today? Quite some time back, I read about a village where a similar solution had been implemented.

Just some things to air out of my attic! :))

Untitled

2005-01-10T10:49:00.000-08:00

Read my new poem here

The Answer is 49!

2005-01-10T09:38:00.000-08:00

A busy weekend: attending a birthday party with lil D, who appears to be quite popular, since all the kids seem to talk about her at home! Or maybe she's just notorious? And meeting parents - I simply hate the fact that my parents are getting older and frailer, and we just have to sit by and watch it all happening. :-(

My shipment of books came in from FabMall, and I was all excited. Read Frederick Forsyth's Avenger, and kinda liked it. It's been a really long time since I read a best-seller thriller, and this book was a good read, mostly because you could relate to all the (world) events he described.

Then I read Eats Shoots and Leaves. It lives up to all the hype, her [Lynne Truss] style is great, and there was lots of interesting trivia. The biggest revelation for me was [sic]! I remember reading about it quite long ago, but it had since slipped my mind; so every time I came across it, I thought the author was just being nasty! :-)

I started on The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst - the latest Booker prize winner. I was looking forward to a heterosexual romantic novel (don't ask me why!), and was kind of disappointed when I realized that (I don't know how I missed this in all the reviews!) the protoganist is gay.

Caught snatches of Rules: Pyaar ka Superhit Formula on TV - Milind Soman is so definitely drool-worthy!!

Oh, and btw, the question is - which page does lil D always interrupt me at? :-)

Losing My Religion

2005-01-06T09:20:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a fairly religious family.

Though my dad wasn't all that into poojas and stuff like that early on, he changed quite drastically as he aged. The turning point I can remember was when he went on a trip to Badrinath. After that, every Sunday, we had a Badrinath pooja at home. As time passed by, it grew more and more elaborate. Sunday mornings were devoted to cleaning the hundreds (I'm sure there were hundreds!) of idols, photos, and other godly paraphenalia, and lighting up of at least 30 lamps, before the grand maha mangalaarathi!

Schooling at a convent, I imbibed all the Catholic behavior mindlessly, and sometimes wished I could also stand up and say the Angelus (?) when the church bells tolled! There was no conflict in my mind, however. Jesus and Mary stood cheek by jowl with Srinivasa and Padmavathi. The miracle of Our Lady of Fatima co-existed happily with the miracle of Mirabai drinking poison. St. Francis of Assissi and Sant Tukaram were neighbours at peace with each other.

Meanwhile, however, stirrings of a rebellion were beginning within. I disliked going to the temple intensely - I could only see how bored the priest was, how selective he was in preferring people who donated more generously towards the aarthi, how the various aunties who gathered and discussed everything else other than divine matters....I did not feel more religious or pious going to the temple. When I prostrated before the idols, it was with a mixed feeling. If God was everywhere, why was this idol more sacred than anything else? Why did we have to "bribe" God if we wanted anything? I hated the rituals too - I found them utterly meaningless.

Between school and college, I tried to fill up the boring holidays with as much reading as possible. Included in this were religious texts such as the Isopanisad, and books on Vedanta. Suddenly, I was confronted with a completely different view of religion and spirituality as I knew it. The discussion seemed to answer many of my questions at that time.

As time passed by, however, I began to question everything around me. Nothing was sacred any more. In this context, it became even more difficult to reconcile religion with my daily life. Marriage did not really change this situation, because DH had similar views. I adopted the convenient philosophy that Slartibartfast so eloquently puts across in H2G2: "Perhaps I'm old and tired,' he continued, 'but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied."

So there we were, a couple who did not feel like celebrating religious festivals or holidays, yet joining my parents or in-laws in the festivities. We were given so many religious photos and idols, and every once in a while, I would feel guilty and light a lamp or two.

All this changed once lil D came into our lives. She is so interested in God and pooja! And from what I've read, it is important for a child to have a firm religious grounding as well. So now, we do a little bit for her sake. We celebrate festivals in a traditional way. We perform poojas at home. Rituals I once thought I would never, ever perform! I myself find the fragrance of the incense sticks and camphor strangely comforting.

I can't help thinking - it's so difficult to get away from our roots! It's like overcoming gravity to orbit in space!

Playback

2005-01-04T10:12:00.000-08:00

Was doing some transcription of tapes as part of my volunteer work, and it felt like I was part of the classroom itself! Could almost "see" the class happening!

Have you ever heard your recorded voice? Mine sounds almost mournful - I can hardly identify it as my voice! It sounds really wierd!

I was having a similar discussion with the instructor, who felt her voice on the tapes was much slower.

Another very graphic example of how self-perceptions can be so deluding!

Fair 'n Lovely

2005-01-04T09:21:00.000-08:00

I wish I could get hold of a tube of F & L for the soul!

My blemishes of inadequacies, weaknesses and mediocrity sometimes threaten to overwhelm. I wish I could wipe them all out. A 12 week regime would suit me fine indeed!

Virtuality

2005-01-03T11:06:00.000-08:00

When one browses thru other blogs, one can't help noticing the number of comments a particular blogger receives. The comments sometimes are as interesting, or sometimes, even more interesting than the blog itself!

What interests me is that the virtual personality a blogger exhibits seems to be a fairly close reflection of their real personality. The few bloggers I have met briefly are perhaps too small a sample to base my conclusion on, but when I read blogs, I get this feeling of how a person would be when I meet him/her.

The similarities to a crowded party room are too many. You see the sparkling wit, engaging everyone effortlessly. You see the happy-go-lucky sort hanging out with birds of the same feather. You see the self-absorbed types, always worrying about themselves, their relationships, and their appearances. You see the shy and retiring sorts, who are content to remain on the sidelines.

And yet, a blog is, to a large extent, not just writing for its own sake, but of being heard, of being appreciated, of being applauded, of being empathized with. The few who know how to "get up there" do it. Their blogs are hits, the traffic healthy, and the comments come pouring in. As in real life. The other wannabes keep trying, but are never heard, or should I say, read. Just like in real life. The Pareto Principle works here too!

What's my point here? Nothing spectacular - just the thought that virtuality is perhaps much closer to reality than we think it is. I know in my case it's true - I'm the one you see standing at the corner, quite happy to be invited to the party, speaking to the few people I know well, and admiring the scene from afar!! :))

What really gives me a kick is to discover a blogger in the early stages, and watch him/her grow in popularity. I like that satisfying feeling it tends to give me - don't ask me why!

Smooth Operator

2005-01-01T11:35:00.000-08:00

I paused in the shower, certain I had heard knocking at the door. The hot water drummed a sweet tattoo on my smooth chest, as I stood blinking the dripping water out of my eyes. There! I heard it again! Who could it possibly be, at this late hour? I turned off the shower, grabbed the soft and fluffy terry towel, and wound it around my waist after a swift whisk over the rest of my body. I padded wetly to the door and peered thru the peephole. A bolt of lightning hit me – what the hell was she doing here, at this time?

I opened the door, and she bounced inside the room. Her plain face was radiant, and she looked ready to burst with happiness.

“I did it! I did it!” She clasped her hands around my neck, waltzing thru the room madly, dragging me along like a broken doll.

Read full story here

What a Year It's Been!

2004-12-30T10:37:00.000-08:00

I've somehow never been able to look back at years gone by, and elicit anything more than a shrug. OK - so time passes by, we do stuff, and life goes on.

Once a moment has gone, the only thing that lives on is the memory of the moment. And that memory is malleable. You can trim it and shape it to suit your needs. In fact, I read somewhere (I think it was the Economic Times) that what we remember are in fact just stray bits and pieces, and the rest we actually reconstruct. It's like we tear up a shirt and store just the collar and cufflinks, and the rest we fill in!

There's also a noticeable difference between what I remember and what DH remembers. I tend to remember how I felt - I hated the place or loved the music. DH is a veritable sponge for facts. For example, we were flipping channels, and came across this guy Peyton Manning, who I think is currently the Indianapolis Colts quarterback. Now DH has a terrible memory when it comes to names, faces, dates, etc. Imagine to my surprise, when he remembered Manning from the time we stayed at Nashville, TN - which was a good 9 years ago - and he isn't even a football fan!

But I digress here. Not that it really matters, because I think I will remember this year more for li'l D than anyone else. The way she's blossomed out from a quiet, underweight infant when we brought her home, to a naughty, smart, and talkative toddler. Our happiness every time the doctor commented that she was a lovely baby and we had done a great job! I think that's the single dominating fact that will linger on.

No - make that two dominating facts. This year I began blogging. I first blogged at Sulekha, and then moved to blogspot. I've learnt so much, and I've enjoyed myself quite thoroughly. I've read fantastic stuff, made some incredible friends, met some wonderful bloggers....something I would never, ever have dreamt of!

Some unpleasant memories will linger - the year was not so good for some people close to me, and I do hope it clears up for them soon. The tsunami wrought such a heart-breaking end to the year - I can only hope and pray for the survivors.

