Here's two I grew earlier.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Grown My Own
We've started growing vegetables in the garden - carrots, cabbages, courgettes, tomatoes, cucumbers, marrows, pumpkins, aubergines, cauliflowers, strawberries, peppers, chillis, garlic and leeks. On my window sill sit pots and pots of compost with all kinds of plants that I've been trying to grow. I see a seed on my spice rack and I want to scatter them on a bed of soil and see what happens. I have plunged tamarind seeds into old yogurt pots. Fennel seeds should be sprouting any day soon. Even the old mung bean has not been spared. There wasn't enough for our Sunday sundal. Can't you see, I have only just sown the channa? I demand.
Here's two I grew earlier.
Here's two I grew earlier.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
A quick tale 227
Somethings Never Change
We spent much of our growing years together. Our mothers were sisters and his family lived in the next street. We were almost the same age and went to the same school. I was taller than him but he started shaving long before I did. I introduced him to cigarettes and he would smuggle cold beer bottles to our terrace on warm summer nights. I don’t remember a day when Vaithi did not come by our house. He usually came straight from school and would stay back until late. He was a permanent fixture of my childhood and adolescence.
It must have been sometime after we left school that we started to drift apart. Vaithi went to Vellore to study engineering and I studied at our local arts college. He would come home during holidays but didn’t come by our house as often he used to. He had discovered books and movies and I had started to work at my father’s pharmacy during holidays. During the second year of college his father passed away and his whole family moved to Madras.
These days he lives in America doing something important in computers and I've remained in our hometown. So I was surprised to hear from him the other day. It seems he was here on vacation and wanted to know if he could visit me. “Ada, since when did you start seeking permission to come to our house?”, I told him over the phone.
He had put on weight since I last saw him and had started wearing glasses. “This is where we used to play cricket”, he said pointing the street corner out to his wife. “This is where we would sit and read our books in summer”, he said sliding on to the old swing which groaned under his unfamiliar weight. “And this is where I learnt to ride a bike. Ah, I can't tell you how many mangoes we've had from this tree. Still here…the old tree”, he said patting its trunk like it was an old dog.
“Yes, things don't change much around here'”, I said. Immediately annoyed at how defensive I sounded. “Shall we have lunch?” I asked wanting to change the topic. “Everything has been hygienically prepared. Even the water has been boiled twice and cooled. So you need not worry about an upset stomach. It must be very clean where you live. Not like how it is here...”, I said as we sat down to eat.
“Of course, of course...”, he said a little too quickly. But I noticed that he never touched the water and ate very little of the food. After lunch, our wives went into the kitchen to clear up and we stretched out in the front veranda. We talked about some of our old friends. He told me about his present life. I wanted to ask him a lot about his life abroad. But instead I let him do the talking.
“Do you know what happened to Sharada?”, he asked me eventually. His tone carefully casual. I shrugged my shoulder. It had to come up some time. “She now lives somewhere in Bombay or Delhi”, I said watching his face for any change of expression. “I see her mother at the temple sometimes”. His face did not betray any emotion.
"Married?"
"Hmm…two children, I think. Her husband’s a General Manager or something big in a multinational company."
We both grow silent for a long time.
Sharada was our junior in school. Dark with a slightly crooked nose. She looked a little bit like actress Sumalatha. But really, she just looked like herself. When we were in the 11th standard, Vaithi confessed to me that he wanted to marry her. Apparently, he had proposed to her during lunch period the previous day and she had accepted it. I could hardly believe my ears. For a long time I had set my eyes on Sharada and was going to propose to her myself. The bastard had beat me to it.
I asked him what he intended to do next without appearing to be too curious. It seems they were planning to get married in secret the following Sunday at a temple and wait until they were both 18 before running away from home. “Dei Vaithi”, I cautioned him, “all this is too much. You have to be careful. Otherwise…”
“Poda”, he cut me off, “nobody would know. In any case, we have to wait until we’re both majors. And that won’t be for another two years.”
It was easy for me to find Sharada’s father. He ran the mess opposite the Pillayar temple. That evening when I told him about his daughter’s plan for the following Sunday, he let me off without paying for my dosai and coffee. I don’t really know what happened to Sharada after that. But the next time I saw her was about 7 years later when she came to her mother’s house six months pregnant with her first child.
“We must leave before it gets too dark”, Vaithi said getting up, “we have a long journey back. And we have some last minute shopping to do.” He invited me to come visit him in America. And I told him that I’ve already started buying lottery tickets. Before he left that evening, he thrust 500 rupees in my hand. He said he had not had any time for gifts and that I should buy the children something with it. I gave it away it to an orphanage the next day.
We spent much of our growing years together. Our mothers were sisters and his family lived in the next street. We were almost the same age and went to the same school. I was taller than him but he started shaving long before I did. I introduced him to cigarettes and he would smuggle cold beer bottles to our terrace on warm summer nights. I don’t remember a day when Vaithi did not come by our house. He usually came straight from school and would stay back until late. He was a permanent fixture of my childhood and adolescence.
It must have been sometime after we left school that we started to drift apart. Vaithi went to Vellore to study engineering and I studied at our local arts college. He would come home during holidays but didn’t come by our house as often he used to. He had discovered books and movies and I had started to work at my father’s pharmacy during holidays. During the second year of college his father passed away and his whole family moved to Madras.
These days he lives in America doing something important in computers and I've remained in our hometown. So I was surprised to hear from him the other day. It seems he was here on vacation and wanted to know if he could visit me. “Ada, since when did you start seeking permission to come to our house?”, I told him over the phone.
He had put on weight since I last saw him and had started wearing glasses. “This is where we used to play cricket”, he said pointing the street corner out to his wife. “This is where we would sit and read our books in summer”, he said sliding on to the old swing which groaned under his unfamiliar weight. “And this is where I learnt to ride a bike. Ah, I can't tell you how many mangoes we've had from this tree. Still here…the old tree”, he said patting its trunk like it was an old dog.
“Yes, things don't change much around here'”, I said. Immediately annoyed at how defensive I sounded. “Shall we have lunch?” I asked wanting to change the topic. “Everything has been hygienically prepared. Even the water has been boiled twice and cooled. So you need not worry about an upset stomach. It must be very clean where you live. Not like how it is here...”, I said as we sat down to eat.
“Of course, of course...”, he said a little too quickly. But I noticed that he never touched the water and ate very little of the food. After lunch, our wives went into the kitchen to clear up and we stretched out in the front veranda. We talked about some of our old friends. He told me about his present life. I wanted to ask him a lot about his life abroad. But instead I let him do the talking.
“Do you know what happened to Sharada?”, he asked me eventually. His tone carefully casual. I shrugged my shoulder. It had to come up some time. “She now lives somewhere in Bombay or Delhi”, I said watching his face for any change of expression. “I see her mother at the temple sometimes”. His face did not betray any emotion.
"Married?"
"Hmm…two children, I think. Her husband’s a General Manager or something big in a multinational company."
We both grow silent for a long time.
Sharada was our junior in school. Dark with a slightly crooked nose. She looked a little bit like actress Sumalatha. But really, she just looked like herself. When we were in the 11th standard, Vaithi confessed to me that he wanted to marry her. Apparently, he had proposed to her during lunch period the previous day and she had accepted it. I could hardly believe my ears. For a long time I had set my eyes on Sharada and was going to propose to her myself. The bastard had beat me to it.
I asked him what he intended to do next without appearing to be too curious. It seems they were planning to get married in secret the following Sunday at a temple and wait until they were both 18 before running away from home. “Dei Vaithi”, I cautioned him, “all this is too much. You have to be careful. Otherwise…”
“Poda”, he cut me off, “nobody would know. In any case, we have to wait until we’re both majors. And that won’t be for another two years.”
It was easy for me to find Sharada’s father. He ran the mess opposite the Pillayar temple. That evening when I told him about his daughter’s plan for the following Sunday, he let me off without paying for my dosai and coffee. I don’t really know what happened to Sharada after that. But the next time I saw her was about 7 years later when she came to her mother’s house six months pregnant with her first child.
“We must leave before it gets too dark”, Vaithi said getting up, “we have a long journey back. And we have some last minute shopping to do.” He invited me to come visit him in America. And I told him that I’ve already started buying lottery tickets. Before he left that evening, he thrust 500 rupees in my hand. He said he had not had any time for gifts and that I should buy the children something with it. I gave it away it to an orphanage the next day.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Memories of food - Milk Biscuits
(image courtesy - www.adelanwar.com)
I am ten years old and being sent away to spend my summer holidays with an aunt in Bombay. Somewhere in my luggage are 5 or 6 packets of Britania Milk Biscuits. My aunt has specifically requested for them. Milk Bikis are not yet available in Bombay and somehow Parle G is not quite the same. It's a long train journey and it takes all my will power to keep from me raiding the bag. But by the time we reach Pune, I can no longer resist the call of Milk Bikis. To hell with it, I think to myself, I'll just tell her the railway rats got it. I grab the bag I know contains the packets and plunge my hand into it. But inside I find a smaller cloth bag. And this one has its mouth sewn shut. The witch! I dare not rip the bag open because that would be a step too far. Instead I sulk to a corner seat and hope that I will at least get some crumbs.
It's been two days since we arrived. The biscuits have disappeared into the kitchen. But I have a good idea where they may be kept hidden. The afternoons stretch interminably and there's only one thing to do. I wait until I hear the snores from the bedroom and tiptoe to the kitchen. The shelves are groaning under the weight of dalda tins and grime-stained plastic boxes. I feel like a child in a sweet shop. Heck, I am a child and so on. I must make a quick move. I wildly grab the first box I see. Some kind of flour speckled with scurrying insects. The next few boxes reveal a variety of wildlife with random cooking ingredients thrown in. But I strike lucky by the time I reach the top shelf. I cautionary shake of the box reveals an unmistakable thud-thud. I open to find a half-eaten pack of my beloved Milk Biscuits. I hear movement outside. I have to hurry. I snatch a couple of biscuits, shove them into my skirt pocket, replace the box and saunter out of the kitchen casually.Just having a drink of water, I call out to no one in particular, and now going to the toilet. I bolt the toilet door secure and reach for my stash of booty. Tears spring to my eyes and I muffle the scream of joy that threatens to escape my mouth at the sight of the biscuits. I sink my teeth into a small corner. And in that instant, the rest of the world falls away. It's just me and the biscuit. I want to savour this experience for as long as possible. But someone outside is wondering what's taking me so long. Reluctantly, I shove the biscuits into my mouth, chomping on them as quickly as possible. It's all a bit too rushed for my liking. But I cannot risk being found out. Tomorrow afternoon, I promise myself, tomorrow.
On Murukku, Elandampazham, Milkmaid, Maggi & Idli
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Seems like yesterday
It's been five years since I ran the London Marathon. It's something I never fail to bring up, even in a casual conversation which might go like this.
You: Nice day, isn't it?
Me: Yes, a most pleasant day to go running.
You: Yes, did you hear about what happened to that ship that was attacked by pirates?
Me: Pirates? Bet they never go running.
You: They threatened to kill all on board if they weren't paid a ransom.
Me: And if they are killed, they can certainly never go running. Did I tell you about the time I ran the London Marathon and someone came dressed as a pirate?
As you probably guessed, I'm darned proud of having run the 26.2 mile course. Here are some pics. (Rest assured I will do the same year after year. Write about my day of glory that is, not run)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
25 Random things about me
It's one of those tags that never came my way. Still, here goes.
1. My name has always been no.1 in the school attendance register.
2. My name is usually the first on mobile phones. And I get a lot of calls from kids who happen to be playing with the mobile. Usually at 3 in the morning.
3. I share my birthday with my father.
4. I rarely wear anything blue.
5. I ran the London Marathon five years ago.
6. I get annoyed when people say they ran the Mumbai Marathon but omit to add that they ran the half-marathon distance.
7. Recently, I was surprised to learn that I am a shoe size bigger than I'd previously thought.
8. I have two sons. Both of them are boys.
9. I once auditioned for Countdown on Channel 4.
10. Routines tire me.
11. I had never ironed a shirt until I came to the UK.
12. I dreamt of my firstborn's name.
13. I am terribly ambitious.
14. Some days, for no apparent reason, I get a big buzz just waking up in the morning and then want to go climb Everest before breakfast.
15. I crib every single day about cooking.
16. If I could make one thing disappear from this world, it would be cooking.
17. I am a very slow reader.
18. I'm good with cryptic crosswords and positively brilliant with jumbled words.
19. I have two other names - Meenakshi and Rama.
20. I am very undecided when it comes to religion.
21. I absolutely hate travelling by bus in India.
22. I envy anyone who studied beyond the basic graduation. I never did.
23. I have worn my hair short for the best part of the last 20 years.
24. I have dimples on either cheek (on the face, since you ask).
25. If you gave me maa-ladoo, I will be your slave for life.
If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged.
1. My name has always been no.1 in the school attendance register.
2. My name is usually the first on mobile phones. And I get a lot of calls from kids who happen to be playing with the mobile. Usually at 3 in the morning.
3. I share my birthday with my father.
4. I rarely wear anything blue.
5. I ran the London Marathon five years ago.
6. I get annoyed when people say they ran the Mumbai Marathon but omit to add that they ran the half-marathon distance.
7. Recently, I was surprised to learn that I am a shoe size bigger than I'd previously thought.
8. I have two sons. Both of them are boys.
9. I once auditioned for Countdown on Channel 4.
10. Routines tire me.
11. I had never ironed a shirt until I came to the UK.
12. I dreamt of my firstborn's name.
13. I am terribly ambitious.
14. Some days, for no apparent reason, I get a big buzz just waking up in the morning and then want to go climb Everest before breakfast.
15. I crib every single day about cooking.
16. If I could make one thing disappear from this world, it would be cooking.
17. I am a very slow reader.
18. I'm good with cryptic crosswords and positively brilliant with jumbled words.
19. I have two other names - Meenakshi and Rama.
20. I am very undecided when it comes to religion.
21. I absolutely hate travelling by bus in India.
22. I envy anyone who studied beyond the basic graduation. I never did.
23. I have worn my hair short for the best part of the last 20 years.
24. I have dimples on either cheek (on the face, since you ask).
25. If you gave me maa-ladoo, I will be your slave for life.
If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged.
Memories of food - Murukku & a Paati who made them
I don't know what made me think of her. It is quite possible that it was the sight of the still half-full packet of murukku on the top shelf that triggered the memory. Long before Grand Sweets and Snacks took over the murukkus of the world, there was murukku paati. I don't think she had ever been murukku-young girl or murukku-lady before she became the grandmother who squeezed out the best murukkus out of the mould. She was nobody's grandmother in particular and yet everyone in the neighbourhood called her paati.
Paati was a widow and she wore a widow's garb of pale pink cotton 9-yards saree. Her head was shaved and she wore no blouse. When she sat down, her pendulous breasts would rest on the folds of her stomach like a well-fed cat on his owner's lap on a Saturday afternoon. Snug, settled and unrushed.
