Well over 30 entries for this competition. Ranging from dead pets to murderous lovers. Favourite themes seemed to be ruminations on nature and lovers.
I strongly suggest that you go here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here to read all the entries. Please also read the comment section in each post as some entries are in there as well. Finally, it'll be nice if you can pick your favourites. Please mention the ones you liked in the comment section.
Thank you for taking part. Here are my winners.
Third place
I made you thirunelveli halwa
On our last Valentine
Singing songs from Jalwa
I made you thirunelveli halwa
While you were out bonking Alpa
So I added a pint of turpentine
I made you thirunelveli halwa
On our last Valentine
- Shoefiend
Why? I like the silliness of this triolet. And how the last two lines, when repeated, take on a dark turn.
Second place
The Good
Mummy, I will return.
But let me leave now.
Of course I'm your only son.
But let me leave now.
I should step out and learn.
I beg you, please allow.
Mummy, I will return.
But let me leave now.
-Vatsap
Why? There’s a desperation that comes across when the last two lines are repeated. It goes from being just a refrain. Also, use of the childhood word ‘mummy’ (and not mum or amma) suggests that the person pleading has reverted to the earlier adult-child relationship. Nice!
Top Dog
A TV show is boring, let me bring
A little variety to the room
No. no. let the phone sing
A TV show is boring, let me bring
You a hat, shoes and bling.
Let's go out, in the car – vroom
A TV show is boring, let me bring
A little variety to the room
-Ravages/CC
Why? I like how line 1 flows into line 2 and again smoothly flows into line 5. It hardly feels like repetition. You can almost hear the clink as a charmer goes to work.
Quite liked these too….
You did not woo me
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers
You just let me be:
You did not woo me
You just talked to me
Of all you thought, for hours.
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers.
-Unmana Datta
The Bad
Yes, I killed your cat;
never liked it anyway.
It was ugly, it was fat.
Yes, I killed your cat.
Why did it enter my flat?
Thought it could get away?
Yes, I killed your cat;
never liked it anyway.
-Vatsap
Writing triolets is good fun
So I am trying to write one too
I hope I come up with a decent one
Writing triolets is good fun
I am glad that I am almost done
I just have to repeat line one and two
Writing triolets is good fun
So I am trying to write one too
- Divya Iyer
Friday, February 29, 2008
Triolets 7
Okay, time's up. Here's the final instalment of triolets. My top three announced shortly. Come back soon!
-a
Daily Walk
I walk every day,
To keep myself healthy and fit,
I don't ever miss a day,
I walk everyday,
If I do miss a day,
My daily glass of milk is forfiet,
I walk everyday,
To keep myself healthy and fit.
-Abha Venu
Entry fee: I always give up my seat for old women or pregnant women in the bus.
Absence
Brew the Bru
Oh, instant coffee it is
While I stir stories for you
Brew the bru
While I try to convince you
Of my absence that is
Brew the Bru
Oh, instant coffee it is
-Kshama Anand
Entry fee: Gave something to eat to an old lady, donated some money.
Corn Chilli Bisque
Corn Chilli Bisque-
Hot, sumptuous!
It's about lunch time!
Corn Chilli Bisque-
With a hint of fresh lime,
Piquant, scrumptious!
Corn Chilli Bisque-
Hot, sumptuous!
-Sumithra Bhakthavatsalam
Entry fee: I hand-painted a get-well card for an ailing teacher of mine.
-a
Daily Walk
I walk every day,
To keep myself healthy and fit,
I don't ever miss a day,
I walk everyday,
If I do miss a day,
My daily glass of milk is forfiet,
I walk everyday,
To keep myself healthy and fit.
-Abha Venu
Entry fee: I always give up my seat for old women or pregnant women in the bus.
Absence
Brew the Bru
Oh, instant coffee it is
While I stir stories for you
Brew the bru
While I try to convince you
Of my absence that is
Brew the Bru
Oh, instant coffee it is
-Kshama Anand
Entry fee: Gave something to eat to an old lady, donated some money.
Corn Chilli Bisque
Corn Chilli Bisque-
Hot, sumptuous!
It's about lunch time!
Corn Chilli Bisque-
With a hint of fresh lime,
Piquant, scrumptious!
Corn Chilli Bisque-
Hot, sumptuous!
-Sumithra Bhakthavatsalam
Entry fee: I hand-painted a get-well card for an ailing teacher of mine.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Triolets - two days to go
Not long left for you to send in your triolets. Top three announced on Friday.
Check out the entries so far here, here, here and here. Details of the competition may be found here.
Good luck! Now for the latest entry.
----------
For every single day
For every single day
Today, tomorrow, and after:
Till we grow old and gray…
For every single day
As long as we both may
Live: may there be joy and laughter
For every single day
Today, tomorrow, and after.
You did not woo me
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers
You just let me be:
You did not woo me
You just talked to me
Of all you thought, for hours.
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers.
-Unmana Datta
Entry fee: I'll give the son of my domestic help notebooks/paper/pens for his schoolwork.
Check out the entries so far here, here, here and here. Details of the competition may be found here.
Good luck! Now for the latest entry.
----------
For every single day
For every single day
Today, tomorrow, and after:
Till we grow old and gray…
For every single day
As long as we both may
Live: may there be joy and laughter
For every single day
Today, tomorrow, and after.
You did not woo me
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers
You just let me be:
You did not woo me
You just talked to me
Of all you thought, for hours.
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers.
-Unmana Datta
Entry fee: I'll give the son of my domestic help notebooks/paper/pens for his schoolwork.
Monday, February 25, 2008
An Imperfect Business
It's not easy or fun. And it often leaves you feeling miserably lonely. But we all fool ourselves into saying how much we love it. Being a mother is probably the toughest and the least rewarding job on earth. And yet so many of us choose it.
This Sunday is Mother's day (at least in the UK). And this is what I'd like you to do. Write a letter to a mother. Yours, your child's, your partner's, Bharat mata...any mother. Telling her something that'll make her happy. Send a photo, if you wish. Or go anonymous. Please stick to a 200 word limit, marking 'Mother's Day' in the subject line. Send your letter to ammania@gmail.com
All letters will be published on Lost in Post on Sunday, 2nd March 2008. Thank you.
Edited to add: After some thought, I've decided to rephrase my request for letters to mothers. I realise that it'd be much better if you wrote a letter to your child's mother. That is you, if you are woman. And your partner, if you're a man. And if you don't have children, then you could write a letter to your own mother or to anyone else you consider deserving of being celebrated on Mother's day.
I figured there's enough pressure on mothers to be these perfect people. After all, we live in an age of supernannies and their ilk telling us off for not doing a good job. I often feel like I don't come up to scratch when it comes to raising my child. And god knows, I could do with a pat on the back for what I do manage. Even if it's just from me.
So mothers, write a letter to yourself expressing your appreciation for a job well done. And if you're still not convinced about it, then just have a look at those stretch marks. Now get writing!
This Sunday is Mother's day (at least in the UK). And this is what I'd like you to do. Write a letter to a mother. Yours, your child's, your partner's, Bharat mata...any mother. Telling her something that'll make her happy. Send a photo, if you wish. Or go anonymous. Please stick to a 200 word limit, marking 'Mother's Day' in the subject line. Send your letter to ammania@gmail.com
All letters will be published on Lost in Post on Sunday, 2nd March 2008. Thank you.
Edited to add: After some thought, I've decided to rephrase my request for letters to mothers. I realise that it'd be much better if you wrote a letter to your child's mother. That is you, if you are woman. And your partner, if you're a man. And if you don't have children, then you could write a letter to your own mother or to anyone else you consider deserving of being celebrated on Mother's day.
I figured there's enough pressure on mothers to be these perfect people. After all, we live in an age of supernannies and their ilk telling us off for not doing a good job. I often feel like I don't come up to scratch when it comes to raising my child. And god knows, I could do with a pat on the back for what I do manage. Even if it's just from me.
So mothers, write a letter to yourself expressing your appreciation for a job well done. And if you're still not convinced about it, then just have a look at those stretch marks. Now get writing!
A2Z
I rarely do tags. But there's a reason for taking up Sur's tag. As you'll soon discover.
A -Available?
For what though?
B-Best friend:
What? Just one?
C-Cake or Pie?
Pie
D-Drink of choice:
8 glasses a day. Not counting tea or coffee.
E-Essential thing used everyday:
Can't think of one. Which means it's not really essential, is it?
F-Favourite colour:
Earth tones. Hardly any blues in my wardrobe, coming to think of it.
G-Gummi bears or worms:
Neither. Ever since I discovered that it has gelatin, I've gone off the chewy stuff.
H-Hometown:
'How many roads have I wandered?
None and each my own.
Behind me the bridges have crumbled.
Where then will I call my home?'
(from a song, obviously!)
I-Indulgence:
Not nearly enough.
J-January or February:
September
K-Kids and names:
Jikku
L-Life:
is fun
M-Marriage date:
Today! No, really! 25 Feb(Aha! Now you know the reason)
N-Number of siblings:
Two. One of them's over there on the sidebar. The other, older sibling sensibly refrains from blogging. Though his wife does leave the occasional comment.
O-Oranges or apples:
Both
P-Phobias:
Jumping off heights.
Q-Quote:
Something I read yesterday which I liked. It's by some actor called Ben Miller. He says 'Watching my wife give birth has taught me that pain is all relative. She was having contractions without pain relief. She gripped my hand and I honestly thought she was going to crush my knuckles into fine dust. I wanted to say, 'You're really hurting me' but felt it was inappropriate.'
R-Reason to smile:
Plenty
S-Season:
Autumn
T-Tag three people:
You, you and you over there!
U-Unknown fact about me:
I wear a size 6 shoe. But sometimes a size 5 1/2 will do too. But never 5
V-Vegetable you do not like:
None
W-Worst habit:
Irritability, impatience, easily bored
X-Xrays you have had:
Can't recall
Y-Your favorite food:
Anything, really. But milagu kuzhambu is high up there (you can tell, I'm getting bored now)
Z-Zodiac:
Aries
A -Available?
For what though?
B-Best friend:
What? Just one?
C-Cake or Pie?
Pie
D-Drink of choice:
8 glasses a day. Not counting tea or coffee.
E-Essential thing used everyday:
Can't think of one. Which means it's not really essential, is it?
F-Favourite colour:
Earth tones. Hardly any blues in my wardrobe, coming to think of it.
G-Gummi bears or worms:
Neither. Ever since I discovered that it has gelatin, I've gone off the chewy stuff.
H-Hometown:
'How many roads have I wandered?
None and each my own.
Behind me the bridges have crumbled.
Where then will I call my home?'
(from a song, obviously!)
I-Indulgence:
Not nearly enough.
J-January or February:
September
K-Kids and names:
Jikku
L-Life:
is fun
M-Marriage date:
Today! No, really! 25 Feb(Aha! Now you know the reason)
N-Number of siblings:
Two. One of them's over there on the sidebar. The other, older sibling sensibly refrains from blogging. Though his wife does leave the occasional comment.
O-Oranges or apples:
Both
P-Phobias:
Jumping off heights.
Q-Quote:
Something I read yesterday which I liked. It's by some actor called Ben Miller. He says 'Watching my wife give birth has taught me that pain is all relative. She was having contractions without pain relief. She gripped my hand and I honestly thought she was going to crush my knuckles into fine dust. I wanted to say, 'You're really hurting me' but felt it was inappropriate.'