Life, however, is resilient. And I have this ability to somehow fade-out all the bad memories. I live life nowadays like a person placidly sailing down a river in those tyre-tubes. I admire the scenery as I pass by it, and leave every past moment behind.

So, New Year - here I come. Where will you take me?

Wishing everyone a Very Happy New Year!

2004-12-29T13:00:00.000-08:00

Don't feel like writing much. I haven't been watching TV or reading the newspaper much coz the articles and pics just tear me apart. Anything said or done seems awfully trite. Blogging about it seems even more so.

The Dress and The Iron

2004-12-27T01:39:00.000-08:00

It's really a long time since I wrote some nonsense rhyme, so here goes - The Dress and The Iron

Friendly Forecast

2004-12-23T11:16:00.000-08:00

Did I miss out on the weekly forecast which stated that I would meet a great many friends?

My oldest, "bestest" friend had come visiting today after a really long time. It was so lovely catching up, and realizing that nothing has changed between us. I have very, very few good friends really, and she is the first among equals.

What struck me is that all those whom I consider my best friends, share very similar tastes, interests, and views with me.

Now consider the popular view that opposites attract. I wonder how many people have deep friendships with folks who are diametrically opposite in nature to them. Which is more natural - I'm not sure that's even a question that can be asked! Can the two be compared at all? Perhaps not.

A friend is a friend. Let's leave it at that.

Some Weird Things

2004-12-22T10:26:00.000-08:00

I'm not a Ripley-Believe-It-Or-Not kinda person - I don't pull a 10 ton truck with my teeth, or spend a night with scorpions.

The only close-to-weird things I can do are:

1. Touch my tongue to my nose

2. Make a real loud noise by releasing my tongue after pressing it to the roof of my mouth - it's just like you would do the clip-clop of a horse, only much, much louder!

3. Mirrored running writing - that is, writing which you need to reflect off a mirror to read it straight, much like the ambulance sign painted on an ambulance.

Today I discovered a weird sound - my heartbeat sounding all squishy. If you want to hear what it sounds like, here's what you need to do:

Lie down on your stomach, with your head sideways, ear pressed to a pillow. Make sure the earlobe is folded across the ear. Lie quiet and you can hear your heartbeat squelching out of your ear.

I didn't do this on purpose - it just happened. I thought it sounded weird.

Care For A Ride?

2004-12-21T09:56:00.000-08:00

This happened ages ago - it seems so amusing in retrospect, but at the time, it was hardly that!

It was my maiden trip to the US of A. Not a big deal, I thought, considering that my first overseas trip was to Zurich, where I had to struggle with Swiss-German everywhere. Conveniently forgetting the fact that my co-travellers were seasoned globe-trotters, who knew the sign language like their own mother tongue!

The journey itself was long, tedious, and uneventful, barring the hordes of Telugu speaking populace who took the plane hostage, apparently enroute to a World Telugu conference. I had fervently hoped that my co-passenger would be my hero in disguise, but to my utter disappointment, it turned out to be a sleepy old, chewing-cud, businessman. The only conversation we had went something like this:

He: So what are you going to America for?
Me: It’s work-related.
He: Oh! So what do you do?
Me: I’m into software.
He: Oh! Leather or textiles?
Me: No, no – computers.
He: Oh! Computers! (and goes back to sleep)

I had been warned sufficiently of the JFK labyrinth to ensure that I hooked up to my connecting flight on time. I needed to make a call to the overseas manager, but the phone booths baffled me, and other travellers professed their ignorance too about how the darned things worked. I didn’t really believe them, but I didn’t have much choice either.

Befriended by an American on the unbelievably small aircraft, who offloaded a basket of mangoes to me since he had extra baggage, I had panic attacks imagining being stopped for smuggling hidden drugs. Perhaps it was just as well that I had got warmed up for what was to follow!

The arrival terminal at my destination was more or less deserted within a few minutes of our plane landing. The manager who was supposed to pick me up was nowhere in sight. I had all the time in the world to figure out how the public phone worked, and finally placed a call to his home. Horror of horrors! It was his answering machine doing the honours!!

I slowly put the phone down, wondering what to do. Well, I did have the name and address of the hotel I was to stay at. How hard would it be to get a taxi? I’m not sure exactly how long or how far I wandered around there, but I couldn’t see any signs that pointed to taxis or any other forms of public transport. Little did I realize I was entering into a world where private transport reigned supreme! As I stepped into the elevator for perhaps the fourth time, I became aware of this rather large African American, in full uniform, just outside the door.

“Care for a limousine, ma’am?” His deep voice carried after me.

I mutely shook my head and heaved a sigh of relief as the elevator doors closed.

I went down and looked around yet again. No luck with any signs. Answering machine still at the end of the line. Hmm…what do I do now?

Suddenly, a scene flashed before my eyes.

My manager (at Bangalore) and I were discussing something, when we were interrupted by another employee, settling down, as is wont, over the cubicle wall.

“So, you’re all set to go?” My manager asked.

“Yes, everything’s confirmed. Only one thing, has the client arranged for the transport from the airport?”

“No, but you can just take a limo, right? Take a bill, and we can bill them later”.

My manager’s response was like a revelation. Take a limo! Why yes! Here was a guy offering a limo! I’ll take it!

Up I went, feeling mighty pleased with myself, just hoping no one else had beaten me to him. My fears were totally unfounded, because you see, no one else was there!

I approached the uniformed chauffeur, and felt greatly relieved when he picked up my luggage and we proceeded outside the terminal! Finally!

I entered the car rather gingerly. It seemed to stretch on forever. The chauffeur’s voice was very distant, and I had to ask him to repeat his question thrice before I realized he was asking me if I was comfortable! I settled down, a trifle unhappy that my first experience in a limousine was going to be a mundane taxi ride, instead of something more exotic!

And then, he drove. And drove. And drove. It was dark outside. It was silent inside. I felt trapped. Panic waves began washing over me. I could see headlines – Unknown Indian girl found dead. Maybe they would find me after weeks or months. Maybe they would never find me. Oh dear!! I grew terribly fearful at the great impending doom that my mind etched before me! I began praying to the entire pantheon of Gods I had ever come across in my life.

And he still kept driving. Of course, I had no idea that such distances were not at all uncommon. I was more used to the 20 minute airport drive back home! The only thing I could see was the back of his head and his cap.

Just when I had decided that there wasn’t much I could anyway, and I should probably just sit back and wait for the worst, city lights began to emerge out of the blackness. Finally, he swung into a hotel driveway, and stopped. I wasn’t sure if this indeed was the correct hotel. I decided that if he hadn’t harmed me so far, I could take a chance with him.

I got out of the car, my legs trembling. I requested him to wait while I confirmed my hotel booking. He was willing to do that. A sense of relief finally swept over me when the reception folks confirmed that my room was indeed available. I took my meagre baggage out of the limousine, handsomely tipped the chauffeur, and escaped to the safe haven of my room.

It was only much, much later that I discovered that when my manager said limo, he meant a regular taxicab aka limo, and not a limousine!!

What makes the world go round?

2004-12-20T23:48:00.000-08:00

Was listening to this song yesterday over the radio from the movie Dhan Daulat..

Jeena kya aji pyaar bina
Jeevan ke yahi chaar dina
Dhan daulat bina chale magar
Zindagi na chale yaar bina

Loosely translated, it means you can live life without money, but not without love. This is a subject that's doubtless been flogged to death, but methinks there's more to money than meets the eye.

Everyone pities the person who has his pockets full, but an empty heart. But in many ways, doesn't the urban phenomenon reflect the reverse? People make sure their pockets are full, before setting out to fill the void of their hearts. And if they aren't successful in the latter, it doesn't really mean their lives are worthless. Many people are all alone and are quite happy being alone. Money actually helps you to live alone - it gives you all, or at least most, of the independence you need.

Then again, typically dhan daulat means wealth. So does the song actually mean we can live without "wealth" as against we can live without money? Sheesh! I'm really wasting my time, aren't I?? :)))

Kempanna

2004-12-20T02:27:00.000-08:00

Kempanna was the village idiot. Everyone knew him and everyone ignored him. He was like the sole electricity bulb that hung naked outside headman Ramappa’s house. The first time it lit up, the whole village celebrated. The first time it died down, the whole village mourned. Now, it flickered to life sporadically, and no one even noticed.

The commotion under the peepul tree awoke Ramappa from his afternoon nap.

Read full story here.

Blame It on Rio?

2004-12-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

I'm terrible at keeping promises made to myself! I had sworn off movies, and look what I did ....

Saw Amelie - honestly, this wasn't my fault - the library folks called me up and said it's available and you gotta come right now and pick it up..opportunity knocks and can I say no?? Loved the movie - such a common story told so uncommonly well - it left me wondering what would have happened if Amelie had not found the love of her life, or if it hadn't worked out all that well - but that's the cynic in me - the romantic was all blubbering and teary-eyed...