I do not remember her face very well. But when I think of her, I can see her holding a large mould filled with murukku dough and squeezing it over a vat of boiling hot oil. She would then sit back and using the long end of an iron ladle move it around so that the murukku rounds didn't stick to each other or to the bottom of the pan as they tended to.
I think Murukku paati lived alone in a small room. I have vague recollections of being sent to fetch her once and I remember finding her hunched over a kerosene stove stirring something. Perhaps she really lived in a bustling joint family where three generations lived under one roof. But some how the image of her lonely self cooking a meal-for-one, seems to stick to my mind.
Paati passed away when I was about 10 or so after a brief battle with breast cancer. Someone said she must have developed cancer from inhaling wood smoke for all those years. We must've clicked our tongues in sympathy when we heard the news. Paavam paati, someone would have remarked, she made such wonderful murukkus. The mention of murukku would have prompted someone else to wonder who would take over from paati. And in all likelihood, conversation would have veered towards the direction of finding a worthy successor to paati.
I look up at the shelf with its murukku packet. I reach for it. It tastes stale. The crispiness has long given way to a soft sponginess which feels alien in a murukku. It eat it anyway. It seems such a shame to let it go waste.
On Elandampazham, Milkmaid, maggi & idli
Paati was a widow and she wore a widow's garb of pale pink cotton 9-yards saree. Her head was shaved and she wore no blouse. When she sat down, her pendulous breasts would rest on the folds of her stomach like a well-fed cat on his owner's lap on a Saturday afternoon. Snug, settled and unrushed.
I do not remember her face very well. But when I think of her, I can see her holding a large mould filled with murukku dough and squeezing it over a vat of boiling hot oil. She would then sit back and using the long end of an iron ladle move it around so that the murukku rounds didn't stick to each other or to the bottom of the pan as they tended to.
I think Murukku paati lived alone in a small room. I have vague recollections of being sent to fetch her once and I remember finding her hunched over a kerosene stove stirring something. Perhaps she really lived in a bustling joint family where three generations lived under one roof. But some how the image of her lonely self cooking a meal-for-one, seems to stick to my mind.
Paati passed away when I was about 10 or so after a brief battle with breast cancer. Someone said she must have developed cancer from inhaling wood smoke for all those years. We must've clicked our tongues in sympathy when we heard the news. Paavam paati, someone would have remarked, she made such wonderful murukkus. The mention of murukku would have prompted someone else to wonder who would take over from paati. And in all likelihood, conversation would have veered towards the direction of finding a worthy successor to paati.
I look up at the shelf with its murukku packet. I reach for it. It tastes stale. The crispiness has long given way to a soft sponginess which feels alien in a murukku. It eat it anyway. It seems such a shame to let it go waste.
On Elandampazham, Milkmaid, maggi & idli
Origami Abhirami
I want to spend an afternoon with a few friends folding paper. Hands up if you are interested.
p.s. Ahiri, there will be a place marked for you on the table. In case you wish to join us.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Around The World - A Tag
I look around me. There's torn paper all over the floor waiting to be tidied up. There's also a sinkful of dirty dishes to be washed. Lunch to be cooked, nappies to be changed. I have yet to glance at the day's newspaper and my cup of tea has grown a thin layer of cream on top. But I want to sit here and sink further into the sofa. I don't want to disturb the chaos. I no longer wish order around my household. I'm still in my pyjamas as I settle down to respond to a tag from the wonderful Sur (I'm still waiting for your phone call). I'm supposed to write five things I love about being a mother.
1. I love the fact that I no longer need to appear civil in public. I can go to the supermarket looking like I've just spent an hour inside a tumble dryer along with bottles of jams and pickles and sauces and I'm likely to get sympathetic nods from fellow travellers.
2. I'm glad that I no longer need to bother with cosmetics or anti-ageing creams. The frowns that furrow my forehead and the bags that support my eyes cannot be undone by creams and potions created to ease lines caused by problems less vexing and milder than children.
3. Motherhood means that I no longer have to pretend to be well-read. I've dropped out of this rat race where people want to out-read others and clock up books in the same way as some of us clock up frown lines (read above). I'm no longer plagued by the fear that life being so short and all, I might never get to read all the books there are to be read and what with a book being published every other minute or so, I may never get to read enough unless I get started now or there will never be hope for me.
There are days when I couldn't be arsed to read. Because I'm so tired that my eyelids feel like they are cast out of lead. And it's fine.
4. I'm decidedly thrilled that as a mother, I'm no longer visible. Ads don't talk to me (unless they are for baby food or nappies or head lice shampoo). Fashion ignores me (who creates trendy clothes for plus-sized mothers-of-twos?). Songs don't appeal to me (yet another song about eternal love/maternal love/justplainlove? Yawn). TV tires me (where do I begin?). So basically, I'm unhinged and unobserved. I am not a demographic that interests anyone and I can wear my hair purple and roam around in kaftan for all I care. And no one would notice.
5. It's great that motherhood has drained me of all energy. I'm so tired, so tiringly tired. So tired of being so tired. So tired of being so tired of being tired. Most of the time. All of the time. Exhaustingly, achingly, overwhelmingly. Tired.
And then there are days like this morning. When I was being pinned to the mattress by two little bodies. And we are a jumble of flailing limbs and heads. We are suddenly cast adrift in the middle of Indian Ocean and we have to cling to each other for survival. We are in the middle of a snowstorm atop Mount Everest and we need each other to keep ourselves warm, alive. We are champion wrestlers in a tangle for an Olympic gold medal. We grapple and grasp. We toss about until we are worn out. And then my two boys sit on my stomach and bounce about announcing victory. I close my eyes, roll my head and pretend I'm dead. Knowing what happiness feels like.
p.s. Rules of the tag here. I hereby tag - Bhaamini (India), Prema (UK), Umm Oviya (Qatar), Deepa (US), Teesu (India) and anyone else who feels like it.
1. I love the fact that I no longer need to appear civil in public. I can go to the supermarket looking like I've just spent an hour inside a tumble dryer along with bottles of jams and pickles and sauces and I'm likely to get sympathetic nods from fellow travellers.
2. I'm glad that I no longer need to bother with cosmetics or anti-ageing creams. The frowns that furrow my forehead and the bags that support my eyes cannot be undone by creams and potions created to ease lines caused by problems less vexing and milder than children.
3. Motherhood means that I no longer have to pretend to be well-read. I've dropped out of this rat race where people want to out-read others and clock up books in the same way as some of us clock up frown lines (read above). I'm no longer plagued by the fear that life being so short and all, I might never get to read all the books there are to be read and what with a book being published every other minute or so, I may never get to read enough unless I get started now or there will never be hope for me.
There are days when I couldn't be arsed to read. Because I'm so tired that my eyelids feel like they are cast out of lead. And it's fine.
4. I'm decidedly thrilled that as a mother, I'm no longer visible. Ads don't talk to me (unless they are for baby food or nappies or head lice shampoo). Fashion ignores me (who creates trendy clothes for plus-sized mothers-of-twos?). Songs don't appeal to me (yet another song about eternal love/maternal love/justplainlove? Yawn). TV tires me (where do I begin?). So basically, I'm unhinged and unobserved. I am not a demographic that interests anyone and I can wear my hair purple and roam around in kaftan for all I care. And no one would notice.
5. It's great that motherhood has drained me of all energy. I'm so tired, so tiringly tired. So tired of being so tired. So tired of being so tired of being tired. Most of the time. All of the time. Exhaustingly, achingly, overwhelmingly. Tired.
And then there are days like this morning. When I was being pinned to the mattress by two little bodies. And we are a jumble of flailing limbs and heads. We are suddenly cast adrift in the middle of Indian Ocean and we have to cling to each other for survival. We are in the middle of a snowstorm atop Mount Everest and we need each other to keep ourselves warm, alive. We are champion wrestlers in a tangle for an Olympic gold medal. We grapple and grasp. We toss about until we are worn out. And then my two boys sit on my stomach and bounce about announcing victory. I close my eyes, roll my head and pretend I'm dead. Knowing what happiness feels like.
p.s. Rules of the tag here. I hereby tag - Bhaamini (India), Prema (UK), Umm Oviya (Qatar), Deepa (US), Teesu (India) and anyone else who feels like it.
A quick tale 226
The alternative is unthinkable
This is not the sort of dilemma you have in mind when you are filling in a job application. My application pack asked me questions about where I studied and what marks I got in my graduation. There was nothing about how I would handle a situation like this. But then of course, you cannot always prepare for every eventuality. Each day I come to work, I come in the secure knowledge that so many hundreds of lives depend on me. That if I mess up even the slightest, not carry out my checks thoroughly, not probe that little bit extra, there could be trouble ahead. But you don't always think about all this when you are at your job. Like when I'm on duty, checking passengers before they board, running the metal detector across their body, dabbing my hands all over their person (strictly for reasons of security) and poking suspicious bulges, just to be sure. I rarely make eye contact with the passengers as I go about my work. I just ask them to head this way, guiding them to a curtained area where I carry out my checks. I try to get it over and done with as quickly and as efficiently as possible. We both know why we are there and I try not to prolong the awkwardness. But at the same time I don't rush things and leave room for error.
But this morning, I was caught offguard when I saw my father-in-law standing in the queue for the security check. Why didn't she tell me about it? What do I do now? Quick! WHAT DO I DO? And before I knew it, he had moved up the queue and was standing right in front of me . Oh hello, how are you? Yes, the flight has been delayed. It should be leaving shortly. Yes, you are looking well too. No, no, I don't want to check you. Don't worry I won't be running my hands down your legs and poking it up your crotch. You may rest assured. I trust you packed your suitcase yourself. Great! Have a safe journey!
This is not the sort of dilemma you have in mind when you are filling in a job application. My application pack asked me questions about where I studied and what marks I got in my graduation. There was nothing about how I would handle a situation like this. But then of course, you cannot always prepare for every eventuality. Each day I come to work, I come in the secure knowledge that so many hundreds of lives depend on me. That if I mess up even the slightest, not carry out my checks thoroughly, not probe that little bit extra, there could be trouble ahead. But you don't always think about all this when you are at your job. Like when I'm on duty, checking passengers before they board, running the metal detector across their body, dabbing my hands all over their person (strictly for reasons of security) and poking suspicious bulges, just to be sure. I rarely make eye contact with the passengers as I go about my work. I just ask them to head this way, guiding them to a curtained area where I carry out my checks. I try to get it over and done with as quickly and as efficiently as possible. We both know why we are there and I try not to prolong the awkwardness. But at the same time I don't rush things and leave room for error.
But this morning, I was caught offguard when I saw my father-in-law standing in the queue for the security check. Why didn't she tell me about it? What do I do now? Quick! WHAT DO I DO? And before I knew it, he had moved up the queue and was standing right in front of me . Oh hello, how are you? Yes, the flight has been delayed. It should be leaving shortly. Yes, you are looking well too. No, no, I don't want to check you. Don't worry I won't be running my hands down your legs and poking it up your crotch. You may rest assured. I trust you packed your suitcase yourself. Great! Have a safe journey!
Rock, Hard Rock and Me 2
When I was in the 6th standard or so, I saw my school seniors practising a dance routine. The tune was catchy and I wanted to know more. But when I drew close to the stage, I realised with shock that the chorus sounded distinctly like 'Peede...peede'. Why would anyone choose a song with abusive words in them? And worse, they were going to dance to it? With teachers watching and parents cheering on? Didn't these girls have no shame? Don't they risk being called peedais themselves? But I kept my anxiety to myself and it wasn't until much later that I learnt that the song was actually 'Beat it'.
But finding out the song didn't actually make me go 'A-ha! I get it now'. I was further confounded with a series of even more perplexing questions. Beat what? Beat whom? Why beat? These mysteries have remained unresolved since and I suspect I will take them with me when I go. I don't wrestle with serious existential questions. My demands are far less exacting. I simply would like answers to great pop posers like 'Should I stay or should I go?', 'Do you really want to hurt me?' and 'Who let the dogs out?'.
(more later)
But finding out the song didn't actually make me go 'A-ha! I get it now'. I was further confounded with a series of even more perplexing questions. Beat what? Beat whom? Why beat? These mysteries have remained unresolved since and I suspect I will take them with me when I go. I don't wrestle with serious existential questions. My demands are far less exacting. I simply would like answers to great pop posers like 'Should I stay or should I go?', 'Do you really want to hurt me?' and 'Who let the dogs out?'.
(more later)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Rock, Hard Rock and Me
I envy anyone who knows their pop from their rock from their jazz. I positively glow with jealousy whenever I hear someone say how they grew up listening to Joan Baez or Bob Dylan. Me, I have not a chance in hell when it comes to English music of any genre. I wouldn't know Bob Dylan if he fell on me and broke my neck (that I wouldn't be alive to recognise him as such is immaterial here). When I was young, only the seriously hip and the ones who had sold their soul to the devil listened to English music.
For a long time, the only pop musician I knew was Michael Jackson. Though I wasn't sure if he really sang in English as I could barely follow what little I heard of his songs. The husband recently told me that there were heated debates in his school over Jacko's gender. With over half of his class convinced that he was a woman!
Back then one of my uncles used to have LPs of Osibisa, ABBA and Boney M and he would play them on his record player and we would dance around feeling utterly cool. But once he got married and moved out, he took his player with him and we went back to listening to Sharon Prabhakar on Pop Time on Doordarshan. Some years later, we managed to get a few VHS tapes of Top of Pop shows recorded in Dubai. And I must have played until I knew every syllable by heart. During that time I felt, albeit briefly, invincible and absolutely on top of the charts.
Until one day a second cousin I had never met before landed from Delhi. My father, anxious to show off, told his niece that I listened to a lot of English music and encouraged her to talk to me about it. So, began this girl who couldn't have been more a than a couple of years my senior, what sort of music do you like? Pop? Rock? Metal? My jaw dropped. There were so many varieties of English music? How come no one ever told me about it? I decided to play it safe and told her instead that I listened to "just plain English songs". Fair to say that we didn't have much to say to each other the rest of the afternoon.
(more later)
For a long time, the only pop musician I knew was Michael Jackson. Though I wasn't sure if he really sang in English as I could barely follow what little I heard of his songs. The husband recently told me that there were heated debates in his school over Jacko's gender. With over half of his class convinced that he was a woman!
Back then one of my uncles used to have LPs of Osibisa, ABBA and Boney M and he would play them on his record player and we would dance around feeling utterly cool. But once he got married and moved out, he took his player with him and we went back to listening to Sharon Prabhakar on Pop Time on Doordarshan. Some years later, we managed to get a few VHS tapes of Top of Pop shows recorded in Dubai. And I must have played until I knew every syllable by heart. During that time I felt, albeit briefly, invincible and absolutely on top of the charts.