R-Reason to smile:
Plenty
S-Season:
Autumn
T-Tag three people:
You, you and you over there!
U-Unknown fact about me:
I wear a size 6 shoe. But sometimes a size 5 1/2 will do too. But never 5
V-Vegetable you do not like:
None
W-Worst habit:
Irritability, impatience, easily bored
X-Xrays you have had:
Can't recall
Y-Your favorite food:
Anything, really. But milagu kuzhambu is high up there (you can tell, I'm getting bored now)
Z-Zodiac:
Aries
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Announcement
I will be announcing a new exercise which involves your participation soon. Watch this space.
-a
-a
A quick tale 209
Lament
God knows what I’m doing here, standing in the middle of the bedroom like this! If I had it my way, it’d have been so different. None of this drama and certainly not this violence! I’m a peace-lover and you know it. You’ve seen me for so long. Tell me, have I ever lost my cool? Even under the most extreme provocations, I’ve been level-headed all throughout. Like when he hit me when I was six months pregnant over some minor misdemeanour on my part. You saw how I handled that situation. And that incident when my parents lost the plot when I told them that I was going to marry him inspite of everything. Again, you were witness to my grace under fire. And if you cast your mind way back to when I was first introduced to you as a 11-year old who’d just broken her mother’s prized antique vase, you remember how calmly I’d gathered all the shards and presented them to my mother with much apologies as her ‘former vase’.
Now, after one episode after another of presenting me as the cool-headed one who always had her wits about her, how could he make me do something so uncharacteristic as to shoot my husband? I bet, in the coming chapters he’ll say something like ‘momentary madness’ or ‘years of pent up frustration that was uncorked in an unguarded moment’. These writers will think of some clever turn of phrase to justify my actions and you will put down this book never having noticed any aberration in my character. Oh well, there’s not much I can do now. My revolver is loaded (God! Quelle drama!) and the lever is cocked. I make my way across the dark bedroom. I find him asleep in bed and smoothly place the barrel against him temple…
God knows what I’m doing here, standing in the middle of the bedroom like this! If I had it my way, it’d have been so different. None of this drama and certainly not this violence! I’m a peace-lover and you know it. You’ve seen me for so long. Tell me, have I ever lost my cool? Even under the most extreme provocations, I’ve been level-headed all throughout. Like when he hit me when I was six months pregnant over some minor misdemeanour on my part. You saw how I handled that situation. And that incident when my parents lost the plot when I told them that I was going to marry him inspite of everything. Again, you were witness to my grace under fire. And if you cast your mind way back to when I was first introduced to you as a 11-year old who’d just broken her mother’s prized antique vase, you remember how calmly I’d gathered all the shards and presented them to my mother with much apologies as her ‘former vase’.
Now, after one episode after another of presenting me as the cool-headed one who always had her wits about her, how could he make me do something so uncharacteristic as to shoot my husband? I bet, in the coming chapters he’ll say something like ‘momentary madness’ or ‘years of pent up frustration that was uncorked in an unguarded moment’. These writers will think of some clever turn of phrase to justify my actions and you will put down this book never having noticed any aberration in my character. Oh well, there’s not much I can do now. My revolver is loaded (God! Quelle drama!) and the lever is cocked. I make my way across the dark bedroom. I find him asleep in bed and smoothly place the barrel against him temple…
Triolets 5
Onwards and upwards! Here are some more triolets. Details about the competition and how you can enter can be found here.
-a
A TV show is boring, let me bring
A little variety to the room
No. no. let the phone sing
A TV show is boring, let me bring
You a hat, shoes and bling.
Let's go out, in the car – vroom
A TV show is boring, let me bring
A little variety to the room
-Ravages/CC
Entry fee - I am usually kind to strangers. But today, will be more so. I shall not argue/bargain with the Auto driver, and pay him the money he asks for. Does that work?
---------
Empty letters falter with labored sighs
Hollow words bear a staggering goodbye
A vacuum you've filled with guise
Empty letters falter with labored sighs
Ignorant of my muted cries
A touch you stiffly deny
Empty letters falter with labored sighs
Hollow words bear a staggering goodbye
-Rads
Entry fee: Bought a sandwich for an old lady as she'd ran out of cash to buy for lunch.
---------
Licence to rhyme
Where is the poetic licence?
Only a triolet, she says
Oh! I m not allowed any of my non-sense. Where is the poetic licence?
Sigh! I will have to show obeisance
All the rules down she lays
Where is the poetic licence?
Only a triolet, she says.
-Bhargavi Subramanian
Entry fee: Made my contribution to United Way from work
---------
State of Mind
I wish I wasn't in this state
Makes me yearn everyday
Its all my fault to make it late
I wish I wasn't in this state
I would have a better fate
Just a wait till next Monday
I wish I wasn't in this state
Makes me yearn everyday
- Aravind Subramani
Entry Fee: Donated Blood
-----------
Writing triolets is good fun
So I am trying to write one too
I hope I come up with a decent one
Writing triolets is good fun
I am glad that I am almost done
I just have to repeat line one and two
Writing triolets is good fun
So I am trying to write one too
- Divya Iyer
Entry fee: Helped the office boy struggling with his paper bundles, by carrying half of them from the store room to the printers.
-a
A TV show is boring, let me bring
A little variety to the room
No. no. let the phone sing
A TV show is boring, let me bring
You a hat, shoes and bling.
Let's go out, in the car – vroom
A TV show is boring, let me bring
A little variety to the room
-Ravages/CC
Entry fee - I am usually kind to strangers. But today, will be more so. I shall not argue/bargain with the Auto driver, and pay him the money he asks for. Does that work?
---------
Empty letters falter with labored sighs
Hollow words bear a staggering goodbye
A vacuum you've filled with guise
Empty letters falter with labored sighs
Ignorant of my muted cries
A touch you stiffly deny
Empty letters falter with labored sighs
Hollow words bear a staggering goodbye
-Rads
Entry fee: Bought a sandwich for an old lady as she'd ran out of cash to buy for lunch.
---------
Licence to rhyme
Where is the poetic licence?
Only a triolet, she says
Oh! I m not allowed any of my non-sense. Where is the poetic licence?
Sigh! I will have to show obeisance
All the rules down she lays
Where is the poetic licence?
Only a triolet, she says.
-Bhargavi Subramanian
Entry fee: Made my contribution to United Way from work
---------
State of Mind
I wish I wasn't in this state
Makes me yearn everyday
Its all my fault to make it late
I wish I wasn't in this state
I would have a better fate
Just a wait till next Monday
I wish I wasn't in this state
Makes me yearn everyday
- Aravind Subramani
Entry Fee: Donated Blood
-----------
Writing triolets is good fun
So I am trying to write one too
I hope I come up with a decent one
Writing triolets is good fun
I am glad that I am almost done
I just have to repeat line one and two
Writing triolets is good fun
So I am trying to write one too
- Divya Iyer
Entry fee: Helped the office boy struggling with his paper bundles, by carrying half of them from the store room to the printers.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Triolets 4
And they keep coming! Here's another varied selection of them. Bhargavi Subramaniam, your mail went to the spam folder and was deleted by mistake. Could you send it to me again, please? Thank you.
For details of the competition, please go here.
--------------
I keep running to the loo
Since I read the magazine in the noon,
For am guzzling water like a fool,
Since I read the magazine in the noon.
The room's a chilling igloo,
But to keep my skin glowing like the moon,
I keep running to the loo
Since I read the magazine in the noon.
Entry fee: Fed biscuits to a few stray dogs in the locality and brought in lunch for my colleague, so that she could catch-up some sleep due to a late night flight.
=========
I want to bake a cake
And make it special for you
Though I donno how to bake
I want to bake a cake
And would like to have it at lake
When I sing "Happy birthday to you"
I want to bake a cake
And make it special for you
- Loga Balasubramanian
Entry fee: Opened the door for a stranger with grocery bags
For details of the competition, please go here.
--------------
I keep running to the loo
Since I read the magazine in the noon,
For am guzzling water like a fool,
Since I read the magazine in the noon.
The room's a chilling igloo,
But to keep my skin glowing like the moon,
I keep running to the loo
Since I read the magazine in the noon.
---
Love - 'Under the Sky'
As a star falls under the sky – Prussian blue,
As a star falls under the sky – Prussian blue,
I make a wish for us two,
That we stick for all life – like glue,
As a star falls under the sky – Prussian blue;
A song in distant, comes from a heart so true,
Singing of a love, he never could woo,
As a star falls under the sky – Prussian blue,
I make a wish for us two.
Melancholy - 'Not in mood so bright'
Elegy I want to write,
For am not in mood so bright,
Give me words all trite,
Elegy I want to write.
No! Triolet I cannot write,
For it needs humour, light
Elegy I want to write,
For am not in mood so bright.
For am not in mood so bright,
Give me words all trite,
Elegy I want to write.
No! Triolet I cannot write,
For it needs humour, light
Elegy I want to write,
For am not in mood so bright.
-Deepika Patil
Entry fee: Fed biscuits to a few stray dogs in the locality and brought in lunch for my colleague, so that she could catch-up some sleep due to a late night flight.
=======
Entry fee: I helped an old woman behind me in a queue by asking her to move ahead of me to board a taxi as it was freezing cold and I did not want her to stand out for a long time.
Unknown Horizons
Beyond horizon is where my eyes ache to see
the unknown, yet wondering if its known
and contemplating if it is where I want to be
beyond horizon is where my eyes ache to see
for that's where i smell joy and glee
away from the trifles I have borne
beyond horizon is where my eyes ache to see
the unknown, yet wondering if its known.
In Unsung Merry
Merry writ large on her face
shoving away any signs of distress
as he pulled her into a warm embrace.
Merry writ large on her face
knowing fully well this was a disgrace
yet sinking into his caress
merry writ large on her face
shoving away any signs of distress.
Churn of Emotions
Crimson red, the sky turned
subtely indicating the arrival of night
as her heart ravageously burned
crimson red, the sky turned
while in her emotions burned
as the woman within her rose in might.
Crimson red, the sky turned
subtely indicating the arrival of night.
Streaming Joys
Meandering through the bushes, gurgled the stream
the air resplendant with chirps and glee
for with happiness it seemed to gleam.
Meandering through the bushes, gurgled the stream
radiating in joy with the subbeam
for, it knew, here is where it meant to be.
Meandering through the bushes, gurgled the stream
the air resplendant with chirps and glee
- Sindhu Kalyanasundaram
=========
I want to bake a cake
And make it special for you
Though I donno how to bake
I want to bake a cake
And would like to have it at lake
When I sing "Happy birthday to you"
I want to bake a cake
And make it special for you
- Loga Balasubramanian
Entry fee: Opened the door for a stranger with grocery bags
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Triolets 3
Another motley selections of triolets. Including a triplet! Suraksha, I deleted your mail by mistake. So if you'd mentioned an entry fee in your mail, could you please write in detailing the same? Thank you!
Less than two weeks for this competition to go. And now's a good time to start inviting sponsors for prizes. Any takers? Please write in to ammania@gmail.com Thanks!
-a
---
The Good
Mummy, I will return.
But let me leave now.
Of course I'm your only son.
But let me leave now.
I should step out and learn.
I beg you, please allow.
Mummy, I will return.
But let me leave now.
The Bad
Yes, I killed your cat;
never liked it anyway.