And then, there was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. We bought this DVD, so come on, don't we have to watch it? I was well prepared to be disappointed, but it was ok. I mean, there's only so much a movie can do as compared to a book. I've long stopped expecting a movie to do justice to a book. I just wonder how the next two books will work out - and I can't even imagine how Mira Nair is going to treat Order of the Phoenix - I'm already prepared for it to be a superflop! :))

When I went to return Amelie, I chanced upon Sunset Boulevard. A B&W 1950 movie, I thought it was extremely well made. I particularly liked the narration - kind of dry...

And then I caught up on the great and grand and famous Main Hoon Na on Star Plus. Gosh! It reminded me of Lou Bega's Mambo No 5!! A li'l bit of this and li'l bit of that.... spotted influence of Matrix, Jackie Chan, Ally McBeal, Sholay, Chopra (much talked about in interviews), and God knows, what else? It was total bubble-gum - I swear the dialogues equalled the songs - as superficial as can be! One thing that did strike me was that Shah Rukh played the step-son here (progeny of an affair), and in K3G, played an adopted son. Hmm...quite a variation there from the standard stuff...

Today, I came across on Chocolat on ZMZ, as the new Zee MGM is known. I loved the book, and the movie was comparably soothing. The taste of chocolate in my mouth...yummmm...incidentally, we have quite a pile waiting to be devoured!!

Now listening to Tapestry Revisited - A tribute to Carole King.

You can't talk to a man, with a shotgun in his hand!!

The Bus Stop

2004-12-16T01:33:00.000-08:00

Lalitha knew she was already late because the news was over and film songs had started over the radio. She deftly pleated her pale pink cotton sari (which she knew was a bad choice, considering that she was so late), stabbed a giant safety pin into the pleats and her matching petticoat, and snapped it shut. Tucking the loose ends of her sari so that it sat taut, smoothing the stubborn pleats one last time, she plucked a bindi off the bindi pock-marked mirror, and slapped it onto her forehead. A last dab of her favourite sandalwood powder wrapped up her two-minute session in front of the mirror, and she grabbed her bag while slipping on her worn black slippers.

“Amma, I’m going!”
Her mother came out of the kitchen, and thrust the steel lunchbox wrapped in plastic into her hands.

Read full story here.

A Friendly Visit

2004-12-14T10:34:00.000-08:00

Today I met a friend, after a gap of almost six months. We live a stone’s throw away from each other’s house, so it’s kind of funny that we don’t get together more often. But when we do, we just resume chatting as if we never left off!

I came to know her through a friend of a friend. I heard that she had started an NGO for people with disabilities –primary visually impaired, and was looking for volunteers.

When we met at a coffee shop for the first time, we really hit it off. The similarities between us were quite eerie. We both had come back to India for good from the US around the same time, we both were living in the same area, and we were both going to shift to our own houses around the same time, and to the same area again! Our thoughts, our sentiments, our values….we could almost complete each other’s sentences. Sometimes, I felt I was looking at a new, improved version of myself!

For me, the volunteering opportunity was as perfect as it could get. For some reason, I had always felt a special affinity to the visually impaired. I had always wanted to get involved in some sort of voluntary work. The kind of work she outlined fitted in perfectly with my skills and my interests – it was teaching computer basics to the visually impaired – I loved teaching and computers were anyway my field of work.

It all fell into place beautifully – just like so many other things in my life.

She began lending me teach-the-teacher kind of material, and I read up a lot on the world of the visually impaired, and every time, it struck me forcefully as to how much we rely on our vision to get by in our lives. Teaching was not straight-forward – you couldn’t just say point and click on this – you had to spend a great deal of time painting a picture for the students, before they could actually start working. There were tools, techniques, tips and tricks to be mastered. You had to exercise your creativity in giving examples from the real world which they could map onto easily. Exercises had to be devised which would test out what all they learnt, simulating a real-world environment, since the main emphasis was on practical training.

Added to this, it was also a very mixed class – few with complete loss of vision, few with low vision, few with some computer awareness, few who didn’t know English to begin with. Many commuted from quite far off, and sometimes simply didn’t show up, which made it harder to keep the class in sync. Fitting the classes into my schedule and preparing for them took up a decent chunk of time. There were the fast learners you had to devise more challenging exercises for, and the slow learners who needed simpler, repetitive exercises. It was an intense learning journey for me – communicating intelligently with the students and moving the class along at a sensible pace, yet always having to be prepared for the unexpected.

Needless to say, I loved every minute of it, and the thrill of seeing them actually accomplishing simple tasks effortlessly was simply priceless and hugely satisfying!

After D. came along however, I had to prune down my activities, and one of the casualities, unfortunately, was my volunteering. I still remained in touch sporadically with my friend, and it was simply amazing that we would be going through almost exactly similar experiences whenever we spoke. In fact, it almost always happened that she would be thinking of calling me if I called her, and vice versa.

When I went back today, I met one of my students who now works at the NGO. She was a shy and diffident person when I was teaching her – now, apparently, she has developed a voracious appetite for learning, and devours anything within her reach! It was fun to be back there again, and I’m just waiting for D. to go to pre-school so that I can resume teaching again.

I’ll be posting more about my friend and her NGO sometime in the near future – so watch this space.

Open Sesame!

2004-12-12T09:08:00.000-08:00

Anne Goscinny, daughter of the French author and cartoonist Rene Goscinny (of Asterix fame), moved house four years ago, and in the process discovered 80 previously unpublished stories about le petit Nicolas, a little schoolboy character created in the 1950s. The 600-page volume made out of these stories has sold 250K copies since its publication in October.

Well, I can’t claim to have unearthed something as spectacular as this, but it does bring to mind an evening, quite long ago…

Mom and I were the only ones at home, the rest having taken off to see a movie. I was perhaps 7 or 8 years old, restless and bored.

Mom, being the resourceful person that she is, decided it was time to clean out one of the many trunks that infested our house in all the nooks, corners, crannies and attics.

We pulled out this ancient looking trunk, complete with evenly spaced metal knobs on strips of metal welded together to form a formidable chest. It was covered with a layer of dust, and it took a more than just a few swipes of a wet cloth to clean it up.

We swung open the heavy lid and rested it against the cots. My excitement was beginning to grow. This was like one of the those Enid Blyton stories – I would probably find all sorts of mystery things inside! The musty smell that hit me just made it all the more alluring.

Right on top were some garments – a checked waistcoat which I promptly donned and thought I looked quite fetching. A pair of old socks, darned quite neatly at several places. A long, multi-coloured, knitted scarf which I thought was quite atrocious.

Then came a nice surprise. A really pretty beige silk blouse, with gold edging and small gold dots throughout. I tried it on – it was quite large for me, but would be perfect for my princess/queen role playing!

Then came a small tin box, the kinds they used to store powder and puff in. I opened it with some difficulty – the lid was rather tight and rusty. Imagine my delight when out rolled many coloured pieces of chalk! There was purple, light green, dark green, blue, yellow, pale yellow, a sort of red…I was thrilled to bits!

Then came a small crotchet bag with strings to tie the mouth. I pulled at the strings, opened the bag, and shook out the contents. Several shells covered with intricate beadwork, and small bead chairs and tables! Wow! This was great!

“It’s all your father’s mother’s stuff”, my mom told me. “She was very skilful, very neat and extremely careful. She always used to re-use things. Her darning was so fine that you could never tell it was an old, worn-out garment. And the way she used to fold clothes – it was as if they were ironed!”

I was impressed. I remember long after that, I used to smoothen out clothes I had to fold, so that they too would look ironed!

Several hankies (nice embroidery), a mosquito net (neatly darned again in several places), a silk border apparently cut out from a silk saree, a thick overcoat…we had almost come to the bottom of the trunk.

There was a woolly kind of cloth all rolled up, tucked into the corner.

“What’s this?” I asked my mom, holding it out.

“Ummm.. I think this is what she used to wrap her legs..her calves with, when they used to ache”.

I rolled it open – it was a long dark strip. And when the last twist rolled out, I saw it.

“Mom, mom, come and see this!” I shouted excitedly.

“What?” My mom came over, and stopped short in utter astonishment.

Nestled within the folds of the cloth, were five crisp tenners and four one rupee notes!

Signs

2004-12-12T01:25:00.000-08:00

Signs that D. is growing up fast...

1. Her head has overshot the top bar of the lower half of our balcony doors. (that's my informal height marker!)

2. Her dresses have become shorter and tighter - nothing to do with the prevailing fashions and styles :)))

3. She says intelligent things like "peenish" (that's finish - what were you thinking? :D) when something gets over.

4. She actually asked for her favourite food two nights ago - "potato pleej". I was forced to hurriedly whip up something - how can you have the heart to say no when she asks you so sweetly?

