At around the same time as a quick tale 156
I wonder, she thought as she lay on her back, whatever happened to that guy who lived across the street from us. The one I briefly had a crush on before I found him in a pink polyester shirt one morning. And what about that girl, the one who would walk with me to school every morning. Where could she be? And the old headmistress, she thought letting out a sigh, I wonder what became of her. I can still remember her words the day I left school. Would she be disappointed if she saw me today? Or would she be proud? Would she even remember me? Is she still alive? I must search for her on the internet tomorrow, she resolved when she felt him stir beside her. He turned to his side and put his arm across her in a hug. Damn these coffees, she thought, keeping me awake all night. I won't drink a single drop tomorrow, she swore as she closed her eyes and hoped to fall sleep.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Thursday, September 07, 2006
A quick tale 156
At around 2, one morning
Someday, he thought, as he lay on his back, all of this will be gone. The relationships so carefully cultivated. The memories collected. The experiences gathered. The children, the birthdays, the betrayals, the mortgages, the holidays, the risks, the triumphs. None of this will be remembered. All his life will be gathered and reduced to one faded photo of him smiling into the distance. Which someone will garland once a year. With this lingering thought, he turned to his side and hugged her. Then closed his eyes and hoped to fall asleep.
Someday, he thought, as he lay on his back, all of this will be gone. The relationships so carefully cultivated. The memories collected. The experiences gathered. The children, the birthdays, the betrayals, the mortgages, the holidays, the risks, the triumphs. None of this will be remembered. All his life will be gathered and reduced to one faded photo of him smiling into the distance. Which someone will garland once a year. With this lingering thought, he turned to his side and hugged her. Then closed his eyes and hoped to fall asleep.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
A quick tale 155
A reason for saying no
You are pretending that the thought has not entered your head. You keep stirring the sugar in your coffee and ignoring the thought that is gradually hammering its way into the main stream. You focus on what the man in front of you is saying and hope that if you concentrate hard enough the loud noise in your head will somehow disappear. The man in front of you, the one your parents have arranged for you to meet, is talking about tax saving funds. And all the time your mind is thinking ‘this is the man I will be sleeping with’. You look down at your coffee cup for fear that your eyes may give away your thoughts. You notice the curly hair on his knuckles as you lower your eyes. You know in that instant that you cannot marry him. He continues to talk about high-risk equity schemes. Later when your mum asks you why you turned him down, you’ll say ‘we were not compatible’. Surely, hairy knuckles would not be an acceptable reason.
You are pretending that the thought has not entered your head. You keep stirring the sugar in your coffee and ignoring the thought that is gradually hammering its way into the main stream. You focus on what the man in front of you is saying and hope that if you concentrate hard enough the loud noise in your head will somehow disappear. The man in front of you, the one your parents have arranged for you to meet, is talking about tax saving funds. And all the time your mind is thinking ‘this is the man I will be sleeping with’. You look down at your coffee cup for fear that your eyes may give away your thoughts. You notice the curly hair on his knuckles as you lower your eyes. You know in that instant that you cannot marry him. He continues to talk about high-risk equity schemes. Later when your mum asks you why you turned him down, you’ll say ‘we were not compatible’. Surely, hairy knuckles would not be an acceptable reason.
Monday, August 28, 2006
A quick tale 154
Height
It all started when Prakash Rao was at the doctor's clinic. He was standing with his back to the wall and a young nurse, perched on a chair next to him was marking his height on the wall. Prakash was there to get a doctor's certificate, necessary for a life insurance policy. His blood pressure was a normal 120 over 80, his weight a satisfactory 63 kilos and barring a mild case of halitosis, Prakash was his very good health for his 34 years of age. He was pleasantly distracted by the nurse's bosoms which were brushing against his face when he heard her call out, "five feet eight inches."
That can't be right. "Five feet eight inches", repeated the doctor as he wrote it down on his letter pad. Prakash stepped back to look at the faint marking on the wall and the nurse was right. It was a whisper short of five feet eight inch mark on the height chart stuck to the wall. Surely something must be wrong with the chart, he thought. With all these imperial and metric measurements and conversions, Prakash was convinced that they had got it wrong. How else do you explain his height coming down a massive three inches!
For as long as he could remember, Prakash had been five feet eleven inches tall. His passport said so. His tailor would say so too, if he didn't just bother with measuring Prakash's legs. In fact, he remembered once when his newly-wed wife Hema had described him to a friend on the phone. "Nearly six feet tall", he had heard her say and he had walked around on his toes all afternoon.
A man cannot just lose three inches of his height. It was like waking up one morning and finding your arm gone. Or finding that the face in the mirror is not one you recognise. Prakash was getting used to the new reality of his life that he drove home from the clinic distracted. He had barely stepped into the house when Hema demanded, "Did you remember to buy coconut? I knew you would forget it. Lalli athai's daughter Jalaja will be here any moment and I will not have finished cooking. Would you do this if this was one of your relatives?"
Prakash pleaded headache and went straight to his room clutching his head. Could he be shrinking? Had his old age already begun? What next? Would he start losing hair and teeth and memory soon? Would he have to start buying insoles? He would certainly have to stop Hema wearing those high heels. For he can't be shorter than his wife!
The afternoon passed by in a blur. Jalaja and her husband Sarvesh were saying something about buying a flat and the difficulty in getting school admission for their daughter. Prakash discreetly checked out Sarvesh's height as they got up to leave. Sarvesh was a good inch or two shorter than him and Prakash liked him instantly.
He decided that from then on, he would divide the world into those who were taller than him and those he liked. He was still making up his mind when heard Hema call out, "Listen! Can you help me get the plastic box from the top almirah? I want to pack some sweets for Jalaja."
He stopped frowning for a moment. A smile spread across his face as he raised himself on his toes and called out, "Coming dear".
It all started when Prakash Rao was at the doctor's clinic. He was standing with his back to the wall and a young nurse, perched on a chair next to him was marking his height on the wall. Prakash was there to get a doctor's certificate, necessary for a life insurance policy. His blood pressure was a normal 120 over 80, his weight a satisfactory 63 kilos and barring a mild case of halitosis, Prakash was his very good health for his 34 years of age. He was pleasantly distracted by the nurse's bosoms which were brushing against his face when he heard her call out, "five feet eight inches."
That can't be right. "Five feet eight inches", repeated the doctor as he wrote it down on his letter pad. Prakash stepped back to look at the faint marking on the wall and the nurse was right. It was a whisper short of five feet eight inch mark on the height chart stuck to the wall. Surely something must be wrong with the chart, he thought. With all these imperial and metric measurements and conversions, Prakash was convinced that they had got it wrong. How else do you explain his height coming down a massive three inches!
For as long as he could remember, Prakash had been five feet eleven inches tall. His passport said so. His tailor would say so too, if he didn't just bother with measuring Prakash's legs. In fact, he remembered once when his newly-wed wife Hema had described him to a friend on the phone. "Nearly six feet tall", he had heard her say and he had walked around on his toes all afternoon.
A man cannot just lose three inches of his height. It was like waking up one morning and finding your arm gone. Or finding that the face in the mirror is not one you recognise. Prakash was getting used to the new reality of his life that he drove home from the clinic distracted. He had barely stepped into the house when Hema demanded, "Did you remember to buy coconut? I knew you would forget it. Lalli athai's daughter Jalaja will be here any moment and I will not have finished cooking. Would you do this if this was one of your relatives?"
Prakash pleaded headache and went straight to his room clutching his head. Could he be shrinking? Had his old age already begun? What next? Would he start losing hair and teeth and memory soon? Would he have to start buying insoles? He would certainly have to stop Hema wearing those high heels. For he can't be shorter than his wife!
The afternoon passed by in a blur. Jalaja and her husband Sarvesh were saying something about buying a flat and the difficulty in getting school admission for their daughter. Prakash discreetly checked out Sarvesh's height as they got up to leave. Sarvesh was a good inch or two shorter than him and Prakash liked him instantly.
He decided that from then on, he would divide the world into those who were taller than him and those he liked. He was still making up his mind when heard Hema call out, "Listen! Can you help me get the plastic box from the top almirah? I want to pack some sweets for Jalaja."
He stopped frowning for a moment. A smile spread across his face as he raised himself on his toes and called out, "Coming dear".
Monday, August 21, 2006
A quick tale 153
Unexpected
Did you or did not drop it?, demanded her father dangling an iron box by its wire as if it was a dead rat. The 11-year old looked at him for a couple of seconds trying to make up her mind.
Yes, she admitted, it fell down and broke as I tried to iron my skirt this morning.
Having heard the answer he was looking for, her father did not know what to do next.
Did you or did not drop it?, demanded her father dangling an iron box by its wire as if it was a dead rat. The 11-year old looked at him for a couple of seconds trying to make up her mind.
Yes, she admitted, it fell down and broke as I tried to iron my skirt this morning.
Having heard the answer he was looking for, her father did not know what to do next.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Need Help!
Hello
I need help with some recording. I'm not terribly aware of the technology involved. All I know is that it has to be an mp3 file.
The person whose voice needs to be recorded lives in Delhi. So if you know someone in Delhi who has the equipment needed to record an mp3 file, could you please pass on their contacts to me at ammania@gmail.com ?
Much appreciate your help.
Thanks.
I need help with some recording. I'm not terribly aware of the technology involved. All I know is that it has to be an mp3 file.
The person whose voice needs to be recorded lives in Delhi. So if you know someone in Delhi who has the equipment needed to record an mp3 file, could you please pass on their contacts to me at ammania@gmail.com ?
Much appreciate your help.
Thanks.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
My Dear...
Have you ever wished you could tell your boss what an idiot she is for putting you down at the meeting the other day? Or your ex-boyfriend what you really think of his birthday gift? Or that stupid woman behind the counter for turning down your visa application? Or your school PT teacher for making you practise your drill in the baking sun while she sat in the shade sipping soft drink?
Here's your chance. Write a letter to someone telling them what you've always wanted to. It could be addressed to anyone - living, dead, fictitious. Make it short, say within 300 words. And send them to ammania@gmail.com. Please mark 'My dear' in the subject line. If you wish to remain anonymous, that's fine too.
To read all the letters received so far, please go here
Here's your chance. Write a letter to someone telling them what you've always wanted to. It could be addressed to anyone - living, dead, fictitious. Make it short, say within 300 words. And send them to ammania@gmail.com. Please mark 'My dear' in the subject line. If you wish to remain anonymous, that's fine too.
To read all the letters received so far, please go here
Sunday, July 23, 2006
A quick tale 152
My mother's daughter
Unlike that woman, there aren't many photos of you when you were seventeen. There is one though, which I remember seeing many years ago, taken just before you got married. You are staring straight into the camera, your jaw set, your posture perfect, your will strong.
How familiar I will become with your unbending will in the years to come! Some might even say I inherited your stubborness. Do you remember how many times you and I have disowned each other? During bitter fights over inconsequential things that would escalate into raging feuds. That we would go without speaking to each other for weeks. Now when I call, we speak like old friends. You tell me about your childhood, your brothers and your sisters. Stories I never had patience for when I was young. I listen to them now, may be because I realise that I may not have forever to hear the last of them. Still, sometimes we lapse into our old ways and one of us hangs up in a huff. And then there would be silence for days. Before the phone rings again.
Growing up I never saw much of you in me. I only saw father when I looked in the mirror. But now, when I speak to my child, it's your voice I hear. I borrow your stories, I sing your songs. I improvise on your jokes. I repeat the threats I heard as a child. I am you. And I'm finally beginning to understand what it must be like to be my mother.
Unlike that woman, there aren't many photos of you when you were seventeen. There is one though, which I remember seeing many years ago, taken just before you got married. You are staring straight into the camera, your jaw set, your posture perfect, your will strong.
How familiar I will become with your unbending will in the years to come! Some might even say I inherited your stubborness. Do you remember how many times you and I have disowned each other? During bitter fights over inconsequential things that would escalate into raging feuds. That we would go without speaking to each other for weeks. Now when I call, we speak like old friends. You tell me about your childhood, your brothers and your sisters. Stories I never had patience for when I was young. I listen to them now, may be because I realise that I may not have forever to hear the last of them. Still, sometimes we lapse into our old ways and one of us hangs up in a huff. And then there would be silence for days. Before the phone rings again.
Growing up I never saw much of you in me. I only saw father when I looked in the mirror. But now, when I speak to my child, it's your voice I hear. I borrow your stories, I sing your songs. I improvise on your jokes. I repeat the threats I heard as a child. I am you. And I'm finally beginning to understand what it must be like to be my mother.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
A quick tale 151
Temptation
Have you ever wondered, walking past the grocery store, how the man behind the counter could keep his hands off the sweets in the glass jar? Yes, me too. Nearly every morning on my way to school, I would see Chettiar in his crisp white veshti and white khadi cotton shirt, sacred ash smeared liberally over his forehead, sitting impassively behind the counter in his grocery store. He was clearly the master of all he surveyed. And every morning, I would wonder how he was never tempted by the gorgeous little globules that shone out from the bell jars that stood on his table.
In all those years, I never once saw him unwrap a little toffee and toss it in his mouth. Not even during those idle summer afternoons when most people preferred to stay indoors and Chettiar's store would be quiet for want of customers. He seemed strangely immune to the sweet temptations that were so tantalisingly close at hand. How could that be?, I tried to reason. May be he had them when I wasn't looking. That must be it. After all, I reckoned, I passed by his store two or three times a day. And he must be helping himself to handfuls during rest of the day. Just to be sure, I started going past the shop more often. Sometimes, I would turn the corner and observe him secretly. But not once did I see him reach for the jars. This must be some sort of a miracle, I was convinced. Whoever heard of a man who did not grab the treats when they were at arm's length?
I never got to the bottom of the mystery. Some months later, we moved out of the house and subsequently, Chettiar's store gave way to a high-rise apartment. Last week, I saw Chettiar again. I was at the traffic lights when a scooter pulled up next to my car. Chettiar was sitting behind someone, his son presumably, on the scooter. He was smaller than I remembered him. More condensed and shrunk with age. As the two-wheeler raced ahead of me, something fluttered out of Chettiar's hands. It landed briefly on my windshield before being blown away. It was a small square of transparent green crinkly paper. The kind used to wrap toffees.
Have you ever wondered, walking past the grocery store, how the man behind the counter could keep his hands off the sweets in the glass jar? Yes, me too. Nearly every morning on my way to school, I would see Chettiar in his crisp white veshti and white khadi cotton shirt, sacred ash smeared liberally over his forehead, sitting impassively behind the counter in his grocery store. He was clearly the master of all he surveyed. And every morning, I would wonder how he was never tempted by the gorgeous little globules that shone out from the bell jars that stood on his table.
In all those years, I never once saw him unwrap a little toffee and toss it in his mouth. Not even during those idle summer afternoons when most people preferred to stay indoors and Chettiar's store would be quiet for want of customers. He seemed strangely immune to the sweet temptations that were so tantalisingly close at hand. How could that be?, I tried to reason. May be he had them when I wasn't looking. That must be it. After all, I reckoned, I passed by his store two or three times a day. And he must be helping himself to handfuls during rest of the day. Just to be sure, I started going past the shop more often. Sometimes, I would turn the corner and observe him secretly. But not once did I see him reach for the jars. This must be some sort of a miracle, I was convinced. Whoever heard of a man who did not grab the treats when they were at arm's length?
I never got to the bottom of the mystery. Some months later, we moved out of the house and subsequently, Chettiar's store gave way to a high-rise apartment. Last week, I saw Chettiar again. I was at the traffic lights when a scooter pulled up next to my car. Chettiar was sitting behind someone, his son presumably, on the scooter. He was smaller than I remembered him. More condensed and shrunk with age. As the two-wheeler raced ahead of me, something fluttered out of Chettiar's hands. It landed briefly on my windshield before being blown away. It was a small square of transparent green crinkly paper. The kind used to wrap toffees.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A quick tale 150
At Ease
I can see you looking at me. With sympathy in your eyes. I'm sure you are wondering what I look forward to in each day. After all, how different can the ceiling look from one day to the next? You feel sorry for me and you come and sit next to me. You tell me about your job, your family, your plans, your future as you hold my hand. You believe this is going to make me feel better. I'm alright, I try to tell you, don't pity me. I too was chasing dreams once. But I'm happy with the way things are going now. I lie back and think about things past. People long gone. No, I don't yearn for the old days. They were stormy and wild. I have good memories and I'm content to be where I am today. It's my time to reflect. I just wish my knees wouldn't hurt so much.
I can see you looking at me. With sympathy in your eyes. I'm sure you are wondering what I look forward to in each day. After all, how different can the ceiling look from one day to the next? You feel sorry for me and you come and sit next to me. You tell me about your job, your family, your plans, your future as you hold my hand. You believe this is going to make me feel better. I'm alright, I try to tell you, don't pity me. I too was chasing dreams once. But I'm happy with the way things are going now. I lie back and think about things past. People long gone. No, I don't yearn for the old days. They were stormy and wild. I have good memories and I'm content to be where I am today. It's my time to reflect. I just wish my knees wouldn't hurt so much.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
A quick tale 149
Epiphany
What's the word for what I'm feeling right now? Epiphany? Yes, I think that's it. Here I am, standing in a queue to pay my telephone bill on a Wednesday afternoon and in a rare, undisturbed moment, I reflect. On how I came to this point of my life. A middle-aged man who's fast losing his hair wondering how long it will be before it is his turn at the till. How did I get here? I don't remember much of the journey. There are only two more people in front of me now. I check my bill, count my cash, adjust my crotch and look at the receding hairline of the man in front of me. When did the brazen idealist of my twenties give way to this softer, mellow version who takes comfort in other people's baldness? Did it happen overnight or was it gradual? So gradual that I did not notice the change? Bald man moves. I stand in front of the till. Yes?, queries the bull dog behind the mesh. The spell is broken. I place the bill on the counter, weigh it down with a wad of cash and slide it across to her.