It was ugly, it was fat.
Yes, I killed your cat.
Why did it enter my flat?
Thought it could get away?
Yes, I killed your cat;
never liked it anyway.
The Ugly
I am horny, I need sex.
Hell, where is she?
I so much miss my ex.
I am horny, I need sex.
My bedroom in the duplex
It's just so empty.
I am horny, I need sex.
Hell, where is she?
-------------------
I think I've gotten way too emo
and I know it's because of you
Everyone's calling me Nemo,
I think I've gotten way too emo
I even cry watching Teamo Supremo
Even for me, that's really too much too
I think I've gotten way too emo
and I know it's because of you.
-Anantya
Entry Fee: I helped a disabled man get into a cab and built up my muscles loading his wheelchair into the boot :)
---------
To write a triolet
Isn’t that hard
A few words and I’m all set
To write a triolet
On what though, I fret
Captain Picard?
To write a triolet
Isn’t that hard.
- Suraksha
Less than two weeks for this competition to go. And now's a good time to start inviting sponsors for prizes. Any takers? Please write in to ammania@gmail.com Thanks!
-a
---
The Good
Mummy, I will return.
But let me leave now.
Of course I'm your only son.
But let me leave now.
I should step out and learn.
I beg you, please allow.
Mummy, I will return.
But let me leave now.
The Bad
Yes, I killed your cat;
never liked it anyway.
It was ugly, it was fat.
Yes, I killed your cat.
Why did it enter my flat?
Thought it could get away?
Yes, I killed your cat;
never liked it anyway.
The Ugly
I am horny, I need sex.
Hell, where is she?
I so much miss my ex.
I am horny, I need sex.
My bedroom in the duplex
It's just so empty.
I am horny, I need sex.
Hell, where is she?
-Vatsap
Entry fee: I slept with a stranger. Alright, kidding. A stranger wanted me to buy him beer. I did. We talked about life too. :)
-------------------
I think I've gotten way too emo
and I know it's because of you
Everyone's calling me Nemo,
I think I've gotten way too emo
I even cry watching Teamo Supremo
Even for me, that's really too much too
I think I've gotten way too emo
and I know it's because of you.
-Anantya
Entry Fee: I helped a disabled man get into a cab and built up my muscles loading his wheelchair into the boot :)
---------
To write a triolet
Isn’t that hard
A few words and I’m all set
To write a triolet
On what though, I fret
Captain Picard?
To write a triolet
Isn’t that hard.
- Suraksha
Friday, February 15, 2008
Triolets 2
What's a triolet? And what's this competition about? Details and examples here
Look forward to your entry.
-a
--
I am not interested in the prize
But I’ll do it for the worthy entrée fee
I’ll tell you, your posts are nice
I am not interested in the prize
Even if it’s got a bigger size
But the Triolets of others I’ll see
I am not interested in the prize
But I’ll do it for the worthy entrée fee
- Hari
--------
Do you know I hate to cook
But do it everyday
I'd rather curl up with a book
Do you know I hate to cook
The rasam's a mess, just look
Wish I could dump it into Bengal's Bay
Do you know I hate to cook
But do it everyday
-Inba
Entry fee: Helped a poor old woman sort out a billing problem at the grocer's.
------
I made you thirunelveli halwa
On our last Valentine
Singing songs from Jalwa
I made you thirunelveli halwa
While you were out bonking Alpa
So I added a pint of turpentine
I made you thirunelveli halwa
On our last Valentine
- Shoefiend
Entry fee: Gave money to a local charity.
-----
Mongrels of the night, scrambling
Away from vicinity
Nocturnal birds smirking
Mongrels of the night, scrambling
Slowly maneuvering
As I learn to tug the vehicle along in the locality
Mongrels of the night, scrambling
Away from vicinity
-Kshama Anand
Entry fee - Gifted someone through- http://www.truegiftsindia.org/
Look forward to your entry.
-a
--
I am not interested in the prize
But I’ll do it for the worthy entrée fee
I’ll tell you, your posts are nice
I am not interested in the prize
Even if it’s got a bigger size
But the Triolets of others I’ll see
I am not interested in the prize
But I’ll do it for the worthy entrée fee
- Hari
--------
Do you know I hate to cook
But do it everyday
I'd rather curl up with a book
Do you know I hate to cook
The rasam's a mess, just look
Wish I could dump it into Bengal's Bay
Do you know I hate to cook
But do it everyday
-Inba
Entry fee: Helped a poor old woman sort out a billing problem at the grocer's.
------
I made you thirunelveli halwa
On our last Valentine
Singing songs from Jalwa
I made you thirunelveli halwa
While you were out bonking Alpa
So I added a pint of turpentine
I made you thirunelveli halwa
On our last Valentine
- Shoefiend
Entry fee: Gave money to a local charity.
-----
Mongrels of the night, scrambling
Away from vicinity
Nocturnal birds smirking
Mongrels of the night, scrambling
Slowly maneuvering
As I learn to tug the vehicle along in the locality
Mongrels of the night, scrambling
Away from vicinity
-Kshama Anand
Entry fee - Gifted someone through- http://www.truegiftsindia.org/
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Triolets 1
A wonderful range of Triolets! Loved every one of them. Please keep them coming. For more entries, please check out the comment section of the earlier post.
-a
--------
If I could compose a Triolet
That spoke to you from my heart
I'd be a romantic poet
If I could compose a Triolet
Or draw you a pretty violet
Either way it would be art.
If I could compose a Triolet
That spoke to you from my heart.
-Broom
Entry fee - I increased my monthly contribution to a charity called Akanksha.
--------------
...hvd...
Tender, thy Love and Charm, Vivid in my mind
Ineffable, the feeling, a new one to come
Thoughts of Oneness, that sure will bind
Tender, thy Love and Charm, Vivid in my mind
Someone like you, Am indeed lucky to find
Treasure you are, As always awesome
Tender, thy Love and Charm, Vivid in my mind
Ineffable, the feeling, a new one to come
-Shiv
Entry Fee : Helped a couple with directions to an address near my apartment.
-------
We are forgotten
We are forever forgotten in your dreams
O merciless knights of paradise
And forever in sorrows our theme,
We are forever forgotten in your dreams
O, shall we in scarlet rivers gleam?
O, then can our souls be sold for a price?
We are forever forgotten in your dreams
O merciless knights of paradise
-Kannathil
-------
6.24 fast
I travel to Borivali
In a super crowded train
This gives me a lot of talavali
I travel to Borivali.
Listening to all the gaali
Makes me want to pull stop chain
I travel to Borivali
In a super crowded train.
-Blogeswari
Entry fee: I helped an old woman get off the crowded train
-a
--------
If I could compose a Triolet
That spoke to you from my heart
I'd be a romantic poet
If I could compose a Triolet
Or draw you a pretty violet
Either way it would be art.
If I could compose a Triolet
That spoke to you from my heart.
-Broom
Entry fee - I increased my monthly contribution to a charity called Akanksha.
--------------
...hvd...
Tender, thy Love and Charm, Vivid in my mind
Ineffable, the feeling, a new one to come
Thoughts of Oneness, that sure will bind
Tender, thy Love and Charm, Vivid in my mind
Someone like you, Am indeed lucky to find
Treasure you are, As always awesome
Tender, thy Love and Charm, Vivid in my mind
Ineffable, the feeling, a new one to come
-Shiv
Entry Fee : Helped a couple with directions to an address near my apartment.
-------
We are forgotten
We are forever forgotten in your dreams
O merciless knights of paradise
And forever in sorrows our theme,
We are forever forgotten in your dreams
O, shall we in scarlet rivers gleam?
O, then can our souls be sold for a price?
We are forever forgotten in your dreams
O merciless knights of paradise
-Kannathil
-------
6.24 fast
I travel to Borivali
In a super crowded train
This gives me a lot of talavali
I travel to Borivali.
Listening to all the gaali
Makes me want to pull stop chain
I travel to Borivali
In a super crowded train.
-Blogeswari
Entry fee: I helped an old woman get off the crowded train
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Triolets
The things we learn everyday! Just this morning I found out what a Triolet is.
It's a short 8-line poem in which the first two lines are repeated as the last two lines and the first line is also line 4. Lines 3 and 5 rhyme with line 1. Line 6 rhymes with line 2. It will all become much more clear with this very topical example by my favourite poet Wendy Cope.
Valentine
My heart has made its mind up A
And I'm afraid it's you B
Whatever you've got lined up, a
My heart has made its mind up A
And if you can't be signed up a
This year, next year will do. b
My heart has made its mind up A
And I'm afraid it's you. B
In the above example, the capital letters in bold at the end of each line symbolise the same line repeated. While the lower case letter mark those rhyming with others. Google for other examples. It's really quite simple once you read a few of them Triolets.
Now here's what I want you to do. I want you to try your hand at writing Triolets. And I'll give you time till the 28th of this month. But there's a catch. There's an entrance fee. And it's this. You'll have to do something nice to a stranger. It can be to a neighbour offering to walk her dog one afternoon. To an old lady, helping her cross the road. Or simply by donating blood. You can choose your own entry fee. And once you've done it, make a mention of it in your email and send it along with your Triolet to ammania@gmail.com
The winners will be announced on this blog on the 29th of February 2008. I would also like to invite sponsors for prizes 1, 2 and 3. If there are no sponsors then we'll settle for a mention on this blog.
All set? Good luck and triolet away!
It's a short 8-line poem in which the first two lines are repeated as the last two lines and the first line is also line 4. Lines 3 and 5 rhyme with line 1. Line 6 rhymes with line 2. It will all become much more clear with this very topical example by my favourite poet Wendy Cope.
Valentine
My heart has made its mind up A
And I'm afraid it's you B
Whatever you've got lined up, a
My heart has made its mind up A
And if you can't be signed up a
This year, next year will do. b
My heart has made its mind up A
And I'm afraid it's you. B
In the above example, the capital letters in bold at the end of each line symbolise the same line repeated. While the lower case letter mark those rhyming with others. Google for other examples. It's really quite simple once you read a few of them Triolets.
Now here's what I want you to do. I want you to try your hand at writing Triolets. And I'll give you time till the 28th of this month. But there's a catch. There's an entrance fee. And it's this. You'll have to do something nice to a stranger. It can be to a neighbour offering to walk her dog one afternoon. To an old lady, helping her cross the road. Or simply by donating blood. You can choose your own entry fee. And once you've done it, make a mention of it in your email and send it along with your Triolet to ammania@gmail.com
The winners will be announced on this blog on the 29th of February 2008. I would also like to invite sponsors for prizes 1, 2 and 3. If there are no sponsors then we'll settle for a mention on this blog.
All set? Good luck and triolet away!
A quick tale 208
The business of writing
So I sit down to write this piece about what keeps me from writing the things I want to. I know precisely what I’m going to write. It will be funny, incisive and brutally insightful. I’ll start with something rather reflective. Then I’ll elaborate into something typically self-deprecatory. I bet that will get the chuckles. Finally, I’ll end on a positive note. About being focussed and how to keep the fire burning against all odds and stuff like that. I should be able to wrap it all up in say, 500 words tops. And once I’m done, I’ll treat myself to a lovely bar of chocolate. One of those with 70% cocoa. Fair-trade and organic, obviously. At nearly 400 calories to a bar, I need all the guilt off-setting I can afford. I remember that hideous woman on TV telling some poor old overweight sod that he would have to power walk for 5 hours to burn off all the calories from his curry dinner. I wish he’d burnt off some of the calories by smacking that obnoxious, self-righteous bitch on camera.