Until one day a second cousin I had never met before landed from Delhi. My father, anxious to show off, told his niece that I listened to a lot of English music and encouraged her to talk to me about it. So, began this girl who couldn't have been more a than a couple of years my senior, what sort of music do you like? Pop? Rock? Metal? My jaw dropped. There were so many varieties of English music? How come no one ever told me about it? I decided to play it safe and told her instead that I listened to "just plain English songs". Fair to say that we didn't have much to say to each other the rest of the afternoon.
(more later)
Friday, April 10, 2009
Is it just me...
...or does any one else find the new Persil 'What's a mum?' advert irritating?
I guess Persil would never notice the loss of a potential customer.
I guess Persil would never notice the loss of a potential customer.
Food for thought
I love a good food blog. I love spending hours looking at all the wonderful pictures, so painstaking in their effort that it hurts to think that these bloggers are doing it for no reason other than the love of it. There's a variety of recipes, all presented ever so professionally. A drizzle here, a coriander sprig artfully tucked there. They also makes me acutely aware of my shortcomings. Admittedly, I had my own food blog for a while before I surrendered to my incompetence. For I can never, in a million years do dainty drizzles. Unless I happen to spill some by mistake. My food is chaotic. Served in mismatched bowls. With not a napkin in sight. At home we eat food with our hands, often messily. And when it's good, we lick, slurp and devour it with abandon. With an energy best left for the passions of reunited young lovers who have been apart for a year.
I go back to the food blogs and I see such a lot of quest for perfection. There is none of the burnt pans and runny cakes and stodgy upmas that plague my kitchen. Perhaps their food really does get served like that everyday. Even when when their mothers come around for lunch. Perhaps there will be a little assortment of kichchdis and pachchdis in delicate china bowls all seated carefully like school children arranged according to their height in class photographs. My mother would have a fit if I served her food like that. What's this? she would demand sneeringly, all fancy-pancy nonsense? Get me something real to eat. And I would oblige her willingly.
Browsing some of the popular food blogs, I am reminded of a friend's extremely pretty mother. So pretty in fact that she was a bit scary. There was none of the comforting folds of fat and rough-and-ready look that I had come to associate with mothers in general. This friend's mother was polished and positively gleaming. Nearly every other food blog I come across seems giddy with aspiration, worryingly flawless. I look and look for some signs of weakness, some small admission of a mishap, something familiar for me to hang my insecurity on. But all I get is gorgeous pictures of shiny stainless cups holding steaming hot payasam. Perhaps I should start stocking on coriander sprigs after all.
Please note: A delightful exception to this rule is my dear friend Shyam's food blog where she charts her culinary experiments (and the occasional disaster) with humour and honesty.
I go back to the food blogs and I see such a lot of quest for perfection. There is none of the burnt pans and runny cakes and stodgy upmas that plague my kitchen. Perhaps their food really does get served like that everyday. Even when when their mothers come around for lunch. Perhaps there will be a little assortment of kichchdis and pachchdis in delicate china bowls all seated carefully like school children arranged according to their height in class photographs. My mother would have a fit if I served her food like that. What's this? she would demand sneeringly, all fancy-pancy nonsense? Get me something real to eat. And I would oblige her willingly.
Browsing some of the popular food blogs, I am reminded of a friend's extremely pretty mother. So pretty in fact that she was a bit scary. There was none of the comforting folds of fat and rough-and-ready look that I had come to associate with mothers in general. This friend's mother was polished and positively gleaming. Nearly every other food blog I come across seems giddy with aspiration, worryingly flawless. I look and look for some signs of weakness, some small admission of a mishap, something familiar for me to hang my insecurity on. But all I get is gorgeous pictures of shiny stainless cups holding steaming hot payasam. Perhaps I should start stocking on coriander sprigs after all.
Please note: A delightful exception to this rule is my dear friend Shyam's food blog where she charts her culinary experiments (and the occasional disaster) with humour and honesty.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Ayah
You could set your watch by her. At five to 8 every morning, when we were young, Nagamma Ayah - an illiterate, old woman would turn up at our doorstep to shepherd us to school. “AbhiBhavani…” one of the many children in her herd would call out to us from the entrance. As if we were conjoined twins and not a pair of siblings baying for each other’s blood at that very moment. Ayah would motion for us to hurry up and we would join the motley flock as it made its way to school.
On our walk to school, she would sometimes tell us about her wayward sons, her deceased, alcoholic husband and on other occasions she would chat with other ayahs about her struggling milk business and its defaulting customers. It gave children like me a brief insight into the lives of those who worked for us. Those invisible cogs in the wheel who were only ever noticed in their absence.
She attended my wedding and she also came around to see my child when he was born. She was amused that the girl she had once walked to school was now a mother. I would go visit her in her tiny little house on my trips to Madras. She would still call me ‘our Abhi’. And I’d be touched by her easy assumption of propriety over me.
This morning, Appa told me that Nagmma Ayah (or 'School Ayah' as she was popularly known) had passed away. The last time I saw her, she was still accompanying children on their school run. In another life, one of those children would have been mine. And I too, like my mother and others like her, would have been assured that my son was in capable hands.
On our walk to school, she would sometimes tell us about her wayward sons, her deceased, alcoholic husband and on other occasions she would chat with other ayahs about her struggling milk business and its defaulting customers. It gave children like me a brief insight into the lives of those who worked for us. Those invisible cogs in the wheel who were only ever noticed in their absence.
She attended my wedding and she also came around to see my child when he was born. She was amused that the girl she had once walked to school was now a mother. I would go visit her in her tiny little house on my trips to Madras. She would still call me ‘our Abhi’. And I’d be touched by her easy assumption of propriety over me.
This morning, Appa told me that Nagmma Ayah (or 'School Ayah' as she was popularly known) had passed away. The last time I saw her, she was still accompanying children on their school run. In another life, one of those children would have been mine. And I too, like my mother and others like her, would have been assured that my son was in capable hands.
Thank you, Ayah. For giving much more than you ever took.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Memories of food - Elandampazham
As a child, we were not allowed to eat elandampazham. Chee, one of the aunts would admonish wheneverI expressed an interest in the forbidden fruit, we do not eat such fruit. It never occured to me ask her why. In much the same way as I never questioned, until much later, other pearls of wisdom handed down to us. I simply accepted it and stayed away from watermelon, sweet potato and elandampazham. All of which, presumably, occupied the lowest rung of edibles. And everyday I was left looking longingly at the wooden cart piled high with elandampazham as it did brisk business outside our school.
For about 10 paise, you would get a paper coneful of sour-sticky, ripe berries sprinkled generously with salt and chilli powder. I never, ever bought a cone but sometimes, on rare occasions, a classmate would offer me a single pazham. I would grab it quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. And once in my hand, I would roll the fruit in my palm, fully aware of the rule I was about to break. What if they found out about it? Would the smells fade by the time I reached home? What if the fruit burst and the juices stained my white shirt? Would I be able to explain it without giving away too much? My mind would be in turmoil. But I would succumb to the temptation and pop the fruit into my mouth. I'd bite into its sumptuous flesh and savour its sharp sourness. In the following years, I have started eating watermelon and I make the most delicious falafels using sweet potatoes. But elendampazham? The aftertaste of guilt that lingered once the berry was gone was not very nice.
On Milkmaid, maggi
For about 10 paise, you would get a paper coneful of sour-sticky, ripe berries sprinkled generously with salt and chilli powder. I never, ever bought a cone but sometimes, on rare occasions, a classmate would offer me a single pazham. I would grab it quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. And once in my hand, I would roll the fruit in my palm, fully aware of the rule I was about to break. What if they found out about it? Would the smells fade by the time I reached home? What if the fruit burst and the juices stained my white shirt? Would I be able to explain it without giving away too much? My mind would be in turmoil. But I would succumb to the temptation and pop the fruit into my mouth. I'd bite into its sumptuous flesh and savour its sharp sourness. In the following years, I have started eating watermelon and I make the most delicious falafels using sweet potatoes. But elendampazham? The aftertaste of guilt that lingered once the berry was gone was not very nice.
On Milkmaid, maggi
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Lost in Post
To a little boy
It cannot be easy being you. A follow-up act to your more devilishly charming, flamboyant older brother. Before you were born, I was convinced that no child could ever take the special place your brother had come to occupy in my life. I used to argue with your father you would always be a second-born. A runner-up. A bridesmaid (or a best-man, as you turned out to be). That you could never be the prized, cherished, celebrated apple of my eye that my firstborn child was. But how easily you tore down my flimsy little conviction. The minute I saw you, I knew I was gone. What was worse, I succumbed willingly.
My fears that you would be overshadowed by your brother have proven unfounded. Over the past year, you have come into your own as a person. Your brother demands and challenges our love and attention. You, on the other hand, are much more accepting of our distractions with him. It is almost as if you understand that he is used to being the star of the show for much of his life. That you want to let him have the limelight a little longer. And when you do that, in a clever, subversive way, you become the prized child. I guess that’s how it will always be. I will be torn between the two of you. Unable to decide which of my sons I favour more.
They say the world is made for a family of four – dining tables, cars, parents (one for each child). You were the last piece in our puzzle. Thank you for completing the picture.
Happy first birthday, Tikku!
Love
Amma
It cannot be easy being you. A follow-up act to your more devilishly charming, flamboyant older brother. Before you were born, I was convinced that no child could ever take the special place your brother had come to occupy in my life. I used to argue with your father you would always be a second-born. A runner-up. A bridesmaid (or a best-man, as you turned out to be). That you could never be the prized, cherished, celebrated apple of my eye that my firstborn child was. But how easily you tore down my flimsy little conviction. The minute I saw you, I knew I was gone. What was worse, I succumbed willingly.
My fears that you would be overshadowed by your brother have proven unfounded. Over the past year, you have come into your own as a person. Your brother demands and challenges our love and attention. You, on the other hand, are much more accepting of our distractions with him. It is almost as if you understand that he is used to being the star of the show for much of his life. That you want to let him have the limelight a little longer. And when you do that, in a clever, subversive way, you become the prized child. I guess that’s how it will always be. I will be torn between the two of you. Unable to decide which of my sons I favour more.
They say the world is made for a family of four – dining tables, cars, parents (one for each child). You were the last piece in our puzzle. Thank you for completing the picture.
Happy first birthday, Tikku!
Love
Amma
(l-r) Tikku, Ammani, Jikku
Monday, March 02, 2009
A quick tale 225
Moving story
When did it happen? How did we manage to gather so many things? Look, here's a gift you got me for my last birthday. I've barely opened it. The expiry date is still some months away. Don't throw that away just yet. And here's something else you bought me because it was winter and I'd gone out without a coat. It's okay, you had said, don't worry about the price. I just want you stay warm. The coat has still got the price tag on it. And do you remember who gave us this one? I think we should keep it in her memory. It seemed like such a nice gesture at the time. How come we never used it again? And look where this has been hiding all this while. I had looked all over the house and couldn't find it. In the end, I just ended up buying a new one. Do you think it still works? What about these two? It was your idea. I had protested against buying it. But you were convinced that we needed them at home. I can count the number of times you used it - once. And look at these. This is from ebay. This from a carboot sale. This from a charity shop. This from freecycle. This from godknowswhere. When did it happen? What was I thinking? When did it happen? How did we come to gather so many things? When did we let them own us?
When did it happen? How did we manage to gather so many things? Look, here's a gift you got me for my last birthday. I've barely opened it. The expiry date is still some months away. Don't throw that away just yet. And here's something else you bought me because it was winter and I'd gone out without a coat. It's okay, you had said, don't worry about the price. I just want you stay warm. The coat has still got the price tag on it. And do you remember who gave us this one? I think we should keep it in her memory. It seemed like such a nice gesture at the time. How come we never used it again? And look where this has been hiding all this while. I had looked all over the house and couldn't find it. In the end, I just ended up buying a new one. Do you think it still works? What about these two? It was your idea. I had protested against buying it. But you were convinced that we needed them at home. I can count the number of times you used it - once. And look at these. This is from ebay. This from a carboot sale. This from a charity shop. This from freecycle. This from godknowswhere. When did it happen? What was I thinking? When did it happen? How did we come to gather so many things? When did we let them own us?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Congratulations, ARR & Resul Pookutty!
And now, for no reason other than to show off, here's a photo of my son and ARR taken at Heathrow last summer.
Monday, February 16, 2009
A worthy winner
I was one of the finalists in the Flash Drama contest at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. I didn't win. But look who came third! Congratulations, shoefiend!
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Chaddi Ho!
Finally, Valentine's day gets interesting. With the Pink Chaddi Campaign.
Join in and spread the word.
Show the bullies who wears the pants in this tussle. Details here.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
55
Theme: Cheating
Word count: 55
-
Alright, so I don't look like my photo. The hair's different and the waist is not what it used to be. Okay, so the photo was taken when I was 16. Okay, okay, the girl in the photo is not exactly me.
She's my cousin. Your ad said you were handsome. Who was it describing?
-
This is one of my entries for the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. My other entries are here. If you wish to enter the competition, details here. Hurry, deadline Sunday 8th Feb 2009.
Word count: 55
-
Alright, so I don't look like my photo. The hair's different and the waist is not what it used to be. Okay, so the photo was taken when I was 16. Okay, okay, the girl in the photo is not exactly me.
She's my cousin. Your ad said you were handsome. Who was it describing?
-
This is one of my entries for the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. My other entries are here. If you wish to enter the competition, details here. Hurry, deadline Sunday 8th Feb 2009.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Flash Drama
Theme: Truce
Word count: 350
Fair Trade
Mother with twin wailing babies.
Phone rings. She grabs a child, cradles phone receiver on crook of neck.
Yes?
Good evening, madam.
Who’s calling?
Is that Mrs. Krishnan?
Who’s calling?
I’m calling from Eternal Insurance of…
*Click*
-
Mother asleep on sofa. One baby asleep on chest. The other nestled in her arm.
Phone rings. Mother wakes up with a start. Feels around for the receiver.
Fuck off!
She collapses back on sofa.
-
Mother is sitting on living room floor playing with kids. Phone rings.
Yes?
Am I talking to Mrs. Krishnan?
Yes. Who’s calling?
Good evening, madam. I’m calling from Ignite Gas and Electricity company. Would you like to save on your gas and electricity bills every month?
No.
Mrs. Krishnan, you can save nearly £500 every year by simply switching your service provider.
I don’t care.
*click*
Phone rings.
Yes?
Mrs. Krishnan, it’s me again…from Ignite…
Listen, you’re wasting your time…
Madam, please listen to me.
No…what’s your name?
Sam.
What’s your Indian name?
Mmm…Sundar Ramaswamy.
Listen Sundar, I’ve no time for telemarketers. So stop calling me.
Mrs. Krishnan, are you also from India?
...Yes...Why?
From one Indian to another, can I ask you a small favour?
Hmm…what?