What's the word for what I'm feeling right now? Epiphany? Yes, I think that's it. Here I am, standing in a queue to pay my telephone bill on a Wednesday afternoon and in a rare, undisturbed moment, I reflect. On how I came to this point of my life. A middle-aged man who's fast losing his hair wondering how long it will be before it is his turn at the till. How did I get here? I don't remember much of the journey. There are only two more people in front of me now. I check my bill, count my cash, adjust my crotch and look at the receding hairline of the man in front of me. When did the brazen idealist of my twenties give way to this softer, mellow version who takes comfort in other people's baldness? Did it happen overnight or was it gradual? So gradual that I did not notice the change? Bald man moves. I stand in front of the till. Yes?, queries the bull dog behind the mesh. The spell is broken. I place the bill on the counter, weigh it down with a wad of cash and slide it across to her.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Dear Mr Director
...even the confirmed non-believer, the harshest cynic will have to agree that no one makes a child suffer so much unless there is a larger plan for him..
Anouradha Bakshi in a touching letter to a school director.
Anouradha Bakshi in a touching letter to a school director.
Monday, July 03, 2006
A quick tale 147
Decisions
You envy those to whom decisions come easy. Look at her, you think to yourself, two kids, holding both her hands and the third waiting to pop in the next few months. She probably determined the size of her family over the course of three nights. Her hair is a fiery red. It is likely that she sat at the hairdresser's and chose the colour on an impulse. And not browse through celebrity magazines weeks on end to decide whose style to follow. And those heels on her feet. You are sure she did not spend half-a-day considering if they were practical AND fashionable. You reckon she just pulled them out of the closet and slipped them on.
You watch her getting into a red hatchback. A car she must have picked up after it caught her eye one morning. You are pretty sure she did not climb a hundred showrooms, compare prices, surf the net for deals before picking up a rundown, second hand car that she is not happy with. And when she gets home, you are positive she will already know what she's going to cook for dinner. She will not spend hours agonising over what to feed her family that is both nutritious and still popular with the kids. Someone honks. You really must stop dreaming and make up your mind about which way to go. You reach into your pocket for a coin to flip.
You envy those to whom decisions come easy. Look at her, you think to yourself, two kids, holding both her hands and the third waiting to pop in the next few months. She probably determined the size of her family over the course of three nights. Her hair is a fiery red. It is likely that she sat at the hairdresser's and chose the colour on an impulse. And not browse through celebrity magazines weeks on end to decide whose style to follow. And those heels on her feet. You are sure she did not spend half-a-day considering if they were practical AND fashionable. You reckon she just pulled them out of the closet and slipped them on.
You watch her getting into a red hatchback. A car she must have picked up after it caught her eye one morning. You are pretty sure she did not climb a hundred showrooms, compare prices, surf the net for deals before picking up a rundown, second hand car that she is not happy with. And when she gets home, you are positive she will already know what she's going to cook for dinner. She will not spend hours agonising over what to feed her family that is both nutritious and still popular with the kids. Someone honks. You really must stop dreaming and make up your mind about which way to go. You reach into your pocket for a coin to flip.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
The Saturday Poem
Found this in yesterday's paper. Again, I wish I'd written it.
-a
Now and Then
"Now that I'm fifty-seven",
My mother used to say,
"Why should I waste a minute?
Why should I waste a day
Doing the things I ought to
Simply because I should?
Now that I'm fifty-seven
I'm done with that for good."
But now and then I'd catch her
Trapped in some thankless chore
Just as she might have been at
Fifty-three or fifty-four
And I would say to her
(And I have to bite my tongue)
That if you mean to learn a skill
It's well worth starting young
And so, to make sure I'm in time
For fifty, I've begun
To do exactly as I please
Now that I'm thirty-one.
-Sophie Hannah
-a
Now and Then
"Now that I'm fifty-seven",
My mother used to say,
"Why should I waste a minute?
Why should I waste a day
Doing the things I ought to
Simply because I should?
Now that I'm fifty-seven
I'm done with that for good."
But now and then I'd catch her
Trapped in some thankless chore
Just as she might have been at
Fifty-three or fifty-four
And I would say to her
(And I have to bite my tongue)
That if you mean to learn a skill
It's well worth starting young
And so, to make sure I'm in time
For fifty, I've begun
To do exactly as I please
Now that I'm thirty-one.
-Sophie Hannah
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
A quick tale 146
Neighbour
Each time I look at your washing line, I wonder how you manage to spread your laundry out so tidily. Every item of clothing stretched across the line and pinched at the ends with plastic pegs. Smooth and without a crease. As if you had ironed them before hanging them out to dry. This morning I noticed an extra vest along with the usual. It hung limp from the clips that held it. Curiously resembling a deflated balloon. Whose is it? Your father-in-law's, perhaps? How long will he be staying? I noticed that you had brought your silk saree out for an airing last week. Is there a wedding in the family? Are you going to be wearing your favourite mango-coloured blouse again? Remember to mend it because I saw a small tear near the sleeve last time.
Now that the rains have stopped, I hope you will start washing the blankets and pillow covers. They must've gone musty from the damp season. Do you still have the white sheets with tiny blue flowers on it? I liked them so much that I went to the store the very next day to buy the same ones for me. But they were all sold out. They're probably the only blues in your house. Because I know you favour reds and oranges. Except for that pale green chiffon saree that I saw you pick up from the washing line on the 23rd of last month.
Your little ones are growing up so fast. It wasn't long ago that I saw squares of cotton cloth being hung out to dry. Already, there are school uniforms. Do you ever look at my clothesline and wonder about me? Do you notice that there are no tiny frocks or little pants fluttering alongside the man's shirt and the woman's saree? You are probably too busy to indulge in idle speculation. Which reminds me, it was so windy yesterday that one of your handkerchieves was blown across the terrace and landed on ours. Is it alright if I kept it?
Each time I look at your washing line, I wonder how you manage to spread your laundry out so tidily. Every item of clothing stretched across the line and pinched at the ends with plastic pegs. Smooth and without a crease. As if you had ironed them before hanging them out to dry. This morning I noticed an extra vest along with the usual. It hung limp from the clips that held it. Curiously resembling a deflated balloon. Whose is it? Your father-in-law's, perhaps? How long will he be staying? I noticed that you had brought your silk saree out for an airing last week. Is there a wedding in the family? Are you going to be wearing your favourite mango-coloured blouse again? Remember to mend it because I saw a small tear near the sleeve last time.
Now that the rains have stopped, I hope you will start washing the blankets and pillow covers. They must've gone musty from the damp season. Do you still have the white sheets with tiny blue flowers on it? I liked them so much that I went to the store the very next day to buy the same ones for me. But they were all sold out. They're probably the only blues in your house. Because I know you favour reds and oranges. Except for that pale green chiffon saree that I saw you pick up from the washing line on the 23rd of last month.
Your little ones are growing up so fast. It wasn't long ago that I saw squares of cotton cloth being hung out to dry. Already, there are school uniforms. Do you ever look at my clothesline and wonder about me? Do you notice that there are no tiny frocks or little pants fluttering alongside the man's shirt and the woman's saree? You are probably too busy to indulge in idle speculation. Which reminds me, it was so windy yesterday that one of your handkerchieves was blown across the terrace and landed on ours. Is it alright if I kept it?
Monday, June 26, 2006
A quick tale 145
Sorry
I'm about set in motion a series of events which I will come to regret almost immediately. My bottom is racing towards your sofa and I will be unable to stop it in time. Soon I will sink into the inviting warmth of your cushions. I will just have surrendered myself to the enveloping cosiness of your pillows. When I'll hear a soft but perceptible crack. There will be exclamatory signs across the room. And all eyes will turn towards me. I think I just sat on your glasses. Sorry.
I'm about set in motion a series of events which I will come to regret almost immediately. My bottom is racing towards your sofa and I will be unable to stop it in time. Soon I will sink into the inviting warmth of your cushions. I will just have surrendered myself to the enveloping cosiness of your pillows. When I'll hear a soft but perceptible crack. There will be exclamatory signs across the room. And all eyes will turn towards me. I think I just sat on your glasses. Sorry.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
And now for something different
Came across this little gem in yesterday's paper. I wish I'd written it.
-a
Not Yet My Mother
Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.
The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy's.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.
The blown trees were still in the background
and the sky was grained by the old film stock,
but what caught me was your face,
which was mine.
And I thought, just for a second, that you were me.
But then I saw the woman's jacket,
nipped at the waist, the ballooned jodhpurs,
and of course the date, scratched in the corner.
All of which told me again,
that this was you at seventeen, holding a horse
and smiling, not yet my mother,
although I was clearly already your child.
-Owen Sheers
-a
Not Yet My Mother
Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.
The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy's.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.
The blown trees were still in the background
and the sky was grained by the old film stock,
but what caught me was your face,
which was mine.
And I thought, just for a second, that you were me.
But then I saw the woman's jacket,
nipped at the waist, the ballooned jodhpurs,
and of course the date, scratched in the corner.
All of which told me again,
that this was you at seventeen, holding a horse
and smiling, not yet my mother,
although I was clearly already your child.
-Owen Sheers
Friday, June 23, 2006
A quick tale 144
The Collection
The next time you visit Nagamma, ask to see her calendars. What calendars?, she will demand indignantly. The old ones, you tell her. She will deny having such a collection. But persist at it. And at some point, she will relent and will lead you to the kitchen. There, she will say, pointing to the huge pile stacked on top of the kitchen shelf as if supporting the ceiling. Bring it down to the floor carefully. But beware, it weighs a ton and layers and layers of dust would've settled on it. So wear a mask if you are allergic to dust. Clear the cobwebs and you will see that the calendars go back all way to the 1950s and 1960s.
In fact, if I remember right, the earliest one is a compliment from Lakshmi Printers, Erode for the year 1949. It has an image of Lord Siva in his abode in Kailasa. Someone told Nagamma that it was inauspicious to have a picture of Siva in the house. So she put it away where eyes couldn't see it. For Nagamma couldn't bring herself to discard the calendar with its religious depiction. It would surely bring ill-luck, she believed. And that's how it all started. Each year, she would pray that the calendars would have photos of babies, nature, mountain, waterfalls, anything but gods. But each new year brought a fresh lot of calendars and a new set of gods and goddesses adorning them. I reckon Nagamma now has the entire Hindu pantheon stashed away in her makeshift loft.
They have changed a lot over the years. In the 50s and 60s, the goddesses used to look like English women. Pale skin, smooth features. By contrast, the ones in the 70s and 80s all looked like movie stars of that era. Look up the one from 1986, yes, the one from Vijaya Traders, Coimbatore. The resemblance to Sridevi is striking, isn't it? But don't ever tell Nagamma that. She will be furious and she'll have you out on the streets.
These days, Nagamma is too old to climb the ladder and bring them down herself. So she looks up at them, at her outdated pyramid of calendars, and remembers the good times. And the days when the gods smiled on her.
The next time you visit Nagamma, ask to see her calendars. What calendars?, she will demand indignantly. The old ones, you tell her. She will deny having such a collection. But persist at it. And at some point, she will relent and will lead you to the kitchen. There, she will say, pointing to the huge pile stacked on top of the kitchen shelf as if supporting the ceiling. Bring it down to the floor carefully. But beware, it weighs a ton and layers and layers of dust would've settled on it. So wear a mask if you are allergic to dust. Clear the cobwebs and you will see that the calendars go back all way to the 1950s and 1960s.
In fact, if I remember right, the earliest one is a compliment from Lakshmi Printers, Erode for the year 1949. It has an image of Lord Siva in his abode in Kailasa. Someone told Nagamma that it was inauspicious to have a picture of Siva in the house. So she put it away where eyes couldn't see it. For Nagamma couldn't bring herself to discard the calendar with its religious depiction. It would surely bring ill-luck, she believed. And that's how it all started. Each year, she would pray that the calendars would have photos of babies, nature, mountain, waterfalls, anything but gods. But each new year brought a fresh lot of calendars and a new set of gods and goddesses adorning them. I reckon Nagamma now has the entire Hindu pantheon stashed away in her makeshift loft.
They have changed a lot over the years. In the 50s and 60s, the goddesses used to look like English women. Pale skin, smooth features. By contrast, the ones in the 70s and 80s all looked like movie stars of that era. Look up the one from 1986, yes, the one from Vijaya Traders, Coimbatore. The resemblance to Sridevi is striking, isn't it? But don't ever tell Nagamma that. She will be furious and she'll have you out on the streets.
These days, Nagamma is too old to climb the ladder and bring them down herself. So she looks up at them, at her outdated pyramid of calendars, and remembers the good times. And the days when the gods smiled on her.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
A quick tale 143
Lift
Three....two...one...ground floor. My eyes follow the lift's descent as it comes to rest with a gentle thud. I wait impatiently for the doors to slide open when I see you scurrying to join me. Damn! Why can't you wait and take the next one? I quickly shuffle inside and look the other way. Which?, I demand. Eighth, you answer. Three floors before I get off. Good. I press the buttons. An awkward silence follows. I busy myself with my bag. Like I'm searching for something important. I find a ball-point pen. From the corner of my eye I see you looking at me. Please don't start talking. I have no interest in you. I'm still looking inside my bag. Sanitary pads, chewing gums, train tickets, spare change, car keys, band-aids, old bills.
Where are we now? Still only on the 4th floor! Why are these lifts always supremely lethargic? You cough. I can feel a question coming. Something inanely pointless. That strangers stuck in a lift together feel compelled to ask. Usually about the weather. Please don't start. I'll ignore you. I promise I will. Look, we're on the 6th floor already. Not long to go. So don't start now. You cough again. Oh dear, don't. Ah, yes, I've just found my mobile phone in my bag. I'll start fiddling with it. That should deter you from trying to make conversation. The lift is slowing. After an eternity, it finally eases to a stop. I can feel my shoulders sag with relief as I see you walking out of the door. And that's when I notice. You stuff your mobile phone into your shirt pocket. As if you had been fiddling with it all along.
Three....two...one...ground floor. My eyes follow the lift's descent as it comes to rest with a gentle thud. I wait impatiently for the doors to slide open when I see you scurrying to join me. Damn! Why can't you wait and take the next one? I quickly shuffle inside and look the other way. Which?, I demand. Eighth, you answer. Three floors before I get off. Good. I press the buttons. An awkward silence follows. I busy myself with my bag. Like I'm searching for something important. I find a ball-point pen. From the corner of my eye I see you looking at me. Please don't start talking. I have no interest in you. I'm still looking inside my bag. Sanitary pads, chewing gums, train tickets, spare change, car keys, band-aids, old bills.
Where are we now? Still only on the 4th floor! Why are these lifts always supremely lethargic? You cough. I can feel a question coming. Something inanely pointless. That strangers stuck in a lift together feel compelled to ask. Usually about the weather. Please don't start. I'll ignore you. I promise I will. Look, we're on the 6th floor already. Not long to go. So don't start now. You cough again. Oh dear, don't. Ah, yes, I've just found my mobile phone in my bag. I'll start fiddling with it. That should deter you from trying to make conversation. The lift is slowing. After an eternity, it finally eases to a stop. I can feel my shoulders sag with relief as I see you walking out of the door. And that's when I notice. You stuff your mobile phone into your shirt pocket. As if you had been fiddling with it all along.
Friday, June 16, 2006
A quick tale 142
Sometime between 7 and half past, this morning
It had to come to this sooner or later. But you've been putting it off because it just seemed so wrong. After all, he's been your milkman for as long as you can remember. In the early days, the milk would be there no matter how early you woke up. You had a little competition going on with him (though he never knew of it), to see if you could catch him delivering the milk. And on days when you saw his little milk float pulling up at your gate, you marked a little star in your diary. But over the years, the stars have become more and more frequent. As his delivery became increasingly erratic. And some days, the little glass bottles would reach your doorstep at noon. You've tolerated it for so long, inventing excuses for him. Oh, the poor missus must be ill. The rains have wrecked the roads, delaying him indefinitely. He really must do something about the cough, it is slowing him down. But today, with the fridge empty and the kids waiting for their breakfast, you've had enough. You sit down to write a note asking him to stop delivering milk. You just wish you knew where to begin.
It had to come to this sooner or later. But you've been putting it off because it just seemed so wrong. After all, he's been your milkman for as long as you can remember. In the early days, the milk would be there no matter how early you woke up. You had a little competition going on with him (though he never knew of it), to see if you could catch him delivering the milk. And on days when you saw his little milk float pulling up at your gate, you marked a little star in your diary. But over the years, the stars have become more and more frequent. As his delivery became increasingly erratic. And some days, the little glass bottles would reach your doorstep at noon. You've tolerated it for so long, inventing excuses for him. Oh, the poor missus must be ill. The rains have wrecked the roads, delaying him indefinitely. He really must do something about the cough, it is slowing him down. But today, with the fridge empty and the kids waiting for their breakfast, you've had enough. You sit down to write a note asking him to stop delivering milk. You just wish you knew where to begin.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
A quick tale 141
Rumination on a pair of shoes
This morning, while on your jog, you notice a pair of shoes sitting on the side walk. You look around to see if there is a pair of feet that is meant for them. You see nothing. What an unusual place for them to lying in, you murmur before bending down for a closer inspection. The sole is slightly worn and the mouth somewhat askew. From where you are crouching, the trainers looks like two old men sleeping with their mouths wide open. Who could have cast off a perfectly good pair of shoes?, you wonder. Did she, in the middle of a fierce row with him, grab his shoes while aiming for a more crucial piece of clothing? And having grabbed them and yanked them off his feet, did she fling them out of the car? If so, how did they land next to each other? As if someone had placed them tidily, side-by-side. Or did someone out on a morning jog, full of philosophical rumination, see in a moment of blinding clarity, the futility of footwear and discard them by the sidewalk? Did he then go on cast off his other irrelevant possessions? His mobile phones, ipods and fabric softeners? What could have come over a person that he abandoned his shoes, arranged them neatly by the side of the road and carried on with the rest of the journey? You look up at the road ahead, you've still got a mile or so to run. You turn your back on the shoes and decide to walk instead.