Look at me breaking into a sweat at the thought of some silly tv show. I wonder if thinking burns up calories. All this thinking and writing business must use up some energy. After all, you don’t see very many obese writers, do you? I mean, look at that Rowling woman. All prim and pampered on the jacket of her book. Mind you, if you are the richest woman in England (some say the world!), surely you can get someone to suck all the fat out of you. Bet at some point in her life, she too must have sat at her desk like me and wondered about the book lurking inside her waiting to get out. Talking of which, I had better crack on. Now, where was I? Ah yes, something tragic-comic about writing. Oh! I think I have the perfect beginning. Which I will jot down. Just as soon as I investigate the dripping noise from the kitchen.
So I sit down to write this piece about what keeps me from writing the things I want to. I know precisely what I’m going to write. It will be funny, incisive and brutally insightful. I’ll start with something rather reflective. Then I’ll elaborate into something typically self-deprecatory. I bet that will get the chuckles. Finally, I’ll end on a positive note. About being focussed and how to keep the fire burning against all odds and stuff like that. I should be able to wrap it all up in say, 500 words tops. And once I’m done, I’ll treat myself to a lovely bar of chocolate. One of those with 70% cocoa. Fair-trade and organic, obviously. At nearly 400 calories to a bar, I need all the guilt off-setting I can afford. I remember that hideous woman on TV telling some poor old overweight sod that he would have to power walk for 5 hours to burn off all the calories from his curry dinner. I wish he’d burnt off some of the calories by smacking that obnoxious, self-righteous bitch on camera.
Look at me breaking into a sweat at the thought of some silly tv show. I wonder if thinking burns up calories. All this thinking and writing business must use up some energy. After all, you don’t see very many obese writers, do you? I mean, look at that Rowling woman. All prim and pampered on the jacket of her book. Mind you, if you are the richest woman in England (some say the world!), surely you can get someone to suck all the fat out of you. Bet at some point in her life, she too must have sat at her desk like me and wondered about the book lurking inside her waiting to get out. Talking of which, I had better crack on. Now, where was I? Ah yes, something tragic-comic about writing. Oh! I think I have the perfect beginning. Which I will jot down. Just as soon as I investigate the dripping noise from the kitchen.
A quick tale 207
Calamity Jane
If I told you my name, you would recognise me straightaway. If you saw me, I wouldn’t even have to tell you my name. You would know me from the thousands of news reports on television. I first came into prominence during that terrorist attack on that passenger train that killed 178 people three years ago today. I was on that train on my way to see a friend who’d just had a baby. One minute I was on the seat and the next I was thrown against the window. I can’t remember much from the first few minutes except that there was a deathly quiet where there had been the reassuring rhythm of the train. My mouth felt dry and my throat was burning and for some reason I found myself patting my chest. Probably because I was having trouble breathing. It all seems so hazy. But I don’t know how I found the strength to raise myself to my feet, locate my handbag, fish out my mobile and film what had just happened. I called my boss at the tv station where I worked as a runner and told him between rasping bouts of cough what I’d witnessed. Within minutes news had caught on and before I knew it, I had become the poster-girl for that tragedy.
Over the years, I’ve had to relive those harrowing moments several times on television, print and on radio. To be honest, I can no longer remember how exactly it happened but I’ve come to believe in my own version of it. Obviously, I’ve added a few dramatic touches here and there for effect. Two Christmases ago, I even brought out my memoirs of that fateful day and you may recall how the book zoomed straight to the non-fiction bestseller list. These days, I have a clutch of awards to my credit and I regularly report from war-torn areas of the world. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be caught out. I can see the salacious tabloid headlines accusing me of profiting me from a disaster. There will be prime-time TV shows dedicated to how I milked the tragedy. So called snoop journalists will not even spare my garbage bins in a bid to unearth filthy breaking news. My boyfriends will be quizzed till they confess to how I revelled in new found celebrity status while scores of families mourned the loss of loved ones. Yes, I can see it all lurking in the not-too distant future. But for now, I have a job to do. So if you’ll excuse me, I have another mishap to cover.
If I told you my name, you would recognise me straightaway. If you saw me, I wouldn’t even have to tell you my name. You would know me from the thousands of news reports on television. I first came into prominence during that terrorist attack on that passenger train that killed 178 people three years ago today. I was on that train on my way to see a friend who’d just had a baby. One minute I was on the seat and the next I was thrown against the window. I can’t remember much from the first few minutes except that there was a deathly quiet where there had been the reassuring rhythm of the train. My mouth felt dry and my throat was burning and for some reason I found myself patting my chest. Probably because I was having trouble breathing. It all seems so hazy. But I don’t know how I found the strength to raise myself to my feet, locate my handbag, fish out my mobile and film what had just happened. I called my boss at the tv station where I worked as a runner and told him between rasping bouts of cough what I’d witnessed. Within minutes news had caught on and before I knew it, I had become the poster-girl for that tragedy.
Over the years, I’ve had to relive those harrowing moments several times on television, print and on radio. To be honest, I can no longer remember how exactly it happened but I’ve come to believe in my own version of it. Obviously, I’ve added a few dramatic touches here and there for effect. Two Christmases ago, I even brought out my memoirs of that fateful day and you may recall how the book zoomed straight to the non-fiction bestseller list. These days, I have a clutch of awards to my credit and I regularly report from war-torn areas of the world. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be caught out. I can see the salacious tabloid headlines accusing me of profiting me from a disaster. There will be prime-time TV shows dedicated to how I milked the tragedy. So called snoop journalists will not even spare my garbage bins in a bid to unearth filthy breaking news. My boyfriends will be quizzed till they confess to how I revelled in new found celebrity status while scores of families mourned the loss of loved ones. Yes, I can see it all lurking in the not-too distant future. But for now, I have a job to do. So if you’ll excuse me, I have another mishap to cover.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Why there will be no Pongal this Pongal and other inconsequential stuff
I didn't know I could, professor Richard Dawkins' wife told him when he asked her why she never expressed her reservations to some of the religious stuff taught to her at her Catholic school. Reading it, I sort of felt someone had articulated what I could never find words for. All those times I fretted and fumed in the kitchen cooking to appease some God whose existence I had never dared question and whose punitive powers I had always dreaded. All those rituals I had endured to evoke the supernatural beings in heaven to bless me with tons of fortunes and 99 more sons. And every time, I wish I had asked why. I wish I had questioned more. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with those who accept these rituals but why did I have to follow suit? Who says you need to wake up at 4 in the morning and cook Pongal and vadai and payasam and avial when all you want to do is curl up and go back to sleep? Who comes up with these menus? What'd happen if I simply refused to? What then? I know what you're going to say. It's not for us, it's for the kids. My son doesn't like any of the aforementioned items and would just as happily eat Weetabix for breakfast.
Trouble is, I have been there, done that. Every single Pongal and Deepavali and Navarathri and Karthigai Deepam. And take my word for it, I hated it! There, I've said it. I don't care if the gods are going to pierce me with the hottest trident in hell and roast me over a spitfire, nothing will get me back into the kitchen again to make seedai because that is what Krishna loves. When I doubt the very existence of Krishna, do I really care about his love for fried stuff? And have you noticed how most of our festivals just mean more housework for the woman? Why is that? Why can't we have festivals where the women get a break from the kitchen work? How about this Rama navami, the whole family eats out at Saravana Bhavan? Surely the gods won't mind that.
Looking back, I realise that part of the reason why I did what I did all these years was not because I loved it. Or that I somehow wanted our son to be part of our 'culture'. I really don't care much for that sort of 'culture', to be honest. But it's guilt that was driving me. That big ugly monster that sits on the dinner table with me, that wakes me up before all the family, that creeps into my voice each time I call India and that holds me back with a vice-like grip from exploring life. Yes, guilt. Not love. And I never knew I could say it. Not until this Pongal. When I dug my heels and refused to cook anything other than the usual. I would not be cowed into submission. I stayed in bed an extra half an hour that day. Even had my tea in bed. My porridge never tasted better. My morning was smoother and stress-free. And you know what? It felt good.
For a much better articulated rant, please also go here
Trouble is, I have been there, done that. Every single Pongal and Deepavali and Navarathri and Karthigai Deepam. And take my word for it, I hated it! There, I've said it. I don't care if the gods are going to pierce me with the hottest trident in hell and roast me over a spitfire, nothing will get me back into the kitchen again to make seedai because that is what Krishna loves. When I doubt the very existence of Krishna, do I really care about his love for fried stuff? And have you noticed how most of our festivals just mean more housework for the woman? Why is that? Why can't we have festivals where the women get a break from the kitchen work? How about this Rama navami, the whole family eats out at Saravana Bhavan? Surely the gods won't mind that.
Looking back, I realise that part of the reason why I did what I did all these years was not because I loved it. Or that I somehow wanted our son to be part of our 'culture'. I really don't care much for that sort of 'culture', to be honest. But it's guilt that was driving me. That big ugly monster that sits on the dinner table with me, that wakes me up before all the family, that creeps into my voice each time I call India and that holds me back with a vice-like grip from exploring life. Yes, guilt. Not love. And I never knew I could say it. Not until this Pongal. When I dug my heels and refused to cook anything other than the usual. I would not be cowed into submission. I stayed in bed an extra half an hour that day. Even had my tea in bed. My porridge never tasted better. My morning was smoother and stress-free. And you know what? It felt good.
For a much better articulated rant, please also go here
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
A quick tale 206
Damn!
I don’t know how it is where you work. But in my office, whenever it’s a colleague’s birthday, someone brings a card around and we all sign it. And today, it’s the big boss’s big day. Someone had bought an appropriately big card for us to sign. It reached my desk and after a quick glance at what the others had written – ranging from the splendidly mundane ‘Happy birthday’ to the supremely poetic ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue, What have we done, To deserve a boss like you?’ – I composed my birthday greeting. It wasn’t going to be anything fancy. I just scribbled ‘Have a wonderful year ahead! Love,’ and signed below it.
Hang on a sec, did I just write ‘love’? I rushed after the boss’ secretary and almost grabbed the card from her hands. I quickly struck out ‘love’ and handed it back to her. What was I thinking signing off like that? Why couldn’t it have been just my name? Or a polite ‘regards’ or ‘sincerely’ or even a vaguely distant ‘best wishes’? Why did I have to go and pick ‘love’? And by striking it out did I draw more attention to it? May be he’d have dismissed it if I’d let it be? But now, what have I gone and done? Would he think I fancied him? I am single, after all. And to be honest, he’s not all that bad looking. But no! That’s not what I want him to think.
Honestly, do you think I was wrong in striking out ‘love’? May be he now thinks I fancy him but don’t want to be obvious about it. So I rubbed out, but only just, what I’d written earlier. God, I bet he’s seen the card by now. And noticed the thick lines that precede my signature. May be he’s holding the card against a light bulb to decipher what’s underneath it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. Is that his cabin door opening? Should I just make a dash for the exit? May be I can spend the rest of the afternoon in the loo? And call in sick tomorrow and day after? Surely the storm would’ve blown over by then. Oh no, I don’t have time to run. He’s coming towards me. Help! I’ll just drop this pen under my desk and quickly duck to retrieve it. Damn! He’s waiting for me to emerge. How long can I stay stuck under the table? This is it. I can hear it coming. He’s calling out my name asking me if everything’s alright. If he asks me about the card, I’ll just apologise and then hand in my resignation. That’s the honourable thing to do. He’s calling me again. Yes, I answer, with an added chirp in my voice. Could I look into the tender that is due to be submitted by Friday?, he asks. Of course, I answer. And as he turns his back to me, Happy Birthday! I call out. I think I’ll take tomorrow off.