Madam, I have an elderly grandmother at home and my wife’s pregnant. If I get your contract, I get a small commission. My mother has arthritis and it will go towards her knee operation.
Hmm…you get your commission…what do I get?
You get the best electricity and gas prices in the whole country. And we have capped our prices. So no increase for the next two years.
No, what else do I get?
You get excellent service including…
(interrupting) Sundar, did you say you have a grandmother?
(hesitantly) Yes….
My baby cries non-stop in the evenings…wind, I think. Can you find out from her if there’s a home remedy…call me tomorrow...same time.
-
Mother on the phone taking notes.
Powdered asafoetida? With honey? Mix the two and rub it around his tummy, is it? Okay, okay. Now, how do I transfer my account to you?
~@~
This is one of my entries to the flash drama contest, part of the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. Details here if you wish to take part. Deadline 8th Feb 2009.
Word count: 350
Fair Trade
Mother with twin wailing babies.
Phone rings. She grabs a child, cradles phone receiver on crook of neck.
Yes?
Good evening, madam.
Who’s calling?
Is that Mrs. Krishnan?
Who’s calling?
I’m calling from Eternal Insurance of…
*Click*
-
Mother asleep on sofa. One baby asleep on chest. The other nestled in her arm.
Phone rings. Mother wakes up with a start. Feels around for the receiver.
Fuck off!
She collapses back on sofa.
-
Mother is sitting on living room floor playing with kids. Phone rings.
Yes?
Am I talking to Mrs. Krishnan?
Yes. Who’s calling?
Good evening, madam. I’m calling from Ignite Gas and Electricity company. Would you like to save on your gas and electricity bills every month?
No.
Mrs. Krishnan, you can save nearly £500 every year by simply switching your service provider.
I don’t care.
*click*
Phone rings.
Yes?
Mrs. Krishnan, it’s me again…from Ignite…
Listen, you’re wasting your time…
Madam, please listen to me.
No…what’s your name?
Sam.
What’s your Indian name?
Mmm…Sundar Ramaswamy.
Listen Sundar, I’ve no time for telemarketers. So stop calling me.
Mrs. Krishnan, are you also from India?
...Yes...Why?
From one Indian to another, can I ask you a small favour?
Hmm…what?
Madam, I have an elderly grandmother at home and my wife’s pregnant. If I get your contract, I get a small commission. My mother has arthritis and it will go towards her knee operation.
Hmm…you get your commission…what do I get?
You get the best electricity and gas prices in the whole country. And we have capped our prices. So no increase for the next two years.
No, what else do I get?
You get excellent service including…
(interrupting) Sundar, did you say you have a grandmother?
(hesitantly) Yes….
My baby cries non-stop in the evenings…wind, I think. Can you find out from her if there’s a home remedy…call me tomorrow...same time.
-
Mother on the phone taking notes.
Powdered asafoetida? With honey? Mix the two and rub it around his tummy, is it? Okay, okay. Now, how do I transfer my account to you?
~@~
This is one of my entries to the flash drama contest, part of the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. Details here if you wish to take part. Deadline 8th Feb 2009.
55
Theme: Cheating
Word count: 55
--
I watch you tuck into the lasagne noisily. It dribbles down your chin. You chew away. Mmm, you say approvingly. I don’t think you’d want to know the recipe. You scrape the bottom of the pan and empty it onto your plate. The dog will starve tonight. I can only feed one of you. Sadly.
--
I hunt every last one of them. It’s a surprise attack. I strike on a Tuesday morning. Not on a Sunday when they’d have expected me and gone into hiding. I watch their blood spill and feel proud. It’s a victory for humanity. My predatory instincts are on a high today. Another down. Bloody nits!
-
You’ve always hated them. So I don’t tell you where we’re going. You walk ahead of me. Your legs barely supporting your weight. You stop to catch your breath. You bump into trees. You don’t hear me calling out. I carry you inside. I lay you down on the table. It’ll be over soon. Sorry.
-
These are a few of my entries to the 55-word flash fiction contest, part of the Kala Ghoda Art Festival. Detail here if you wish to enter.
Word count: 55
--
I watch you tuck into the lasagne noisily. It dribbles down your chin. You chew away. Mmm, you say approvingly. I don’t think you’d want to know the recipe. You scrape the bottom of the pan and empty it onto your plate. The dog will starve tonight. I can only feed one of you. Sadly.
--
I hunt every last one of them. It’s a surprise attack. I strike on a Tuesday morning. Not on a Sunday when they’d have expected me and gone into hiding. I watch their blood spill and feel proud. It’s a victory for humanity. My predatory instincts are on a high today. Another down. Bloody nits!
-
You’ve always hated them. So I don’t tell you where we’re going. You walk ahead of me. Your legs barely supporting your weight. You stop to catch your breath. You bump into trees. You don’t hear me calling out. I carry you inside. I lay you down on the table. It’ll be over soon. Sorry.
-
These are a few of my entries to the 55-word flash fiction contest, part of the Kala Ghoda Art Festival. Detail here if you wish to enter.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Cult of Bad Momma
I am not a good mother. This is what I tell myself every day. Every time I put myself ahead of my children. This is the damning sentence I hand out to myself every morning I stay in bed putting off parental responsibilities that loom closer and closer like a hangman’s noose. Parental chores that include screaming fits with a six-year old who demands to know why he cannot wear yesterday’s underwear. And trying to reason with an unreasonable toddler who will insist on chomping on detergent. I cannot be a good mother, I reason. Good mothers do not wish they hadn’t become mothers at all. Sure, they may sometimes wish they could go back to being single and fancy-free and all that. But they would say things like ‘I love my children endlessly’ and ‘the joys they bring to my life are boundless’ and other time-worn phrases that ring true when they say it and sound hollow coming from my mouth. Unlike other good mothers out there, at this point of time I honestly wish I had not become a mother. I take no joy in changing their nappies or packing their lunches. I find these duties cumbersome.
Don't get me wrong. I do not neglect my children. They are well-fed with home-cooked food, their bottoms are clean, their bed sheets are washed and changed fortnightly, their nails are clipped short, their heads free from head lice, they are read to every night, their wounds washed and bandaged, their fears soothed and calmed. In shorts, my children are cared for well by their parents. But I do these out of a sense of duty and not out of love as I have come to realise lately. And this is the hardest and most difficult realisation of them all. While I would readily accept a vagrant father, a virtually non-existent father and in instances, even an abusive father, it is the less-than perfect mother that I have trouble coming to terms with.
(More later)
Don't get me wrong. I do not neglect my children. They are well-fed with home-cooked food, their bottoms are clean, their bed sheets are washed and changed fortnightly, their nails are clipped short, their heads free from head lice, they are read to every night, their wounds washed and bandaged, their fears soothed and calmed. In shorts, my children are cared for well by their parents. But I do these out of a sense of duty and not out of love as I have come to realise lately. And this is the hardest and most difficult realisation of them all. While I would readily accept a vagrant father, a virtually non-existent father and in instances, even an abusive father, it is the less-than perfect mother that I have trouble coming to terms with.
(More later)
Friday, January 30, 2009
A quick tale 224
Gap year in Congo
Oh, the ideas she had once upon a time! No TV till the child’s 10. Only organic food for life. Libraries not play stations. Reusable nappies. Baby Mozart on Wednesdays and Toddler yoga on Fridays. No Barbies and certainly no guns as toys. Fluent in three languages by the fifth birthday. No birthday parties with clowns. Private education with extra lessons for Maths and Science. Gap year in Congo. And so forth.
Today she stands in the toy store watching her daughter rolling on the floor. Kicking the display shelves, pulling her hair out and retching violently. All because her demand for a toy was turned down. Chee, chee, her mother disapproves rather loudly to no one in particular, what kind of a mother would let her daughter behave like this in public. She swings her handbag on her shoulder and struts out of the store purposefully. She turns a corner and waits for her child to emerge.
Oh, the ideas she had once upon a time! No TV till the child’s 10. Only organic food for life. Libraries not play stations. Reusable nappies. Baby Mozart on Wednesdays and Toddler yoga on Fridays. No Barbies and certainly no guns as toys. Fluent in three languages by the fifth birthday. No birthday parties with clowns. Private education with extra lessons for Maths and Science. Gap year in Congo. And so forth.
Today she stands in the toy store watching her daughter rolling on the floor. Kicking the display shelves, pulling her hair out and retching violently. All because her demand for a toy was turned down. Chee, chee, her mother disapproves rather loudly to no one in particular, what kind of a mother would let her daughter behave like this in public. She swings her handbag on her shoulder and struts out of the store purposefully. She turns a corner and waits for her child to emerge.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Lost in Post
Dear walker of Simba/Lucy/Holly
I confess, I have never had a pet and chances are, never will. So I do not know what it is like to have one. But I do have children and I have heard from pet-owning friends that the two are in many ways similar. Now, if I were to take my child out for a walk and if they ran riot, terrorizing innocent joggers by snarling at them, chasing them and almost knocking them to the ground, I wouldn't smile and say 'Oh, he's just being playful'. I wouldn't then tut-tut and make it seem like the person who stands terror-stricken in front of me was making a big deal out of a small innocent game my child was playing with them. I certainly wouldn't laugh at their reactions and belittle them.
Let's say, during our walk in the park, my son did his 'business' somewhere (for the record, my son wouldn't just do it anywhere. But this is hypothetical), I would take a plastic bag, gather his deposits and dispose it. I wouldn't leave it lying around for some poor old jogger to find it stuck to the bottom of her trainers.
I love my children. But if I find that they cannot behave in public - or indeed, they become a hazard to others - I wouldn't think twice about not taking them out. Once when my son was 2-years old, we bought him a harness. A sort of a restraint which we sometimes used for his own safety. I understand that dogs have something similar. I've heard it's called a leash. Use it.
Sincerely
The jogger you just said 'Oh, she's won't bite' to.
p.s. please could you scrape that thing off my trainers?
Cross posted at ammani.wordpress.com
I confess, I have never had a pet and chances are, never will. So I do not know what it is like to have one. But I do have children and I have heard from pet-owning friends that the two are in many ways similar. Now, if I were to take my child out for a walk and if they ran riot, terrorizing innocent joggers by snarling at them, chasing them and almost knocking them to the ground, I wouldn't smile and say 'Oh, he's just being playful'. I wouldn't then tut-tut and make it seem like the person who stands terror-stricken in front of me was making a big deal out of a small innocent game my child was playing with them. I certainly wouldn't laugh at their reactions and belittle them.
Let's say, during our walk in the park, my son did his 'business' somewhere (for the record, my son wouldn't just do it anywhere. But this is hypothetical), I would take a plastic bag, gather his deposits and dispose it. I wouldn't leave it lying around for some poor old jogger to find it stuck to the bottom of her trainers.
I love my children. But if I find that they cannot behave in public - or indeed, they become a hazard to others - I wouldn't think twice about not taking them out. Once when my son was 2-years old, we bought him a harness. A sort of a restraint which we sometimes used for his own safety. I understand that dogs have something similar. I've heard it's called a leash. Use it.
Sincerely
The jogger you just said 'Oh, she's won't bite' to.
p.s. please could you scrape that thing off my trainers?
Cross posted at ammani.wordpress.com
Friday, January 23, 2009
A quick tale 223
Heirloom
She knew from the minute she opened her eyes that morning that today would be the day. Something about the way the sunlight distilled its way through the curtain and met her on her bed, told her that it had to be done then. Not later but now. She raised herself cautiously from bed as if the weight of the day's events were already pressing her down. As she readied herself, she rehearsed her lines. Would she reveal its entire history? However sparse her own knowledge of it was? Or would she simply let her daughter into the secret circle that she had been part of ever since she was a young woman? And let her daughter find out more about it if she wished to?
Her own experience had been all too brief. Shortly after her thirteenth birthday, her mother had called her to her room one day. The look on her mother's face told her that it was something important. Her mother simply handed it to her with no further explanation. She held it in her hands knowing better than to ask questions. She remembers the wrinkly surface and how she smiled when it crinkled in her hands. No, her mother had admonished her as she grabbed it away, someone might hear it. And that will be end of our secret.
Over the years she rarely brought it out. Allowing herself only the occasional glimpse. The only time she ever touched it was the day her mother died. And now it was time to pass it on. Her daughter had none of her reverence. She was curious about it. And wanted to know where it came from. And how long they had had it. She winced as her daughter carelessly waved it about. Be careful, she warned her daughter, it is rather delicate. It belonged to my great-great grandmother. Back in those days they used to hand it to shoppers free of charge for them to put their shopping in. Until the government made it illegal. My great-great grandmother however sneaked a few of them and when she died they found a small pile under her bed. Today barely a few hundred of these survive. Gently, it's quite old, you know. But her daughter was barely listening. She was tossing the plastic bag up in air and watching it cascade down gently.
She knew from the minute she opened her eyes that morning that today would be the day. Something about the way the sunlight distilled its way through the curtain and met her on her bed, told her that it had to be done then. Not later but now. She raised herself cautiously from bed as if the weight of the day's events were already pressing her down. As she readied herself, she rehearsed her lines. Would she reveal its entire history? However sparse her own knowledge of it was? Or would she simply let her daughter into the secret circle that she had been part of ever since she was a young woman? And let her daughter find out more about it if she wished to?
Her own experience had been all too brief. Shortly after her thirteenth birthday, her mother had called her to her room one day. The look on her mother's face told her that it was something important. Her mother simply handed it to her with no further explanation. She held it in her hands knowing better than to ask questions. She remembers the wrinkly surface and how she smiled when it crinkled in her hands. No, her mother had admonished her as she grabbed it away, someone might hear it. And that will be end of our secret.
Over the years she rarely brought it out. Allowing herself only the occasional glimpse. The only time she ever touched it was the day her mother died. And now it was time to pass it on. Her daughter had none of her reverence. She was curious about it. And wanted to know where it came from. And how long they had had it. She winced as her daughter carelessly waved it about. Be careful, she warned her daughter, it is rather delicate. It belonged to my great-great grandmother. Back in those days they used to hand it to shoppers free of charge for them to put their shopping in. Until the government made it illegal. My great-great grandmother however sneaked a few of them and when she died they found a small pile under her bed. Today barely a few hundred of these survive. Gently, it's quite old, you know. But her daughter was barely listening. She was tossing the plastic bag up in air and watching it cascade down gently.
A quick tale 222
Odd, very odd
This is a strange story. It leaves you wondering why. You will raise your brows, purse your lips and sometimes scratch your nose in puzzlement. As it happened to me. This could take some time. So why don’t you grab a seat and draw your chair close? I cannot raise my voice like I used to. And I don’t want you to interrupt me every now and then when you cannot hear a word or two. And I’d have to clear my throat and repeat what I just said. It will tire me, you understand.