This morning, while on your jog, you notice a pair of shoes sitting on the side walk. You look around to see if there is a pair of feet that is meant for them. You see nothing. What an unusual place for them to lying in, you murmur before bending down for a closer inspection. The sole is slightly worn and the mouth somewhat askew. From where you are crouching, the trainers looks like two old men sleeping with their mouths wide open. Who could have cast off a perfectly good pair of shoes?, you wonder. Did she, in the middle of a fierce row with him, grab his shoes while aiming for a more crucial piece of clothing? And having grabbed them and yanked them off his feet, did she fling them out of the car? If so, how did they land next to each other? As if someone had placed them tidily, side-by-side. Or did someone out on a morning jog, full of philosophical rumination, see in a moment of blinding clarity, the futility of footwear and discard them by the sidewalk? Did he then go on cast off his other irrelevant possessions? His mobile phones, ipods and fabric softeners? What could have come over a person that he abandoned his shoes, arranged them neatly by the side of the road and carried on with the rest of the journey? You look up at the road ahead, you've still got a mile or so to run. You turn your back on the shoes and decide to walk instead.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
A quick tale 140
This morning, at breakfast
A man, his name is irrelevant to this story, has just heard on the news that comedian Jerry Lewis has been taken to hospital with pneumonia and is expected to make a full recovery. He is surprised. Not because he doesn't think an octogenarian can survive pneumonia. No, he is not the kind of man who mocks old age. Nor does he question the abilities of modern medical science to pull any man from the brink of death. He is merely surprised by the fact that Jerry Lewis is alive. You see, all this while, he had been under the impression that Jerry is no more. Not that he had actually thought about it. But he had simply added Jerry to the long list of famous people who were no longer active and hence presumed dead. He feels so bad that he sits down to write a long letter of apology to Jerry. And while he's at it, he also decides to look up the state of Jimmy Carter, Gregory Peck and Lauren Bacall.
A man, his name is irrelevant to this story, has just heard on the news that comedian Jerry Lewis has been taken to hospital with pneumonia and is expected to make a full recovery. He is surprised. Not because he doesn't think an octogenarian can survive pneumonia. No, he is not the kind of man who mocks old age. Nor does he question the abilities of modern medical science to pull any man from the brink of death. He is merely surprised by the fact that Jerry Lewis is alive. You see, all this while, he had been under the impression that Jerry is no more. Not that he had actually thought about it. But he had simply added Jerry to the long list of famous people who were no longer active and hence presumed dead. He feels so bad that he sits down to write a long letter of apology to Jerry. And while he's at it, he also decides to look up the state of Jimmy Carter, Gregory Peck and Lauren Bacall.
Friday, June 09, 2006
A quick tale 139
Contrition
It's probably nothing. Well, that's what you tell yourself. You see, this morning when you came into the kitchen, you found that the tap had been left running. A steady trickle of water had been flowing down the sink all night. About 10 or 15 litres of water gone waste, you reckon. Enough supply for a small family in drought-stricken Africa to survive on for atleast a couple of days. With prudence, it could have even lasted them a week. But now, all that has gone down the drain. You sigh and tell yourself that it's just water. One strong spell of showers and the deficit would even out. You even put out a bucket out in the garden hoping to catch a few drops in the next drizzle.
Still, you can't seem to shake the image of water-starved children out of your head. Why me, you wonder. What about all those idiots who are using up water to wash their cars and shampoo their dogs and sprinkle their lawns? And who could forget that moron who left his tap running for days in the name of art? How come none of them ever seem to worry about dying Sudanese children? And yet, that evening, when they mention Darfur in the news, you switch channels and look away.
It's probably nothing. Well, that's what you tell yourself. You see, this morning when you came into the kitchen, you found that the tap had been left running. A steady trickle of water had been flowing down the sink all night. About 10 or 15 litres of water gone waste, you reckon. Enough supply for a small family in drought-stricken Africa to survive on for atleast a couple of days. With prudence, it could have even lasted them a week. But now, all that has gone down the drain. You sigh and tell yourself that it's just water. One strong spell of showers and the deficit would even out. You even put out a bucket out in the garden hoping to catch a few drops in the next drizzle.
Still, you can't seem to shake the image of water-starved children out of your head. Why me, you wonder. What about all those idiots who are using up water to wash their cars and shampoo their dogs and sprinkle their lawns? And who could forget that moron who left his tap running for days in the name of art? How come none of them ever seem to worry about dying Sudanese children? And yet, that evening, when they mention Darfur in the news, you switch channels and look away.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Meanwhile...
I'm sitting on a straightback chair, glass of water in hand and staring vacantly at an empty wall. I'm wondering if I should tell you about the lady who liked to leave tea bags in her mug as she drank from it or about the time when a man woke up with a distant memory and spent the rest of the week trying to remember it all. The glass in my hand is nearly empty and I'm getting up to refill it. I open the tap and watch the glass getting full. I turn it off before it overflows. I'm back on the chair, sitting erect, drinking glass in hand and wondering if I should hang a painting on the empty wall. I'm yet to decide on a story. I will share it with you when I do. I can hear a drip-drip-drip. I'm getting up to check on the tap.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Not a story but reads like one
I was on my usual evening run - sprinting down the last hundred yards or so, visualising the afternoon's excesses melting away, picturing myself in a size 10 skinny jeans, doing my Kelly Holmes imitation - when, at a distance, I spotted an old red VW Golf parked in the middle of the road. The hazard lights were switched off and only the left indicator was blinking. It is a 50 mile zone and I was thinking what an odd place for a car to be parked in. And dangerous too, as other cars seemed to notice the parked car only at a close quarter and were avoiding it narrowly. As I drew nearer, my curiousity was piqued but a recent unpleasant incident alerted me to possible mischief.
I noticed the driver stretching his hand out of the passenger window to draw my attention. I slowed to a jog and carefully peered inside the car. The driver was a 60 plus gentleman with a friendly smile on his face. Hello, he said. Hello, I greeted warily. Don't worry, I'm not a dirty old man, he tried to reassure me. So, you would tell me if you were one?, I wanted to ask but simply nodded. I'm not a dirty old man, he repeated noting my guarded expression. And then, quite unexpectedly he asked me if I had a problem. Did I have a problem with what? I didn't understand what he was getting at. Sorry? Do you have a problem?, he persisted. Problem? No problem. Why do you ask?, I replied still unclear where all this was going. No, he hastened to add before I got the wrong idea, I saw you running very fast. I thought, may be you had an emergency. And I was wondering if I could offer you a lift. His explanation caught me unaware. I grinned stupidly and gently assured him that everything was fine and that I was simply out on a jog. Oh, bless, he smiled before engaging his car in gear. I thanked him profusely and as I saw the red car drive away into the distance, I felt extremely grateful for the crisis I never had. And tears were stinging my eyes.
I noticed the driver stretching his hand out of the passenger window to draw my attention. I slowed to a jog and carefully peered inside the car. The driver was a 60 plus gentleman with a friendly smile on his face. Hello, he said. Hello, I greeted warily. Don't worry, I'm not a dirty old man, he tried to reassure me. So, you would tell me if you were one?, I wanted to ask but simply nodded. I'm not a dirty old man, he repeated noting my guarded expression. And then, quite unexpectedly he asked me if I had a problem. Did I have a problem with what? I didn't understand what he was getting at. Sorry? Do you have a problem?, he persisted. Problem? No problem. Why do you ask?, I replied still unclear where all this was going. No, he hastened to add before I got the wrong idea, I saw you running very fast. I thought, may be you had an emergency. And I was wondering if I could offer you a lift. His explanation caught me unaware. I grinned stupidly and gently assured him that everything was fine and that I was simply out on a jog. Oh, bless, he smiled before engaging his car in gear. I thanked him profusely and as I saw the red car drive away into the distance, I felt extremely grateful for the crisis I never had. And tears were stinging my eyes.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
A quick tale 138
To my niece, 3 hours old
When you are old enough to read this, I hope you will not be embarrassed of me. But chances are, you will roll your eyes and mutter what a sentimental old fool I am. Just like how I would have reacted. And if you're anything like your aunt, you too will have a short fuse and a broad forehead. The second of which you will come to dislike. Immensely. But whatever your attempts at hiding it, don't ever try a fringe. It will not work. You will be annoyed at the way it falls over your eyes and before long, you will have pinned it back. And that, my dear, will only draw attention to what you seek to cover.
There's so much we need to discuss. But by the time we meet you will already be a toddler and your mother will be full of stories. I will hear about your first words and about the time when you climbed up the stairs all on your own! I will have missed most of your antics. Something I can never reconcile to. And in ten days' time it will fall upon me to call out your name. I will ask them to hold the phone close to your tender ears and I'll whisper it long distance.
When you are old enough to read this, I hope you will not be embarrassed of me. But chances are, you will roll your eyes and mutter what a sentimental old fool I am. Just like how I would have reacted. And if you're anything like your aunt, you too will have a short fuse and a broad forehead. The second of which you will come to dislike. Immensely. But whatever your attempts at hiding it, don't ever try a fringe. It will not work. You will be annoyed at the way it falls over your eyes and before long, you will have pinned it back. And that, my dear, will only draw attention to what you seek to cover.
There's so much we need to discuss. But by the time we meet you will already be a toddler and your mother will be full of stories. I will hear about your first words and about the time when you climbed up the stairs all on your own! I will have missed most of your antics. Something I can never reconcile to. And in ten days' time it will fall upon me to call out your name. I will ask them to hold the phone close to your tender ears and I'll whisper it long distance.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
You are invited
Premalatha has put in a lot of hard work into organising a charity fundraiser on the 20th of May 2006 at Hemel Hempstead. It's in aid of an Indian charity (soon to be decided). Tickets are a mere £12 per head. Kids under 10 go free.
There's going to be good food and plenty of fun. So don't miss this opportunity. More details may be found here.
I look forward to seeing you.
Thank you.
(This is a sticky post. Please scroll down for the usual)
There's going to be good food and plenty of fun. So don't miss this opportunity. More details may be found here.
I look forward to seeing you.
Thank you.
(This is a sticky post. Please scroll down for the usual)
Friday, May 19, 2006
A quick tale 137
The gift
"You shouldn't have, really!", protested mother as she eagerly accepted the huge box her brother-in-law had just handed her. Our uncle had come from abroad and we had all gathered to witness the annual gift-giving ritual. Preparations for this day would start weeks ahead. Friendships would be forged and bets traded on the mystery gifts that the relative from abroad would bear. And with the arrival of his bulging baggage, furious speculations would begin. Tiny hands would caress the sides of his luggage hoping for tell-tale clues. Elders would stand around and gape at the baggage wishing they had x-ray eyes. And the hours before the suitcases were due to be opened, excitement would reach fever pitch.
"This", said uncle pointing to mother's gift, "is a curd maker". He paused for effect before elaborating, "It makes curd". He said it with such flourish that some of us broke into spontaneous applause. The curd maker came packed in a shiny, brown box which had an image of a stunningly beautiful woman with even teeth and impossibly golden hair.
Mother opened the box delicately to reveal a smooth round container with several small glass jars inside. "You pour warm milk inside", explained uncle, "stir in a teaspoon of curd and leave it covered overnight. The next morning, you have pots of thick curd like you have never tasted before". The gathering was stunned in disbelief. "The things they invent abroad!", said grandmother. "I tell you, these foreigners are so clever!", said father. "Let's put it to test", suggested a neighbour.
So under our uncle's watchful eyes, we poured lukewarm milk into the little bottles. We fought over who would spoon in the curd until it was decided we would all have a go. With nervous hands, we carried out the task with extra diligence. Then, the all-important task of putting the lid on the container was entrusted to the guest-of-honour. Casting an appreciative eye over the crowd, he clicked it in place. "And now", he said, "there's nothing to do but wait".
The next day, at the crack of dawn, we gathered around the mystery contraption that had been at work while we slept. "Are you ready to taste heaven?", asked our uncle. Tantalising us where there was no need to. Several heads nodded in unison. And so, with the utmost care, he opened the case and brought out the jars. He shook one of them gently and the curd inside trembled. He scooped out a spoonful and held it aloft for all to see. And then with our eyes trailing it, he slid the spoon inside his mouth. He closed his eyes and savoured it. Several seconds passed before he opened his eyes and said "Perfect!".
We never used the curd maker again. Mother said it was too much trouble cleaning. Plus, what was wrong with the old way of making curd? It worked perfectly fine, she reasoned. But every year, whenever our uncle came visiting, she would bring the appliance down from the loft, dust it, clean it and display it prominently in the kitchen. "It makes such wonderful curd", she would lie to him.
"You shouldn't have, really!", protested mother as she eagerly accepted the huge box her brother-in-law had just handed her. Our uncle had come from abroad and we had all gathered to witness the annual gift-giving ritual. Preparations for this day would start weeks ahead. Friendships would be forged and bets traded on the mystery gifts that the relative from abroad would bear. And with the arrival of his bulging baggage, furious speculations would begin. Tiny hands would caress the sides of his luggage hoping for tell-tale clues. Elders would stand around and gape at the baggage wishing they had x-ray eyes. And the hours before the suitcases were due to be opened, excitement would reach fever pitch.
"This", said uncle pointing to mother's gift, "is a curd maker". He paused for effect before elaborating, "It makes curd". He said it with such flourish that some of us broke into spontaneous applause. The curd maker came packed in a shiny, brown box which had an image of a stunningly beautiful woman with even teeth and impossibly golden hair.
Mother opened the box delicately to reveal a smooth round container with several small glass jars inside. "You pour warm milk inside", explained uncle, "stir in a teaspoon of curd and leave it covered overnight. The next morning, you have pots of thick curd like you have never tasted before". The gathering was stunned in disbelief. "The things they invent abroad!", said grandmother. "I tell you, these foreigners are so clever!", said father. "Let's put it to test", suggested a neighbour.
So under our uncle's watchful eyes, we poured lukewarm milk into the little bottles. We fought over who would spoon in the curd until it was decided we would all have a go. With nervous hands, we carried out the task with extra diligence. Then, the all-important task of putting the lid on the container was entrusted to the guest-of-honour. Casting an appreciative eye over the crowd, he clicked it in place. "And now", he said, "there's nothing to do but wait".
The next day, at the crack of dawn, we gathered around the mystery contraption that had been at work while we slept. "Are you ready to taste heaven?", asked our uncle. Tantalising us where there was no need to. Several heads nodded in unison. And so, with the utmost care, he opened the case and brought out the jars. He shook one of them gently and the curd inside trembled. He scooped out a spoonful and held it aloft for all to see. And then with our eyes trailing it, he slid the spoon inside his mouth. He closed his eyes and savoured it. Several seconds passed before he opened his eyes and said "Perfect!".
We never used the curd maker again. Mother said it was too much trouble cleaning. Plus, what was wrong with the old way of making curd? It worked perfectly fine, she reasoned. But every year, whenever our uncle came visiting, she would bring the appliance down from the loft, dust it, clean it and display it prominently in the kitchen. "It makes such wonderful curd", she would lie to him.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Double take on a quick tale - 6
Apu's story
The short life of a fish
Last night I dreamt that I had morphed into a fish. I swam around a rectangular tank, my sleek propeller body cutting through the water. Point A to B and Point C to D and Point A to B. What is life, if not this endless repetition of hours, days and years? I asked myself rhetorical questions to which there was no answer, and spent my time pondering over the nature of God and the wisdom of his or her existence. I deigned to accept my fate, I rebelled against the laws of nature, I tossed about frantically between these two extremes. I worshipped Darwin, I claimed the Hand of God. And while I was doing all of this, a big hand entered the water and pulled me up, gasping, rasping. I woke up on the kitchen tale, just before the knife sliced me in two.
--
The short life of fish (my version)
Last night I dreamt that I'd morphed into a fish. My piscine alter ego was prone to a lot of idle pondering. Like wondering about the point of life. Musing about the origin of species. And ruminating over rise of real estate prices. Pointless contemplation, as I pointed out earlier. But then, what was a fish to do all day? I tried to rebel for a while. But it's not as if a fish can dye her gills pink or pierce her tail. Plus where would I find a tattooist in my 2x2 fish tank? So I simply thrashed about trying to look cool.
Which was when a hand came in and grabbed me by the tail. It scooped me out and laid my writhing body on the kitchen counter. Wait, I screamed. This is a dream! I resisted but the hands that held me down were strong. I saw a knife being sharpened. Don't chop me up, please! It was futile. I was growing weak. And my pleas were getting feeble. I don't want to become sushi! My system was shutting down. For heaven's sake, don't feed me to the dogs! No chance. I watched in horror as the shining metal came slamming down on me.
I hope you like your curry today
The short life of a fish
Last night I dreamt that I had morphed into a fish. I swam around a rectangular tank, my sleek propeller body cutting through the water. Point A to B and Point C to D and Point A to B. What is life, if not this endless repetition of hours, days and years? I asked myself rhetorical questions to which there was no answer, and spent my time pondering over the nature of God and the wisdom of his or her existence. I deigned to accept my fate, I rebelled against the laws of nature, I tossed about frantically between these two extremes. I worshipped Darwin, I claimed the Hand of God. And while I was doing all of this, a big hand entered the water and pulled me up, gasping, rasping. I woke up on the kitchen tale, just before the knife sliced me in two.
--
The short life of fish (my version)
Last night I dreamt that I'd morphed into a fish. My piscine alter ego was prone to a lot of idle pondering. Like wondering about the point of life. Musing about the origin of species. And ruminating over rise of real estate prices. Pointless contemplation, as I pointed out earlier. But then, what was a fish to do all day? I tried to rebel for a while. But it's not as if a fish can dye her gills pink or pierce her tail. Plus where would I find a tattooist in my 2x2 fish tank? So I simply thrashed about trying to look cool.
Which was when a hand came in and grabbed me by the tail. It scooped me out and laid my writhing body on the kitchen counter. Wait, I screamed. This is a dream! I resisted but the hands that held me down were strong. I saw a knife being sharpened. Don't chop me up, please! It was futile. I was growing weak. And my pleas were getting feeble. I don't want to become sushi! My system was shutting down. For heaven's sake, don't feed me to the dogs! No chance. I watched in horror as the shining metal came slamming down on me.
I hope you like your curry today
Double take on a quick tale - 5
Prabhu's take on A Quick Tale 20
Cyber Sex
They were having cyber sex, and he never knew she had two windows open.
Cyber Sex
They were having cyber sex, and he never knew she had two windows open.