I don’t know how it is where you work. But in my office, whenever it’s a colleague’s birthday, someone brings a card around and we all sign it. And today, it’s the big boss’s big day. Someone had bought an appropriately big card for us to sign. It reached my desk and after a quick glance at what the others had written – ranging from the splendidly mundane ‘Happy birthday’ to the supremely poetic ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue, What have we done, To deserve a boss like you?’ – I composed my birthday greeting. It wasn’t going to be anything fancy. I just scribbled ‘Have a wonderful year ahead! Love,’ and signed below it.
Hang on a sec, did I just write ‘love’? I rushed after the boss’ secretary and almost grabbed the card from her hands. I quickly struck out ‘love’ and handed it back to her. What was I thinking signing off like that? Why couldn’t it have been just my name? Or a polite ‘regards’ or ‘sincerely’ or even a vaguely distant ‘best wishes’? Why did I have to go and pick ‘love’? And by striking it out did I draw more attention to it? May be he’d have dismissed it if I’d let it be? But now, what have I gone and done? Would he think I fancied him? I am single, after all. And to be honest, he’s not all that bad looking. But no! That’s not what I want him to think.
Honestly, do you think I was wrong in striking out ‘love’? May be he now thinks I fancy him but don’t want to be obvious about it. So I rubbed out, but only just, what I’d written earlier. God, I bet he’s seen the card by now. And noticed the thick lines that precede my signature. May be he’s holding the card against a light bulb to decipher what’s underneath it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. Is that his cabin door opening? Should I just make a dash for the exit? May be I can spend the rest of the afternoon in the loo? And call in sick tomorrow and day after? Surely the storm would’ve blown over by then. Oh no, I don’t have time to run. He’s coming towards me. Help! I’ll just drop this pen under my desk and quickly duck to retrieve it. Damn! He’s waiting for me to emerge. How long can I stay stuck under the table? This is it. I can hear it coming. He’s calling out my name asking me if everything’s alright. If he asks me about the card, I’ll just apologise and then hand in my resignation. That’s the honourable thing to do. He’s calling me again. Yes, I answer, with an added chirp in my voice. Could I look into the tender that is due to be submitted by Friday?, he asks. Of course, I answer. And as he turns his back to me, Happy Birthday! I call out. I think I’ll take tomorrow off.
Monday, January 21, 2008
A quick tale 205
Story half-told
Did you know that prisoners serving life sentence are not given a mirror because they could commit suicide with it? No, she didn’t know either. Until she read about it in a short story recently. It really got her thinking. In the house where she grew up, there was no full-length mirror until 1970. She was already 20 years old by then and had outgrown the adolescent curiosity to see herself as others saw her.
All those years ago, there was only a small square mirror that hung in a dark verandah. The mirror bounced off light from the bulb that hung across the wall thus casting a shadow on the reflection. You had to lift the square frame off the wall and hold it at an angle if you wanted to know if you’d shaved properly or if the maii in the right eye was smudged slightly. This was a trick that only residents in that rambling household knew. And visitors often asked others to check if the pottu was in the centre of the forehead or if the face powder was still a bit patchy.
Looking back, she thought it odd that she’d never wanted to see her full-length reflection. Though that’s strictly not true. She forgets that sometime in 1966 when she’d worn a saree for the first time, she removed the mirror from its hanging post, held it against knee, tipped slightly away from her body so she could see the reflection, and gradually drew it all the way up to her neck. Later she had tried to piece together all the reflections into a single collage in her head. She had even made a mention of it in her diary that night.
In the house where she now lives, there’s a few of them mirrors. But after all these years, even now, the sight of herself, especially when she’s least expecting it - like when she wakes up in the middle of the night to use the toilet – startles her. She has trouble falling asleep afterwards. For a long time she had only known her body as it appeared to her from where her eyes stood. The familiar terrain of lumps and bumps and the reassuring patch of curlies did not seem so odd when gazed down from the neck. But the two-dimensional vision of her, as seen from a distance took a lot of getting used to. Of course, she had seen photos of herself. But a live, moving likeness was something she found hard to accept.
And this is where the story will end as I have nothing more to say on this matter.
Did you know that prisoners serving life sentence are not given a mirror because they could commit suicide with it? No, she didn’t know either. Until she read about it in a short story recently. It really got her thinking. In the house where she grew up, there was no full-length mirror until 1970. She was already 20 years old by then and had outgrown the adolescent curiosity to see herself as others saw her.
All those years ago, there was only a small square mirror that hung in a dark verandah. The mirror bounced off light from the bulb that hung across the wall thus casting a shadow on the reflection. You had to lift the square frame off the wall and hold it at an angle if you wanted to know if you’d shaved properly or if the maii in the right eye was smudged slightly. This was a trick that only residents in that rambling household knew. And visitors often asked others to check if the pottu was in the centre of the forehead or if the face powder was still a bit patchy.
Looking back, she thought it odd that she’d never wanted to see her full-length reflection. Though that’s strictly not true. She forgets that sometime in 1966 when she’d worn a saree for the first time, she removed the mirror from its hanging post, held it against knee, tipped slightly away from her body so she could see the reflection, and gradually drew it all the way up to her neck. Later she had tried to piece together all the reflections into a single collage in her head. She had even made a mention of it in her diary that night.
In the house where she now lives, there’s a few of them mirrors. But after all these years, even now, the sight of herself, especially when she’s least expecting it - like when she wakes up in the middle of the night to use the toilet – startles her. She has trouble falling asleep afterwards. For a long time she had only known her body as it appeared to her from where her eyes stood. The familiar terrain of lumps and bumps and the reassuring patch of curlies did not seem so odd when gazed down from the neck. But the two-dimensional vision of her, as seen from a distance took a lot of getting used to. Of course, she had seen photos of herself. But a live, moving likeness was something she found hard to accept.
And this is where the story will end as I have nothing more to say on this matter.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
A quick tale 204
Two of a kind
“And how did you lose him?”, asked the officer. She was stunned in grief and barely heard his question. After about a minute, he prompted her once again. This time she let out a long sigh, kept her eyes lowered and began telling him how.
“We went in together for our weekly wash. It was a Monday and we recognised several other regulars. The mood was upbeat as always and we quite looked forward to a warm, swirling good time. No sooner had we settled down than the door was shut. Soon the water started seeping in and everyone went quiet with excitement. Gradually, the water level started to rise. Any minute now, I heard him say and in an instant, we were being tossed about in a deafening whoosh. The water seemed cooler than the usual 40 degrees. I was later informed by someone that it’s all part of the new eco-drive which recommended lowering water temperatures. As we tumbled about gaily in the company of other couples, I had little idea that this would be our last few minutes together.
Before we knew it, the water had drained and I shut my eyes in anticipation of what was to come. I clung to him like my life depended on it. I could tell he was smiling at me even though my eyes were closed. And in a flash we were off. Hurtling down the curves and roaring up the arches, we spun about at a dizzying speed. I felt as if every last drop of water was being squeezed out of me. We careened round and round before finally coming to a rest. It took me forever to open my eyes. And even when I did, I could only see squiggles and wriggles of floating colours. It was only after a few minutes that I realised that he wasn’t by my side.
At first I assumed he’d gotten tangled with someone else. But as I sifted through the gathering, I realised with mounting panic that he was gone. I’d heard of stories of those that had disappeared through the black hole. But never once thought it could happen to me. I pushed past and prod through huge tumbling masses in the hope of finding him. I kept calling out his name but deep down, I knew I’d lost him forever. There was nothing to do now except wait for the doors to be opened and for us to be let out…”
As she paused in her narration, the officer seized the opportunity to get cracking with the paperwork. “If you could fill in his name and description over here”, he said tapping his pen on a pink application form, “we’ll see what we can do.” “Will he…?”, she started enquiring when he cut her short. “We can promise you nothing, madam”, he replied in a voice that was intended to snuff out any hope she may have had.
She picked herself up and with heavy steps started making her way to the door. When she turned around to see if she could squeeze in one last question with the officer, he had already moved on to his next client – an elderly red glove. I will come back on Friday, she promised herself. We are a pair and that’s the way we will always be, she mumbled shuffling quietly out of the Dept of Lost Personnel, Ministry of Laundry.
“And how did you lose him?”, asked the officer. She was stunned in grief and barely heard his question. After about a minute, he prompted her once again. This time she let out a long sigh, kept her eyes lowered and began telling him how.
“We went in together for our weekly wash. It was a Monday and we recognised several other regulars. The mood was upbeat as always and we quite looked forward to a warm, swirling good time. No sooner had we settled down than the door was shut. Soon the water started seeping in and everyone went quiet with excitement. Gradually, the water level started to rise. Any minute now, I heard him say and in an instant, we were being tossed about in a deafening whoosh. The water seemed cooler than the usual 40 degrees. I was later informed by someone that it’s all part of the new eco-drive which recommended lowering water temperatures. As we tumbled about gaily in the company of other couples, I had little idea that this would be our last few minutes together.
Before we knew it, the water had drained and I shut my eyes in anticipation of what was to come. I clung to him like my life depended on it. I could tell he was smiling at me even though my eyes were closed. And in a flash we were off. Hurtling down the curves and roaring up the arches, we spun about at a dizzying speed. I felt as if every last drop of water was being squeezed out of me. We careened round and round before finally coming to a rest. It took me forever to open my eyes. And even when I did, I could only see squiggles and wriggles of floating colours. It was only after a few minutes that I realised that he wasn’t by my side.
At first I assumed he’d gotten tangled with someone else. But as I sifted through the gathering, I realised with mounting panic that he was gone. I’d heard of stories of those that had disappeared through the black hole. But never once thought it could happen to me. I pushed past and prod through huge tumbling masses in the hope of finding him. I kept calling out his name but deep down, I knew I’d lost him forever. There was nothing to do now except wait for the doors to be opened and for us to be let out…”
As she paused in her narration, the officer seized the opportunity to get cracking with the paperwork. “If you could fill in his name and description over here”, he said tapping his pen on a pink application form, “we’ll see what we can do.” “Will he…?”, she started enquiring when he cut her short. “We can promise you nothing, madam”, he replied in a voice that was intended to snuff out any hope she may have had.
She picked herself up and with heavy steps started making her way to the door. When she turned around to see if she could squeeze in one last question with the officer, he had already moved on to his next client – an elderly red glove. I will come back on Friday, she promised herself. We are a pair and that’s the way we will always be, she mumbled shuffling quietly out of the Dept of Lost Personnel, Ministry of Laundry.
Monday, January 14, 2008
A quick tale 203
Unlearn*
I can see the entrance from where I’m standing. A deep red door with the number 88 painted on it. When I spoke to them, I was told that it would all be over in less than an hour. Less than 60 minutes to clean up years of junk! They must know what they are talking about. Otherwise they would not be in such high demand (or indeed charge so much!). My colleague Maria had hers done just last month and she tells me that she feels lighter than ever! My appointment is due in the next 15 minutes and I had better start making my way if I don’t want to be late. But somehow my legs feel leaden and each step is a drag. After all, I know the risks and I have read through their contract and all its 45 pages of fine print before agreeing to the procedure. I know that I will no longer be able to recall the name of that Japanese exchange student who stayed with us for a month. Or the way to my hostel from the university gate. Or the recipe for besan wadi. But these are the precise details I want to be free from.