This is about a certain young woman who went to the bank a while ago. She withdrew a large amount of money from her account. She did not meet the eyes of the cashier who seemed curious about her reasons for such a withdrawal. Hot outside, is it?, he asked in attempt to get a conversation going. His eyes were still looking down at the wad of cash he was counting. Mmmm, she answered. Summer is fast approaching, he tried one more time. Mmm, was all she would say.
Be careful, he said placing the thick bundles of money on the counter, it’s a large amount. I know, she replied before swiftly making her way out of the bank.
Then, she stopped at a large department store and loaded her shopping basket with milk and fruit and rice and bread. She even picked up a few bars of chocolate though she could not remember the last time she had had one. Her shopping done, she made her way to the till where she emptied her basket and went down to the other end to collect them and bag them as the till assistant handed them to her. She bagged all her purchase and when it was time for her to pay, she put her hand inside her voluminous bag and poked it around for her wallet. A minute or so after doing this, a frown now creasing her face, she peered into her bag. The lady at the counter was getting impatient as a queue was building up at the back. Sorry, she said to the staff and continued to search for her wallet. She now held her handbag upside down and watched bits and long-forgotten pieces of her life tumble out. An old lipstick, a business card, some coins, a half-read, dog-eared novel, a set of spare house keys. But no wallet.
I’m so, so sorry, she mumbled sounding increasingly flustered, can you put my shopping aside and I will come back and collect it later? I think…I think, I’ve been robbed. No sooner had she uttered these words than tongues started to click and necks were craned in an attempt to get a glimpse of the unfortunate victim of robbery. Presently, her bags were put aside and she left the department store with her head still buried in her handbag, ostensibly still looking for her missing wallet.
When she was safely away from the store, she stopped looking. She slung her bag on her shoulder, raised her head and with what appeared to be a skip in her step, she walked away. A couple of hours later, the shopping bags were moved from behind the till and its contents transferred back to the shelves. No one ever found a lost wallet and handed it to the security personnel at the store. That night the bank cashier briefly wondered about telling his wife about the large cash withdrawal made by a young woman. But he quickly abandoned the thought when he realised that his wife would want to know if the said woman was pretty and if he’d had any conversation with her. The next day the cashier didn’t turn up for work and a couple of days later he was reported missing.
There have been a few sightings of him since. Someone said they saw him on a crowded passenger train sharing a watermelon with a lady. Someone else reported seeing him in Kumbh mela. A third person was sure he had seen him begging at Tirupati. Of the woman, no one reported her missing. And no one has seen her since.
This is a strange story. It leaves you wondering why. You will raise your brows, purse your lips and sometimes scratch your nose in puzzlement. As it happened to me. This could take some time. So why don’t you grab a seat and draw your chair close? I cannot raise my voice like I used to. And I don’t want you to interrupt me every now and then when you cannot hear a word or two. And I’d have to clear my throat and repeat what I just said. It will tire me, you understand.
This is about a certain young woman who went to the bank a while ago. She withdrew a large amount of money from her account. She did not meet the eyes of the cashier who seemed curious about her reasons for such a withdrawal. Hot outside, is it?, he asked in attempt to get a conversation going. His eyes were still looking down at the wad of cash he was counting. Mmmm, she answered. Summer is fast approaching, he tried one more time. Mmm, was all she would say.
Be careful, he said placing the thick bundles of money on the counter, it’s a large amount. I know, she replied before swiftly making her way out of the bank.
Then, she stopped at a large department store and loaded her shopping basket with milk and fruit and rice and bread. She even picked up a few bars of chocolate though she could not remember the last time she had had one. Her shopping done, she made her way to the till where she emptied her basket and went down to the other end to collect them and bag them as the till assistant handed them to her. She bagged all her purchase and when it was time for her to pay, she put her hand inside her voluminous bag and poked it around for her wallet. A minute or so after doing this, a frown now creasing her face, she peered into her bag. The lady at the counter was getting impatient as a queue was building up at the back. Sorry, she said to the staff and continued to search for her wallet. She now held her handbag upside down and watched bits and long-forgotten pieces of her life tumble out. An old lipstick, a business card, some coins, a half-read, dog-eared novel, a set of spare house keys. But no wallet.
I’m so, so sorry, she mumbled sounding increasingly flustered, can you put my shopping aside and I will come back and collect it later? I think…I think, I’ve been robbed. No sooner had she uttered these words than tongues started to click and necks were craned in an attempt to get a glimpse of the unfortunate victim of robbery. Presently, her bags were put aside and she left the department store with her head still buried in her handbag, ostensibly still looking for her missing wallet.
When she was safely away from the store, she stopped looking. She slung her bag on her shoulder, raised her head and with what appeared to be a skip in her step, she walked away. A couple of hours later, the shopping bags were moved from behind the till and its contents transferred back to the shelves. No one ever found a lost wallet and handed it to the security personnel at the store. That night the bank cashier briefly wondered about telling his wife about the large cash withdrawal made by a young woman. But he quickly abandoned the thought when he realised that his wife would want to know if the said woman was pretty and if he’d had any conversation with her. The next day the cashier didn’t turn up for work and a couple of days later he was reported missing.
There have been a few sightings of him since. Someone said they saw him on a crowded passenger train sharing a watermelon with a lady. Someone else reported seeing him in Kumbh mela. A third person was sure he had seen him begging at Tirupati. Of the woman, no one reported her missing. And no one has seen her since.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
I will take your money and run
Look what I have been upto.
I do hope you will join in the efforts. Thank you!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Maatr Panchakam Sloka
I find this shlokam (thanks to the accompanying English explanation as I can't read Sanskrit for squat) extraordinarily moving.
http://samskrute.blogspot.com/2009/01/1_09.html
Don't you?
http://samskrute.blogspot.com/2009/01/1_09.html
Don't you?
Monday, January 12, 2009
A long forgotten incident
The day I became a railway announcer
A good many years ago, I made a work-related trip from Calcutta to Mumbai by train. It was a long, long, seemingly never-ending journey of some 36 hours which had been further complicated by a series of inexplicable delays. A friend/colleague was supposed to pick me up from VT station upon my arrival. So when the train finally pulled into VT, I could barely wait to get to the guest house, get cleaned up and call it a day. But when I got down from the compartment, I couldn’t see him. It was fairly late in the night and I knew he had been working long hours. So I just decided to wait a little longer to see if he’d turn up. Half-an-hour later, I was still waiting.
Now, I only had a landline contact number for my friend and when I rang the number, there was no answer. Wearily, I picked up my bags while trying to decide what to do next. Perhaps, I thought, my friend had fallen asleep while waiting for me. May be an announcement on the PA system would wake him up. So I made my way to the announcer’s cabin and explained my situation to him. He took one look at me and obliged straightaway. The announcement went out but thirty minutes on, there was still no sign of my friend. I trudged up the stairs to the announcer’s cabin one more time. Again, the announcement brought no result. The third time, I went up to the announcer. This time, I had an idea.
I figured the calls for my friend were getting lost amidst the regular announcements giving out details of train arrivals and departures. Perhaps I could make an announcement. In Tamil. Surely that would perk sleeping ears up? Luck must’ve been on my side that night because a couple of minutes later I was clearing my throat to make my first ever announcement on a PA system at VT station in Mumbai. Dei Sangar naye, I began desperately hoping that those around me didn’t follow Tamil and didn’t know that I had just called my friend a dog. I went on to give details of my whereabouts. I had just thanked the staff and got down to the main corridor of the station when I heard a familiar voice. Ei!, said Shankar, I’m so sorry I just fell asleep until I heard my name on the PA system.
Note: This and many other Mumbai-related thoughts came flooding to my mind when I watched Slumdog Millionaire on Friday.
A good many years ago, I made a work-related trip from Calcutta to Mumbai by train. It was a long, long, seemingly never-ending journey of some 36 hours which had been further complicated by a series of inexplicable delays. A friend/colleague was supposed to pick me up from VT station upon my arrival. So when the train finally pulled into VT, I could barely wait to get to the guest house, get cleaned up and call it a day. But when I got down from the compartment, I couldn’t see him. It was fairly late in the night and I knew he had been working long hours. So I just decided to wait a little longer to see if he’d turn up. Half-an-hour later, I was still waiting.
Now, I only had a landline contact number for my friend and when I rang the number, there was no answer. Wearily, I picked up my bags while trying to decide what to do next. Perhaps, I thought, my friend had fallen asleep while waiting for me. May be an announcement on the PA system would wake him up. So I made my way to the announcer’s cabin and explained my situation to him. He took one look at me and obliged straightaway. The announcement went out but thirty minutes on, there was still no sign of my friend. I trudged up the stairs to the announcer’s cabin one more time. Again, the announcement brought no result. The third time, I went up to the announcer. This time, I had an idea.
I figured the calls for my friend were getting lost amidst the regular announcements giving out details of train arrivals and departures. Perhaps I could make an announcement. In Tamil. Surely that would perk sleeping ears up? Luck must’ve been on my side that night because a couple of minutes later I was clearing my throat to make my first ever announcement on a PA system at VT station in Mumbai. Dei Sangar naye, I began desperately hoping that those around me didn’t follow Tamil and didn’t know that I had just called my friend a dog. I went on to give details of my whereabouts. I had just thanked the staff and got down to the main corridor of the station when I heard a familiar voice. Ei!, said Shankar, I’m so sorry I just fell asleep until I heard my name on the PA system.
Note: This and many other Mumbai-related thoughts came flooding to my mind when I watched Slumdog Millionaire on Friday.
Friday, January 09, 2009
A quick tale 221
An odd little story that just popped into the writer's head one day
It is not what you would call an epidemic. Its spread was neither wide nor rapid. It began gradually, quietly creeping on you when you were looking the other way. One Wednesday here. The following Sunday there. It was so random that if you weren't paying attention, you too would've attributed its occurrence to chance. Like Myria did, back in November one day as she was getting ready for work. I could have sworn, she thought to herself as she looked around the dining table, I left it here just a minute ago. And noting that she was already a few minutes behind schedule, Myria sighed and quickly ran upstairs to grab a different pair.
Later that morning, as Jem was walking his dog, he noticed a single glove nestled inside the barren limbs of a hedge. It was black and would fit snugly around a child's hand. He looked around to see if the other one was anywhere nearby (he had a little boy at home and times were tough). When he found none, Jem shrugged and walked on by. Two days later, Sanj was getting ready to go out with her friends. She usually kept a pair in the glove compartment of her car. Today however, one of them was missing. Her table was booked for 8 o'clock and her friends would already be there at the restaurant. She cursed rather loudly (which caused a nearby pedestrian to frown and mutter something about "manners these days") and rather than go inside to fetch another pair, Sanj clutched the freezing steering wheel with her bare hands (more cursing) and drove away. She was later seen picking up Omega 3 capsules which she thought would help improve her memory.
Before long, people were walking around with mismatched gloves. A green leather glove on the right hand and red woollen mittens on the left. Soon it became a rage. No self-respecting teen would be seen sporting two identical gloves. Even those who still had their unbroken pair, willingly mixed them up. And just as mysteriously as it'd started, the phenomenon died down one day when 6-year old Euan went to his garden shed and found a pile of single gloves. He called out to his mother but by the time she joined him, the heap had curiously vanished. That's why, Euan's mother said unnecessarily admonishing her son, I don't want you watching too much TV. There! I've been looking for this glove for so long.
By and by, lone gloves were being spotted everywhere. But no one recognised them as the lost glove and they were mistaken for their identical twin. People had no use for them now and they were left to fend for themselves. Which is where they remain to date. If you ever happen to spot a single glove in an unexpected place, pick it up. Reunite it with its partner. You have no idea what it'd mean to us.
It is not what you would call an epidemic. Its spread was neither wide nor rapid. It began gradually, quietly creeping on you when you were looking the other way. One Wednesday here. The following Sunday there. It was so random that if you weren't paying attention, you too would've attributed its occurrence to chance. Like Myria did, back in November one day as she was getting ready for work. I could have sworn, she thought to herself as she looked around the dining table, I left it here just a minute ago. And noting that she was already a few minutes behind schedule, Myria sighed and quickly ran upstairs to grab a different pair.
Later that morning, as Jem was walking his dog, he noticed a single glove nestled inside the barren limbs of a hedge. It was black and would fit snugly around a child's hand. He looked around to see if the other one was anywhere nearby (he had a little boy at home and times were tough). When he found none, Jem shrugged and walked on by. Two days later, Sanj was getting ready to go out with her friends. She usually kept a pair in the glove compartment of her car. Today however, one of them was missing. Her table was booked for 8 o'clock and her friends would already be there at the restaurant. She cursed rather loudly (which caused a nearby pedestrian to frown and mutter something about "manners these days") and rather than go inside to fetch another pair, Sanj clutched the freezing steering wheel with her bare hands (more cursing) and drove away. She was later seen picking up Omega 3 capsules which she thought would help improve her memory.
Before long, people were walking around with mismatched gloves. A green leather glove on the right hand and red woollen mittens on the left. Soon it became a rage. No self-respecting teen would be seen sporting two identical gloves. Even those who still had their unbroken pair, willingly mixed them up. And just as mysteriously as it'd started, the phenomenon died down one day when 6-year old Euan went to his garden shed and found a pile of single gloves. He called out to his mother but by the time she joined him, the heap had curiously vanished. That's why, Euan's mother said unnecessarily admonishing her son, I don't want you watching too much TV. There! I've been looking for this glove for so long.
By and by, lone gloves were being spotted everywhere. But no one recognised them as the lost glove and they were mistaken for their identical twin. People had no use for them now and they were left to fend for themselves. Which is where they remain to date. If you ever happen to spot a single glove in an unexpected place, pick it up. Reunite it with its partner. You have no idea what it'd mean to us.
Monday, December 22, 2008
A quick tale 220
Everyday Christmas
The Santa sitting next to the till looked cute. His head bobbed whenever a customer placed their shopping bag on the counter. Shop, shop, he seemed to say, shop till you drop. Is that for sale?, she asked of the shop assistant. Sorry, that’s just for display. There are others in aisle number...18.
The Santa doll would look good on her golu steps. He would sit next to Chettiar and Chettichi dolls. Sort of like a strange cross-cultural exchange in the toy world. The two bulls which she inherited from her mother would go on either end of the step. She wondered if she could get her mother-in-law to ship Lakshmi-Saraswathi dolls. They would have to be packed well though. Otherwise they would end up with chipped noses. And no matter how mach PVC glue you applied, it would never quite look the same. There’s still time for all that, she thought, it’s only December yet. There’s almost 10 months between now and Navarathri.
Soon it will be Pongal. Then Maha Sivarathri. In April, it will be Rama Navami followed by Varusha Pirappu. And come June, there will be one festival after another. Janmashtami, Varalakshmi Nonbu, Vinayaka Chaturthi, Navarathri and soon thereafter, Deepavali. In between, there will be an assortment of smaller family occasions like birthdays and anniversaries to mark and celebrate. But it is always a good idea, she decided, to keep her eyes peeled for valuable additions to her doll collection.