Double take on a quick tale - 4
Deepa's take on A Quick Tale 128
When she showed her 2 friends the picture of the guy she'dprobably marry, they thought he was ugly, dark and had nopersonality. "He looks good", "Come on, he is a surgeon, whats wrongwith you? Unlike you, he doesn't wear thick glasses" She was disappointed with their reaction. She wasn't impressed with that guy. Apart from all the physical drawbacks, he couldn't even speak2 sentences in decent english to the convent-educated her. And tothink her friends were actually supporting him even after she hadmentioned this "huge" drawback! She thought, "Maybe, I am beingvery superficial. So what if people might nickname us 'Beauty andthe beast'. He is educated and comes from a good family. Maybewe'll be happy together and have a good life. Maybe my friends are right" and she said "yes" toher parents."I feel bad about lying to our best friend. She deserves someone better", said Friend 1. Friend2 said "Are you crazy? The way things are going, she'd probablyget married to that guy with or without our approval. Do youwant our best friend to think we were very judgmental about her hubby?"They both nodded in agreement.
When she showed her 2 friends the picture of the guy she'dprobably marry, they thought he was ugly, dark and had nopersonality. "He looks good", "Come on, he is a surgeon, whats wrongwith you? Unlike you, he doesn't wear thick glasses" She was disappointed with their reaction. She wasn't impressed with that guy. Apart from all the physical drawbacks, he couldn't even speak2 sentences in decent english to the convent-educated her. And tothink her friends were actually supporting him even after she hadmentioned this "huge" drawback! She thought, "Maybe, I am beingvery superficial. So what if people might nickname us 'Beauty andthe beast'. He is educated and comes from a good family. Maybewe'll be happy together and have a good life. Maybe my friends are right" and she said "yes" toher parents."I feel bad about lying to our best friend. She deserves someone better", said Friend 1. Friend2 said "Are you crazy? The way things are going, she'd probablyget married to that guy with or without our approval. Do youwant our best friend to think we were very judgmental about her hubby?"They both nodded in agreement.
Double take on a quick tale - 3
Prakash Chudalayandi's take on A Quick Tale 121
Nerves
Waiting for the dentist is already a nerve wracking experience. Add to that it was HER sitting almost next to me! It feels like it was yesterday... but it was may be 20 years now? She hasn't changed much, same confident look about herself.The confidence about her that provoked me then to initiate a mean conversation. So insensitive of me. No wonder she never wanted to see me again. I have changed, not a mean bone in me anymore.
I should probably start a conversation, I should begin with a SORRY- may be. But what if she still hasn't forgiven me, or even worse, what if she has forgotten me totally? Hmmmm, if she doesn't rememberme then I would be making a fool of myself initiating a conversation. She coughs now, wish I could use this chance to look at her, but I peer into the words in the magazine with unseeing eyes. Well, she could initiate the talk as well, right? The girl I knew then would have already started talking. I am pretty sure she doesn't want to have anything to do with me. Well, that feels better.
Presently, I hear my name called out. This wait wasn't all that bad, thanks to her! I will definitely talk to her after my appointemnt with the dentist. Until then let me pretend not to notice.
Nerves
Waiting for the dentist is already a nerve wracking experience. Add to that it was HER sitting almost next to me! It feels like it was yesterday... but it was may be 20 years now? She hasn't changed much, same confident look about herself.The confidence about her that provoked me then to initiate a mean conversation. So insensitive of me. No wonder she never wanted to see me again. I have changed, not a mean bone in me anymore.
I should probably start a conversation, I should begin with a SORRY- may be. But what if she still hasn't forgiven me, or even worse, what if she has forgotten me totally? Hmmmm, if she doesn't rememberme then I would be making a fool of myself initiating a conversation. She coughs now, wish I could use this chance to look at her, but I peer into the words in the magazine with unseeing eyes. Well, she could initiate the talk as well, right? The girl I knew then would have already started talking. I am pretty sure she doesn't want to have anything to do with me. Well, that feels better.
Presently, I hear my name called out. This wait wasn't all that bad, thanks to her! I will definitely talk to her after my appointemnt with the dentist. Until then let me pretend not to notice.
Double take on a quick tale -2
Apu's take on A quick tale 94
One or the other
Is that a silk saree you’re wearing? Lovely colour. It reminds me of a story. Yes, Yes, Another quick tale. I hope you’re not yet bored of them, because I haven’t finished telling all of them yet. Well, maybe when I am 95, or when I run out of ideas. Whichever happens earlier. One or the other. Anyways, to get back to my story.
A woman (it was hard to tell her age) was stirring sugar into her cup of tea while looking out at her garden. It’s strange, she thought, there are no butterflies. At this time of the year, the air is usually full of fluttering wings. The red ones always reminded her of this one silk sari she kept at the bottom of her wardrobe. Every year, just this one day of the year, there was always a posse of red butterflies with rectangular yellow spots. How did they know what day it was? It was strange. Still, no stranger than what she did. Whenever she saw those butterflies, she would take out that beautiful red silk sari and drape it around herself, the pallu left loose over her shoulder, trailing behind like a garden vareli ad.
Ok, I admit, this isn’t as quick as I though it would be. Still, sit down, right there, don’t you dare get up. Let me finish and I’ll get you something, maybe one of those imported chocolates, how about that. No, no, not a bribe, just a little something.
The woman in the story, this year, she noticed that there were no butterflies, red or any other colour. It was upsetting. There wasn’t any other occasion to take out that sari. It had to be for that reason only. She could either wear it when the butterflies came out, matching matching. Or she couldn’t wear it at all. This taught her that ultimately, you could never have everything you wanted Everything was a compromise, she concluded. Satisfied that she had reduced all of life’s dilemmas to a simple aphorism, she took a noisy sip from her mug.
One or the other
Is that a silk saree you’re wearing? Lovely colour. It reminds me of a story. Yes, Yes, Another quick tale. I hope you’re not yet bored of them, because I haven’t finished telling all of them yet. Well, maybe when I am 95, or when I run out of ideas. Whichever happens earlier. One or the other. Anyways, to get back to my story.
A woman (it was hard to tell her age) was stirring sugar into her cup of tea while looking out at her garden. It’s strange, she thought, there are no butterflies. At this time of the year, the air is usually full of fluttering wings. The red ones always reminded her of this one silk sari she kept at the bottom of her wardrobe. Every year, just this one day of the year, there was always a posse of red butterflies with rectangular yellow spots. How did they know what day it was? It was strange. Still, no stranger than what she did. Whenever she saw those butterflies, she would take out that beautiful red silk sari and drape it around herself, the pallu left loose over her shoulder, trailing behind like a garden vareli ad.
Ok, I admit, this isn’t as quick as I though it would be. Still, sit down, right there, don’t you dare get up. Let me finish and I’ll get you something, maybe one of those imported chocolates, how about that. No, no, not a bribe, just a little something.
The woman in the story, this year, she noticed that there were no butterflies, red or any other colour. It was upsetting. There wasn’t any other occasion to take out that sari. It had to be for that reason only. She could either wear it when the butterflies came out, matching matching. Or she couldn’t wear it at all. This taught her that ultimately, you could never have everything you wanted Everything was a compromise, she concluded. Satisfied that she had reduced all of life’s dilemmas to a simple aphorism, she took a noisy sip from her mug.
Double take on a quick tale - 1
Apu's take on A Quick Tale 15
Bargain
He seemed a pleasant enough chap. No hair sticking out of his ears or warts on nose. He had clipped his nails short and seemed to be interested in what she was saying. They spoke for some half-an-hour. Mostly about their lives, careers and hobbies. Then they agreed to get married.Later, his father called up and said in a soft voice that her father would bear the wedding costs. And furnish the house the newly-weds were going to be living in. Her family agreed it was a fair demand. After all, she was 27, a mere graduate and wore glasses.
Her sister was 22, an engineer from IIT with an unbelievable barbie-doll figure. Once they finished with this wedding, they could get on to the next all-expenses paid one. “Five years should be enough to save up”, their father mumbled to himself, as he wrote out the advance cheque for the caterers.
Bargain
He seemed a pleasant enough chap. No hair sticking out of his ears or warts on nose. He had clipped his nails short and seemed to be interested in what she was saying. They spoke for some half-an-hour. Mostly about their lives, careers and hobbies. Then they agreed to get married.Later, his father called up and said in a soft voice that her father would bear the wedding costs. And furnish the house the newly-weds were going to be living in. Her family agreed it was a fair demand. After all, she was 27, a mere graduate and wore glasses.
Her sister was 22, an engineer from IIT with an unbelievable barbie-doll figure. Once they finished with this wedding, they could get on to the next all-expenses paid one. “Five years should be enough to save up”, their father mumbled to himself, as he wrote out the advance cheque for the caterers.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Polite reminder - Double take on a quick tale
Today is the last date for you to send in your take on the quick tales so far. Pick up any one from the archives, write it in your own words and send them to me at ammania @ gmail.com
You can read all the entries here tomorrow. Thank you.
You can read all the entries here tomorrow. Thank you.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
A quick tale 135
One Sunday in March
She hears clutter in the kitchen. She tries to ignore it. Pots and pans being rattled about. She turns over in her bed, pulls a pillow over her ears. You sleep in today, he had insisted. I'll bring you breakfast in bed. She had resisted the idea but relented eventually. Now she tries to relax. By thinking of things pleasant. Does she smell something burning? She hopes he isn't boiling milk in the large red saucepan. Did he remember to pick up milk bottles from the doorstep as there wasn't any left in the fridge? She wished he wouldn't put the spoon back into the sugar pot after stirring his coffee with it. What was that bang? That definitely sounded expensive. Could it be, she dared to despair, her favourite Wedgewood teapot? Let it be Ikea, Ikea, she prayed. Presently she hears approaching footsteps. She feigns sleep, smiles with her eyes closed. You spoil me so....
She hears clutter in the kitchen. She tries to ignore it. Pots and pans being rattled about. She turns over in her bed, pulls a pillow over her ears. You sleep in today, he had insisted. I'll bring you breakfast in bed. She had resisted the idea but relented eventually. Now she tries to relax. By thinking of things pleasant. Does she smell something burning? She hopes he isn't boiling milk in the large red saucepan. Did he remember to pick up milk bottles from the doorstep as there wasn't any left in the fridge? She wished he wouldn't put the spoon back into the sugar pot after stirring his coffee with it. What was that bang? That definitely sounded expensive. Could it be, she dared to despair, her favourite Wedgewood teapot? Let it be Ikea, Ikea, she prayed. Presently she hears approaching footsteps. She feigns sleep, smiles with her eyes closed. You spoil me so....
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
A quick tale 134
On a train, about 3 weeks ago
You see him at the far end of the carriage. His once black coat now a tired shade of grey. It hangs onto him like loose skin, sagging at the shoulders, flopping around the elbows. Ticket, please. Thank you. Ticket, please. Thank you. He criss-crosses the coach muttering his endless litany as he checks the passengers for valid tickets. He doesn't dwell on the tickets for too long. A perfunctory glance, a vertical rip at the top right hand corner and it is returned to the owner. At this rate, he should reach you in the next few minutes.
But at five rows from where you are sitting, the entourage comes to an abrupt halt. He asks a passenger something. His ticket presumably. You see a head shaking as if to say no. You can see the expression on the ticket checker's face change. From dull nonchalance to one of brisk authority. You see him uttering a harsh rebuke as he scribbles something on his notepad. Does it say, this man was found travelling ticketless?, you wonder. And would he stick it on the free-rider's back to warn his colleagues of the danger this man poses? You watch as the hapless passenger is escorted to the door by the scruff of his collar. The rest of the carriage watches, smug in their law-abiding complacence. A mother points out to her little boy the evils of stow away travelling. You hope the boy grows up to be a responsible citizen of the world.
Ticket please. The voice is very close to you. A rip, a return. Ticket? Ticket? The voice is right above you. You look up at him. With a blank expression. What a silly little demand, you would like to have said. Ticket? the voice repeats not bothering to hide its irritation. I broke my arm in an accident last week, you say. The ticket checker looks at you with open hostility. And my house was burnt down, you add. And my wife ran away with the post man. You see a hand grabbing your collar.
What's the world coming to?
You see him at the far end of the carriage. His once black coat now a tired shade of grey. It hangs onto him like loose skin, sagging at the shoulders, flopping around the elbows. Ticket, please. Thank you. Ticket, please. Thank you. He criss-crosses the coach muttering his endless litany as he checks the passengers for valid tickets. He doesn't dwell on the tickets for too long. A perfunctory glance, a vertical rip at the top right hand corner and it is returned to the owner. At this rate, he should reach you in the next few minutes.
But at five rows from where you are sitting, the entourage comes to an abrupt halt. He asks a passenger something. His ticket presumably. You see a head shaking as if to say no. You can see the expression on the ticket checker's face change. From dull nonchalance to one of brisk authority. You see him uttering a harsh rebuke as he scribbles something on his notepad. Does it say, this man was found travelling ticketless?, you wonder. And would he stick it on the free-rider's back to warn his colleagues of the danger this man poses? You watch as the hapless passenger is escorted to the door by the scruff of his collar. The rest of the carriage watches, smug in their law-abiding complacence. A mother points out to her little boy the evils of stow away travelling. You hope the boy grows up to be a responsible citizen of the world.
Ticket please. The voice is very close to you. A rip, a return. Ticket? Ticket? The voice is right above you. You look up at him. With a blank expression. What a silly little demand, you would like to have said. Ticket? the voice repeats not bothering to hide its irritation. I broke my arm in an accident last week, you say. The ticket checker looks at you with open hostility. And my house was burnt down, you add. And my wife ran away with the post man. You see a hand grabbing your collar.
What's the world coming to?
A quick tale 133
Turn of phrase
On the 16th of March last year, Ian was out having a smoke with a colleague when he uttered the words 'the lucky ones are dead'. He could not remember how he came up with the phrase. But he loved the way it was twisted around. What a clever little expression, he thought to himself. And spent the rest of his cigarette break chuckling. He decided that he would use the expression at the first appropriate occasion. Which presented itself in the next few minutes when, over the course of discussing a mortgage application, a client remarked about rising prices. Ian pounced at the chance. It is getting tough for the living, he said. Indeed, he paused dramatically, the lucky ones are dead. The client was struck by his choice of words but managed a smile and enquired about her APR.
Bolstered by her positive reaction, from that time onwards Ian never missed an opportunity to use the expression. Often people looked puzzled or if they were Ian's friends, they shook their heads bemusedly. Soon, he grew indiscriminate in the use of the phrase. At supermarkets, in cinemas, in casual conversation with strangers in public saunas, Ian would be heard mentioning the fortunately deceased. He wished that it would soon become a catchphrase. In the same league as 'See you later, alligator' or 'Shit happens'.
A few months later, Ian was having dinner with a colleague he fancied. Over dessert, his colleague brought up the topic of genocide in a certain African country - a most inappropriate dinner table topic, if you ask me. And Ian was quick to announce his opinion of it. The lucky ones are dead, he said with a nonchalant shrug. It was such a grand utterance that his companion almost choked on her maple and pecan ice-cream. Sorry? she enquired. Ian, never to shy away from an encore, repeated his pronouncement. The lucky ones are dead. The lady friend who was of particularly sensitive disposition pushed her ice cream away and looked down at her shoes. Ian was lost in such a self-congratulatory mood that he did not notice that his date had gone silent for the rest of the dinner. After a while, she excused herself to use the ladies and never returned.
The following day, when Ian saw her at work, she turned her face the other way. And wouldn't return his calls. What a tosser!, she was heard telling someone, he says these things about dead people being lucky and thinks it's funny. Ian had trouble believing his ears. Surely she must've meant someone else. Not him.
Damn.
On the 16th of March last year, Ian was out having a smoke with a colleague when he uttered the words 'the lucky ones are dead'. He could not remember how he came up with the phrase. But he loved the way it was twisted around. What a clever little expression, he thought to himself. And spent the rest of his cigarette break chuckling. He decided that he would use the expression at the first appropriate occasion. Which presented itself in the next few minutes when, over the course of discussing a mortgage application, a client remarked about rising prices. Ian pounced at the chance. It is getting tough for the living, he said. Indeed, he paused dramatically, the lucky ones are dead. The client was struck by his choice of words but managed a smile and enquired about her APR.
Bolstered by her positive reaction, from that time onwards Ian never missed an opportunity to use the expression. Often people looked puzzled or if they were Ian's friends, they shook their heads bemusedly. Soon, he grew indiscriminate in the use of the phrase. At supermarkets, in cinemas, in casual conversation with strangers in public saunas, Ian would be heard mentioning the fortunately deceased. He wished that it would soon become a catchphrase. In the same league as 'See you later, alligator' or 'Shit happens'.
A few months later, Ian was having dinner with a colleague he fancied. Over dessert, his colleague brought up the topic of genocide in a certain African country - a most inappropriate dinner table topic, if you ask me. And Ian was quick to announce his opinion of it. The lucky ones are dead, he said with a nonchalant shrug. It was such a grand utterance that his companion almost choked on her maple and pecan ice-cream. Sorry? she enquired. Ian, never to shy away from an encore, repeated his pronouncement. The lucky ones are dead. The lady friend who was of particularly sensitive disposition pushed her ice cream away and looked down at her shoes. Ian was lost in such a self-congratulatory mood that he did not notice that his date had gone silent for the rest of the dinner. After a while, she excused herself to use the ladies and never returned.
The following day, when Ian saw her at work, she turned her face the other way. And wouldn't return his calls. What a tosser!, she was heard telling someone, he says these things about dead people being lucky and thinks it's funny. Ian had trouble believing his ears. Surely she must've meant someone else. Not him.
Damn.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
A quick tale 132
A fight that never was
This morning, a woman who likes to rise early, stands in her kitchen thinking. She has just realised that it is an important anniversary. It is six years today since she was proposed to and she is pretty certain that her husband has forgotten the occasion. She realises with growing annoyance that he has never remembered the date in the past. That it has always been upto her to remind him of it. After which he would be so sorry that he would quickly make it up to her. By going down on his knees and proposing to her again, just like he did all those years ago. The re-enactment would have the desired effect and she would forgive him instantly.
But not today. Today, she would wait until he remembers it on his own. And once he does, she would refuse to be cajoled by his repentant gestures. She would point out to him that he has forgotten the date every year since he first proposed to her. And this would make him feel sorry even more. She would remain cold for the rest of the evening. Just to make her point. And he would be quite upset by then. But she would be unmoved. Until he begs her for her forgivance. Only then would she relent. And let escape a tiny hint of a smile.