You see, it all started last summer when I was out for dinner with a group of friends. We’re all about the same age and went to college together. After the initial ho-hum, typically our talk turned to growing old. We realised that in the past year we’d had all sprouted our first gray strand of hair. Though we tried to laugh it off, we knew what this meant. Death knell to our youth. It won’t be long before our faces were lined with crow’s feet and laughter lines and our conversations were taken over by talk of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
Long after that evening, for some unfathomable reason, I kept going back to our conversation and spent the next few weeks observing my body minutely in the mirror for signs of ageing. It wasn’t long before I started noticing subtle changes – not in my body but in my mind. I was no longer able to recall instantly names of friends and colleagues like I used to before. Birthdays and anniversaries would slip by without my noticing it. So I started making lists of things to do just so I could remember them. Post-it notes began making their appearances everywhere around the house. They would remind me if I had a hairdresser’s appointment or if I was due to return a library book that day. By October, I was convinced that I was on a downward spiral of ageing and memory loss. I spent hours on the internet everyday looking for someway to reverse the process. Nothing came up until a chance encounter with my brother’s fiancée who works for the government department of health and wellbeing.
She talked of a revolutionary procedure whereby you can have your mind uncluttered from unnecessary detail clogging up mind space. It works like this. Apparently, the mind has millions of pigeonhole like slots which hold information. And when need comes up, like when you run into an old friend, your mind just dips into the allotted slot and makes you call out ‘how wonderful to meet you, Deepa!’. The trouble arises when there is a glut of information. The file-keeping department of the brain goes into a tizzy with all the information that it has to handle. And starts neglecting less-critical tasks like maintaining old files.
Which is why, as time goes by, I was told, we are able to recall less and less of the distant past. The new radical solution, which was still being researched, would simply get rid of unwanted information from the brain and free up several million pigeon holes. This they hoped would make the brain work faster and more efficiently. And keep the brain from information-congestion.
I told my brother’s fiancée that I wanted to sign up for the project. But she told me that it was a high-risk procedure still pending sanction from the medical department. I’d have to do it at my own expense and that it’d be carried out in the back alleys of the city. Yes, yes, I know, I nodded eagerly. She went silent for a minute before adding solemnly ‘it is irreversible’. Of course, I said, I understood the risks and was more than ready for it.
The next month whizzed by in a flurry of preparation. I had to open my house and diary for a thorough examination by the experts. They quizzed me for hours about everything from past lovers and driving history to dieting patterns and deep, dark secrets. They took copious notes and recorded every single conversation before giving me the go ahead. I was over the moon when the appointment letter came through and here I am ten minutes away from unlearning uncritical information forever. I’m about to forget how to knit, where to go for the best deals in bathroom tiles and whose name always came first in our school attendance register. I take a deep breath and start walking towards the crimson door. When I come out, I may not remember who you are. But if I’m looking a little lost, will you please tell me that my address is in my right coat pocket? And that I’ve parked my car 200 yards from here? Thank you.
*the medical info stated here is extremely dodgy. So please don't write to me saying that's not how the brain works.
I can see the entrance from where I’m standing. A deep red door with the number 88 painted on it. When I spoke to them, I was told that it would all be over in less than an hour. Less than 60 minutes to clean up years of junk! They must know what they are talking about. Otherwise they would not be in such high demand (or indeed charge so much!). My colleague Maria had hers done just last month and she tells me that she feels lighter than ever! My appointment is due in the next 15 minutes and I had better start making my way if I don’t want to be late. But somehow my legs feel leaden and each step is a drag. After all, I know the risks and I have read through their contract and all its 45 pages of fine print before agreeing to the procedure. I know that I will no longer be able to recall the name of that Japanese exchange student who stayed with us for a month. Or the way to my hostel from the university gate. Or the recipe for besan wadi. But these are the precise details I want to be free from.
You see, it all started last summer when I was out for dinner with a group of friends. We’re all about the same age and went to college together. After the initial ho-hum, typically our talk turned to growing old. We realised that in the past year we’d had all sprouted our first gray strand of hair. Though we tried to laugh it off, we knew what this meant. Death knell to our youth. It won’t be long before our faces were lined with crow’s feet and laughter lines and our conversations were taken over by talk of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
Long after that evening, for some unfathomable reason, I kept going back to our conversation and spent the next few weeks observing my body minutely in the mirror for signs of ageing. It wasn’t long before I started noticing subtle changes – not in my body but in my mind. I was no longer able to recall instantly names of friends and colleagues like I used to before. Birthdays and anniversaries would slip by without my noticing it. So I started making lists of things to do just so I could remember them. Post-it notes began making their appearances everywhere around the house. They would remind me if I had a hairdresser’s appointment or if I was due to return a library book that day. By October, I was convinced that I was on a downward spiral of ageing and memory loss. I spent hours on the internet everyday looking for someway to reverse the process. Nothing came up until a chance encounter with my brother’s fiancée who works for the government department of health and wellbeing.
She talked of a revolutionary procedure whereby you can have your mind uncluttered from unnecessary detail clogging up mind space. It works like this. Apparently, the mind has millions of pigeonhole like slots which hold information. And when need comes up, like when you run into an old friend, your mind just dips into the allotted slot and makes you call out ‘how wonderful to meet you, Deepa!’. The trouble arises when there is a glut of information. The file-keeping department of the brain goes into a tizzy with all the information that it has to handle. And starts neglecting less-critical tasks like maintaining old files.
Which is why, as time goes by, I was told, we are able to recall less and less of the distant past. The new radical solution, which was still being researched, would simply get rid of unwanted information from the brain and free up several million pigeon holes. This they hoped would make the brain work faster and more efficiently. And keep the brain from information-congestion.
I told my brother’s fiancée that I wanted to sign up for the project. But she told me that it was a high-risk procedure still pending sanction from the medical department. I’d have to do it at my own expense and that it’d be carried out in the back alleys of the city. Yes, yes, I know, I nodded eagerly. She went silent for a minute before adding solemnly ‘it is irreversible’. Of course, I said, I understood the risks and was more than ready for it.
The next month whizzed by in a flurry of preparation. I had to open my house and diary for a thorough examination by the experts. They quizzed me for hours about everything from past lovers and driving history to dieting patterns and deep, dark secrets. They took copious notes and recorded every single conversation before giving me the go ahead. I was over the moon when the appointment letter came through and here I am ten minutes away from unlearning uncritical information forever. I’m about to forget how to knit, where to go for the best deals in bathroom tiles and whose name always came first in our school attendance register. I take a deep breath and start walking towards the crimson door. When I come out, I may not remember who you are. But if I’m looking a little lost, will you please tell me that my address is in my right coat pocket? And that I’ve parked my car 200 yards from here? Thank you.
*the medical info stated here is extremely dodgy. So please don't write to me saying that's not how the brain works.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
A quick tale 202
Unfinished business
Behind the sofa in the living room, where it was too dark for anyone to notice, the half-read books of the neighbourhood were having their annual general meeting. There were Tolstoys, Murakamis, Pamuks, Joyces and quite a few management books whose authors’ names are irrelevant to this story. As with each year, War & Peace opened the day’s proceedings. In his welcome address, he regaled the conference with his favourite anecdote about a young girl who used to read War & Peace to her bedridden grandfather every day. And with each page, her grandfather’s health improved until one day, somewhere near the last chapter, she skipped a page. And her grandfather passed away that very afternoon.
The delegates clapped appreciatively and soon dispersed to attend the various workshops being conducted throughout the day. There was ‘A book is forever, not just for Christmas’ where several books that had been gifted through the holidays aired their angst at the disservice done to them. There was ‘Never been touched’ where books that had never been pried open by eager hands cried their hearts out. The ‘I’m an autobiography, get me out of here’ section was buzzing with books that held the lives of people famous and infamous but had languished for want of readers who looked beyond the photographs. And then there was the hugely popular ‘Borrowed and never browsed’ section which attracted loads of dissatisfied books from the local library who spoke of readers who had not taken the time to plod through the plot and instead picked up a movie version of the book.
The organisers had thoughtfully arranged for grooming sessions where the books could have their dog ears straightened and the coffee stains paled. But by evening, as hard-covers dusted off their jackets and as paperbacks slid bookmarks back in their midst and everyone had vented their hatred of the Harry Potter series (of course, they weren't jealous!), a sense of gloom had descended. The books sulked back into the shelves and bedside tables they came from. Tonight, they vowed, they will make extra effort and refuse to be shut when their reader fell asleep with the pages agape. No, they will not be quietened down until they have been read through. The end.
Behind the sofa in the living room, where it was too dark for anyone to notice, the half-read books of the neighbourhood were having their annual general meeting. There were Tolstoys, Murakamis, Pamuks, Joyces and quite a few management books whose authors’ names are irrelevant to this story. As with each year, War & Peace opened the day’s proceedings. In his welcome address, he regaled the conference with his favourite anecdote about a young girl who used to read War & Peace to her bedridden grandfather every day. And with each page, her grandfather’s health improved until one day, somewhere near the last chapter, she skipped a page. And her grandfather passed away that very afternoon.
The delegates clapped appreciatively and soon dispersed to attend the various workshops being conducted throughout the day. There was ‘A book is forever, not just for Christmas’ where several books that had been gifted through the holidays aired their angst at the disservice done to them. There was ‘Never been touched’ where books that had never been pried open by eager hands cried their hearts out. The ‘I’m an autobiography, get me out of here’ section was buzzing with books that held the lives of people famous and infamous but had languished for want of readers who looked beyond the photographs. And then there was the hugely popular ‘Borrowed and never browsed’ section which attracted loads of dissatisfied books from the local library who spoke of readers who had not taken the time to plod through the plot and instead picked up a movie version of the book.
The organisers had thoughtfully arranged for grooming sessions where the books could have their dog ears straightened and the coffee stains paled. But by evening, as hard-covers dusted off their jackets and as paperbacks slid bookmarks back in their midst and everyone had vented their hatred of the Harry Potter series (of course, they weren't jealous!), a sense of gloom had descended. The books sulked back into the shelves and bedside tables they came from. Tonight, they vowed, they will make extra effort and refuse to be shut when their reader fell asleep with the pages agape. No, they will not be quietened down until they have been read through. The end.
Friday, December 07, 2007
A quick tale 201
Mark
And so, I find myself closeted inside the toilet of a running train. With a rare moment to speculate. All around me, graffiti has been scratched out on the walls. There is quite a lot of female anatomy with the parts helpfully marked out. There are some male organs scratched out as well. I was also informed that S loves BC, that K is a whore and that GH is a homo. Someone calling himself J had advertised for ‘performance enhancing medicines’ adding his mobile number for anyone interested in his offer. I finish my business, wash my hands and somehow feel compelled to add my own thoughts to this myriad of beliefs, opinions and statements. I find a ball point pen in my handbag and stand there wondering what to say. I cannot recall any witty limericks or riddles. I have few secrets that I’d like to share with my fellow passengers who may use this toilet. As for drawing the female anatomy, my own reference doesn’t serve me very well. Finally, I settle for a single word. I mark out 'STRIFE' in an empty corner. I lean back to admire my work. Oddly satisfied and feeling decidedly better, I dust my hands and deposit the pen back in my bag. As I settle down next to the husband, he looks up at me as if to wonder what took me so long. I sigh gently and look outside at the passing landscape.