Merry Christmas, wished the sales assistant, handing her the shopping bag. And to you too, she replied looking up at the Santa one more time. He didn’t seem so cheerful now. Paavam, she thought, just one festival every year.
The Santa sitting next to the till looked cute. His head bobbed whenever a customer placed their shopping bag on the counter. Shop, shop, he seemed to say, shop till you drop. Is that for sale?, she asked of the shop assistant. Sorry, that’s just for display. There are others in aisle number...18.
The Santa doll would look good on her golu steps. He would sit next to Chettiar and Chettichi dolls. Sort of like a strange cross-cultural exchange in the toy world. The two bulls which she inherited from her mother would go on either end of the step. She wondered if she could get her mother-in-law to ship Lakshmi-Saraswathi dolls. They would have to be packed well though. Otherwise they would end up with chipped noses. And no matter how mach PVC glue you applied, it would never quite look the same. There’s still time for all that, she thought, it’s only December yet. There’s almost 10 months between now and Navarathri.
Soon it will be Pongal. Then Maha Sivarathri. In April, it will be Rama Navami followed by Varusha Pirappu. And come June, there will be one festival after another. Janmashtami, Varalakshmi Nonbu, Vinayaka Chaturthi, Navarathri and soon thereafter, Deepavali. In between, there will be an assortment of smaller family occasions like birthdays and anniversaries to mark and celebrate. But it is always a good idea, she decided, to keep her eyes peeled for valuable additions to her doll collection.
Merry Christmas, wished the sales assistant, handing her the shopping bag. And to you too, she replied looking up at the Santa one more time. He didn’t seem so cheerful now. Paavam, she thought, just one festival every year.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A quick tale 219
Ananya, Arushi, Advait, Ankit, Aryan
In class she was C. Geetha. There were two other other girls with the same name. R. Geetha and L. Geetha (whom she recently discovered on Facebook. Only now she was Geetha L Narayan). It would annoy her immensely whenever her name was called out and several heads turned to answer. It was back in school that she resolved never to answer when she heard her name but instead to wait until she was tapped on the shoulder. A habit which continues to date despite the fact that she is the only Geetha in her household.
It’s funny how she now has her own house and family. Just recently she was still her father’s daughter. A third daughter born after much beseeching to the gods for a male offspring. Even as a child she knew what an intense disappointment she was to her parents. Why else would they give her a name that was as commonplace as salt? In fact, she was uncannily right. Because it was not her parents who chose her name. They were still blaming the gods for not paying heed to their prayers and had completely forgotten to pick a name for the newborn. So much so that for months, she remained nameless. Some would call her ‘baby’, some others ‘ponnu’. Until one afternoon in her ninth month when a grand aunt who was visiting them from Bangalore, was playing with her and offered her a bunch of keys to rattle around. The little one clutched the keys firmly in her plump grasp and shook it this way and that way. Its clinking shiny metal kept her amused all afternoon.
Soon it was time for the aunt to leave and she needed her keys back. Papa, she gently demanded of the child, key-thaa...The little one shook her head and turned her face away. The elderly lady persisted in her appeal. Key-thaa, baby! Key-thaa, please! But no amount of pleading could get her to change the infant’s mind. Finally, some one had to prise the chubby fingers open to release the keys. The grand aunt missed her train that evening but the little one had gained a name. Key-thaa which later in the school register became Geetha.
Now, sitting in a far away country, 7-months pregnant with her first child, Geetha goes through Maneka Gandhi’s Book of Hindu names. Abha (glow), Aabharana (jewel), Aardharshini (idealistic), Aadhya (first power), Aadita (from the beginning)…so many fantastic names to choose from. She decides she will have at least half-a-dozen children. Each with a memorable name, unique like no other.
In class she was C. Geetha. There were two other other girls with the same name. R. Geetha and L. Geetha (whom she recently discovered on Facebook. Only now she was Geetha L Narayan). It would annoy her immensely whenever her name was called out and several heads turned to answer. It was back in school that she resolved never to answer when she heard her name but instead to wait until she was tapped on the shoulder. A habit which continues to date despite the fact that she is the only Geetha in her household.
It’s funny how she now has her own house and family. Just recently she was still her father’s daughter. A third daughter born after much beseeching to the gods for a male offspring. Even as a child she knew what an intense disappointment she was to her parents. Why else would they give her a name that was as commonplace as salt? In fact, she was uncannily right. Because it was not her parents who chose her name. They were still blaming the gods for not paying heed to their prayers and had completely forgotten to pick a name for the newborn. So much so that for months, she remained nameless. Some would call her ‘baby’, some others ‘ponnu’. Until one afternoon in her ninth month when a grand aunt who was visiting them from Bangalore, was playing with her and offered her a bunch of keys to rattle around. The little one clutched the keys firmly in her plump grasp and shook it this way and that way. Its clinking shiny metal kept her amused all afternoon.
Soon it was time for the aunt to leave and she needed her keys back. Papa, she gently demanded of the child, key-thaa...The little one shook her head and turned her face away. The elderly lady persisted in her appeal. Key-thaa, baby! Key-thaa, please! But no amount of pleading could get her to change the infant’s mind. Finally, some one had to prise the chubby fingers open to release the keys. The grand aunt missed her train that evening but the little one had gained a name. Key-thaa which later in the school register became Geetha.
Now, sitting in a far away country, 7-months pregnant with her first child, Geetha goes through Maneka Gandhi’s Book of Hindu names. Abha (glow), Aabharana (jewel), Aardharshini (idealistic), Aadhya (first power), Aadita (from the beginning)…so many fantastic names to choose from. She decides she will have at least half-a-dozen children. Each with a memorable name, unique like no other.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A very tempting resignation letter
I, So-and-so, do hereby resign from my post as mother, food provider, eternal comforter, lost sock finder, homework helper, nappy changer, 2 am feeder, bed time story reader, Boochandi monster fighter and from my countless other avatars. I also surrender my title of ‘Best Mummy in the World’ which was so graciously handed to me this morning after a particularly hideous tantrum from my part.
My reasons of resignation are various. But the chief among them is my desperate need to regain what remains of my earlier life before the onslaught of children. It was a life filled with deliciously slothful behaviour. I could have leisurely lie-ins on Sunday mornings. I could leave home at a moment’s notice without having to pack for an apocalypse. I could hold long conversations on economics without regular and frequent interruptions from a child demanding to know if he could have credit crunch for pudding. In short, it was a golden period. And I want it back.
I am deeply aware that I have been very blessed to have been accorded my role – twice over. However, I think I’m undeserving of such goodness. I am an extremely selfish person who needs her 8 hours of undisturbed sleep and one who worries about her brain turning to mush from too much nappy changing (what do you know? the human body works in mysterious ways). I crave a role beyond that of a mother. And now that I have completed my biological task, please may I be allowed to diversify?
I take this opportunity to thank the two most important people who have made my time as a mother memorable. It was mostly fun but god, was it boring! Thank you little people for enduring me. You deserve better.
Sincerely
So-and-so
p.s. The next incumbent to the post is hereby notified that we are running low on milk and the nail cutter is missing.
My reasons of resignation are various. But the chief among them is my desperate need to regain what remains of my earlier life before the onslaught of children. It was a life filled with deliciously slothful behaviour. I could have leisurely lie-ins on Sunday mornings. I could leave home at a moment’s notice without having to pack for an apocalypse. I could hold long conversations on economics without regular and frequent interruptions from a child demanding to know if he could have credit crunch for pudding. In short, it was a golden period. And I want it back.
I am deeply aware that I have been very blessed to have been accorded my role – twice over. However, I think I’m undeserving of such goodness. I am an extremely selfish person who needs her 8 hours of undisturbed sleep and one who worries about her brain turning to mush from too much nappy changing (what do you know? the human body works in mysterious ways). I crave a role beyond that of a mother. And now that I have completed my biological task, please may I be allowed to diversify?
I take this opportunity to thank the two most important people who have made my time as a mother memorable. It was mostly fun but god, was it boring! Thank you little people for enduring me. You deserve better.
Sincerely
So-and-so
p.s. The next incumbent to the post is hereby notified that we are running low on milk and the nail cutter is missing.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Write with me
Following on from my earlier attempts at understanding poetry, I've decided to try my hand at writing them (ha!). Please join me in my pitiful attempts at rhyme and meter and all that.
Today Jikku's year 1 class had a visitor - a poet called Coral Rumble (I like her already!). And here's an exercise she devised to write poetry.
Today Jikku's year 1 class had a visitor - a poet called Coral Rumble (I like her already!). And here's an exercise she devised to write poetry.
POEM POT EXERCISE
- Take one poem-making kit (a pot, lined A4, plain A4, scissors and a pen)
- Fold the plain paper 4 times, creating 16 rectangles.
- Cut along the lines until you have 16 slips of paper.
- Decide on a subject you would really like to write a poem about, and write all your ideas - words, lines, phrases, similes - on the slips of paper. Use a new slip of paper for every idea and collect them all in your pot.
- When your pot is full, empty out your ideas and treat the slips of paper like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Put your ideas in the order you'd like them to appear in your poem. Play around with the pieces until you are happy with your ordering.
- Take the lined piece of paper and, taking each idea in order, expand your words, phrases etc into complete lines.
- Check to see if you need to add or take away words so that the lines link.
There you have it - your very own poem!
Share your poems in the comment box and I might just be tempted to show you mine.
Thank you!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
A quick tale 218
Cutcheri at 8
Jayalakshmi decided that she would sing Shanmugapriya for her ragam-thaanam-pallavi. It was sashti –the sixth day from Amavasai and Lord Murugan would approve of her choice of ragam.
Sa..ree…ga…maa…
Jayalakshmi sang the notes in the ragam, her voice echoing around the tiny bathroom. It was a miracle that her voice still retained its youthful ring. She sounded only mildly different from how she did 33 years ago when she gave her first kutcheri. Today people queued up to listen to Jayalakshmi Nagarajan. But how many days had she spent singing to the reflection in the bathroom mirror and wishing that the echo she heard was the resounding applause of her audience.
…saa…nee…dha…pa…
She let the notes slide into each other luxuriously as easily as if they had been greased with rich coconut oil. One did not get to her level by pure chance. It was all hardwork and struggle all the way. She has earned every bit of fame that she now wore so proudly around her shoulders. There was a time when her husband was the biggest hurdle in her path.
Chee! Why do you want to go and show off in public like that? He once demanded of her.
But, it’s only my music…that I want to share…she had protested meekly.
Why this whorish need for attention? He had barked and she had gone silent for years after that. But in June1992, he had suffered a minor stroke from which he never really recovered. He dribbled all the time and his speech was slurred. He quickly lost his teeth and almost overnight all his hair fell out. It was around that time that Jaya got a call from the trustee of the local pillayar temple one day. He had asked her if she would like to be one of the singers during the year’s Vinayaka Chaturthi celebrations. He had demanded a immediate response as he had to give the flyers out for printing. She had said yes without thinking.
On the day of the kutcheri, she had pretended to go to the temple for an abishekam. Her sons were grown and were no longer interested in what she was upto as long as she had cooked their dinner. She hurried out of the house, only pausing at the doorstep to announce to nobody in particular, “I’m going to the temple. I should be home quite late. Dinner is in the kitchen…”
If you had seen her scurrying out of the house, dressed in an arakku-maroon silk saree that evening, you would have thought she was hurrying for a clandestine meeting. Soon she was being approached by others in the local town. There was going to be a Mariyamman kovil kumbabishekam. Would she be able to sing at the festival? The local girls’ school was organising a music competition. Would she be interested in judging it and giving away prizes? Sakthi-Saradha Sabha was going to hold a 10-day celebration to mark their 50th anniversary. Would she like to be among those performing at the event?
She cannot now remember how it happened. But one fine day, she just stopped hiding. She waited for her husband to ask her about the kutcheris. But he never confronted her and she never bothered to explain. She however overheard him telling his sister about “the changed ways of his family members”. But by then she no longer cared for his opinion. Plus, it was not as if she neglected them. She made sure they got their idlis and dosais on time and only then, did she really step out of the house.
This evening’s kutcheri was in Trichy and Jayalakshmi would have to leave home soon if she had to be there on time. The car would be here any moment. As Jayalakshmi readied herself briskly, she caught sight of her husband lying limply in his ease chair in the corner of his room. His dribble had wet the top of his vest. She wiped his chin with a cotton towel and held his face in one hand.
“I’ll go and come back, okay? I’ve told Geetha to give you your dinner at 7 o’ clock. Don’t wait for me, I’ll be quite late returning.”
She turned and left his room not waiting for him to respond. A car was waiting for her at the entrance when she reached there. Jaya settled into the seat, closed her eyes and brought her hands together in a prayer. Muruga…she called out softly as her head sank into the head-rest. They should be in Trichy in 3 hours' time.
~@~
For you.
Jayalakshmi decided that she would sing Shanmugapriya for her ragam-thaanam-pallavi. It was sashti –the sixth day from Amavasai and Lord Murugan would approve of her choice of ragam.
Sa..ree…ga…maa…
Jayalakshmi sang the notes in the ragam, her voice echoing around the tiny bathroom. It was a miracle that her voice still retained its youthful ring. She sounded only mildly different from how she did 33 years ago when she gave her first kutcheri. Today people queued up to listen to Jayalakshmi Nagarajan. But how many days had she spent singing to the reflection in the bathroom mirror and wishing that the echo she heard was the resounding applause of her audience.
…saa…nee…dha…pa…
She let the notes slide into each other luxuriously as easily as if they had been greased with rich coconut oil. One did not get to her level by pure chance. It was all hardwork and struggle all the way. She has earned every bit of fame that she now wore so proudly around her shoulders. There was a time when her husband was the biggest hurdle in her path.
Chee! Why do you want to go and show off in public like that? He once demanded of her.
But, it’s only my music…that I want to share…she had protested meekly.
Why this whorish need for attention? He had barked and she had gone silent for years after that. But in June1992, he had suffered a minor stroke from which he never really recovered. He dribbled all the time and his speech was slurred. He quickly lost his teeth and almost overnight all his hair fell out. It was around that time that Jaya got a call from the trustee of the local pillayar temple one day. He had asked her if she would like to be one of the singers during the year’s Vinayaka Chaturthi celebrations. He had demanded a immediate response as he had to give the flyers out for printing. She had said yes without thinking.
On the day of the kutcheri, she had pretended to go to the temple for an abishekam. Her sons were grown and were no longer interested in what she was upto as long as she had cooked their dinner. She hurried out of the house, only pausing at the doorstep to announce to nobody in particular, “I’m going to the temple. I should be home quite late. Dinner is in the kitchen…”
If you had seen her scurrying out of the house, dressed in an arakku-maroon silk saree that evening, you would have thought she was hurrying for a clandestine meeting. Soon she was being approached by others in the local town. There was going to be a Mariyamman kovil kumbabishekam. Would she be able to sing at the festival? The local girls’ school was organising a music competition. Would she be interested in judging it and giving away prizes? Sakthi-Saradha Sabha was going to hold a 10-day celebration to mark their 50th anniversary. Would she like to be among those performing at the event?