The woman relishes the prospect of a good showdown and is rubbing her hands in anticipation when she hears her husband padding down the stairs. It seems like yesterday, she hears him say as he walks into the kitchen, that I asked you to be my wife. The woman looks at her husband in surprise. It's a good minute before she recovers and finds the words. I'm so sorry, she starts to say, I never meant it like that. Perplexed, the husband waits for an explanation.
This morning, a woman who likes to rise early, stands in her kitchen thinking. She has just realised that it is an important anniversary. It is six years today since she was proposed to and she is pretty certain that her husband has forgotten the occasion. She realises with growing annoyance that he has never remembered the date in the past. That it has always been upto her to remind him of it. After which he would be so sorry that he would quickly make it up to her. By going down on his knees and proposing to her again, just like he did all those years ago. The re-enactment would have the desired effect and she would forgive him instantly.
But not today. Today, she would wait until he remembers it on his own. And once he does, she would refuse to be cajoled by his repentant gestures. She would point out to him that he has forgotten the date every year since he first proposed to her. And this would make him feel sorry even more. She would remain cold for the rest of the evening. Just to make her point. And he would be quite upset by then. But she would be unmoved. Until he begs her for her forgivance. Only then would she relent. And let escape a tiny hint of a smile.
The woman relishes the prospect of a good showdown and is rubbing her hands in anticipation when she hears her husband padding down the stairs. It seems like yesterday, she hears him say as he walks into the kitchen, that I asked you to be my wife. The woman looks at her husband in surprise. It's a good minute before she recovers and finds the words. I'm so sorry, she starts to say, I never meant it like that. Perplexed, the husband waits for an explanation.
Friday, May 05, 2006
A quick tale 131
A groom for Shoefiend's cousin*
What do you mean 'you don't like his personality'? You've only seen his photo!, thundered her father. How can you say you won't marry him by just looking at his PHOTO?
Have you had a look at yourself in the mirror lately?, chipped in the mother for good measure. With your looks, do you think you're going to land a film star?
You're not getting any younger. You won't have a market for long, added the grandmother who may have been referring to the wilting bunch of spinach she was cleaning.
Shoefiend's cousin sighed. And tried to decide which film star she fancied enough to want to marry.
Meanwhile in a land about 21 kms away, the young man whose photo had been the subject of the aforesaid discussion, was telling his mother about the photo she had handed him. I don't know...but she doesn't have...how shall I put it? Personality? His mother leaned across to look at the photo herself. She agreed. And then asked her son if her blouse matched her saree.
*prompted by Shoefiend's comment here . Deepa, since you asked.
What do you mean 'you don't like his personality'? You've only seen his photo!, thundered her father. How can you say you won't marry him by just looking at his PHOTO?
Have you had a look at yourself in the mirror lately?, chipped in the mother for good measure. With your looks, do you think you're going to land a film star?
You're not getting any younger. You won't have a market for long, added the grandmother who may have been referring to the wilting bunch of spinach she was cleaning.
Shoefiend's cousin sighed. And tried to decide which film star she fancied enough to want to marry.
Meanwhile in a land about 21 kms away, the young man whose photo had been the subject of the aforesaid discussion, was telling his mother about the photo she had handed him. I don't know...but she doesn't have...how shall I put it? Personality? His mother leaned across to look at the photo herself. She agreed. And then asked her son if her blouse matched her saree.
*prompted by Shoefiend's comment here . Deepa, since you asked.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Double take on a quick tale
Read a quick tale you did not like? Think you would've written it differently? Here's your chance. Go through the archives, pick any tale you like (or dislike), rewrite it in your own words and send it to me at ammania @ gmail.com
Please don't forget to mention the quick tale that inspired yours. I'll wait until the 15th of May before publishing all the entries.
Thank you.
Update: Aiyo! Upon re-reading this post, I realised that it sounds as if I'm crossing swords with the reader. Daring them to do better. Hardly the case. The idea was inspired by A Quick Tale 130 where we did two versions of the same story. This is just to get a fresh perspective. A new spin on an old tale. Thanks.
Please don't forget to mention the quick tale that inspired yours. I'll wait until the 15th of May before publishing all the entries.
Thank you.
Update: Aiyo! Upon re-reading this post, I realised that it sounds as if I'm crossing swords with the reader. Daring them to do better. Hardly the case. The idea was inspired by A Quick Tale 130 where we did two versions of the same story. This is just to get a fresh perspective. A new spin on an old tale. Thanks.
A quick tale 130
Same story. Two different takes. He wrote one. I wrote the other.
Cutie
A gripping feeling of helplessness overtook him. Being of an essentially placid nature, he had always felt rather overwhelmed by her. He shook his head, as if to physically shake off the thoughts that pulled him in different directions. It was wrong of her to ask it, he felt. Resented, in fact, her gaze, waiting for an answer. Assent was not possible, not like this. Maybe she knew, and was joking. Intense unease stupefied him, and he looked at her dumbly.
He remembered how he first met her, this sister of a friend. Her too big eyes, solemn, always seeming to look right into your innermost thoughts. He remembered overhearing his father remarking to hers that she was a grenade, not a bouncing ball, and now understood what they meant.
"Mmmm… I think I am late for my class" , he said, and knew even as he said it that it was lame. She exploded, pushing him to the floor with a force he could scarcely believe came from her. "Why did you have to think so much to say no ?" she screamed, and stamped on his hand as she stormed off.
---
When they next met, he was 34 and had a 4 year old daughter in tow. Your age then, he laughed, and she joined him. Then she looked at him, and he knew that she knew.
That he often wondered.
A long ago proposal
How old were we then? 3 or 4? Let's say, I was three. You were a year older. I asked you to marry me. And you said no. Why? Because you had to go to school the next day or something. And then I got really angry with you, you say, and pushed you to the ground. Stamping on your hand as I stormed off. And now we meet, nearly three decades later. Quite by chance. You with your daughter in tow. Me, hoping that you don't notice my greys. We smile, exchange polite hellos and enquire about each other's welfare. But why are you looking at me like that for? I've forgiven you. Honestly. It doesn't bother me that you turned down my offer. Unless you haven't. And the way you wrinkle your forehead and crinkle your eyes into tiny slits, I can tell that you are still wondering. Thirty years on.
Cutie
A gripping feeling of helplessness overtook him. Being of an essentially placid nature, he had always felt rather overwhelmed by her. He shook his head, as if to physically shake off the thoughts that pulled him in different directions. It was wrong of her to ask it, he felt. Resented, in fact, her gaze, waiting for an answer. Assent was not possible, not like this. Maybe she knew, and was joking. Intense unease stupefied him, and he looked at her dumbly.
He remembered how he first met her, this sister of a friend. Her too big eyes, solemn, always seeming to look right into your innermost thoughts. He remembered overhearing his father remarking to hers that she was a grenade, not a bouncing ball, and now understood what they meant.
"Mmmm… I think I am late for my class" , he said, and knew even as he said it that it was lame. She exploded, pushing him to the floor with a force he could scarcely believe came from her. "Why did you have to think so much to say no ?" she screamed, and stamped on his hand as she stormed off.
---
When they next met, he was 34 and had a 4 year old daughter in tow. Your age then, he laughed, and she joined him. Then she looked at him, and he knew that she knew.
That he often wondered.
A long ago proposal
How old were we then? 3 or 4? Let's say, I was three. You were a year older. I asked you to marry me. And you said no. Why? Because you had to go to school the next day or something. And then I got really angry with you, you say, and pushed you to the ground. Stamping on your hand as I stormed off. And now we meet, nearly three decades later. Quite by chance. You with your daughter in tow. Me, hoping that you don't notice my greys. We smile, exchange polite hellos and enquire about each other's welfare. But why are you looking at me like that for? I've forgiven you. Honestly. It doesn't bother me that you turned down my offer. Unless you haven't. And the way you wrinkle your forehead and crinkle your eyes into tiny slits, I can tell that you are still wondering. Thirty years on.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
A quick tale 129
At around 11 am one Tuesday morning
You remembered it as you were pouring tea into the cups. Or was it when you were hanging out the washing? You recalled the face you passed-by that morning. It seemed so familiar. Isn't she the one you went to school with? The same straight black hair. The oddly slanted eyes. Slightly bowed legs. And a congentinal inability to say the word 'yellow'. You bet if you had stopped her on the streets, pointed to your umbrella and asked her what colour it was, she would have said 'lay-o'. It had to be her, you were convinced. Until you realised that it had been 32 years since you left school. And your classmate would have aged in that time. Her hair would've turned grey and her eyes would've grown lines around them. Just like yours have. Ah, it's memory, you said to yourself. Never letting people from the past grow old.
You remembered it as you were pouring tea into the cups. Or was it when you were hanging out the washing? You recalled the face you passed-by that morning. It seemed so familiar. Isn't she the one you went to school with? The same straight black hair. The oddly slanted eyes. Slightly bowed legs. And a congentinal inability to say the word 'yellow'. You bet if you had stopped her on the streets, pointed to your umbrella and asked her what colour it was, she would have said 'lay-o'. It had to be her, you were convinced. Until you realised that it had been 32 years since you left school. And your classmate would have aged in that time. Her hair would've turned grey and her eyes would've grown lines around them. Just like yours have. Ah, it's memory, you said to yourself. Never letting people from the past grow old.
Friday, April 28, 2006
A quick tale 128
Reality Bites
'He's the one I am to marry', she said. Passing around photo of the man her parents had chosen for her, among her friends. 'That's him in the striped blue shirt' she said needlessly. The photo had only him leaning awkwardly against a wall. His striped shirt was not the first thing her friends noticed about his appearance. They saw his thinning hair, his average build, his forced smile, his strikingly painful ordinariness. The group slipped into a deeply introspective mode. It seemed like all their fantasy knights had been felled in a single swoop by this mild, middle-aged man who looked like the kind you would buy insurance policies from. Or ask directions to the library from. The group remained silent for an embarrassingly long time before someone observed, 'he reminds me of a man who once helped carry my suitcase up the stairs in a railway station.' Everyone nodded vigorously. As if helping young women carry heavy luggage was what good husbands were made of.
'He's the one I am to marry', she said. Passing around photo of the man her parents had chosen for her, among her friends. 'That's him in the striped blue shirt' she said needlessly. The photo had only him leaning awkwardly against a wall. His striped shirt was not the first thing her friends noticed about his appearance. They saw his thinning hair, his average build, his forced smile, his strikingly painful ordinariness. The group slipped into a deeply introspective mode. It seemed like all their fantasy knights had been felled in a single swoop by this mild, middle-aged man who looked like the kind you would buy insurance policies from. Or ask directions to the library from. The group remained silent for an embarrassingly long time before someone observed, 'he reminds me of a man who once helped carry my suitcase up the stairs in a railway station.' Everyone nodded vigorously. As if helping young women carry heavy luggage was what good husbands were made of.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
A quick tale 127
Mascara
Last Tuesday, as she was getting ready for work, a thought occured to her. She wondered if anyone would notice if she did not wear mascara that day. She stood there in front of her mirror wondering. Would the world stop spinning if she didn't lengthen her eyelashes? Would birds stop cooing if they were not 25% Extra Volumised? Would the Middle East peace process grind to a halt because she did not apply Waterproof Superlash? And closer home, would she be skinnier, richer, sexier and acne-free if the tiny strands of hair sticking out from her eyelids weren't curled up flirtatiously? She knew the answer. But paused to consider the gravity of her discovery. And then slowly, she unscrewed the little cylinder in front of her, eased out the brush and started running its tiny bristles along her eyelashes.
Last Tuesday, as she was getting ready for work, a thought occured to her. She wondered if anyone would notice if she did not wear mascara that day. She stood there in front of her mirror wondering. Would the world stop spinning if she didn't lengthen her eyelashes? Would birds stop cooing if they were not 25% Extra Volumised? Would the Middle East peace process grind to a halt because she did not apply Waterproof Superlash? And closer home, would she be skinnier, richer, sexier and acne-free if the tiny strands of hair sticking out from her eyelids weren't curled up flirtatiously? She knew the answer. But paused to consider the gravity of her discovery. And then slowly, she unscrewed the little cylinder in front of her, eased out the brush and started running its tiny bristles along her eyelashes.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
A quick tale 126
Embroidery
He came at me from behind, taking me by surprise. And before I knew it, he had grabbed my bag and run away with it.
Some days later...
I was scared out of my wits. He brandished a knife and threatened to attack me if I didn't hand over my bag.
Poor you.
It was either my life or the bag.
No choice.
Obviously. I tamely handed over my bag.
In a few weeks...
He had a menacing look about him. I should've been more watchful.
Was he a big man?
Built like a weight-lifter. With bulging arms and all. I was no match.
And he threatened to knife you.
I'm sure he'd have ripped me to pieces if I hadn't handed over my bag.
The following month...
He was giant. An armed giant. He had a revolver and a knife.
Oh my god!
Look at this scar on my neck.
What??
He held the knife to my neck and laughed like a maniac. It's still ringing in my ears.
What did you do?
What would anyone do? I gave up my bag to save my life.
In a couple of decades...
I can still remember those weeks when I was held hostage.
Hostage?
Yes, by a group of disgustingly vile terrorists.
No way!
They tortured me. In the most shocking ways.
I'm at a loss for words.
Scarring me beyond recognition.
All because...
All because I didn't hand over my hand bag when threatened.
He came at me from behind, taking me by surprise. And before I knew it, he had grabbed my bag and run away with it.
Some days later...
I was scared out of my wits. He brandished a knife and threatened to attack me if I didn't hand over my bag.
Poor you.
It was either my life or the bag.
No choice.
Obviously. I tamely handed over my bag.
In a few weeks...
He had a menacing look about him. I should've been more watchful.
Was he a big man?
Built like a weight-lifter. With bulging arms and all. I was no match.
And he threatened to knife you.
I'm sure he'd have ripped me to pieces if I hadn't handed over my bag.
The following month...
He was giant. An armed giant. He had a revolver and a knife.
Oh my god!
Look at this scar on my neck.
What??
He held the knife to my neck and laughed like a maniac. It's still ringing in my ears.
What did you do?
What would anyone do? I gave up my bag to save my life.
In a couple of decades...
I can still remember those weeks when I was held hostage.
Hostage?
Yes, by a group of disgustingly vile terrorists.
No way!
They tortured me. In the most shocking ways.
I'm at a loss for words.
Scarring me beyond recognition.
All because...
All because I didn't hand over my hand bag when threatened.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A quick tale 125
Forebodings
Now that it had happened, they started looking for signs that would have warned them of the impending disaster. My right eye was twitching like mad that morning, said the mother, I knew something was going to happen. Yes me too, joined in the aunt who never liked to be left out, I dreamt of a wedding. You know what they say if you dream of something auspicious. I should've seen it coming, said the grandmother, the milk curdled that morning. And the crows, recalled the neighbour, they never stopped crowing. That's true, added the sister as she rocked her colicky child, my baby was wailing all day. Everyone nodded solemnly. It could have been avoided, they were sure. If only they had paid heed to the portent signals. And for a brief while, they forgot. That it was all his fault.
Now that it had happened, they started looking for signs that would have warned them of the impending disaster. My right eye was twitching like mad that morning, said the mother, I knew something was going to happen. Yes me too, joined in the aunt who never liked to be left out, I dreamt of a wedding. You know what they say if you dream of something auspicious. I should've seen it coming, said the grandmother, the milk curdled that morning. And the crows, recalled the neighbour, they never stopped crowing. That's true, added the sister as she rocked her colicky child, my baby was wailing all day. Everyone nodded solemnly. It could have been avoided, they were sure. If only they had paid heed to the portent signals. And for a brief while, they forgot. That it was all his fault.
Monday, April 17, 2006
A quick tale 124
A message
Dear S~~,
Happy Birthday.
From,
P~~
Six words. Which she read again and again. Searching for hidden meanings. Look, she noted, it’s not Happy Birthday with an exclamation mark but a full stop. As if he wanted her to know the predictability of its recurrence. Don’t be surprised if your birthday falls on the same day next year, he may have wanted to imply. He was always so world-weary, she sighed to herself. And when her eyes drifted to the line above his name, she paused to wonder why it wasn’t ‘With love from’. May be because he didn’t feel it right to use such an intimate term of endearment. At least he had chosen a ‘Dear’ before her name. And the way he had abbreviated her name was a clear indication that she was in his close circle.
Still, it would’ve been nicer if he had sent her a card instead of scribbling a note. But was it really a scribble? It’s just the way he wrote, she told herself. He had, after all, remembered her birthday and sent her a greeting. Which must mean, beyond doubt, that she mattered to him. That settled it for her. She folded the A4 sheet in four and then in four again. As if guarding the words from escape. She slipped it under her pillow and laid her head on it. And played the words over in her mind one more time. Just in case she had missed something.
Dear S~~,
Happy Birthday.
From,
P~~
Six words. Which she read again and again. Searching for hidden meanings. Look, she noted, it’s not Happy Birthday with an exclamation mark but a full stop. As if he wanted her to know the predictability of its recurrence. Don’t be surprised if your birthday falls on the same day next year, he may have wanted to imply. He was always so world-weary, she sighed to herself. And when her eyes drifted to the line above his name, she paused to wonder why it wasn’t ‘With love from’. May be because he didn’t feel it right to use such an intimate term of endearment. At least he had chosen a ‘Dear’ before her name. And the way he had abbreviated her name was a clear indication that she was in his close circle.
Still, it would’ve been nicer if he had sent her a card instead of scribbling a note. But was it really a scribble? It’s just the way he wrote, she told herself. He had, after all, remembered her birthday and sent her a greeting. Which must mean, beyond doubt, that she mattered to him. That settled it for her. She folded the A4 sheet in four and then in four again. As if guarding the words from escape. She slipped it under her pillow and laid her head on it. And played the words over in her mind one more time. Just in case she had missed something.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
A quick tale 123
Letter to a former tenant
You must be surprised to hear from me, Irene Spencer. It's not like we were friends or anything. I'm writing this note to thank you for subscribing to the Littlewoods (free) catalogue. They do have the most gorgeous collection of summer dresses. In the latest issue which came addressed to you, there's one in particular - in a lovely shade of pastel green with tiny blue flower prints - that I'm thinking of ordering. Oh, I do hope that you don't mind that I opened some of your correspondence.