5. She enacts rhymes, matching verse to action, as in "teddy bear teddy bear t-un-ar-nd", executing a near-perfect ballerina twirl.

6. She asks for her puzzles by name, as in "aminal pujjle"! (animal puzzle), and she's able to do her ducky jigsaw puzzle in 40 seconds flat.

7. She wriggles her bottom while dancing - a *huge* step up from stamping her feet and waving her arms!

8. She speaks on the phone to her grandma - "ajjjiiiiiiiii - helloo - bye"

9. She removes her shoes all by herself and puts them in the shoe cupboard, and then pulls me along to see what she's accomplished, and pats herself on the back with "googurrrrl"! (good girl)

10. She identifies "bad anty" in Snow White and "phish" in Finding Nemo, all by herself!

Tirupathi

2004-12-12T01:17:00.000-08:00

Finally! We made it to Tirupathi!

Both DH and I are not exactly the religious sort - we hardly follow any of the rituals or do any of the poojas. How the Tirupathi thing happened is a bit of a mystery - it kind of just grew on us, I guess, till it became imperative we visit the place.

Anyway, after many annulled plans, we got going. My mom and dad came along too, and D. - well, what can I say? D. was an absolute gem - so co-operative and unfussy (is that a word??)

Everything went off so smoothly - just the opposite of all the nightmares we had, after listening to stories and stories about vehicles breaking down, accidents, 4 hour waits for the darshan...phew! it was a breeze compared to what we expected! (If you're interested, mail me, and I can send you all the details of the arrangements.) Of course, it helped that we chose mid-week and the off-season for our trip.

D.'s first trip, I think, was memorable, and very, very enjoyable!

MS

2004-12-11T22:07:00.000-08:00

It’s eerie.

Mom was looking for “Kurai Ondrum Illai” for a long time. I only had the CDs of MS Live at Carnegie Hall, which didn’t feature this Raagamaalika.

We went to Tirupati this week. I peeked into the hotel gift shop to buy the famous Suprabhatham, when the shop-owner showed me this lovely Immortal Legends collection featuring MS. I bought it without a second thought when I saw “Kurai Ondrum Illai” part of this album.

We’ve spent the past few days basking in the gentle warmth of her melodious music.

And now, she’s passed away. May her soul rest in peace.

It does makes me a little wary, though, about buying Immortal Legend collections of living legends.

Time Out

2004-12-07T11:59:00.000-08:00

Am off for the next couple of days - will be quite interesting to see how li'l D's first trip turns out! :))

I think I'm off movies for some time - had a really tiring weekend watching:

City of Gods (5 stars) - bleak and troubling
Matchstick Men (4 stars) - nice flick, kinda predictable at times, had my fav Nicholas Cage!
Joggers' Park (2.5 stars) - sheesh! can't they make it more crisp? the editing was driving me nuts!
Irreversible - can't even begin to rate it - tried hard to appreciate it, but kinda put me off, seamlessly going backwards was perhaps the one thing i really liked....

They were giving out fat-free icecream free, yes FREE, in our complex!! Had 2 cups :)) Blood donation was just an excuse to indulge myself!

Am excited about a bunch of books that are in my shopping cart and ready to be confirmed, after my trip, of course.

So that's life, eh? Books and movies and eats...work and play and bringing up D...when you've got your life exactly the way you wanted, something restless still stirs inside, hopping around like a perky li'l bunny, and you wonder...

OK, I shall stop wondering and thinking and get back to life as I know it.

Real Illusions

2004-12-06T01:31:00.000-08:00

”You’re strong”.

“What?” I must have mis-heard.

“You’re quite strong”.

This is definitely a mistake.

“Are you sure? This is the first time anyone’s ever called me strong! Why do you say that?”

”Most ladies can’t even lift the bar – you were able to pull it all the way!”

I don’t know what to say – I am rendered speechless.

It’s like living in a fun-fair world of mirrors. I move a bit - I see myself as tall and thin and stretched. Tense and stressed. Mournful and gloomy. I shift around - I see myself as fat and round. Laughing and jolly. I have to agree with Walt Whitman – indeed, I contain multitudes.

It’s just that when you’ve made yourself comfortable with all the mirrors in the room, and have had fun standing in front of each them, and think you know it all, the authorities that be decide to install a new mirror. So what if it’s just for a day, or even a minute? And suddenly you see a whole new image, a whole new you. Your instant reaction is to reject it outright. What nonsense – I can’t be like this! But it stays with you, that momentary reflection, that instant of light meeting glass, and you wonder…is that my truth - the real me? Have I’ve been living with illusions all along?

“You’re in software, and you work from home?”

“Umm…yeah”.

“Wow! You must have excellent PR!”

I mumble sheepishly, but I’d love to have that mirror stay on – suddenly, I wish it were true.

Yesterday, I rearranged a little mirror myself.

”First time you are donating blood?”

”Yes”

A few minutes later, I’m incredulous.

“That’s it? 350 ml so quickly?”

Yes, a mirror that had once shown me as anaemic, now shows me full-blooded.

Can you makeover your soul? Can you strip the makeup and the costumes, expose your nakedness, and rearrange the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle to make a new picture? I wonder, as I look upon my reflections mocking my innermost thoughts. And I remember a verse…

nainam chindanti shastrani
nainam dahati pavakah
na cainam kledayanty apo
na sosayati marutah

Is “Who am I?” the same as “What am I?”

(Verse Translation: The soul can never be cut to pieces by any weapon, nor burned by fire, nor moistened by water, nor withered by the wind.)

The Unforgettable Birthday Sari

2004-11-30T01:54:00.000-08:00

It was my mother’s birthday sari. A beautiful mustard cotton sari, bordered with deep red, with just a hint of zari running through. I fell in love with it at first sight.

“Please Mom, can I wear it for my college day? Please, please!” I begged her.

Amused at my excitement, she gave her assent, which sent me soaring onto cloud nine. I shopped eagerly for matching red earrings, bangles, and a slender gold chain with a red pendant. I wanted to look my very best.

When the day dawned, it was a doubly important day. Not only was it our College day, it was the final day of the inter-collegiate fest in our neighbouring college, and we had won the rolling shield! Naturally, I was thrilled that I had such a beautiful outfit for such an important occasion! All the girls oohed and aahed over me when I got ready. To say I was happy is an understatement!

Off our team went to the neighbouring college first. We proudly received the rolling shield and posed merrily for pictures. Then it was time to go back to our college. We waited and waited for our college van which was supposed to pick us up. The clock was ticking , and my tension mounted. I simply had to get there before the function started, because I had choreographed the very first dance with my juniors, and I had promised to get there in time to help with their costumes and setup the music, etc.

There was just half-an-hour more to go, and still no sight of the van. I felt sick in the stomach, and prayed hard for the van to appear. Just then, one of my classmates came up to me, and told me there was a two-wheeler available, and if I wanted, he could drop me. This was like manna from heaven! I jumped at the opportunity, thanking the kind soul profusely, and hopped on to the pillion.

Off we went, with me heaving a big sigh of relief! Little did I know what was in store for me. About a kilometer later, we heard a whirring sound, and the moped appeared to have developed some problem. Drat! I thought, as I looked down, just what I need right now!

To my utter dismay and profound shock, I found that the sari had got sucked into the rear wheel! I tried getting off, but couldn’t even do that. I was well and truly stuck! We were in the middle of nowhere, with my poor classmate all flustered. For some reason, I was very calm. I didn’t panic in the least. When some workers appeared from the nearby fields, and offered to help, I didn’t hesitate. My sari was mostly undone – the palloo was still however neatly pinned to my blouse! They tugged and pulled, and finally cut the sari out of the wheel. It was already 45 minutes past, when the mess was all sorted out.

I requested to be dropped back to my hostel, and the rest of the journey was completed in ominous silence,as I held the tattered sari together. I asked my classmate to wait outside, while I quickly changed into another dress, and then we proceeded to our college.

Puzzled queries from the girls was met with a terse “I’ll tell you later”, as I swiftly got down to my behind the scenes work for the college day festivities, which kept me occupied till rather late in the night. It was only when I lay my head down on my pillow after a great evening, it hit me.

What would I tell my mom? She hadn’t even worn the sari once! Gosh! This was even worse than I thought. I had an awful panic attack, and all the pent up emotions of the evening swept me away in cascades.

It was almost a month later when I got home. I didn’t mention the sari to my mom at all, and she didn’t bring it up either. Guilt hung like a millstone around my neck, and finally when I could take it no longer, I broke down.

“Ma – remember your birthday sari? I’m so sorry, but I ruined it completely! It…it…got stuck in a wheel and we had to cut it out… I’m so…so…sorry…please Ma, don’t get mad at me….”

“What sari?”

Her response knocked me speechless!

“Your sari, Ma – the mustard one with the red border?”

She looked puzzled.

“You mean, you don’t remember that sari? The really pretty one – the one you got for your birthday - the one I wanted to borrow for college day?”