She cannot now remember how it happened. But one fine day, she just stopped hiding. She waited for her husband to ask her about the kutcheris. But he never confronted her and she never bothered to explain. She however overheard him telling his sister about “the changed ways of his family members”. But by then she no longer cared for his opinion. Plus, it was not as if she neglected them. She made sure they got their idlis and dosais on time and only then, did she really step out of the house.
This evening’s kutcheri was in Trichy and Jayalakshmi would have to leave home soon if she had to be there on time. The car would be here any moment. As Jayalakshmi readied herself briskly, she caught sight of her husband lying limply in his ease chair in the corner of his room. His dribble had wet the top of his vest. She wiped his chin with a cotton towel and held his face in one hand.
“I’ll go and come back, okay? I’ve told Geetha to give you your dinner at 7 o’ clock. Don’t wait for me, I’ll be quite late returning.”
She turned and left his room not waiting for him to respond. A car was waiting for her at the entrance when she reached there. Jaya settled into the seat, closed her eyes and brought her hands together in a prayer. Muruga…she called out softly as her head sank into the head-rest. They should be in Trichy in 3 hours' time.
~@~
For you.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Lost in Post - Mumbai Mail
This time share your thoughts on the past few days' events in Mumbai. Write a letter to anyone - go anonymous if you wish - and send it to me at ammania@gmail.com
Your letters will be published at Lost in Post.
Thank you!
Your letters will be published at Lost in Post.
Thank you!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Remembering Mumbai
Anyone who has ever been to the city has a story to tell. An aunt who visited Mumbai just once sometime in the 80s, still talks about how her two word Hindi vocabulary of 'aage' (straight/further) and 'oopar' (up) quickly dwindled to just one during an autorickshaw ride. And how it left her directing the driver to go up-up-up to her sister's house.
An aunt-in-law who visited us when we were there couldn't understand how they managed to build the buildings so tall and conceal all the wiring inside the walls.
My mother still recalls the time she shopped for vaazha-thandu in Matunga for varalakshmi nonbu one year. And how she brought it all back to Andheri alongside fisherwomen with their baskets of the day's catch.
I have a sister who is living there and one day some years ago, she lost the keys to her apartment. It was fairly late in the night and she went straight to the first policeman she saw to ask for help. Together they combed the suburb for a locksmith and when they found one, an hour or so later, they brought him back to help her open the door. When she offered to reimburse the kind policeman for his time, he refused her offer and said that he had only helped a 'sister' and how could he accept money in return?
I lived there for a few years. And have my share of Mumbai stories. Tonight I remember every one of them. It's like remembering all the good times when a favourite aunt passes away. Somehow, the second time around the jokes seem funnier. And tears more poignant. May be because you know that what is gone is gone forever.
Take care, Mumbai.
An aunt-in-law who visited us when we were there couldn't understand how they managed to build the buildings so tall and conceal all the wiring inside the walls.
My mother still recalls the time she shopped for vaazha-thandu in Matunga for varalakshmi nonbu one year. And how she brought it all back to Andheri alongside fisherwomen with their baskets of the day's catch.
I have a sister who is living there and one day some years ago, she lost the keys to her apartment. It was fairly late in the night and she went straight to the first policeman she saw to ask for help. Together they combed the suburb for a locksmith and when they found one, an hour or so later, they brought him back to help her open the door. When she offered to reimburse the kind policeman for his time, he refused her offer and said that he had only helped a 'sister' and how could he accept money in return?
I lived there for a few years. And have my share of Mumbai stories. Tonight I remember every one of them. It's like remembering all the good times when a favourite aunt passes away. Somehow, the second time around the jokes seem funnier. And tears more poignant. May be because you know that what is gone is gone forever.
Take care, Mumbai.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Please suggest...
I read this post with mounting anger. I wish to do something - don't know what though. I want to act quickly before my anger turns cold. What can I do to help?
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Memories of food - Milkmaid
There are few things that taste as good in real life as they do in nostalgia. Reminiscing about food somehow has the strange effect of cancelling out such pointless concerns as calorie counts and hygiene issues that often plague real life savouring experiences. However, there are a couple of exceptions that almost always taste as good in real life as they do when dreaming about them in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon budget presentation. One of them is masal vadai. There has never been an occasion when the experience of sinking my teeth into one has been anything other than exceptionally joyous. The second exception to this rule is condensed milk. Or to give it its brand-turned-generic name – Milkmaid.
Growing up, we rarely had any tinned food. Milkmaid was perhaps the only ingredient that came in a tin. And the opening of one such tin was a ceremony deserving of its own Olympics. First, there would be a crowbar with large piece of smooth stone on one end and a stubborn tin on the other. The stone would pound away leaving several craters on the tin lid. Then a knife would be procured in an attempt to pry it open. And after much wrestling, the tin – now sadly resembling a teenager’s acne-ridden skin – would be leaking its sticky sweet condensed milk. A dash would be made to gather its nectar in a bowl before it fell to the ground and was wasted. Finally, the tin would be held upside down for a very long time – sometimes hours even – so that every last drop of its contents was harvested. This inaugural drama would only make Milkmaid – like its eponymous maid who plays hard-to-get - even more desirable.
Anyone who has ever had a slim thread of condensed milk poured onto their palms from a heavily pierced tin of Milkmaid would know exactly in their heart what heaven tastes like. It is liquid bliss. And as a child, I would yearn months and months for this all-too-rare treat. Although Milkmaid was an essential ingredient in payasam, it would have to be a very special occasion for the payasam to earn its Milkmaid. With the result that it would sometime be just once-a-year that I could have it piled onto my palm and lick it clean before it slithered down my elbow. And there was never enough of it. And what will we add to the payasam? would be the constant retort whenever I asked for more.
Why payasam when milkmaid would have done admirably well on its own as a sweet? I’ve often wondered. And it remains a mystery to-date. Wouldn’t serving us cups of milkmaid done the job just as beautifully? What was the need to cook it and distress it out of shape? So much so that there would rarely be any trace of Milkmaid’s original rich, gooey sweetness in the payasam I would get to eat afterwards. There would be far too many things vying for my attention – wispy cardamom and saintly saffron among others demanding my consideration. That the pale Milkmaid, the lifeblood of this creation, the matriarch of this dish would sadly go unacknowledged, forgotten.
And so to redress years of injustice, this Deepavali, I served up something special. Something pure, something raw. Little thimbles of paradise. Milkmaid. Nothing added, nothing taken away. Cynics would suggest that I was just plain lazy to dress it up as a halwa or a kheer. But what do they know? They can go to hell. Me? I’ve tasted heaven.
Growing up, we rarely had any tinned food. Milkmaid was perhaps the only ingredient that came in a tin. And the opening of one such tin was a ceremony deserving of its own Olympics. First, there would be a crowbar with large piece of smooth stone on one end and a stubborn tin on the other. The stone would pound away leaving several craters on the tin lid. Then a knife would be procured in an attempt to pry it open. And after much wrestling, the tin – now sadly resembling a teenager’s acne-ridden skin – would be leaking its sticky sweet condensed milk. A dash would be made to gather its nectar in a bowl before it fell to the ground and was wasted. Finally, the tin would be held upside down for a very long time – sometimes hours even – so that every last drop of its contents was harvested. This inaugural drama would only make Milkmaid – like its eponymous maid who plays hard-to-get - even more desirable.
Anyone who has ever had a slim thread of condensed milk poured onto their palms from a heavily pierced tin of Milkmaid would know exactly in their heart what heaven tastes like. It is liquid bliss. And as a child, I would yearn months and months for this all-too-rare treat. Although Milkmaid was an essential ingredient in payasam, it would have to be a very special occasion for the payasam to earn its Milkmaid. With the result that it would sometime be just once-a-year that I could have it piled onto my palm and lick it clean before it slithered down my elbow. And there was never enough of it. And what will we add to the payasam? would be the constant retort whenever I asked for more.
Why payasam when milkmaid would have done admirably well on its own as a sweet? I’ve often wondered. And it remains a mystery to-date. Wouldn’t serving us cups of milkmaid done the job just as beautifully? What was the need to cook it and distress it out of shape? So much so that there would rarely be any trace of Milkmaid’s original rich, gooey sweetness in the payasam I would get to eat afterwards. There would be far too many things vying for my attention – wispy cardamom and saintly saffron among others demanding my consideration. That the pale Milkmaid, the lifeblood of this creation, the matriarch of this dish would sadly go unacknowledged, forgotten.
And so to redress years of injustice, this Deepavali, I served up something special. Something pure, something raw. Little thimbles of paradise. Milkmaid. Nothing added, nothing taken away. Cynics would suggest that I was just plain lazy to dress it up as a halwa or a kheer. But what do they know? They can go to hell. Me? I’ve tasted heaven.
Monday, November 03, 2008
A quick tale 217
Shop in the time of credit crunch
Who are all these people, you wonder one day as you sit in a café sipping a warm mug of hot chocolate and watching pedestrians on the road. Why are they walking around with pendulous shopping bags? you ponder. What is inside those bags? It is not summer and it is months before Christmas. And if newspapers are to be believed, we are in the middle of a credit-crunch (you, like most others don’t wish to be bothered by the economic-minutiae but generally assume that it means tighter purse strings). Which brings you back to your question - who are all these shoppers?
You sip your tepid chocolate. Perhaps this woman here is celebrating the 5th anniversary of her graduation and has decided to gift herself a unicycle which is now flat-packed and she has to assemble it all herself. Perhaps that man over there has suddenly felt the urge to spend a ridiculous amount of money on vast quantities of shower gel and enamel paint. May be this young lady here has just found out that her account has been wrongly credited with a fortune and wants to blow it all up on vitamin supplements and hot-cross buns.
You take another sip of your room-temperature chocolate. Perhaps it is none of these. Perhaps there is a perfectly good explanation for shoppers being out on a Tuesday afternoon. But you’ll never find out what it is. It’s nearly time for you to go back to work and your drink has gone cold.
Who are all these people, you wonder one day as you sit in a café sipping a warm mug of hot chocolate and watching pedestrians on the road. Why are they walking around with pendulous shopping bags? you ponder. What is inside those bags? It is not summer and it is months before Christmas. And if newspapers are to be believed, we are in the middle of a credit-crunch (you, like most others don’t wish to be bothered by the economic-minutiae but generally assume that it means tighter purse strings). Which brings you back to your question - who are all these shoppers?
You sip your tepid chocolate. Perhaps this woman here is celebrating the 5th anniversary of her graduation and has decided to gift herself a unicycle which is now flat-packed and she has to assemble it all herself. Perhaps that man over there has suddenly felt the urge to spend a ridiculous amount of money on vast quantities of shower gel and enamel paint. May be this young lady here has just found out that her account has been wrongly credited with a fortune and wants to blow it all up on vitamin supplements and hot-cross buns.
You take another sip of your room-temperature chocolate. Perhaps it is none of these. Perhaps there is a perfectly good explanation for shoppers being out on a Tuesday afternoon. But you’ll never find out what it is. It’s nearly time for you to go back to work and your drink has gone cold.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Sun, Raj, Jaya, Makkal, Win, Podhigai
Blogeswari has a hilarious quiz going on here. This is strictly for the tamil channel viewers. So be warned.
Enjoy thangamani!
Enjoy thangamani!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
In praise of...8
Cooking from instinct
That's the trouble with recipes. They can never tell you everything. And that's also the reason why some of the best cooks I know never refer to a recipe that's been written down. I cannot imagine Pattu mami taking her eyes of the kothavarangai paruppu usili for one moment for a quick glance into her cook book to clarify how much kariveppilai to add to the pan. I agree, if you're baking something, you need to get your measurements right. And a recipe is a great aide-memoire in that regard. But a good recipe does not a good cook make.
I've seen aunts of mine ask Gomathy mami how she made the perfect mullu-murukku. They'd never ask her how long she soaked this or how many portions of that she added. More crucially, they'd want to know where she bought her butter from. They'd watch her as she squeezed the dough ribbons from the mould into boiling hot oil. They'd go away admiring her absolute mastery of the skill and be inspired to try something of their own. Watching, observing and then improvising. A recipe is a good indicator of the direction you need to take. Where you arrive, is entirely upto you.
That's the trouble with recipes. They can never tell you everything. And that's also the reason why some of the best cooks I know never refer to a recipe that's been written down. I cannot imagine Pattu mami taking her eyes of the kothavarangai paruppu usili for one moment for a quick glance into her cook book to clarify how much kariveppilai to add to the pan. I agree, if you're baking something, you need to get your measurements right. And a recipe is a great aide-memoire in that regard. But a good recipe does not a good cook make.
I've seen aunts of mine ask Gomathy mami how she made the perfect mullu-murukku. They'd never ask her how long she soaked this or how many portions of that she added. More crucially, they'd want to know where she bought her butter from. They'd watch her as she squeezed the dough ribbons from the mould into boiling hot oil. They'd go away admiring her absolute mastery of the skill and be inspired to try something of their own. Watching, observing and then improvising. A recipe is a good indicator of the direction you need to take. Where you arrive, is entirely upto you.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Water drowns noise
I don't know you. But I've met you before. I recognised you the minute your ugly desi eyes clapped on to my body this morning when I stepped into the swimming pool. You kept staring at me as I showered and slipped into the tepid waters of the swimming pool. I felt a shiver going up my spine. No, the water was fine. But it was the thought of you still watching me unblinking half-a-pool away. As I continued doing my laps, I sensed your eyes boring into me - stripping away every last shred of confidence I had. Reducing me to the traumatised 12-year old who had been felt up on a PTC bus. The bewildered 10-year old who watched as a familiar stranger put his hand up her skirt. The terrified 17-year old who had her breasts pinched by an auto rickshaw driver. I was no longer the 30-something mother of two who somehow had deluded herself that her child-bearing hips and layers of fat would immunise her against lecherous stares and ugly gropes. How wrong I was!
Each time I came up for air, I caught sight of you. Your eyes still fixated on me. To my horror, I saw you move a lane closer to me. I swam a lane away. You moved into the bubble pool looking down on the larger pool. I had no where to go. I wanted to yell and shout. I didn't even manage to confront you. Instead I swam and swam. Raging and whimpering silently. Wishing you a hundred misfortunes on your way out. I waited until you were well gone before I emerged from the pool. I showered, changed and rushed home. Where I knew I would be safe.
Each time I came up for air, I caught sight of you. Your eyes still fixated on me. To my horror, I saw you move a lane closer to me. I swam a lane away. You moved into the bubble pool looking down on the larger pool. I had no where to go. I wanted to yell and shout. I didn't even manage to confront you. Instead I swam and swam. Raging and whimpering silently. Wishing you a hundred misfortunes on your way out. I waited until you were well gone before I emerged from the pool. I showered, changed and rushed home. Where I knew I would be safe.