In the first few months after moving here, I set your letters aside. But as time went by, it became clear that you were not coming back to collect your mail. Initially I thought of destroying them but there might have been something important that required attention. And indeed there was. There was a note (written in a menacing tone) from a debt collector. Apparently, you had ordered some books and never paid for them. It was followed by a court summons some time later. I don't think you will be interested in the details. Suffice to say that they gave up after a few more unsavoury threats.
But not all of your mail was bad. Your cousin 'Wally' (Wallace?) had sent you a postcard from Spain. It had a vulgar drawing on it. I didn't want to leave it lying around the house (I have small children, you see), so I tore it up. You aunt Mabel has been sending you Christmas cards every year and inviting you to join her for lunch on Boxing day. You must write to her and tell her that you have moved. There has also been an assortment of pamphlets and brochures offering everything from a clean garden to a set of sparkling white teeth to fixing you up with a nice date on Valentine's day.
Which reminds me, have you renewed your passport? Because there was an intimation from the Home Office of its impending expiration. By the way, I have told the credit card people that you are no longer interested in another card (I may have just added that you are migrating to Australia to get them off my back). There's still a couple of mailers from a charity for the homeless asking you for a donation. You are welcome to pick them up anytime you wish. You know where I live.
You must be surprised to hear from me, Irene Spencer. It's not like we were friends or anything. I'm writing this note to thank you for subscribing to the Littlewoods (free) catalogue. They do have the most gorgeous collection of summer dresses. In the latest issue which came addressed to you, there's one in particular - in a lovely shade of pastel green with tiny blue flower prints - that I'm thinking of ordering. Oh, I do hope that you don't mind that I opened some of your correspondence.
In the first few months after moving here, I set your letters aside. But as time went by, it became clear that you were not coming back to collect your mail. Initially I thought of destroying them but there might have been something important that required attention. And indeed there was. There was a note (written in a menacing tone) from a debt collector. Apparently, you had ordered some books and never paid for them. It was followed by a court summons some time later. I don't think you will be interested in the details. Suffice to say that they gave up after a few more unsavoury threats.
But not all of your mail was bad. Your cousin 'Wally' (Wallace?) had sent you a postcard from Spain. It had a vulgar drawing on it. I didn't want to leave it lying around the house (I have small children, you see), so I tore it up. You aunt Mabel has been sending you Christmas cards every year and inviting you to join her for lunch on Boxing day. You must write to her and tell her that you have moved. There has also been an assortment of pamphlets and brochures offering everything from a clean garden to a set of sparkling white teeth to fixing you up with a nice date on Valentine's day.
Which reminds me, have you renewed your passport? Because there was an intimation from the Home Office of its impending expiration. By the way, I have told the credit card people that you are no longer interested in another card (I may have just added that you are migrating to Australia to get them off my back). There's still a couple of mailers from a charity for the homeless asking you for a donation. You are welcome to pick them up anytime you wish. You know where I live.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
A quick tale 122
Wound
This time it was somewhere where she couldn't hide it. Just below the right eye, her cheek had swollen into a ripe blue ball. She was aware of the stares and nudges as she walked into the store. She kept her gaze down and went straight to the counter and asked for a painkiller. I fell down the stairs this morning, she explained a little too loudly, It was so dark, I couldn't see very well and I missed the last few steps. The shop assistant nodded with no interest. As she was leaving, she thought she heard a snigger. It was the old neighbour. She wanted to run up to her and tell her, It's not what you think. I really did take a tumble today. Yes, he has a temper. And loses his cool once in a while. That's because his job is so stressful. But this, she wanted to say pointing to the bruise, This is from the fall.
Instead, she looked up and smiled at the neighbour. In defiance. In a show of normality. And walked out with quick steps.
This time it was somewhere where she couldn't hide it. Just below the right eye, her cheek had swollen into a ripe blue ball. She was aware of the stares and nudges as she walked into the store. She kept her gaze down and went straight to the counter and asked for a painkiller. I fell down the stairs this morning, she explained a little too loudly, It was so dark, I couldn't see very well and I missed the last few steps. The shop assistant nodded with no interest. As she was leaving, she thought she heard a snigger. It was the old neighbour. She wanted to run up to her and tell her, It's not what you think. I really did take a tumble today. Yes, he has a temper. And loses his cool once in a while. That's because his job is so stressful. But this, she wanted to say pointing to the bruise, This is from the fall.
Instead, she looked up and smiled at the neighbour. In defiance. In a show of normality. And walked out with quick steps.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Guest Blog by Chinna Ammani
அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு
லஸ் கார்னரில் எடு ஒரு லெஃப்டு
நேரா போய்கீனே ராயப்பேட்டவுல லெஃப்டுல ஒரு கட்டு
அங்கதான் இருக்கு எங்க அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு
எங்க ஸ்ட்ரீட்டு விஐபி லிஸ்ட கொஞ்சம் பாரு
பக்கத்து வீட்டு பரூர் ஃபாமிலி
அவங்க வயலின் வாசிப்புல செம கில்லி
கோடி வீட்டு கொத்தமங்கலம் சுப்பு
தில்லானா மோகனாம்பாள் அவர் பெருமை சொல்லும் அப்பு
எதிர் வீட்டுல இருந்தார் ஒரு மகராஜன் - அவருதான்
வெண்கலக் குரலோன் சீர்காழி கோவிந்தராஜன்
'உருவா மீசை'பாடுன பாடகர் மாணிக்க விநாயகம்
அவரு எங்க தெருவுல தான் பண்ணாரு சாதகம்
தமிழ் சுப்ரபாதத்துக்கு பேர்போன பாம்பே சிஸ்டர்ஸ்
அவங்கதான் எங்க தெரு சூப்பர் ஸ்டார்ஸ்
சப்னே-வில் ஆக்ட் செய்த அம்மணி
சாத்தியா-வில் ஆக்ட் செய்த சின்ன அம்மணி
இவங்கதான் அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு பாலிவுட் பெண்மணிஸ்
'வேலன்' சீரியல் புகழ் பிள்ளையார் கோயில் குருக்கள்
ஆட்டோகிராஃபுக்காக அவரை ஈமொய்க்கும் தெரு மக்கள்
இவங்களுக்கு கோலிவுட் தந்தது புன்னகை அரசி-ன்னு ஒரு நேம்
கே ஆர் விஜயா இஸ் பார்ட் ஆஃப் அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு ஹால் ஆஃப் ஃபேம்
அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு அட்வகேட்ஸ் ஃப்ரம் அரும்பாக்கம்
ப்ளாக் ஃபேம்ஸ் அம்மணி இஸ் ஆல்ஸோ ஃப்ரம் திஸ் குடும்பம்
சின்னத்திரை சீரியல் [பெயர் தெரியாத] பாட்டி, பால்கார மன்னாரு, பூபதி, வெள்ளிக்கிழமை தவறாது சாமியாடும் 'குண்டு' தாயீ கற்பகம், இஸ்கூல் ஆயா
- எங்களுக்கு இவங்களும்தான் விஐபிஸ், அய்யா!
ஹைதராபாத்திற்கு ஒரு ப்ஞ்சாரா ஹில்
மும்பைக்கு ஒரு பாலி ஹில்
ஹாலிவுட்டுக்கு ஒரு பெவர்லி ஹில்
இந்த மாதிரி ஹை-ஃபை ஹில் லிஸ்டுல இருக்கு
சென்னையோட எங்க அப்பர்சாமி கோயில்
- சின்ன அம்மணி
லஸ் கார்னரில் எடு ஒரு லெஃப்டு
நேரா போய்கீனே ராயப்பேட்டவுல லெஃப்டுல ஒரு கட்டு
அங்கதான் இருக்கு எங்க அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு
எங்க ஸ்ட்ரீட்டு விஐபி லிஸ்ட கொஞ்சம் பாரு
பக்கத்து வீட்டு பரூர் ஃபாமிலி
அவங்க வயலின் வாசிப்புல செம கில்லி
கோடி வீட்டு கொத்தமங்கலம் சுப்பு
தில்லானா மோகனாம்பாள் அவர் பெருமை சொல்லும் அப்பு
எதிர் வீட்டுல இருந்தார் ஒரு மகராஜன் - அவருதான்
வெண்கலக் குரலோன் சீர்காழி கோவிந்தராஜன்
'உருவா மீசை'பாடுன பாடகர் மாணிக்க விநாயகம்
அவரு எங்க தெருவுல தான் பண்ணாரு சாதகம்
தமிழ் சுப்ரபாதத்துக்கு பேர்போன பாம்பே சிஸ்டர்ஸ்
அவங்கதான் எங்க தெரு சூப்பர் ஸ்டார்ஸ்
சப்னே-வில் ஆக்ட் செய்த அம்மணி
சாத்தியா-வில் ஆக்ட் செய்த சின்ன அம்மணி
இவங்கதான் அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு பாலிவுட் பெண்மணிஸ்
'வேலன்' சீரியல் புகழ் பிள்ளையார் கோயில் குருக்கள்
ஆட்டோகிராஃபுக்காக அவரை ஈமொய்க்கும் தெரு மக்கள்
இவங்களுக்கு கோலிவுட் தந்தது புன்னகை அரசி-ன்னு ஒரு நேம்
கே ஆர் விஜயா இஸ் பார்ட் ஆஃப் அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு ஹால் ஆஃப் ஃபேம்
அப்பர்சாமி கோயில் தெரு அட்வகேட்ஸ் ஃப்ரம் அரும்பாக்கம்
ப்ளாக் ஃபேம்ஸ் அம்மணி இஸ் ஆல்ஸோ ஃப்ரம் திஸ் குடும்பம்
சின்னத்திரை சீரியல் [பெயர் தெரியாத] பாட்டி, பால்கார மன்னாரு, பூபதி, வெள்ளிக்கிழமை தவறாது சாமியாடும் 'குண்டு' தாயீ கற்பகம், இஸ்கூல் ஆயா
- எங்களுக்கு இவங்களும்தான் விஐபிஸ், அய்யா!
ஹைதராபாத்திற்கு ஒரு ப்ஞ்சாரா ஹில்
மும்பைக்கு ஒரு பாலி ஹில்
ஹாலிவுட்டுக்கு ஒரு பெவர்லி ஹில்
இந்த மாதிரி ஹை-ஃபை ஹில் லிஸ்டுல இருக்கு
சென்னையோட எங்க அப்பர்சாமி கோயில்
- சின்ன அம்மணி
Monday, April 03, 2006
A quick tale 121
Look at me
You cover your mouth and cough gently. This should catch his attention. But it doesn't. He leans back and turns the page of his magazine. A louder cough. He brings the magazine closer and peers into it as if it was in small print. You shift in your seat hoping that the mild commotion will cause him to look up and take notice of you. Ah you, you hope he'll say, how've you been? And from there on, you wish you'll slip into a casual conversation as if it's just been days and not 20 years since you last met and parted ways bitterly. But he continues to be absorbed in his read. You contemplate dropping your bag on the floor to get him to look your way. For a brief moment, you even consider going over and saying hello. Presently, his name is called out and he gets up to go see the doctor. He walks past you without so much as a glance in your direction. And that's when you notice what he's been reading. Instructions for an air conditioning unit. He knew.
You cover your mouth and cough gently. This should catch his attention. But it doesn't. He leans back and turns the page of his magazine. A louder cough. He brings the magazine closer and peers into it as if it was in small print. You shift in your seat hoping that the mild commotion will cause him to look up and take notice of you. Ah you, you hope he'll say, how've you been? And from there on, you wish you'll slip into a casual conversation as if it's just been days and not 20 years since you last met and parted ways bitterly. But he continues to be absorbed in his read. You contemplate dropping your bag on the floor to get him to look your way. For a brief moment, you even consider going over and saying hello. Presently, his name is called out and he gets up to go see the doctor. He walks past you without so much as a glance in your direction. And that's when you notice what he's been reading. Instructions for an air conditioning unit. He knew.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
A quick tale 120
For a young girl who recently made a remark about my age.
Eww, I can see her making a face. Wrinkling her nose in disgust. Old women! Yewww! They smell, she thinks. And they got chin on their hair. And they can't control their bladder very well. I know an old woman, she tells her friends, who hauls up her boobs over her shoulder much like a sari pallu. Old women, she says while shuddering involuntarily, have ugly bottoms. They wear lumpy underwear. Old women, she confides at an uncharitable moment, should be banished. Better still, she adds as an afterthought, old women should be made to suffer each other. She collapses with laughter at the thought of withered ladies huddled together like penguins to keep each other warm.
Bah! I tell you this, young lady. Someday, you too will lose your firm skin and start wearing Tena Lady. Some day, I bet, some day.
Eww, I can see her making a face. Wrinkling her nose in disgust. Old women! Yewww! They smell, she thinks. And they got chin on their hair. And they can't control their bladder very well. I know an old woman, she tells her friends, who hauls up her boobs over her shoulder much like a sari pallu. Old women, she says while shuddering involuntarily, have ugly bottoms. They wear lumpy underwear. Old women, she confides at an uncharitable moment, should be banished. Better still, she adds as an afterthought, old women should be made to suffer each other. She collapses with laughter at the thought of withered ladies huddled together like penguins to keep each other warm.
Bah! I tell you this, young lady. Someday, you too will lose your firm skin and start wearing Tena Lady. Some day, I bet, some day.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
A quick tale 119
A lift home
It is one of those rare occasions when he is in a car with someone he barely knows. She had offered to drop him home because it was on her way. And he accepted. Now there's 45 minutes of journey time to be filled with conversation. He starts off by thanking her very much for the offer. Oh it's nothing, she dismisses. And that's the end of that. So he sits trying to think of another conversation starter. Her work. How long has she been at the job, he asks. 18 months. And before that? She used to be in a different job. Oh, ok. And what was that, he wonders. Same thing, she says. Oh, ok. And why did she leave her earlier job? The boss harrassed me. He is sorry to hear that. More silence follows.
Should he ask her about her family? May be something less personal. Perhaps cricket. Or politics. Or reality tv. He looks up and remarks how terrible the weather is. Yes, she nods, terrible weather indeed. Nice shoes, he says. Yeah, thanks. I've always liked good shoes, he says, god, I love a pair of good legs. He does not know how the last bit slipped out. Awkward pause. I didn't mean it that way, he stumbles. You have nice legs. And I like a woman with good legs. But I don't fancy you. Not that you are not fancyable. But you're not my kind. He rambles uncontrollably. Do I take a right here? she asks. He can sense the iciness in her tone. Yes, please. The next house on the left. He gets out, thanks her, runs inside and shuts himself into a closet. He doesn't want to see another human for the next ten years.
It is one of those rare occasions when he is in a car with someone he barely knows. She had offered to drop him home because it was on her way. And he accepted. Now there's 45 minutes of journey time to be filled with conversation. He starts off by thanking her very much for the offer. Oh it's nothing, she dismisses. And that's the end of that. So he sits trying to think of another conversation starter. Her work. How long has she been at the job, he asks. 18 months. And before that? She used to be in a different job. Oh, ok. And what was that, he wonders. Same thing, she says. Oh, ok. And why did she leave her earlier job? The boss harrassed me. He is sorry to hear that. More silence follows.
Should he ask her about her family? May be something less personal. Perhaps cricket. Or politics. Or reality tv. He looks up and remarks how terrible the weather is. Yes, she nods, terrible weather indeed. Nice shoes, he says. Yeah, thanks. I've always liked good shoes, he says, god, I love a pair of good legs. He does not know how the last bit slipped out. Awkward pause. I didn't mean it that way, he stumbles. You have nice legs. And I like a woman with good legs. But I don't fancy you. Not that you are not fancyable. But you're not my kind. He rambles uncontrollably. Do I take a right here? she asks. He can sense the iciness in her tone. Yes, please. The next house on the left. He gets out, thanks her, runs inside and shuts himself into a closet. He doesn't want to see another human for the next ten years.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
A quick tale 118
Remembering mother
Some nights I wake up wondering if your nose was as I remember it. Sharp and defined. I remember you used to tie your wispy thin hair with a string stripped from the bark of a banana tree. I used to pull it to annoy you. 'As if I have 6 feet of hair for you to play with! Go away', you would rebuke me while re-tying the sad bunch into an indistinct bundle. And your voice. A while ago, I was worried that I was starting to forget the sound of your voice. But one day, out-of-the-blue, I remembered the children's rhyme you used to sing. Something about running squirrels and yellow pumpkins. I recalled your voice in an instant.
When I look at myself in the mirror these days, I compare my reflection with your photo. Same eyes, nose. And when I brush back my hair, I can see where I get my broad forehead from. Funnily enough, I never inherited your love for coffee. They say that you used to run through the back door to your mother's house for an extra gulp. Did you really do that?
As far as I can recall, you never complained. But you had quite a temper. The other day I heard someone mention that you were an ocean of patience. How we tend to bestow upon the departed a uniformly genial disposition. As your first born, I often bore the brunt of your short fuse. You would pinch me on my thigh and I would howl with pain. I only have to close my eyes and it stings even today. I cannot believe you have been gone for so long. I still remember telling the younger ones that you will be back soon. Because it was getting dark and you would never stay out after sunset. I refused to believe that you were not coming back. I was angry at you for a long time for neglecting us. But at nights, I would talk to you. I told you about my graduation. How I took up father's profession. My wedding. The birth of your first grandchild (he was still born). I named my daughter after you. I tell her that she looks like you. May be I just want her to look like you. She is a wonderful mother. Even if she pinches her little boy on his arm once in a while.
My father lost his mother 50 years ago this Tuesday. He was a teenager then. This is an imagined piece.
Some nights I wake up wondering if your nose was as I remember it. Sharp and defined. I remember you used to tie your wispy thin hair with a string stripped from the bark of a banana tree. I used to pull it to annoy you. 'As if I have 6 feet of hair for you to play with! Go away', you would rebuke me while re-tying the sad bunch into an indistinct bundle. And your voice. A while ago, I was worried that I was starting to forget the sound of your voice. But one day, out-of-the-blue, I remembered the children's rhyme you used to sing. Something about running squirrels and yellow pumpkins. I recalled your voice in an instant.
When I look at myself in the mirror these days, I compare my reflection with your photo. Same eyes, nose. And when I brush back my hair, I can see where I get my broad forehead from. Funnily enough, I never inherited your love for coffee. They say that you used to run through the back door to your mother's house for an extra gulp. Did you really do that?