Still drawing a blank.

I pulled out the ragged sari from my bag.

“This one – you don’t remember it?”

“No, I don’t remember it at all!”

My relief was growing by the moment.

“You don’t even remember it? So…so….you’re not mad at me?”

She laughed.

“Oh Ma!” I hugged her gratefully.

She held up the torn sari and said, “You know, this palloo could make a very pretty lehenga for your niece.”

And so it was.

Fast Forward

2004-11-29T01:30:00.000-08:00

I'm really beginning to adore the fast forward option on my DVD Player!

I used it last to watch the movie "Moscow Does Not Believe In Tears". I'm not sure why I picked up this movie in the first place, but I found myself attracted to it many times during my visits to the library. I finally picked it up, and wound up with a movie that was set sometime in the nineteen-fifties in Moscow. It's about these three girls and how they go about living their lives.

I watched it for about half-an-hour, and was in serious danger of dozing off. That's when I hit the FF button. It was so cool - I watched the entire movie in half the time! I might have missed some cinematic, dramatic pauses, the background score, and such, but I felt both relieved and happy at the end of the viewing!

"Finding Nemo" is another story altogether. I just loved the movie, simply marvelled at the animation, and of course, my favourite character was Crush, dude!! Totally rocks!!

A Day at a Time

2004-11-26T08:40:00.000-08:00

Just one more day to go...

For the first time after li'l D's arrival, DH has gone away on an official trip. Earlier, I marked his time away with humongous quantities of junk food, endless couch-potato hours in front of the idiot box, and restless nights alone.

This time, we both were slightly nervous at the prospect of me having to manage everything alone, including li'l D. The cook and nanny posts have long fallen vacant, not likely to be filled in the near future. The housemaid too had some health problems and had opted for long leave. So that left the entire running the household engine to me, in addition to my office work.

Surprisingly, the going has been quite smooth. The daily schedule runs like clockwork, and I've had my nose to the grindstone, with nary a moment to pause and take breath. The long hours and extra work seem to have had no adverse impact - only a strong longing for a good, long nap!

I'd also love to take off on a holiday. Put my feet up and rest a bit. But I know it will be a long time before I can do that.

Right now, I'm waiting for DH to return. So is li'l D. We both miss having him around.

A Lost Love

2004-11-25T03:32:00.000-08:00

“Hi!” He whistled as he wandered into my room.

“Who let you in?” I growled, my unhappiness at his appearance quite obvious.

“Well, you had left the door open, you know”, he shrugged.

He took a look at me, sitting defeated on my bed, and said, “You’ve been to see him, haven’t you?”

Read full story here.

A Feeling of Joy

2004-11-23T20:55:00.000-08:00

It's a long time since I felt the delirious exhilaration of a joyous moment. Not to say that I've had no moments of joy, but none that have swept me up and away.

I remember a moment like that from before.

I had just received my tenth standard results over phone. To say I was very happy is perhaps an understatement. I had exceeded my own expectations, and the icing on the cake was that I had bested both my sisters' records, which was no mean achievement considering my immediate sibling was a consistent topper.

I was now on my way to school to collect the marks sheet. As I travelled by bus, I couldn't help smiling every now and then to myself. It was a sweet feeling indeed - the first milestone of my budding life.

I got down at the bus-stop and began walking towards my school. As I went along, I saw an old lady walking before me. Rather, she was staggering under the heavy load she was carrying. She had at least a couple of parcels in her hands, along with her handbag, and then what seemed to be a very heavy bag, hung from her arm, almost tilting her with its weight. Every now and then, she would stop, readjust her burden, and stagger along a few more steps.

Now, I'm the sort of person who takes the don't-talk-to-strangers far more seriously than intended. Being extremely shy, self-conscious, and diffident, it was entirely uncharacteristic of me to approach any one I knew, let alone a complete stranger. Even when good deeds shone from a mile away, with a neon sign strapped around them, shouting "Do Me", I would scoot exactly in the opposite direction. This left me with many lost opportunities to accumulate some plus points in my punya deposit.

However, on this day, it was quite different. I was so bursting with happiness, that all my inhibitions seemed to have evaporated.

I walked right up to her, and said, "Excuse me, ma'am, can I help you with the bag?"

She looked at me like I was a miracle.

I took up the bag, and plodded alongside her at a sedate pace, till we reached the point where she wanted the bag dropped off.

"Thank you, and bless you, my child", she smiled.

I literally skipped all the way to school. It was as if I was as light as a feather and the wind could just scoop me up and whirl me around. The "God's-in-his-heaven-and-all's-right-with-the-world" feeling totally overwhelmed me.

Perhaps it's just the memory that gets exaggerated over time, but I'd really love to feel like that again. It was truly refreshing.

Open Letter

2004-11-22T21:09:00.000-08:00

Yipee! I finally did it!

I watch this channel called POGO with li'l D. It's quite a nice channel really, and D enjoys stuff like Tele-tubbies, Barney, and Boo-Baah.

What really bugged me about this was thing they have called Amazing Kids Awards. As usual, it focuses on Bollywood and Cricket - the two black holes of India! I've been meaning to write to them about this for quite some time now - I did it finally today!

Here's what I said...

I watch POGO regularly with my 20 month old kid and I find it wholesome entertainment for her.

However, I found your Amazing Kids Awards in exceedingly bad taste.

First of all, it appears like there's nothing else in India to vote about except Bollywood and Cricket. I think there are enough award shows and sports shows to address these areas, without requiring kids also to become part of the circus!

Secondly, couldn't there have been categories to showcase people like Abdul Kalam, Narayana Murthy, Sangliana, Kiran Bedi, and so on? Why is Bollywood always highlighted when the only thing it has to offer is an overrated glamour quotient?

Last but not the least, are there no other sports in India except cricket? You have nominees as Rahul Dravid, Sachin Tendulkar, Yuvraj Singh, Mohammed Kaif and Saurav Ganguly. Is it so difficult to include people like Major Rajyavardhan Singh Rathore, Viswanathan Anand, Dhanraj Pillai, Anju George, or Narain Karthikeyan?

As a kids channel, I would greatly appreciate if you can show a little more sensitivity and intelligence in your contests. If, for business reasons, you must pursue the oft-beaten carrots of Bollywood and Cricket, at least try to balance it out!

I think you do have some inkling of the enormous influence your TV channel can exert over kids. May I request you to use it responsibly?

I don't know if I will ever get an acknowledgement or a response, or if it will make the slightest ripple. However, it just makes me glad that I protested!

Living Now

2004-11-18T21:12:00.000-08:00

She slices the onions with surgical precision. Mashes the boiled potato with vicious stabs, her fingers sinking into the pale yellow meat. Tosses the onions until they turn a pretty pink. Slaps the dough vehemently and kneads with a persuasive passion. Intent on the task at hand.

Read the full story here.

From Where I am

2004-11-16T09:43:00.000-08:00

I'm wondering whether I should feel doubly grateful for all the blessings bestowed upon me as a woman of this century and country, or if I should feel depressed at the plight of women still suffering.

I watched Satyajit Ray's Apu trilogy, and Jafar Panahi's The Circle. In all these movies, women played key roles, in a man's world. I am not doing any reviews of these movies - the links will take you to fairly comprehensive reviews.

The mother's role in the former filled me with anguish. I had heard of several stories from my parents, of people living through difficult times, but the movie really brought home the message to me. Women struggling to simply exist - at their wits' end on how to survive - creating lives for others by swallowing their own dreams... and how little we offspring think or understand about those struggles.

The latter movie, which is set in Iran, reminded me of caged animals pacing up and down restlessly, yearning for freedom, straining against their restraints. A simple act of lighting a cigarette becomes fraught with symbolism.

Both made me restless and unhappy. They whipped off my rose-tinted glasses and presented a harsh reality that was a rude intrusion into my comfortable life, a grim reminder of what can be.

I think I'll settle for gratitude. Grateful that I've been born into a home where education was considered a birth-right, and a career almost mandatory. Grateful to have settled into a love, respect, and trust based relationship. Grateful for the freedom to call an auto, or hire a taxi and go where I want to. Grateful for the liberty to blog this from the comfort of my home, not having to worry where my next meal is coming from.

Cliches all, but worth cherishing. A single bug in my life's logic could have taken me down a very different path.

Dreamland Movies (An old post)

2004-11-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

I woke up very tired this morning. You would too, if you had a full length feature film as a dream. My dream movie was entitled "Runanubanda" (relationship thru debt). It was raining quite a bit throughout, an ex-colleague who recently got married was trying to reach me, and as I tried to call him, D was creating a din with DH refusing to look after her, and so she woke up a whole lot of napping ladies who were VERY cross with me, and the movie ended with SriVidya (a South Indian middle-aged actress) dancing in the rain VERY awkwardly with the hero and heroine!