And so, I find myself closeted inside the toilet of a running train. With a rare moment to speculate. All around me, graffiti has been scratched out on the walls. There is quite a lot of female anatomy with the parts helpfully marked out. There are some male organs scratched out as well. I was also informed that S loves BC, that K is a whore and that GH is a homo. Someone calling himself J had advertised for ‘performance enhancing medicines’ adding his mobile number for anyone interested in his offer. I finish my business, wash my hands and somehow feel compelled to add my own thoughts to this myriad of beliefs, opinions and statements. I find a ball point pen in my handbag and stand there wondering what to say. I cannot recall any witty limericks or riddles. I have few secrets that I’d like to share with my fellow passengers who may use this toilet. As for drawing the female anatomy, my own reference doesn’t serve me very well. Finally, I settle for a single word. I mark out 'STRIFE' in an empty corner. I lean back to admire my work. Oddly satisfied and feeling decidedly better, I dust my hands and deposit the pen back in my bag. As I settle down next to the husband, he looks up at me as if to wonder what took me so long. I sigh gently and look outside at the passing landscape.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Saturday Poem
Missing things by Vernon Scannell who passed away last week
I'm very old and breathless, tired and lame,
and soon I'll be no more to anyone
than the slowly fading trochee of my name
and shadow of my presence: I'll be gone.
Already I begin to miss the things
I'll leave behind, like this calm evening sun
which seems to smile at how the blackbird sings.
There's something valedictory in the way
my books gaze down on me from where they stand
in disciplined disorder and display
the same goodwill that well-wishers on land
convey to troops who sail away to where
great danger waits. These books will miss the hand
that turned the pages with devoted care.
And there are also places that I miss:
those Paris streets and bars I can't forget,
the scent of caporal and wine and piss;
the pubs in Soho where the poets met;
the Yorkshire moors and Dorset's pebbly coast,
black Leeds, where I was taught love's alphabet,
and this small house that I shall miss the most.
I've lived here for so long it seems to be
a part of what I am, yet I'm aware
that when I've gone it won't remember me
and I, of course, will neither know nor care
since, like the stone of which the house is made,
I'll feel no more than it does light and air.
Then why so sad? And just a bit afraid?
~@~
poem courtesy Review, Saturday Guardian
I'm very old and breathless, tired and lame,
and soon I'll be no more to anyone
than the slowly fading trochee of my name
and shadow of my presence: I'll be gone.
Already I begin to miss the things
I'll leave behind, like this calm evening sun
which seems to smile at how the blackbird sings.
There's something valedictory in the way
my books gaze down on me from where they stand
in disciplined disorder and display
the same goodwill that well-wishers on land
convey to troops who sail away to where
great danger waits. These books will miss the hand
that turned the pages with devoted care.
And there are also places that I miss:
those Paris streets and bars I can't forget,
the scent of caporal and wine and piss;
the pubs in Soho where the poets met;
the Yorkshire moors and Dorset's pebbly coast,
black Leeds, where I was taught love's alphabet,
and this small house that I shall miss the most.
I've lived here for so long it seems to be
a part of what I am, yet I'm aware
that when I've gone it won't remember me
and I, of course, will neither know nor care
since, like the stone of which the house is made,
I'll feel no more than it does light and air.
Then why so sad? And just a bit afraid?
~@~
poem courtesy Review, Saturday Guardian
Friday, November 23, 2007
Bees to buzz no more
I could go on for a while. There's still PC bullies, hyper-sensitive Muslims quick to be offended by any reference to the one on whom peace may upon be, extra-hyper-sensitive secularists who rush to the rescue of quickly-offended Muslims in order to prove their secular credentials, language boors, facebook, myspace, shopping, cooking, Saravana Bhavan portion-size, arranged-vs-love marriage debate, any vacuum cleaner other than Dyson...see? I could have any entire apiary in my head. But I will desist. I risk becoming the driver who complained about other road-users while determinedly driving on the wrong side of the road. Perhaps I'm the one with the chip on my shoulder. Anyway, thank you all for having engaged with me. It was great fun. A new series will follow shortly.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 10
Accent Police
I speak with an accent, I admit. So do you. So does she. And him. And them. And everyone we know. Can we really speak without an accent? And sound neutral? The thing is, we never notice how we speak until it sounds different from others in a given context. I don't know how you would classify my accent. Indian, I guess. So when I'm in India, I sound like everybody else. But here, I often have trouble getting myself understood, especially over the phone. So I deliberately soften the consonants and skim over the words.
Wait, I'm coming to the point. It is this. Why do so many people - especially Indians - have a problem when other Indians sound different from how they think they should speak? Why do we come down so heavily on others whom we claim to speak with a 'false accent'? I know I have this habit of mimicking others without realising it. I used to use a lot of 'achhas' and 'haans' when I was living in a place where that was how people spoke. Now, I've gradually worn down that habit. So if we subconsciously or even deliberately pick up accents so as not sound too different from others, what's so wrong about that? Also, please tell me what's so virtuous about saying things like 'I still speak with an Indian accent despite having lived abroad for 10 years'?
I speak with an accent, I admit. So do you. So does she. And him. And them. And everyone we know. Can we really speak without an accent? And sound neutral? The thing is, we never notice how we speak until it sounds different from others in a given context. I don't know how you would classify my accent. Indian, I guess. So when I'm in India, I sound like everybody else. But here, I often have trouble getting myself understood, especially over the phone. So I deliberately soften the consonants and skim over the words.
Wait, I'm coming to the point. It is this. Why do so many people - especially Indians - have a problem when other Indians sound different from how they think they should speak? Why do we come down so heavily on others whom we claim to speak with a 'false accent'? I know I have this habit of mimicking others without realising it. I used to use a lot of 'achhas' and 'haans' when I was living in a place where that was how people spoke. Now, I've gradually worn down that habit. So if we subconsciously or even deliberately pick up accents so as not sound too different from others, what's so wrong about that? Also, please tell me what's so virtuous about saying things like 'I still speak with an Indian accent despite having lived abroad for 10 years'?
A bee in my bonnet 9
Model behaviour
Is it just me that finds it funny when models refer to what they do as 'work'? Does posing and pouting really count as 'work'?
Is it just me that finds it funny when models refer to what they do as 'work'? Does posing and pouting really count as 'work'?
Monday, November 19, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 8
Lest we forget their meaningless titles...
A few days ago I came across article in a website about former Miss World Aishwarya Rai doing something utterly insignificant like taking a dump or something. A most crucial thing to be informed of I imagine, to the watchers of former Miss World Aishwarya Rai. I don't know much about the day-to-day happenings in the life of former Miss World Aishwarya Rai except that she is married to Bollywood superstar Abhishek Bachchan. I have seen wedding photographs of former Miss World Aishwarya Rai and Bollywood superstar Abhishek Bachchan. They make a lovely couple. This former Miss World Aishwarya Rai and Bollywood superstar Abhishek Bachchan, don't you think?
A few days ago I came across article in a website about former Miss World Aishwarya Rai doing something utterly insignificant like taking a dump or something. A most crucial thing to be informed of I imagine, to the watchers of former Miss World Aishwarya Rai. I don't know much about the day-to-day happenings in the life of former Miss World Aishwarya Rai except that she is married to Bollywood superstar Abhishek Bachchan. I have seen wedding photographs of former Miss World Aishwarya Rai and Bollywood superstar Abhishek Bachchan. They make a lovely couple. This former Miss World Aishwarya Rai and Bollywood superstar Abhishek Bachchan, don't you think?
Friday, November 16, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 7
Nakedness
The other day I walked into the ladies shower room at our local swimming pool and found two middle aged women having a shower. It's an open shower room with no cubicles. The two women who were both naked (as one should be under a shower) seemed to be deep in discussion. I kept my one-piece costume on (as I usually do) and went to the far shower in the room. I winced involuntarily as a hot jet stream hit prickled my back. The women turned to me and said something about the water temperature. I looked down at the floor, mumbled a response and quickly shuffled outside to the changing rooms.
The incident really got me thinking. Why was I so embarrassed when they were the ones who didn't have any clothes on? Was it due to years and years of 'shame, shame, puppy shame'? If so, surely I should realise by now that there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about one's body. I know a lot of other women who would have reacted the same way as me in a similar situation. Why are we so bothered by the sight of our naked selves? My little boy has no problem walking around the house in the buff. We too must've been like that as kids. When did it change? And why do we think it's so wrong? Is this an Indian women thing? Why do we go all 'chee-chee' at the first sign of nudity? Is it because we believe in the superiority of keeping one's modesty? Or is it simply because we dare not take our clothes off? And really, are we just jealous of those that do, even if it is only in a public shower room?
The other day I walked into the ladies shower room at our local swimming pool and found two middle aged women having a shower. It's an open shower room with no cubicles. The two women who were both naked (as one should be under a shower) seemed to be deep in discussion. I kept my one-piece costume on (as I usually do) and went to the far shower in the room. I winced involuntarily as a hot jet stream hit prickled my back. The women turned to me and said something about the water temperature. I looked down at the floor, mumbled a response and quickly shuffled outside to the changing rooms.
The incident really got me thinking. Why was I so embarrassed when they were the ones who didn't have any clothes on? Was it due to years and years of 'shame, shame, puppy shame'? If so, surely I should realise by now that there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about one's body. I know a lot of other women who would have reacted the same way as me in a similar situation. Why are we so bothered by the sight of our naked selves? My little boy has no problem walking around the house in the buff. We too must've been like that as kids. When did it change? And why do we think it's so wrong? Is this an Indian women thing? Why do we go all 'chee-chee' at the first sign of nudity? Is it because we believe in the superiority of keeping one's modesty? Or is it simply because we dare not take our clothes off? And really, are we just jealous of those that do, even if it is only in a public shower room?
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 6
Poetry
Particularly, modern free verse. You know, kind where they don't rhyme. The kind where I run out of time (rhyme-time, get it?). The ones that look like someone can't. punctuate and .
just broke up sentence. Because.
Yes,
I don't get it. To be fair, I tried. I subscribed to an e-newsletter (minstrels, since you ask) and I often read the footnotes before reading the poem. And again, to be fair, there were some real gems in it. I also come across some good free verse scattered among blogs and I love the insight they offer with such an economy of words. However, they are few and far between. Consider this one, for instance.
Caramel America
Partisan interloper rebuts
Junk
Pause, briefly
A fond farewell.
What do you think of it? Do you like the eerie mysticism? Or the powerful imagery it evokes? Or the subtle commentary on modern life that it makes? Well, if you get something - anything out of it, good for you. Because, I just picked out those lines from a random scan of today's Guardian and strung them together. And sometimes, when I read such random acts of 'poetry', it gets me angry. I feel I'm being mocked. Perhaps, that's the intention. In which case, why doesn't someone come out and say 'gotcha! you pretentious piece of poetry-lover!'?
Yeah, yeah, I know what you are saying. That it's poetry and there are no rules in poetry etc. But hand-on-heart, tell me, who are you kidding? Isn't most of this modern verse thing just rubbish really?