As far as I can recall, you never complained. But you had quite a temper. The other day I heard someone mention that you were an ocean of patience. How we tend to bestow upon the departed a uniformly genial disposition. As your first born, I often bore the brunt of your short fuse. You would pinch me on my thigh and I would howl with pain. I only have to close my eyes and it stings even today. I cannot believe you have been gone for so long. I still remember telling the younger ones that you will be back soon. Because it was getting dark and you would never stay out after sunset. I refused to believe that you were not coming back. I was angry at you for a long time for neglecting us. But at nights, I would talk to you. I told you about my graduation. How I took up father's profession. My wedding. The birth of your first grandchild (he was still born). I named my daughter after you. I tell her that she looks like you. May be I just want her to look like you. She is a wonderful mother. Even if she pinches her little boy on his arm once in a while.
My father lost his mother 50 years ago this Tuesday. He was a teenager then. This is an imagined piece.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A quick tale 117
A plan
Atchoo! she will sneeze as soon as she sights him and then proceed to blow her nose loudly into a tissue. That should bring him to her table. If it doesn't, she will go on to moan and groan in a low voice. That should do the trick. And once he comes over, he is bound to enquire about her health. I'm okay, she will whisper in a feeble tone. But he will not be convinced. So he will ask her again how she was really feeling. To be honest, she will begin, my head feels like it is being pounded by a million little red hot hammers. And my body...she will pause unable to continue. She will wipe an imaginary tear from her eye. He will nod like he understands. I know, he will say, I felt the same last week. You must have caught the flu bug from me. I should never have forced you try the soup from my plate. I'm so sorry. He will shake his head several times in contrition. Why don't you go home today? he will offer. But there's so much work to be done, she will sound distraught. Your well-being comes first, he will insist, take the day off. And she will submit reluctantly. For now, she waits. Drumming her fingers on the table.
Atchoo! she will sneeze as soon as she sights him and then proceed to blow her nose loudly into a tissue. That should bring him to her table. If it doesn't, she will go on to moan and groan in a low voice. That should do the trick. And once he comes over, he is bound to enquire about her health. I'm okay, she will whisper in a feeble tone. But he will not be convinced. So he will ask her again how she was really feeling. To be honest, she will begin, my head feels like it is being pounded by a million little red hot hammers. And my body...she will pause unable to continue. She will wipe an imaginary tear from her eye. He will nod like he understands. I know, he will say, I felt the same last week. You must have caught the flu bug from me. I should never have forced you try the soup from my plate. I'm so sorry. He will shake his head several times in contrition. Why don't you go home today? he will offer. But there's so much work to be done, she will sound distraught. Your well-being comes first, he will insist, take the day off. And she will submit reluctantly. For now, she waits. Drumming her fingers on the table.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
A quick tale 116
A bit of a nonsense story
He always felt embarrassed when he used the word itinerary. Like laughing at someone's funeral. Or remembering a dirty joke during Physics class. Or fancying your best friend's wife. He could never bring himself to say the word. Why couldn't it just be schedule? Or timetable? Why itinerary? Was it Eye-tinerary? Or It-in-erary? He could never decide. And the 'rary' at the end was positively vulgar. And suddenly, the word seemed to crop up everywhere. On holiday brochures. Guide books. Rock star tour dates. World cup football matches. Everyone seemed to have an itinerary. Heck, even his 8-year old son was given one before he went on a school trip. What's with the word? What's with the world? Itinerary this. Itinerary that.
He'd had enough. So one day, he took a pair of black markers and went around town striking out the word wherever he saw it. He would go into libraries, search out dictionaries and black out the word and its definition. It was his personal battle. His holy war against a world that had embraced itinerary. Psychiatrists saw a troubled mind. Oprah-fans saw a deeply scarred psyche. He needs healing, they murmured behind his back. Did your mother not read you books when you were young? Was your cat run over by a dentist's car? They asked silly questions to get to the root of his problem. The simple answer was that he abhorred the word. And the more he ran away, the more he was chased. The man who did not like itinerary, ran the headline next to his scowling face. Neighbourhood kids made up pathetic rhymes and sang out 'He's hoary! He's hairy! He's lost his i-ti-ne-rary!'.
It had to stop. So the man scribbled the word all over his house. itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary. He surrounded himself with the very demon he was running away from. It seemed to work. He no longer actively disliked the word. And once, when an American friends casually mentioned it, he did not even puke. But just as he was warming to it came a blow. He choked on an artichoke and died instantly. At his funeral service, someone giggled. They might as well have mentioned the word.
He always felt embarrassed when he used the word itinerary. Like laughing at someone's funeral. Or remembering a dirty joke during Physics class. Or fancying your best friend's wife. He could never bring himself to say the word. Why couldn't it just be schedule? Or timetable? Why itinerary? Was it Eye-tinerary? Or It-in-erary? He could never decide. And the 'rary' at the end was positively vulgar. And suddenly, the word seemed to crop up everywhere. On holiday brochures. Guide books. Rock star tour dates. World cup football matches. Everyone seemed to have an itinerary. Heck, even his 8-year old son was given one before he went on a school trip. What's with the word? What's with the world? Itinerary this. Itinerary that.
He'd had enough. So one day, he took a pair of black markers and went around town striking out the word wherever he saw it. He would go into libraries, search out dictionaries and black out the word and its definition. It was his personal battle. His holy war against a world that had embraced itinerary. Psychiatrists saw a troubled mind. Oprah-fans saw a deeply scarred psyche. He needs healing, they murmured behind his back. Did your mother not read you books when you were young? Was your cat run over by a dentist's car? They asked silly questions to get to the root of his problem. The simple answer was that he abhorred the word. And the more he ran away, the more he was chased. The man who did not like itinerary, ran the headline next to his scowling face. Neighbourhood kids made up pathetic rhymes and sang out 'He's hoary! He's hairy! He's lost his i-ti-ne-rary!'.
It had to stop. So the man scribbled the word all over his house. itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary. He surrounded himself with the very demon he was running away from. It seemed to work. He no longer actively disliked the word. And once, when an American friends casually mentioned it, he did not even puke. But just as he was warming to it came a blow. He choked on an artichoke and died instantly. At his funeral service, someone giggled. They might as well have mentioned the word.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
A quick tale 115
Wrapping
It sat in front of her, wrapped in shiny, gold paper. With a little red satin bow perched on top. It sat in front of her, like an obedient little girl.
Go on, open it.
She stared at it.
Go on.
She had never been given a gift like this before.
Aren't you curious?
Sometimes her gift would come in a plastic bag.
Oh, c'mon. Open it.
Sometimes it'd just be handed to her. Unwrapped and naked.
Don't you want to know what I got for you?
But often, nothing.
If you don't open it, I will.
She couldn't take her eyes off it.
A hand drew the little box away from her and started to peel the layers of wrapping. She looked away, somehow it didn't feel right to stare.
Stripped of its sheltering, the gift was thrust in front of her.
Like it?
Shiny, ornate, pretty, nude. A jewellery box or something equally unnecessary. She wished the mystery had lasted a little longer.
Love it.
It sat in front of her, wrapped in shiny, gold paper. With a little red satin bow perched on top. It sat in front of her, like an obedient little girl.
Go on, open it.
She stared at it.
Go on.
She had never been given a gift like this before.
Aren't you curious?
Sometimes her gift would come in a plastic bag.
Oh, c'mon. Open it.
Sometimes it'd just be handed to her. Unwrapped and naked.
Don't you want to know what I got for you?
But often, nothing.
If you don't open it, I will.
She couldn't take her eyes off it.
A hand drew the little box away from her and started to peel the layers of wrapping. She looked away, somehow it didn't feel right to stare.
Stripped of its sheltering, the gift was thrust in front of her.
Like it?
Shiny, ornate, pretty, nude. A jewellery box or something equally unnecessary. She wished the mystery had lasted a little longer.
Love it.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
A quick tale 114
At around 5 one afternoon
It has been a bad day so far and you just heard on the news that British Gas is hiking its prices again and that every minute another 100 hectares of tropical rain forests are cleared to make way for commercial crop. You start tuning the car radio when you hear an old pop song. Something silly about love that lasts till the end of time. You hate the song and you hate what is happening to the world and its rising gas prices. You wonder what's the point of eternal love if you have to pay exorbitant bills. Where do you go with love that lasts forever and ever if there's no world in the first place because the environment is fucked up? And all that news about Irish priests abusing children. And people being killed because they did not like a certain cartoon. And George Bush. And now this song about immortal love.
With the song ringing in your ears and spinning in your head, you get out of the car. It's pouring outside and you walk aimlessly. Crying for the world and marvelling at how beautifully awful life is.
It has been a bad day so far and you just heard on the news that British Gas is hiking its prices again and that every minute another 100 hectares of tropical rain forests are cleared to make way for commercial crop. You start tuning the car radio when you hear an old pop song. Something silly about love that lasts till the end of time. You hate the song and you hate what is happening to the world and its rising gas prices. You wonder what's the point of eternal love if you have to pay exorbitant bills. Where do you go with love that lasts forever and ever if there's no world in the first place because the environment is fucked up? And all that news about Irish priests abusing children. And people being killed because they did not like a certain cartoon. And George Bush. And now this song about immortal love.
With the song ringing in your ears and spinning in your head, you get out of the car. It's pouring outside and you walk aimlessly. Crying for the world and marvelling at how beautifully awful life is.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
A quick tale 113
A letter
Last night I lay awake thinking about you. Wondering where you are right now. Perhaps married. With kids. May be a daughter? Is she the same age now as I was when I met you? 11? Do you worry about what happens to her when she travels by bus? Or walks home from school? Or gets stopped on the road by someone asking her for directions? For you must know what happens to girls in public. How they get fondled. Their breasts touched and squeezed and pinched. How they get rubbed against. From the back. By strangers who press themselves against young girls. Leaving an ugly impression on their minds. Confusing the girls. Who are too young to understand what is happening to them. Too young to have the words to explain to others. Leaving them feeling ashamed and dirty.
Do you accompany your daughter when she goes to tuition class?Do you tell her to carry an umbrella with her no matter what the weather? Do you tell her why?
Do you lay awake at nights wondering about the girl you touched all those years ago? Do you wonder where she is now? And whether she is married and has kids. And if she warns her daughter about the men who don't see her as a child? Do you worry about it coming back to haunt you? It always does. As I write this, there's someone watching your daughter. And she is about to lose her innocence. Very, very soon.
Related link: Blank Noise Project
Last night I lay awake thinking about you. Wondering where you are right now. Perhaps married. With kids. May be a daughter? Is she the same age now as I was when I met you? 11? Do you worry about what happens to her when she travels by bus? Or walks home from school? Or gets stopped on the road by someone asking her for directions? For you must know what happens to girls in public. How they get fondled. Their breasts touched and squeezed and pinched. How they get rubbed against. From the back. By strangers who press themselves against young girls. Leaving an ugly impression on their minds. Confusing the girls. Who are too young to understand what is happening to them. Too young to have the words to explain to others. Leaving them feeling ashamed and dirty.
Do you accompany your daughter when she goes to tuition class?Do you tell her to carry an umbrella with her no matter what the weather? Do you tell her why?
Do you lay awake at nights wondering about the girl you touched all those years ago? Do you wonder where she is now? And whether she is married and has kids. And if she warns her daughter about the men who don't see her as a child? Do you worry about it coming back to haunt you? It always does. As I write this, there's someone watching your daughter. And she is about to lose her innocence. Very, very soon.
Related link: Blank Noise Project
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A quick tale 112
Parcel
‘This came for you by this afternoon’s post’, said the elderly neighbour handing her a parcel. She thanked him and was about to leave when the old man said ‘it seems rather bulky’.
‘…’
‘It was quite heavy when the postman gave it to me’, he continued.
‘…’
‘He was about to leave when he found your apartment locked. I offered to take it in for you’
‘Thank you for doing that’
‘Is there anything breakable inside?’
‘No, no’
‘It’s a little late for a Christmas present’
‘…’
‘Unless it’s your birthday or something’
‘No, no’
‘It’s from the USA…it says so on the package’
‘…’
‘Must be expensive. The postage cost’
‘…’
‘I used to send blood pressure medicines to my brother in England. The stamps used to cost more than the medicines itself’
‘…’
‘You look tired. Would you like me to carry the package for you till your door?’
‘No, no, I’m fine’
‘Look, they’ve misspelt your name on the package. Two As instead of one’
‘…’
‘I don’t know how they managed to wrap it so well’
‘…’
‘The package has travelled half way across the world and still not a single tear’
‘…’
‘It must be something very important for it to be shipped from America’
‘…’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to carry it for you?’
‘No, I’m fine, really’
‘You see, the package must be…’
She didn’t wait for the old man to finish. She sprinted down the hallway to her apartment holding the parcel close to her chest.
**
‘Looks like you were up well past midnight’, greeted the old man as she was leaving for work the next morning. ‘I saw the light burning in your apartment’.
‘…’
‘Must be that thing in the parcel…’
‘…’
‘Listen, why don’t you come home for dinner tonight? Sheela has made some excellent halwa and you can have a taste of that. Yes? Good. See you at 7 tonight’
**
‘Have some more rice. Look, you are so thin…’, said the old man piling her plate with delicately spiced rice.
‘But...’, she protested weakly.
‘None of that. Sheela, serve her some more rotis. Yes, two more’
‘…’
‘At your age, I used to eat 20 chapathis in one go. These days you young people hardly eat anything. So little food, so little sleep. And all that staying up late night…’
‘…’
‘So were you working last night?’
‘Mmm’, she said, thankful for the food in her mouth that stopped her from saying more.
‘And that parcel?’
‘…’
‘It must’ve been work papers then’, he reasoned, more to himself
‘…’
‘But from USA?’
‘…’
‘And the parcel rattled when I shook it. Cannot have been papers inside…’
‘…’
‘Nothing fragile either. It did not say ‘Handle with care’ on top. No papers, no glass…’
‘Will you stop going on about the parcel? Can’t you see? The girl is getting tired. She has to be up early tomorrow for work’, chided the wife bringing the old man’s grilling to an abrupt halt.
**
‘They took Shinde-saab away in an ambulance this morning. Must be around 6 o’clock…’ The watchman gave her details of the hospital where the old man had been rushed to after he complained of chest pain.
**
She was one of the last people to see the old man alive. Around 3 pm that afternoon, his wife Sheela wanted to go to the toilet and for a brief period the old man was left alone in the company of his young neighbour. She bent down low and whispered something in his ears. He passed away a few hours later. They said he looked peaceful, just like was sleeping. Some mourners even noticed a faint trace of a smile on his face. But they dismissed it as a figment of their imagination. They shouldn’t have.
‘This came for you by this afternoon’s post’, said the elderly neighbour handing her a parcel. She thanked him and was about to leave when the old man said ‘it seems rather bulky’.
‘…’
‘It was quite heavy when the postman gave it to me’, he continued.
‘…’
‘He was about to leave when he found your apartment locked. I offered to take it in for you’
‘Thank you for doing that’
‘Is there anything breakable inside?’
‘No, no’
‘It’s a little late for a Christmas present’
‘…’
‘Unless it’s your birthday or something’
‘No, no’
‘It’s from the USA…it says so on the package’
‘…’
‘Must be expensive. The postage cost’
‘…’
‘I used to send blood pressure medicines to my brother in England. The stamps used to cost more than the medicines itself’
‘…’
‘You look tired. Would you like me to carry the package for you till your door?’
‘No, no, I’m fine’
‘Look, they’ve misspelt your name on the package. Two As instead of one’
‘…’
‘I don’t know how they managed to wrap it so well’
‘…’
‘The package has travelled half way across the world and still not a single tear’
‘…’
‘It must be something very important for it to be shipped from America’
‘…’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to carry it for you?’
‘No, I’m fine, really’
‘You see, the package must be…’
She didn’t wait for the old man to finish. She sprinted down the hallway to her apartment holding the parcel close to her chest.
**
‘Looks like you were up well past midnight’, greeted the old man as she was leaving for work the next morning. ‘I saw the light burning in your apartment’.
‘…’
‘Must be that thing in the parcel…’
‘…’
‘Listen, why don’t you come home for dinner tonight? Sheela has made some excellent halwa and you can have a taste of that. Yes? Good. See you at 7 tonight’
**
‘Have some more rice. Look, you are so thin…’, said the old man piling her plate with delicately spiced rice.
‘But...’, she protested weakly.
‘None of that. Sheela, serve her some more rotis. Yes, two more’
‘…’
‘At your age, I used to eat 20 chapathis in one go. These days you young people hardly eat anything. So little food, so little sleep. And all that staying up late night…’
‘…’
‘So were you working last night?’
‘Mmm’, she said, thankful for the food in her mouth that stopped her from saying more.
‘And that parcel?’
‘…’
‘It must’ve been work papers then’, he reasoned, more to himself
‘…’
‘But from USA?’
‘…’
‘And the parcel rattled when I shook it. Cannot have been papers inside…’
‘…’
‘Nothing fragile either. It did not say ‘Handle with care’ on top. No papers, no glass…’
‘Will you stop going on about the parcel? Can’t you see? The girl is getting tired. She has to be up early tomorrow for work’, chided the wife bringing the old man’s grilling to an abrupt halt.
**
‘They took Shinde-saab away in an ambulance this morning. Must be around 6 o’clock…’ The watchman gave her details of the hospital where the old man had been rushed to after he complained of chest pain.
**
She was one of the last people to see the old man alive. Around 3 pm that afternoon, his wife Sheela wanted to go to the toilet and for a brief period the old man was left alone in the company of his young neighbour. She bent down low and whispered something in his ears. He passed away a few hours later. They said he looked peaceful, just like was sleeping. Some mourners even noticed a faint trace of a smile on his face. But they dismissed it as a figment of their imagination. They shouldn’t have.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Blog-a-thon for Blank Noise Project
image courtesy: Blank Noise Project
To mark their one-year foray into the blog world, Blank Noise Project have decided to host a Blog-a-thon on the issue of street harassment. If you’d like to participate, send an email to blurtblanknoise@gmail.com before the 6th of March. Here's my entry, a story posted a year ago.