OK, I do get the more mundane dreams like falling off a cliff, or trying to find something/someone, or just floating around like in a lava lamp.

However, the dreams produced by Dreamland Movies are the ones which are so vivid, in technicolor, with Dolby sound, complete with song and dance. Sometimes, I even wake up humming the tunes! The very first movie I "produced" under this banner was that of an evil chief minister, who was bald and wore his glasses backwards! I was trying to assassinate him, and of course, there was a song and dance about it.

I've had sequel dreams where I dreamt one part one night, and had part two showing a few nights later. I was running away in Part 1, and in part 2 I had morphed into my mother who was dressed in military fatigues, complete with gun. Some deep psychological stuff going on there, I'm sure!

The remakes are also a-plenty. One of my encore dreams is the one where I desperately need to catch a plane, and invariably my passport is missing, my baggage has disappeared, and the airport is so filled with such technno-funky hurdles that I have to glide, slide, stretch myself thin, hurl myself down a bottomless pit, get whirled around in a rotating thingummy - you get the picture - but finally, huffing and puffing, I do make it! Those dreams really get me exhausted, what with the Xtreme sports involved.

The tender ones leave me emotionally drained. I have so much of the agony and ecstasy going on, invariably ending in a cliff-hanger. Will or won't he kiss her? will they or won't they run away? Will the girl die or not? Will the guy walk again or not?

One other recurring theme is where I've dreamt that I awoke and was narrating the dream I had a few moments ago to someone else. Which is really very confusing, believe me! Especially when in the dream where I am narrating the earlier dream, I pinch myself to make sure I'm awake!

I've had dreams with really nasty ending (like getting eaten up by a monster, getting killed, or falling into the chasm we were crossing), which I have forcibly changed, while dreaming, to happy endings. It's almost like I've reshot the movie after the initial reviews panned the first ending!

Yawwn! I'm feeling so sleepy! I do hope the noon show is better than the lousy night show!

Cinema Cinema

2004-11-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

I've been seeing quite a few movies these days, thanks to a library which is conveniently situated, and has a good collection.

I've concluded that I'm not a good movie critic at all, because I loved all the movies I saw!

Traffic: Fantastic 3-story piece.

Mystic River: 3 guys and a fantastic story again!

21 Grams: I picked up this movie because of Benicio Del Toro(Traffic) and Sean Penn (Mystic River). Another 3-story piece which kept me glued to my seat and couldn't get enough of.

Amores Perros: I picked up this movie, courtesy SSM, who let it be known that the director was the same guy who directed 21 Grams. I am absolutely floored by this guy. I cannot believe it is his debut film as director. I simply had to find out more about him.

Another fantastic 3-story piece. (OK, I shall refrain from using fantastic again!) Music was haunting and stayed with me for a long time.

House of Sand and Fog: After watching flicks like 21 grams and Amores Perros, the going was so slow. But it slowly began to wrap its foggy arms around me, and drag me into its quicksand. I had a melon-sized lump in my throat at the end, and anger directed at Jennifer Connelly's character, much to the amusement of DH.

On the Waterfront: Reeled from the full impact of Marlon Brando.

City of Women: This Fellini flick went whoosh over my head. I had to read a couple of reviews to try and understand what he was trying to convey. I simply suspended all preconceived notions, and watched his visions with delight.

Ran: I got a glimpse of what CEC and others were raving about, regarding the visual treats Kurosawa offers. I liked the shots of the armies assembling on top of the mountains the best. It had some sort of symmetry to it that I found very appealing. I got upset about the portrayal of Lady Kaide (yeah right! it's always the wicked female's fault!), and found the movie a tad longish, but what remains most with me are the sweeping shots, with men moving like ants, and the landscape being most prominent.

My novel

2004-11-05T10:07:00.001-08:00

Well, I've started writing a novel. This idea has been lurking in my mind for quite some time, and suddenly, a few days ago, I was overwhelmed with the urge to sit down and write an outline.

It looks rather promising - the outline, that is.

But now, the grunt work starts. I've aimed for a wordcount of between 50K to 75K words and I've about 9 chapters marked out. So, at the upper limit, I've about 8500 words per chapter to pump in. I'm aiming to complete the first draft by this year end.

I started the actual writing just yesterday. In about half an hour, I managed to put down about 1000+ words. That felt good. But I also realized that it would take me much more than that to achieve my goal.

Well, at least I've started - that's definitely a step forward!

And miles to go before I sleep...

Sorrow

2004-11-05T10:07:00.000-08:00

Read my new poem here.

The Morgue

2004-10-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

The stacked sliding steel cabinets, the dull fluorescent lighting, the gloved hands, and the covered body – you can almost smell the stench, as you watch the morgue scene of a movie.

Reality is quite different, I can tell you.

It was almost three years ago. My cousin lived across the street from my parents. Always dropping in. Always sharing her dishes. Always consulting on sarees and serials. I didn’t know her all that well – rather, I didn’t care to know her all that well. When you are growing up in a make-believe world where all that matters are the adventures of a bunch of kids and a dog in a far-away land, impressions are carelessly moulded in the fresh clay. Half-baked notions and vague ideas fill up the gaps rapidly, and you fly up on a hot air balloon, looking down condescendingly at the world below.

There are always relatives whom you wish to avoid. In my case, it was everyone remotely related to me, excluding my immediate family. And so it came to pass that my cousin, whom I barely knew, filled the void of my parents’ empty nest better than any of us could, from our distances. Guilt and relief played hide-and-seek with every mention of her.

My cousin had a zest for life in her own unique way. She bought bangles by the dozens, sarees by the bundle, filled up her showcase (that ubiquitous glass-fronted dump) with bric-a-brac, crammed every nook and corner of her house with artificial flowers, avidly discussed every serial threadbare, participated in TV shows and ladies’ clubs, religiously observed every festival and ritual with an unusual amount of orthodoxy – her life busy and buzzing with the trivia of existence.

The morning after Ekadasi (the way my mother remembers it), she was reciting her stotras, when the flower seller knocked on her door. Muttering her curses at the late arrival, my cousin collected the flowers and then proceeded to decorate the innumerable divinities that populated her pooja room. Bending over a lamp that was in the throes of dying out. A flicker and a leap. A circle of orange and yellow blazing tongues. A saree burnt to a crisp. Hands that looked like boiled tomatoes. Agony and hell.

My mother dashed across, summoned by a frantic maid. A doctor was brought. Family members informed. Husband who was out of the country telephoned. An anguished mother comforted. Ambulance and hospitals; ointments and medicines; police and reports; ICU and grafting.

After nearly a month of heroic battle, my cousin succumbed. Finally. Relief at last, from a pain as intense to experience as to behold.

She lay in the morgue. A tiny room, not more than five by five. Whitewash streaked, faded, and peeling, disintegrating into the cement floor in shades of dirty grey. Dirt and some sort of animal droppings in the corner. A rusty metal bed, a stained sheet. She lies serene. Only her face is visible. The rest is bandaged or covered – any exposure would be unbelievably brutal.

She could get up right now, I think, as my mother calls out her name, softly crying. She could get up right now, and walk away. Away from this horrendous place. Away from this dump. Get up, I silently urge. Go lie down some place else. With dignity.

The Nanny

2004-10-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

She stands just within the doorway, resplendently dressed as ever, wearing a stoic mask for a face.

“So?” I ask.

“The settlement madam…we spoke over the phone…”, her voice is steady, but low.

“OK, that’s fine, but what happened?”

There’s a struggle going on inside her, as she seeks the right words to explain her week of absence. I look at her and I am reminded of the day we first met her, just about five months ago.

********
The doorbell rings sharp at 1.30pm. That’s a good sign – she’s punctual.

I open the door, and take a sharp breath. Her attire reminds me of a village mela – strings of scented jasmine on her hair like the flower-sellers; colorful jangling bangles on both arms, like the bangle-sellers; bright patterned orange sari with matching blouse, like the cloth-sellers; and surprisingly dainty sandals, like the shoe-sellers. She is small and compact and stylish, and her bright, brown eyes are active within their kajal borders.

The decision to hire a nanny was almost natural. I could see that li’l D. was growing bored within the confines of our apartment. I could see that urge to run around and play in the sand and mud and flowers and grass building up within her, and expressed by her hyperactive tendencies. She was quite bored having me around her all the time. It was time for a change. We agreed a nanny would make things better for everyone concerned. D. could have her fun-in-the-sun time, and I could definitely do with some relief.

We were apprehensive, of course, when it came to the selection. Finally, a recommendation from a friend helped us.

She says her name is Neera*. She’s come with her brother-in-law. We try to agree on the timings – I need her in the evenings really, but she comes from a long way off, and it’s simply not feasible. We try to agree on the rate – I find her a bit on the expensive side. We don’t really make much headway – I tell her I’ll call back.

After much discussion, we decide it’s advantage Neera. So, I give her a call and tell her she can join immediately. She’s to work half a day only.