From the shameless plug dept
A feature on me under the 'One To Watch' section of 4Talent magazine - a bi-annual publication from Channel 4.
Friday, October 24, 2008
A cracker for Deepavali
With Deepavali just round the corner, I thought it'd be a good idea to spare a thought (and some change) to those who are perhaps not as fortunate as you and me.
So here's the idea. I have two fundraising initiatives. Take part in either (or both) and then send a donation off to your favourite charity. Mine is Projectwhy and I would greatly appreciate if you could send your contributions to the same.
Now for the fundraisers:
1. Life Updated. All you have to do is take an old picture of you from your past (don't matter how long ago) and recreate the photo. If it's a photo from your teen-years, even better! Strike the same pose as in the old photo and then post the old and recent photos side-by-side. Once you've done that, send a contribution to your chosen charity.
and/or
2. Never tried kale : For those of you who are not keen on sharing your photos, here's an alternative. A week long attempt at trying something new every day. And then blogging about it. It doesn't have to be anything dramatic. It could be something as simple as trying a new vegetable or sleeping on a different side of the bed or reading a new author or attempting the crossword. Who know? You just might discover how much you love kale! And at the end of the week (or during or before), send your donation off to a charity of your choice.
Please send me a link to ammania@gmail.com or leave a comment.
Thank you and happy Deepavali!
So here's the idea. I have two fundraising initiatives. Take part in either (or both) and then send a donation off to your favourite charity. Mine is Projectwhy and I would greatly appreciate if you could send your contributions to the same.
Now for the fundraisers:
1. Life Updated. All you have to do is take an old picture of you from your past (don't matter how long ago) and recreate the photo. If it's a photo from your teen-years, even better! Strike the same pose as in the old photo and then post the old and recent photos side-by-side. Once you've done that, send a contribution to your chosen charity.
and/or
2. Never tried kale : For those of you who are not keen on sharing your photos, here's an alternative. A week long attempt at trying something new every day. And then blogging about it. It doesn't have to be anything dramatic. It could be something as simple as trying a new vegetable or sleeping on a different side of the bed or reading a new author or attempting the crossword. Who know? You just might discover how much you love kale! And at the end of the week (or during or before), send your donation off to a charity of your choice.
Please send me a link to ammania@gmail.com or leave a comment.
Thank you and happy Deepavali!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
I'm sorry I haven't a bloody clue 2
I do not know how to correctly use the phrase 'benefit of doubt' (or is it 'the benefit...' or 'benefit of the...'?).
I also don't know what paradigm means. But I use it anyway.
I also don't know what paradigm means. But I use it anyway.
Monday, October 20, 2008
I'm sorry I haven't a bloody clue
This whole blogging business can be quite grim. Constantly having to appear knowledgable about everything from Bob Dylan to Bruce Willis is rather exhausting. Hence this new series. Where I parade my ignorance. Join me if you can. Let's show off our not-knowingness. Revel in it. Celebrate it even. But certainly not be ashamed of it.
Here's the my first.
I have honestly no clue what investment bankers do. They are fabulously rich and all that. But what exactly do they do during office hours?
Ha! Great to get that off the chest. Next!
Here's the my first.
I have honestly no clue what investment bankers do. They are fabulously rich and all that. But what exactly do they do during office hours?
Ha! Great to get that off the chest. Next!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Six Already!
It definitely wasn't love at first sight for me. There was none of the maternal gushing that is usually associated with such moments. I thought you were quite red and wrinkly and now that you were out, I simply wanted to go to sleep. The first few months of your life were tumultous for us and looking back, I remember very little from that period. Perhaps I just wanted to block it all out.
You were a needy child who left me utterly exhausted most of the time. I couldn't wait to get away from you and gather what little was left of my earlier life. Back then, I saw you as someone who changed my life irrevocably - and not necessarily in a good way. Added to that was the pressure of having to enjoy motherhood constantly. When all I wanted was to bottle motherhood and throw it somewhere deep into the Atlantic. Frankly, I didn't know how on earth I was going to continue being a mother for the rest of my life.
But gradually, without my ever noticing it, things started to change. You began to communicate and what a difference that made! By the time you were three, you had come into your own as a person and for the first time, I was able to enjoy your company. I saw you as an individual - a bright, funny and extraordinarily generous little person. And despite continued mealtime struggles, how I've come to love you!
I now realise that the years are sliding by quickly. I see your clothes, I note the size on your trainers and they tell me that you're not the toddler I still think of you as. But when did that happen? And how did I miss those years? Soon, you won't be needing your old mother to comfort you when your graze your knee. Or bite your tongue. Or lose your car. And when that happens, guess who'll be wishing she was needed more?
Happy 6th birthday, Jikku! What a blessing you are.
But gradually, without my ever noticing it, things started to change. You began to communicate and what a difference that made! By the time you were three, you had come into your own as a person and for the first time, I was able to enjoy your company. I saw you as an individual - a bright, funny and extraordinarily generous little person. And despite continued mealtime struggles, how I've come to love you!
I now realise that the years are sliding by quickly. I see your clothes, I note the size on your trainers and they tell me that you're not the toddler I still think of you as. But when did that happen? And how did I miss those years? Soon, you won't be needing your old mother to comfort you when your graze your knee. Or bite your tongue. Or lose your car. And when that happens, guess who'll be wishing she was needed more?
Happy 6th birthday, Jikku! What a blessing you are.
love,
Amma
Amma
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A quick tale 216
A little girl like you
Remember when you were young and your mother used to give you a rupee and ask you to buy cashew nuts from the corner store? The payasam would be ready. The cardamoms would have been pounded. The ghee would be smoking in a small pan on the stove. Hurry, she would urge you, Appa is about to sit down for lunch. I can't make him wait for the payasam. And you would run down to the store, slide the coin across the counter and ask Chettiar for cashew nuts. He would take the coin, slip it into his cash box and nod to the errand boy to carry out the task. The boy would tip a handful of cashews onto the scales, weigh them under the watchful eyes of his employer, wrap them in a newspaper cone and tie them with a small string of coir.
No sooner had you turned the corner, than the string would come undone. You would slip a few of the buttery nuts into your palm. And toss them all straight into your mouth. Then it'd become a struggle to finish them without a trace before you reached home. Amma would have been waiting impatiently. You'd wipe your mouth with the back of your palm and hand over the hastily re-wrapped bundle to her. You'd smile when you heard her complain how much Chettiar charged for such a small handful of nuts. You thought you'd pulled the wool over her eyes. But you forgot, she too was a little girl once. And she remembers well what the little ones get up to.
Remember when you were young and your mother used to give you a rupee and ask you to buy cashew nuts from the corner store? The payasam would be ready. The cardamoms would have been pounded. The ghee would be smoking in a small pan on the stove. Hurry, she would urge you, Appa is about to sit down for lunch. I can't make him wait for the payasam. And you would run down to the store, slide the coin across the counter and ask Chettiar for cashew nuts. He would take the coin, slip it into his cash box and nod to the errand boy to carry out the task. The boy would tip a handful of cashews onto the scales, weigh them under the watchful eyes of his employer, wrap them in a newspaper cone and tie them with a small string of coir.
No sooner had you turned the corner, than the string would come undone. You would slip a few of the buttery nuts into your palm. And toss them all straight into your mouth. Then it'd become a struggle to finish them without a trace before you reached home. Amma would have been waiting impatiently. You'd wipe your mouth with the back of your palm and hand over the hastily re-wrapped bundle to her. You'd smile when you heard her complain how much Chettiar charged for such a small handful of nuts. You thought you'd pulled the wool over her eyes. But you forgot, she too was a little girl once. And she remembers well what the little ones get up to.
A quick tale 215
345 friends and counting
She does not know how the other woman managed it. She had only been in office since Monday and already she was calling Vasant 'Vasu', going out for coffee with Sri (Sridhar, until yesterday) and was telling Sue (Sumana) how lovely her new hairstyle was. Heck the two women had only met 72 hours ago!
She wonders how the new arrival had so seamlessly enmeshed herself into the complex jigsaw of office life while she had been working at the same place since February 2002. And to date had not snared a single invitation for coffee and on most days, ate lunch on her own. She must try harder, she resolves. She would remember birthdays, throw dinner parties and be whole lot more gregarious. For a start, she signs up to facebook and pokes her boss.
She does not know how the other woman managed it. She had only been in office since Monday and already she was calling Vasant 'Vasu', going out for coffee with Sri (Sridhar, until yesterday) and was telling Sue (Sumana) how lovely her new hairstyle was. Heck the two women had only met 72 hours ago!
She wonders how the new arrival had so seamlessly enmeshed herself into the complex jigsaw of office life while she had been working at the same place since February 2002. And to date had not snared a single invitation for coffee and on most days, ate lunch on her own. She must try harder, she resolves. She would remember birthdays, throw dinner parties and be whole lot more gregarious. For a start, she signs up to facebook and pokes her boss.
A quick tale 214
Bully
She sits here on her sofa, this 29-year old mother-of-one, about to tell her son off for leaving muddy footprints all over the floor. She is looking down on her stained carpet with mounting horror. How many times does she have to tell him to leave his shoes outside? Has she not told him a million times already? Does she have to write a note and hang it around his neck so he'd remember it next time? Like her father would threaten to do every time she failed to do something he'd asked her to. Funny how she is thinking about her father's threats. From all those years ago. When she was a little girl who was easily bullied. Here she is, a grown woman looking, sitting, raging in the middle of her living room and still remembering empty threats from a lifetime ago. She sighs and gets up to clean the stains. She decides to give her son one more chance.
She sits here on her sofa, this 29-year old mother-of-one, about to tell her son off for leaving muddy footprints all over the floor. She is looking down on her stained carpet with mounting horror. How many times does she have to tell him to leave his shoes outside? Has she not told him a million times already? Does she have to write a note and hang it around his neck so he'd remember it next time? Like her father would threaten to do every time she failed to do something he'd asked her to. Funny how she is thinking about her father's threats. From all those years ago. When she was a little girl who was easily bullied. Here she is, a grown woman looking, sitting, raging in the middle of her living room and still remembering empty threats from a lifetime ago. She sighs and gets up to clean the stains. She decides to give her son one more chance.
Friday, October 10, 2008
A very public attempt 5
At Understanding Poetry
I know. It runs in the family.
I've run out of steam on this series. I leave you with this one. My nearly-six year old's gift to his father on his birthday.
I know. It runs in the family.Friday, October 03, 2008
A very public attempt 4
At Understanding Poetry
When I was younger poetry was easy to identify. It was something that rhymed and had been written by someone long dead. Then I stumbled upon free verse. Everything changed.
I give you a sample. It's really nice. But why is it poetry? And why isn't it just broken up lines? As ever, resist googling for the poet.
Your turn.
When I was younger poetry was easy to identify. It was something that rhymed and had been written by someone long dead. Then I stumbled upon free verse. Everything changed.
I give you a sample. It's really nice. But why is it poetry? And why isn't it just broken up lines? As ever, resist googling for the poet.
Drawing the Line
What could be simpler than this?
To distinguish past from future,
old from new.
To turn the year like a page,
rediscover our taste for happy endings,
our need for regret.
“You have to draw the line somewhere”
you say.
But always the hand trembles,
the eye fails,
and the heart cannot keep
its memories straight.
Life, like poetry,
is never drawn to scale.
How strange that the shortest distance between two points
should be our most fundamental of separations –
the line,
that can both emphasise and cancel –
so that you draw a margin on the blank page
not only to underline the emptiness,
but also to make it yours.
We exist in a world of shapes and parallels,
imagining lines everywhere –
stencils of states we partition our maps with,
checkerboards of calendars,
and the diagonal of God,
dividing eternity from oblivion –
we are like children
cutting their food into squares,
inventing definition
to make the world easier.
You could say this is make-believe:
that the border between what was and what will be
is too absently crossed;
that the songbirds cannot tell night from day,
past from possibility.
Yet how could we live
without the parentheses of beginning and end?
How could we hope
without Time’s punctuation?
We exist in the hair’s-breadth
of the immediate,
creasing the stationery of our years
with birth, death and festival
to mark our place in it.
Let it be so:
to believe in the trivial
is to have a faith
that cannot be shaken.
Let us celebrate this day
not in the illusion that things will change,
or that the spilling over of time’s circle
means something,
but in the knowledge
that this day is special
because we share it
with each other.
To distinguish past from future,
old from new.
To turn the year like a page,
rediscover our taste for happy endings,
our need for regret.
“You have to draw the line somewhere”
you say.
But always the hand trembles,
the eye fails,
and the heart cannot keep
its memories straight.
Life, like poetry,
is never drawn to scale.
How strange that the shortest distance between two points
should be our most fundamental of separations –
the line,
that can both emphasise and cancel –
so that you draw a margin on the blank page
not only to underline the emptiness,
but also to make it yours.
We exist in a world of shapes and parallels,
imagining lines everywhere –
stencils of states we partition our maps with,
checkerboards of calendars,
and the diagonal of God,
dividing eternity from oblivion –
we are like children
cutting their food into squares,
inventing definition
to make the world easier.
You could say this is make-believe:
that the border between what was and what will be
is too absently crossed;
that the songbirds cannot tell night from day,
past from possibility.
Yet how could we live
without the parentheses of beginning and end?
How could we hope
without Time’s punctuation?
We exist in the hair’s-breadth
of the immediate,
creasing the stationery of our years
with birth, death and festival
to mark our place in it.
Let it be so:
to believe in the trivial
is to have a faith
that cannot be shaken.
Let us celebrate this day
not in the illusion that things will change,
or that the spilling over of time’s circle
means something,
but in the knowledge
that this day is special
because we share it
with each other.
Your turn.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Tere mere sapne...
It seems silly. To have something called 'our song'. We're not that kind of people. Not you, not me. Still, you know this one is special. And I don't have to tell you why. Happy birthday!
p.s. sorry I'm two days late.
p.s. sorry I'm two days late.
A very public attempt 3
At Understanding Poetry
I loved Tulips. You do not need to know about the tragic life of Plath to be moved by it. It is not decorous. It is not trying too hard. There is an honesty in the poet's 'voice' and the words just fall gracefully in place.
Which brings me to my next offering. Try this one.
I loved Tulips. You do not need to know about the tragic life of Plath to be moved by it. It is not decorous. It is not trying too hard. There is an honesty in the poet's 'voice' and the words just fall gracefully in place.
Which brings me to my next offering. Try this one.
Being Boring
If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.
There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.
I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.- Wendy Cope
I bet most of you would have liked it. But it may not be in the realms of grand, classical poetry for some. Why? Because its subject matter is not some obscure thought but the crushingly mundane? Which leads me to wonder if can you write about dog shit and still call it poetry.
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