Tonight
It was just a few hours since she had been married and the excitement from the wedding ceremony had given way to an exhausted lull. She was sitting in the marriage hall surrounded by cousins and aunts. Her younger cousins were chatting away while the aunts were busy gossiping. Soon she would have to get ready for the evening reception. "So", began her aunt, "are you ready for tonight?". At this cue, the other women started shooing the kids away. This talk was not meant for their ears. The new bride lowered her eyes and pretended not to understand. "You know, it's going to be your first night. I am going to tell you something important" the older lady proceeded. So this is going to be sex education, the bride thought, bring it on.
"Do you know what happens on the first night?", another aunt quizzed. The newly-wed, feeling utterly embarrassed, did not answer. She was thinking about that time, when she was nine, when an uncle put his hands up her skirt. And how this went on for months. She remembered the time when an old man pressed himself against her in a crowded bus. She recalled the day when the college peon had exposed himself to her at the college lab. She pushed the thoughts away, lowered her eyes and nodded as the aunt proceeded to give a graphic and crude version of what she was to expect on her wedding night. There were giggles and chuckles all around.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
A quick tale 111
A conversation
‘Tell me when it’s convenient for you.’
‘I’m alright, don’t trouble yourself. It’s okay.’
‘No, I’d really like to visit you. Tell me when.’
‘Listen, I’ve recovered quite well. So…’
‘Are you saying you don’t want me to come?’
‘Of course not. You’re welcome anytime.’
‘You’ve just been down with this big illness and I’d like to look you up’
‘It was not that big. Besides you have to travel for nearly two hours for my sake…’
‘That’s no problem at all. What’s a couple of hours for you?’
‘Are you sure you want to come this far for me?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’d love to see you. I just don’t want to inconvenience you.’
‘Nonsense! It’s my duty. Would five o’clock today be alright with you?’
‘Five would be…’
‘I can make it later if you like’
‘No, no, five would be fine. Are you sure you want to come this far?’
‘Yessss. Unless you don’t want me to’
‘No! I want you to. Just that…can you come tomorrow?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you have plans for this evening?’
‘Well, some other friends are coming home today…you are more than welcome to join them but you may feel a little out of place.’
‘Okay then. What time tomorrow?’
‘Yeah but mom…’
‘I know, you’re 27 and you can take care of yourself quite well. But you’ll always be…’
‘Alright, alright. Tomorrow then. Say 5 o’clock?’, said the daughter rolling her eyes.
‘Tell me when it’s convenient for you.’
‘I’m alright, don’t trouble yourself. It’s okay.’
‘No, I’d really like to visit you. Tell me when.’
‘Listen, I’ve recovered quite well. So…’
‘Are you saying you don’t want me to come?’
‘Of course not. You’re welcome anytime.’
‘You’ve just been down with this big illness and I’d like to look you up’
‘It was not that big. Besides you have to travel for nearly two hours for my sake…’
‘That’s no problem at all. What’s a couple of hours for you?’
‘Are you sure you want to come this far for me?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’d love to see you. I just don’t want to inconvenience you.’
‘Nonsense! It’s my duty. Would five o’clock today be alright with you?’
‘Five would be…’
‘I can make it later if you like’
‘No, no, five would be fine. Are you sure you want to come this far?’
‘Yessss. Unless you don’t want me to’
‘No! I want you to. Just that…can you come tomorrow?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you have plans for this evening?’
‘Well, some other friends are coming home today…you are more than welcome to join them but you may feel a little out of place.’
‘Okay then. What time tomorrow?’
‘Yeah but mom…’
‘I know, you’re 27 and you can take care of yourself quite well. But you’ll always be…’
‘Alright, alright. Tomorrow then. Say 5 o’clock?’, said the daughter rolling her eyes.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
A quick tale 110
A Russian author is read
This woman, who has small feet, lies on her bed reading Dostoevsky. She pauses to place the book face down on her stomach. Then she lifts her head and plumps her pillow with both hands. She drops her head and sinks instantly into the recent plumpness of the cushion. She picks up the book and as her eyes graze listlessly over the text of the 'The Idiot', her mind wanders.
Tomorrow she will tell her colleagues at the accounting firm where she works as an executive assistant, that she spent the night reading Dostoevsky. She will make sure that she says 'Dos-te-ove-ski'. The Russian way to pronounce the name. Then she will go on to tell them about the apocalyptic framework of the book, the characters and their conflicts penned across a moving landscape of pre-Soviet Russia. She will talk about it during the second half of the lunch break so that her colleagues give her more attention than the sandwich in front of them.
And later at coffee break, Brian, the handsome one, will mention how well-read she was. She reads some Russian author and all, he will say. And everyone around him will nod in assent. Some years later, when they will have moved on to different jobs, someone will say something about their favourite author and someone else will say, ah, I used to know this girl from my last job, she has even read Dostoevsky (pronouncing it 'some Russian author').
For the moment, the woman whose feet are small, shuts her eyes and sleeps a dreamless sleep.
This woman, who has small feet, lies on her bed reading Dostoevsky. She pauses to place the book face down on her stomach. Then she lifts her head and plumps her pillow with both hands. She drops her head and sinks instantly into the recent plumpness of the cushion. She picks up the book and as her eyes graze listlessly over the text of the 'The Idiot', her mind wanders.
Tomorrow she will tell her colleagues at the accounting firm where she works as an executive assistant, that she spent the night reading Dostoevsky. She will make sure that she says 'Dos-te-ove-ski'. The Russian way to pronounce the name. Then she will go on to tell them about the apocalyptic framework of the book, the characters and their conflicts penned across a moving landscape of pre-Soviet Russia. She will talk about it during the second half of the lunch break so that her colleagues give her more attention than the sandwich in front of them.
And later at coffee break, Brian, the handsome one, will mention how well-read she was. She reads some Russian author and all, he will say. And everyone around him will nod in assent. Some years later, when they will have moved on to different jobs, someone will say something about their favourite author and someone else will say, ah, I used to know this girl from my last job, she has even read Dostoevsky (pronouncing it 'some Russian author').
For the moment, the woman whose feet are small, shuts her eyes and sleeps a dreamless sleep.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Alert
Is there anyone reading who went to Children's Garden School in Mylapore, Chennai in the 80s? Please email me at ammania@ gmail.com
Thank you.
Thank you.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
A quick tale 109
At your insistence
That’s the trouble with books like these. You love them so much that you reccomend it to people with an evangelical zeal. Oh, you’ll lovvvvvve it, you promise your friend as you stuff the book in her hands. You make her read the blurb and watch her face eagerly for reaction. Read the prologue, read the prologue, you urge her hoping that this will get her ecstatic. I know you’re going to lovvvvvve it, you keep repeating while making sure that she takes the book with her. A couple of weeks later, you bring up the book again. Casually, hiding the impatience in your voice. Has she reached that bit where the girl finds out about his past? No? Oh dear, what have you done! Forget what you said and get on with it. How far has she read then? She mumbles something about the early bits which you are sure is a mistake. Because it’s such a quick read.
Some months later, she returns the book. So what does she think? Great, wasn’t it? Yes, yes, she nods, she has never read anything quite like this. You beam like a mother who has just been told that her child has won the Nobel Prize after winning an Olympic gold medal during lunch break. By the way, you wonder, has she ever been to this restaurant? They serve the most amazing food! She has got to try it. She’ll lovvvvvvve it, you just know.
That’s the trouble with books like these. You love them so much that you reccomend it to people with an evangelical zeal. Oh, you’ll lovvvvvve it, you promise your friend as you stuff the book in her hands. You make her read the blurb and watch her face eagerly for reaction. Read the prologue, read the prologue, you urge her hoping that this will get her ecstatic. I know you’re going to lovvvvvve it, you keep repeating while making sure that she takes the book with her. A couple of weeks later, you bring up the book again. Casually, hiding the impatience in your voice. Has she reached that bit where the girl finds out about his past? No? Oh dear, what have you done! Forget what you said and get on with it. How far has she read then? She mumbles something about the early bits which you are sure is a mistake. Because it’s such a quick read.
Some months later, she returns the book. So what does she think? Great, wasn’t it? Yes, yes, she nods, she has never read anything quite like this. You beam like a mother who has just been told that her child has won the Nobel Prize after winning an Olympic gold medal during lunch break. By the way, you wonder, has she ever been to this restaurant? They serve the most amazing food! She has got to try it. She’ll lovvvvvvve it, you just know.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
A quick tale 108
Relating to worldwide church
Some years ago, a young girl chanced upon the word ‘ecumenical’. She ran it past her tongue, slid it down her throat and discovered a pleasurable sensation. She found it the most intriguingly wonderful word and being a young girl, she was keen to use it in a conversation. But ecumenical being ecumenical, is not an easy word to slip into a casual talk with friends. However, a year later, the opportunity presented itself unexpectedly when she was travelling by train. She overheard two people in the next carriage discussing clues to a crossword puzzle.
‘Relating to the worldwide Christian church, ten letters’, said the fat one. ‘Hmm…catholic?’ ventured the younger man. ‘No’, said his friend, ‘third letter U’. Then they both went silent for a while. Ecumenical! Ecumenical! She wanted to scream. This could be her only chance to use the word she reckoned with rising panic.
‘Papal? Churchical?’ guessed the younger man once again. Churchical? CHURCHICAL?? She wanted to yell. That’s not even a word, you moron! She had to hurry up. Or this occasion could be lost forever. But how could she walk over to two strangers and offer an answer to their crossword puzzle? Won’t they assume that she had been overhearing their entire conversation? That she was interested in them? But isn’t it her duty to use the word? Hadn't she had waited long enough? Such were the thoughts pulling her in conflicting directions when the fat one said ‘16 Across. Researched dissertation. Six’. She knew the answer. But she no longer cared if they knew their 'thesis' or not.
Some years ago, a young girl chanced upon the word ‘ecumenical’. She ran it past her tongue, slid it down her throat and discovered a pleasurable sensation. She found it the most intriguingly wonderful word and being a young girl, she was keen to use it in a conversation. But ecumenical being ecumenical, is not an easy word to slip into a casual talk with friends. However, a year later, the opportunity presented itself unexpectedly when she was travelling by train. She overheard two people in the next carriage discussing clues to a crossword puzzle.
‘Relating to the worldwide Christian church, ten letters’, said the fat one. ‘Hmm…catholic?’ ventured the younger man. ‘No’, said his friend, ‘third letter U’. Then they both went silent for a while. Ecumenical! Ecumenical! She wanted to scream. This could be her only chance to use the word she reckoned with rising panic.
‘Papal? Churchical?’ guessed the younger man once again. Churchical? CHURCHICAL?? She wanted to yell. That’s not even a word, you moron! She had to hurry up. Or this occasion could be lost forever. But how could she walk over to two strangers and offer an answer to their crossword puzzle? Won’t they assume that she had been overhearing their entire conversation? That she was interested in them? But isn’t it her duty to use the word? Hadn't she had waited long enough? Such were the thoughts pulling her in conflicting directions when the fat one said ‘16 Across. Researched dissertation. Six’. She knew the answer. But she no longer cared if they knew their 'thesis' or not.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
A quick tale 107
One morning in January
You have to pee. And the teacher looks forbidding. So you slip out when she has her back turned to the class. The watchman at the gate is busy savouring the day's first bidi with his eyes closed that he barely notices you scrambling out of the school. It should be easy tracing your route back home. Or so you think. You've noticed things on your way to school each morning. There's the green tree with pink flowers, the lamp post with a donkey tied to it, the fishmongers with stalls of dried fish laid out, Nimmy's house, Pillayar temple, green tree with yellow flowers and then it should be home. You quickly shuffle past the landmarks one by one.
You see your house at a distance. You break into a run. This is it. You cannot hold on any longer. There. Another few steps. A second more. You've reached home. You run inside pushing past your mother. Sadly, you'll have to change your skirt. But that doesn't matter, you're home now. Mother's full of questions. Did you come home alone? Didn't they see you leaving? Is there no toilet at school? And then she grabs you, hugs you, kisses you and starts to cry. What if you had been run over by a car? Or a lorry? The way they drive! Oh my god! My child! What would have happened to you? She's practically wailing now. And you don't understand what the fuss is all about. It's not like you're a baby. You're nearly four.
You have to pee. And the teacher looks forbidding. So you slip out when she has her back turned to the class. The watchman at the gate is busy savouring the day's first bidi with his eyes closed that he barely notices you scrambling out of the school. It should be easy tracing your route back home. Or so you think. You've noticed things on your way to school each morning. There's the green tree with pink flowers, the lamp post with a donkey tied to it, the fishmongers with stalls of dried fish laid out, Nimmy's house, Pillayar temple, green tree with yellow flowers and then it should be home. You quickly shuffle past the landmarks one by one.
You see your house at a distance. You break into a run. This is it. You cannot hold on any longer. There. Another few steps. A second more. You've reached home. You run inside pushing past your mother. Sadly, you'll have to change your skirt. But that doesn't matter, you're home now. Mother's full of questions. Did you come home alone? Didn't they see you leaving? Is there no toilet at school? And then she grabs you, hugs you, kisses you and starts to cry. What if you had been run over by a car? Or a lorry? The way they drive! Oh my god! My child! What would have happened to you? She's practically wailing now. And you don't understand what the fuss is all about. It's not like you're a baby. You're nearly four.
I've started so you finish - Update 4
Maverick
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. 15 years later, her husband seems to be enjoying it.
Charukesi
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her mother despaired, "haven't I told you a million times not to exaggerate?"
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. 15 years later, her husband seems to be enjoying it.
Charukesi
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her mother despaired, "haven't I told you a million times not to exaggerate?"
Monday, January 30, 2006
I've started so you finish - Update 3
Rubic Cube
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She owed it all to the small success that she achieved when she blasted the shop owner for selling such cheap stuff, those that would come apart after the first use. The Rs. 15 lipstick had damaged her school ID card in her small kitty purse. The shop owner gave her goods worth Rs. 100 to keep her from damaging his reputation. 13 years later, Sandhu is enjoying a year's worth of free calls on her cellphone network after threatening to sue the telecom company for potential breach of privacy - all that the customer service representative asked her to confirm her birthdate. Last year, she won a $500 shopping card from Walmart after she exaggerated the amount of emotional turmoil that she had to undergo when they stopped stocking her favourite Chapstick. Her neighbourhood dealers are joining hands to get an indemnity bond signed from her in their favour. Rumour has it that she is planning to move court against them. On what grounds? Racism. Knowing Sandhu, I know she would have her way. Infact, Sandhu may even strike a deal with them if they want to continue their business in this area. She claimed to know the Senator well enough to put them out of the business in the tristate area. Afterall, one would not want to lose millions of dollars in business for the sake of a few coupons worth 1000s of dollars. Would they? Sandhu would leverage that in her favor. I know! Ah, the economic power of exaggeration! Hmmm...
Boo
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. But she had the talent to keep quiet about certain things too. She never exaggerated let alone tell the truth about so many things that were actually happening in her life. She was afraid that the truth might sound like an exaggeration. And she didn't want to be called a liar. That was more important.
Ramya
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. To begin with, she decided to spell the word with eight Gs.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She owed it all to the small success that she achieved when she blasted the shop owner for selling such cheap stuff, those that would come apart after the first use. The Rs. 15 lipstick had damaged her school ID card in her small kitty purse. The shop owner gave her goods worth Rs. 100 to keep her from damaging his reputation. 13 years later, Sandhu is enjoying a year's worth of free calls on her cellphone network after threatening to sue the telecom company for potential breach of privacy - all that the customer service representative asked her to confirm her birthdate. Last year, she won a $500 shopping card from Walmart after she exaggerated the amount of emotional turmoil that she had to undergo when they stopped stocking her favourite Chapstick. Her neighbourhood dealers are joining hands to get an indemnity bond signed from her in their favour. Rumour has it that she is planning to move court against them. On what grounds? Racism. Knowing Sandhu, I know she would have her way. Infact, Sandhu may even strike a deal with them if they want to continue their business in this area. She claimed to know the Senator well enough to put them out of the business in the tristate area. Afterall, one would not want to lose millions of dollars in business for the sake of a few coupons worth 1000s of dollars. Would they? Sandhu would leverage that in her favor. I know! Ah, the economic power of exaggeration! Hmmm...
Boo
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. But she had the talent to keep quiet about certain things too. She never exaggerated let alone tell the truth about so many things that were actually happening in her life. She was afraid that the truth might sound like an exaggeration. And she didn't want to be called a liar. That was more important.
Ramya
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. To begin with, she decided to spell the word with eight Gs.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Friday, January 27, 2006
I've started so you finish - Update 2
Karthik Ram
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Exaggeration, in the words of her know-it-all friend and exaggeration-guru, a certain Ram, is embellishment of truth. The 'great' divide, a thin line between lying and exaggeration until that moment had remained elusive to her puny self. "Amma! I got the first mark in English", when there were at least ten students ahead of her was lying. And that is something she should never utter. In addition to the beatings/scoldings (depending on Appa's mood) there was always God's punishment to be afraid of. Her grandmother had told her many tales where Gods swooped down to earth in their winged vaahanas and blinded one with sharp instruments whenever they lied to their parents. I wonder why it took her all of 13 years to understand the difference between lying and exaggerating.
Aravind
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her eyes openedup to a whole new world infront of her. The chirping birds were telling thestories of the land they have flown over. The rainbow was the mastery of theunknown creator. Wind was now the carrierers of fragrance from the otherpart of the earth. Rain was the tears of the ultimate mother. She had forgotten her last 12 years in darkness as a nightmare.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Exaggeration, in the words of her know-it-all friend and exaggeration-guru, a certain Ram, is embellishment of truth. The 'great' divide, a thin line between lying and exaggeration until that moment had remained elusive to her puny self. "Amma! I got the first mark in English", when there were at least ten students ahead of her was lying. And that is something she should never utter. In addition to the beatings/scoldings (depending on Appa's mood) there was always God's punishment to be afraid of. Her grandmother had told her many tales where Gods swooped down to earth in their winged vaahanas and blinded one with sharp instruments whenever they lied to their parents. I wonder why it took her all of 13 years to understand the difference between lying and exaggerating.
Aravind
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her eyes openedup to a whole new world infront of her. The chirping birds were telling thestories of the land they have flown over. The rainbow was the mastery of theunknown creator. Wind was now the carrierers of fragrance from the otherpart of the earth. Rain was the tears of the ultimate mother. She had forgotten her last 12 years in darkness as a nightmare.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)