She is a diligent worker. Doesn’t need much supervision. D. just adores her. I begin to relax. Everyone is happy. It’s hard to believe she’s just 24, and yet married, with a 7-year old son. I wonder how she must have felt as a teenaged mother. Her son, she tells me, is scared of only her. He refuses to listen to anyone else.

Her grandma passes away – she doesn’t come for three days. Her son falls sick – she takes a week off. She falls sick – she takes four days off – she comes back and tells me that someone poisoned her food – she describes the symptoms, and it looks like an attack of appendicitis to me. She says she got herself detoxified through a tantric. It really makes me wonder if I know her at all. Her sister-in-law consumes poison for unspecified reasons – she takes three days off.

Still, when she arrives, D. goes into raptures of excitement. Neera begins to show a marked affection towards D, sometimes even appearing jealous when D insists I be around. I reciprocate likewise – whenever D shows a preference to her nanny, I get all worked up and anxious – perhaps I’m not being a good mother after all!

We convert her schedule to a full day schedule, on a revised salary with a big jump. It’s not a very taxing schedule – D’s at her play school or sleeping most of the time, and I bathe and feed her. Meanwhile, I am waiting on milady, hand and foot, with breakfast and lunch served on a platter. I quell my misgivings about this seemingly one-sided arrangement, consoling myself that she’s looking after D. quite well.

As the days pass by, Neera seems to grow more silent and sullen. Though she is the same with li’l D, I sense rather than see the change in her. And then, the phone calls come. On holidays. Has she come to work today? Will she be coming? When will she come? I don’t really pay much attention to the calls; perhaps I should have. I don’t mention them to her either.

I give her a day off – I’m spending the day at my friend’s place. The next day she doesn’t show up – no call either. That’s a little unusual – she’s always very prompt at calling in when she’s going to absent herself. I mutter something to myself about unreliable domestic help, but it doesn’t really affect me. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s to be totally unfazed even if the domestic helpers don’t show up – I know I can manage quite well even without them, and that fact gives me confidence when dealing with them.

The call comes late in the night, two days later.

“Madam, there’s a tremendous fight going on in the house”. She is tight-lipped about it. “I will come to work on Thursday”.

Thursday comes and goes with no sign of her. A call again. Same minimal information. And then there’s a sudden uneasy quiet. I don’t hear from her at all for over a week.

Then the other calls begin to come. Where is she? Has she come to work today? I get irritated. Who is this, I ask. Her husband, is the reply.

My mind goes on overdrive. What’s going on here? I come up with a million storylines, all worse than C-grade movies.

Then one fine morning, I get her call again. She says she’s staying with her brother-in-law. She says it’s very far off, so she would like to quit work. And when can she come and collect her dues? Come tomorrow, I say.

The next morning, I get a call from her husband. He says they had a terrible fight. He says he didn’t want her to work late, but she insisted, saying she liked her job. He says she disappeared since, and he doesn’t know where to find her. I hesitate, strangely reluctant to give out any information about her. I tell him she hasn’t turned up for work for the past ten days. Lying by omission.

So here we are, she and I. Facing each other for what could possibly be the last time. I notice the freshly tinted vermillion thread around her neck, the sindoor at the parting of her hair, fresh flowers adorning her braid, a dozen new bangles clinking on each arm, and what definitely looks like a new green and beige silk saree. Good heavens, I think, rather taken aback! She certainly looks like a newly wed bride. Is it possible she’s eloped? It’s unthinkable, and interesting emotions churn through me.

She struggles to answer my question. Finally, she twists her bangles around unhappily, and says, without meeting my eyes…My husband was suspecting me, madam. He said I don’t do a regular job, I am working at a “guest house”, he did not want me to continue, so we had a terrible fight, and I left his home…

I wait, but she has finished what she wanted to say, and is waiting for me to hand over her money. I sigh, not knowing what to think, and give it to her. I don’t tell her about the phone calls either.

She takes it and walks away, without a backward glance, without saying thanks. What hurts most is that she does not mention D even once – she does not ask after the one who loved her so unconditionally. Perhaps she was hurting more.

As I write this, I wonder where she is and what she is doing now. What sort of life did she lead? Had things gotten so ugly that she had to leave her home? Or perhaps she has really run away with someone else, and started a new life somewhere else.

I get a call this evening also from her husband – she has still not gone home. There is a quiet desperation in his voice. I wonder what he thinks. Does he regret his words, and thoughts, and deeds? Or is he waiting to show her who’s boss? I wonder what he tells his little son, who wants his mommy. Will that son grow up with a core of resentment embedded in his heart? Will he be one of the juvenile delinquents who wind up in jail for years awaiting trial? Or will he be strong and conquer all odds?

A story - the ending of which I will never know.

* Name changed to protect identity [Gosh! I'm thrilled that I could use that line!]

Glass Half Empty

2004-10-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

Front page news about Anupam Kher being replaced as Censor Board chief.

Agreed, the Censor Board is mostly a redundant and archaiac concept in today's India, with everything that can be considered censor material, being beamed directly into our living rooms.

However, what irked me was the reason given. Apparently, Anupam Kher is a right-wing sympathizer and BJP supporter. And that's enough reason to give him the boot!!

It's slowly but surely that the UPA is now reversing practically every decision that the NDA implemented. When NDA was in power, the media were shouting themselves hoarse for any and every small misdemeanour. Now, they seem to be happy to wear blinkers and pretend that everything is hunky-dory.

I don't know about other cities in India, but I've seen Bangalore reduced to shambles after the general election. Roads are in an utter mess, flyovers are being delayed, the CET chaos simply refuses to be solved intelligently, the film industry is in limbo with activists taking the law into their own hands, and the latest is that the applicants to the Arkavathy layout sites now have to shell out extra as interest for no fault of theirs - it's due to the delay in settling the issues.

There was a headline in the supplement today - Where have all the sidewalks gone? - I wanted to laugh! Perhaps the writer should have first asked - Where have all the roads gone?!

The rest of Karnataka does not make a pretty sight either.

Meanwhile, people continue to live their lives as best they can - no amount of agitation or grievance-airing seems to make any difference. If the government had any iota of shame whatsoever, then things might just have been a little different!

At the national level, when the NDA was in power, there was some glimmer of hope, and one felt somewhat optimistic. In the opposition, however, the BJP is bumbling along hopelessly, without any sort of coherence, while the UPA, with its motley group, appears to be trying in vain to project a can-do image, while trying to camouflage the Leftist angle.

I am feeling very pessimistic about development in this country. I wish the resolution to this disagreeable state of affairs was as easy as creating a new blogspot and building a community around it!

The Quiet American

2004-10-12T10:49:00.000-07:00

In the midst of a suddenly and extremely frenetic life, I managed to enroll myself into a new DVD library that opened recently - Cinema Paradiso. Seemed to be a nice place and at first glance, appeared to have a pretty good collection, including World Cinema.

One of the movies we picked up was The Quiet American. I'm never one for war movies, and especially those with the backdrop of the Vietnam war. The only movie I remember having sat thru was Good Morning, Vietnam.

However, my attention was captured by the opening scenes of this movie itself. It starts with the death of an American, Pyle, and a British reporter Fowler, is called in to identify him.

Fowler, played to perfection by Michael Caine, is trying to prolong his stay at Vietnam, comfortable with his life and his Vietnamese girlfriend Phuong, who is a former taxi dancer. He comes into contact with Pyle, an American eye doctor, played by Brendan Fraser. Pyle falls in love with Phuong at first sight, and an interesting triangle ensues, with the politics of the Vietnam war interwoven skilfully into the tale.

Fowler's detachment disintegrates as the movie progresses, and he is drawn into making decisions that affect him personally. One unforgettable scene is when he tries to confront Pyle at his office, after losing Phuong to him. Pyle is not there, but Fowler makes a scene nevertheless, then locks himself in the men's room, and breaks down. A lovely line from his Vietnamese assistant goes something like: "Sooner or later, Mr. Fowler, one has to take sides if one has to remain human".

Pyle's clean and honest character slowly muddies as the story unravels his true identity. Brendan Fraser, whom I've seen before in such imbecile starrers as The Mummy and George of the Jungle, quite surprises, by turning in a real neat performance, with a mature and underplayed portrayal.

Do Thi Hai Yen's dignity, tranquility and expressive eyes, as Phuong, make complete, what I feel, is a casting coup.

It was a quiet and mature kind of movie - no over-dramatising or over-the-top heroics. The human interest angle was retained with a sense of detachment; emotions were very subtle; the war scenes were sparsely used, and shot in a subdued manner; the horrific explosion and its aftermath in Saigon were once again portrayed with a human touch.

It's based on the novel by Graham Greene which I haven't read, so I can't really say what's missing. The other interesting angle was that I watched the movie with little or no sound - only subtitles (as you can guess, I was watching it at real odd hours! :D). So, though I can't really comment on the background score (the subtitles had such gems as "omninous music sounding"!), the lack of sound did very little to detract the substance of the movie, which I felt, was very creditable.

All in all, it was a movie worth watching.

Actors and their Persona

2004-10-07T01:40:00.000-07:00

I was watching promos of Swades, where SRK is supposed to be a NASA scientist returning to India, and Veer-Zaraa, which is a partition-background flick.

It struck me that the persona of the actor overshadows the character he/she is playing so hugely, that it's simply difficult to ignore. It's perhaps a little premature to judge Swades, but the impression it left was that of SRK playing a NASA scientist, rather than a NASA scientist played by SRK.

Whether it's Bollywood or Hollywood, the ability to subordinate the actor's persona to the character being depicted, is probably the toughest to achieve. The actor needs to be almost transparent, or as blank as a canvas, to take on the texture of the character. The bigger the image of an actor as a superstar, the more this becomes impossible. It's very difficult to see Amitabh or Robert De Niro, not as themselves portraying some other characters.

We rarely get to see such portrayals in Bollywood. Even supporting actors carry their personal stamp on whichever character they portray. I think probably Anupam Kher is one of the few who can actually morph himself into a totally different character, keeping very little of his real self in view.

The last time I was completely surprised, was by Richard Roxburgh in Moulin Rouge. Perhaps it was because I had never seen the actor before, but when I saw him in an interview, I was completely blown away. He was so very different from the Duke he portrayed! I could hardly believe this was the same person indeed. Right from looks to mannerisms to diction - the metamorphosis was so complete!

...And then there's Paradise!

2004-10-04T22:47:00.000-07:00

Last night, at 11pm, I had a kulfi.
A kesar-pista, milky delight.
Every lick was a treat.
It tasted so deliciously yummy.
I slurped it all up - each cold rivulet pulsating on my tongue in an explosion of taste, and sliding down my throat!
Heaven on earth - that's what it was!

Freebie Hell!

2004-10-04T22:45:00.000-07:00

To the bright spark who invented "Buy x, Get y free!"

Be afraid, be very afraid! I shall hunt you down to the ends of the earth, and skin you alive very slowly and deliberately.

So you think you're very smart, eh? You think you're God's gift from heaven to companies.

Companies whose vision statements read like so:
"Make the entire universe consumers"

And their mission statements read like so:
"Spread out to the remotest corners of the universe, starting with Planet Earth, and convince/cajole/persuade/force/torture people into a state of abject consumerism".

So, you're thinking - hey! I got a win-win-win here! Companies are happy because their sales are up, since they've suckered more consumers into getting hooked on to their products; Consumers are happy because they feel they've got a good bargain; and I'm happy because I got a great promotion and a fat bonus, on which I can retire to an island in the Caribbean!

Wishful thinking, dearie!

I hold you personally accountable for the tons of junk that have accumulated in my home, and which is now overflowing into other apartment balconies. The association has sternly reprimanded me, and threatened me with, God forbid, house-arrest!

I also hold you personally accountable for the dirty dishes lying in the sink, the piles of unwashed laundry, and the cobwebs lying in the attic! If I was not so busy trying to figure out a place for everything, so that everything is in its place, I might have at least had the time to clean up!

At last freebie count, I have 17 glasses, 5 tubes of toothpaste, 4 plastic boxes, 2 towel hangers, 3 baby mugs, 2 baby books, 3 toothbrushes, 2 steel bowls, 5 packs of papad, 3 packets of Tang-like stuff, 15 small satchets of tomato sauce, 4 cakes of soap... I feel like the modern Noah, with my laden ark!

So, I'm coming after you - I've had it with this freebie stuff! Just because you manufacture thoughtlessly, doesn't mean you can dump it on us without so much as a by-your-leave!

Run, dearie, run!

Gentle Persuasion

2004-10-01T05:08:00.000-07:00

Read my new poem here.

The Evil Eye (aka Drishti)

2004-09-30T04:15:00.000-07:00

Li’l D. fell in the park on Saturday. Not once, but twice. She ended up with a big series of scratches on her knee. She whimpered when I cleaned the bruise, and then went around displaying it with suitable misery to anyone who looked a little likely to sympathize with her.

Then, two days ago, there was a knock on the door, during a very unlikely-to-be-visitors hour in the evening. I opened the door, and was greeted by a bloody sight. Li’l D. had fallen on her face, and bruised her forehead, nose, and the area just above her lips. She sat quietly in shock, carried by her inconsolably stricken nanny.

For some reason, I didn’t fly into hysterics or turn into a blubbering mass of tears. I sent the nanny out to buy a medically proven antiseptic cream, while I cleaned D.’s bruises, and comforted her by hugging her close. Li’l D. braved the clean-up and the application of the cream with barely a murmur.

I then called up my mom – was there anything else I could do? To my relief, I had taken all the right steps. Except one. I think the kid has been targeted by the Evil Eye, mom said. You need to perform the counteractive measures. I listened silently, remembering the numerous times she used to ward off the Evil Eye – a handful of broomsticks were waved in all four directions, whilst a little incantation was chanted, and then the bundle was placed behind a doorway and lit. The higher the blaze, the louder the crackling - the more was the Evil Eye effect. When the flames had died down, a bit of the soot would be applied to our foreheads, hands and feet.

My dad took over – you never keep the black dot on her cheek or forehead to ward off the Evil Eye, that’s why these kind of things happen to the poor li’l girl. I continued listening silently.

My sister called – you know, you should take a handful of chillies and salt, wave it around the child, spit into it three times, and then without looking, dump it into the trash can. Again, I listened silently.

My other sister called – the best way is as soon as DH comes home, take his left shoe, wave it clock-wise thrice, and anti-clockwise thrice, around D. and then tap it thrice on the floor. All the Evil Eye effects will simply vanish. I was quiet during this part of the conversation.

I was exchanging notes with the nanny – li’l D. had not slept properly the whole night – she had not eaten also properly. The nanny was pretty sure – it was the Evil Eye – kids behaved like this when they were under the influence of the Evil Eye. I just listened quietly.

It’s difficult not to yield to such persuasion. I wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing, and putting the welfare of li’l D. in jeopardy. But I simply cannot bring myself to do things which have no apparent meaning or connection, and which to me, appear to be pure superstition. It troubles me, and several times, my resolve weakens – maybe I should just yield and do what they all say. Perhaps I’m being foolishly obstinate, but I simply cannot do it. Sorry, li’l D.

Weapon of Nap Destruction!

2004-09-29T04:05:00.000-07:00

The persistent sound drags me out of my slumber like a bucket drawn out of a well. Through the mists of my befuddled grogginess, I can see the face of my cell phone blink luminously, like a lighthouse in a fog. I have been literally dragged away from a most engrossing scene in my dream.

It’s a wedding feast, and a kid comes screaming, “Mom! Mom! They are serving chicken pox fish!”

I’m a vegetarian, and gladly notice that there are whole, greyish-purple fish, with distinct cross-tiled markings on them, heaped on the banana leaves. I am so happy I don’t have to eat in this blasted place! I try to make my way out, which involves getting down from a precariously high, dark-red fence. (My dreams always make it incredibly hard to leave!)

I run into my old Mallu school-mate – the one with a fantastic sense of humour, and I’m trying to explain something to her - only I’m laughing so hard, that tears are streaming down my face!

I’m thinking – I can understand if they want us to climb these before the meal – the desperation of hunger would force us over, anyway! But, after the meal? What were they thinking? I am slowly collapsing with laughter, holding onto the fence for dear life, while my silk sari settles around me…

The foghorn keeps sounding, and the human body is simply amazing – I stumble through the room and actually reach for my phone. It shows “Private Number” on the display, and I answer it, thoroughly confused about this.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ma’am. I’m calling from the telephone company. (Pause). We are offering a number as a service. If you dial the number..are you still there, ma’am?”

“Yes”. The brain is begin to splutter with life and is getting increasingly indignant about the intrusion through the Do Not Disturb sign.

“We’re offering this service, ma’am. If you dial this number, you can get music instead of your ring-tone. Would you be interested in this, ma’am?”

“No!”. By now, the danger levels of indignation are being reached, and the alarm bells are close to ringing out loud.

“No, ma’am?” Her incredulous, slightly injured tone suggests that I am the first neanderthal to actually reject this “next-best-thing-to-sliced-bread” offer, point-blank .

“NO!” The full blast of vehemence has undoubtedly tunneled through to her.

“Ok, thank you, ma’am!”

The mists of sleep have now lifted and have been replaced by storms of fury. I glare at the innocent-looking cell phone, and suppress the urge to hurl it out of something, somewhere!

It reminds me of a Blondie cartoon, which goes something like this –
Dagwood receives a call:
Have you enrolled yourself in the xyz service, so that you don’t get disturbed by telemarketers?
Yes.
Ok, terribly sorry, but while I have you on the phone….