Particularly, modern free verse. You know, kind where they don't rhyme. The kind where I run out of time (rhyme-time, get it?). The ones that look like someone can't. punctuate and .
just broke up sentence. Because.
Yes,
I don't get it. To be fair, I tried. I subscribed to an e-newsletter (minstrels, since you ask) and I often read the footnotes before reading the poem. And again, to be fair, there were some real gems in it. I also come across some good free verse scattered among blogs and I love the insight they offer with such an economy of words. However, they are few and far between. Consider this one, for instance.
Caramel America
Partisan interloper rebuts
Junk
Pause, briefly
A fond farewell.
What do you think of it? Do you like the eerie mysticism? Or the powerful imagery it evokes? Or the subtle commentary on modern life that it makes? Well, if you get something - anything out of it, good for you. Because, I just picked out those lines from a random scan of today's Guardian and strung them together. And sometimes, when I read such random acts of 'poetry', it gets me angry. I feel I'm being mocked. Perhaps, that's the intention. In which case, why doesn't someone come out and say 'gotcha! you pretentious piece of poetry-lover!'?
Yeah, yeah, I know what you are saying. That it's poetry and there are no rules in poetry etc. But hand-on-heart, tell me, who are you kidding? Isn't most of this modern verse thing just rubbish really?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 5
Mani Rathnam
What's all this talk about Mani Rathnam being India's best director and so on? Honestly, when was the man's last good movie? Nayagan? Mouna Ragam? I admit, I liked Alaipayuthe in parts but then you don't look at a child and say how gorgeous are the toes while determinedly ignoring the warts on the face. I could barely sit through Dil Se. And as for Guru, let's not go there, shall we? Like the kind and like-minded husband pointed out, two hits and fifteen flops don't make a master. They only serve to make the good ones seem like anomalies in an otherwise extraordinarily dull career. And yet the man enjoys much popularity and a haloed status among movie goers. He is beyond criticism and his movies are analysed within a breadth of their rather flimsy life. How did he get there? How did he come to enjoy a status that sees stars queueing outside his door for a reportedly pittance of a fee despite his string of flops? How come he commands such a long leash from his audience who don't accord other film-makers the same privilege?
Mani has been clever in shrouding his projects in secrecy and staying away from the media glare. These have always added to a sense of intrigue that precedes the release of his movies. But none of that hype can take away from an otherwise mediocre product. I feel somewhere along the way Mani started believing in all the hoopla surrounding him and succumbed to it. He started taking himself too seriously and began sketching a canvas that was way beyond what his limited talents could handle. He offers such simplistic solutions to end communal riots and ethnic conflicts that beggar belief. And as for his attempts at biopics, he doesn't have the balls to go all the way and seems to find curious comfort in elaborate disclaimers at the start of the movie. This is the point in my rant when I say that I'm not a movie critic or an expert and just a regular enthusiast. But why bother? You probably know that already.
What's all this talk about Mani Rathnam being India's best director and so on? Honestly, when was the man's last good movie? Nayagan? Mouna Ragam? I admit, I liked Alaipayuthe in parts but then you don't look at a child and say how gorgeous are the toes while determinedly ignoring the warts on the face. I could barely sit through Dil Se. And as for Guru, let's not go there, shall we? Like the kind and like-minded husband pointed out, two hits and fifteen flops don't make a master. They only serve to make the good ones seem like anomalies in an otherwise extraordinarily dull career. And yet the man enjoys much popularity and a haloed status among movie goers. He is beyond criticism and his movies are analysed within a breadth of their rather flimsy life. How did he get there? How did he come to enjoy a status that sees stars queueing outside his door for a reportedly pittance of a fee despite his string of flops? How come he commands such a long leash from his audience who don't accord other film-makers the same privilege?
Mani has been clever in shrouding his projects in secrecy and staying away from the media glare. These have always added to a sense of intrigue that precedes the release of his movies. But none of that hype can take away from an otherwise mediocre product. I feel somewhere along the way Mani started believing in all the hoopla surrounding him and succumbed to it. He started taking himself too seriously and began sketching a canvas that was way beyond what his limited talents could handle. He offers such simplistic solutions to end communal riots and ethnic conflicts that beggar belief. And as for his attempts at biopics, he doesn't have the balls to go all the way and seems to find curious comfort in elaborate disclaimers at the start of the movie. This is the point in my rant when I say that I'm not a movie critic or an expert and just a regular enthusiast. But why bother? You probably know that already.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 4
On photography
I have a problem with photography. With photography as an art, to be precise. I just can't seem to be able to take it seriously (even if it's not exactly gagging for my approval). You see, to me it just seems...how shall I put it? Too easy. I mean, where's the effort involved in putting together a piece of art? I was watching a documentary on photography a few days ago and it showed the brilliant photographer Henri Cartier Bresson at work. He walks around with his little Leica hidden behind him and when he sees his perfect composition coming together, he whips out his camera and goes 'click!, click!'. C'est tout! (as he may have exclaimed). That's it? No agonizing over the canvas? No tossing and turning over the inability to find the perfect 'blue'? No spending months and years observing a landscape in changing light? None of that suffering and just a few clicks? Which leads me to wonder if the superiority of an art is directly proportional to the sufferance of the artist? I don't know. It just seems as if photography, at least to me, is not as substantial an art as say painting is. There's no bulk to it, if you know what I mean. Convince me otherwise, won't you?
p.s. also, will someone please tell me who clicked the Tantex hoarding in Vyasarpadi?
I have a problem with photography. With photography as an art, to be precise. I just can't seem to be able to take it seriously (even if it's not exactly gagging for my approval). You see, to me it just seems...how shall I put it? Too easy. I mean, where's the effort involved in putting together a piece of art? I was watching a documentary on photography a few days ago and it showed the brilliant photographer Henri Cartier Bresson at work. He walks around with his little Leica hidden behind him and when he sees his perfect composition coming together, he whips out his camera and goes 'click!, click!'. C'est tout! (as he may have exclaimed). That's it? No agonizing over the canvas? No tossing and turning over the inability to find the perfect 'blue'? No spending months and years observing a landscape in changing light? None of that suffering and just a few clicks? Which leads me to wonder if the superiority of an art is directly proportional to the sufferance of the artist? I don't know. It just seems as if photography, at least to me, is not as substantial an art as say painting is. There's no bulk to it, if you know what I mean. Convince me otherwise, won't you?
p.s. also, will someone please tell me who clicked the Tantex hoarding in Vyasarpadi?
Friday, November 09, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 3
The C word
Indian culture. What is it to you? To me, it seems like a convenient and rather hazy area that covers everything from dress code to Bollywood to wedding ceremonies to prime time tv soaps. When I posed this question to an ancient uncle of mine once, he told me that it's the practices that have been followed for centuries by our ancestors. So I asked him if practised long enough, would watching Pepsi Uma on Sun TV become a pillar of Indian culture some day? He didn't answer me but looked at my mother to suggest that she had better get me married soon. So this is what I'd like you to tell me. I don't care for academic definitions. But what's your understanding of culture? Specifically, Indian culture?
Indian culture. What is it to you? To me, it seems like a convenient and rather hazy area that covers everything from dress code to Bollywood to wedding ceremonies to prime time tv soaps. When I posed this question to an ancient uncle of mine once, he told me that it's the practices that have been followed for centuries by our ancestors. So I asked him if practised long enough, would watching Pepsi Uma on Sun TV become a pillar of Indian culture some day? He didn't answer me but looked at my mother to suggest that she had better get me married soon. So this is what I'd like you to tell me. I don't care for academic definitions. But what's your understanding of culture? Specifically, Indian culture?
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
A bee in my bonnet 2
On Travelling
The other day I heard someone say '...because travel expands horizons'. And I desperately wanted to ask 'really?'. I would've liked to know how travelling economy class, staying in budget hotels, complaining about local food/mosquitoes/toilets and having your photo clicked in front of the Eiffel Tower contributes to widening of perspective. The previous sentence is not to suggest that if you travelled business and stayed at star hotels you'd be any wiser. But I just don't get the wisdom that one is supposed to draw from having a few more stamps on your passport.
And as Indians we seem particularly fond of showing off how many places we've been to around the world. You need to look no further than any of the social networking sites to see desis posing in front of Statue of Liberty/Sydney Opera House/second-hand Toyota car in their profile photo. The inference that one intends for others to draw is clear. Look at me, I'm widely travelled and therefore I must be better than you. Sure, it is fun going to a new place and seeing new people. But is travelling anything more than that? Especially in this day and age when we seek to replicate the same atmosphere as home wherever we go. With holiday companies offering customers masal vadai and tea in Swiss Alps and some airlines offering Jain cuisine. Why is it any better than staying at home and watching the same on telly? Some of the most interesting people I know have never left their hometowns. In fact, they don't even have a passport. And some of the most peripatetic people I know are none the wiser for it. So why are so many benefits attributed to travelling the world? What's your take on it?
The other day I heard someone say '...because travel expands horizons'. And I desperately wanted to ask 'really?'. I would've liked to know how travelling economy class, staying in budget hotels, complaining about local food/mosquitoes/toilets and having your photo clicked in front of the Eiffel Tower contributes to widening of perspective. The previous sentence is not to suggest that if you travelled business and stayed at star hotels you'd be any wiser. But I just don't get the wisdom that one is supposed to draw from having a few more stamps on your passport.
And as Indians we seem particularly fond of showing off how many places we've been to around the world. You need to look no further than any of the social networking sites to see desis posing in front of Statue of Liberty/Sydney Opera House/second-hand Toyota car in their profile photo. The inference that one intends for others to draw is clear. Look at me, I'm widely travelled and therefore I must be better than you. Sure, it is fun going to a new place and seeing new people. But is travelling anything more than that? Especially in this day and age when we seek to replicate the same atmosphere as home wherever we go. With holiday companies offering customers masal vadai and tea in Swiss Alps and some airlines offering Jain cuisine. Why is it any better than staying at home and watching the same on telly? Some of the most interesting people I know have never left their hometowns. In fact, they don't even have a passport. And some of the most peripatetic people I know are none the wiser for it. So why are so many benefits attributed to travelling the world? What's your take on it?
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
A bee in my bonnet
On Reading
Yesterday I finished reading a most riveting book (more of that another time). And it got me thinking. Not the content of the book itself. But the whole thing about reading. And why it's considered such a superior thing to do. We talk of bookworms in such warm and affectionate terms. Like somehow reading a Danielle Steele is a noble thing to do. Whereas those addicted to telly are reviled in the most derogatory terms. Why is one a better hobby than the other?
So often I come across people who love to show off how much they've read. A person's worth is judged by the books that line his bookshelf - even if half of them have never been thumbed past the first few pages. Then there's the more dangerous association we regularly make. Between reading and intelligence. Is one because of the other? Is one due to the other? If so, how? Is there any tangible evidence to show that reading makes a better person? That devouring fiction will somehow endow the reader with wisdom (I use the term very loosely here, but you get the drift)? So why this snobbery when it comes to books? Your thoughts in the comment box please!
Yesterday I finished reading a most riveting book (more of that another time). And it got me thinking. Not the content of the book itself. But the whole thing about reading. And why it's considered such a superior thing to do. We talk of bookworms in such warm and affectionate terms. Like somehow reading a Danielle Steele is a noble thing to do. Whereas those addicted to telly are reviled in the most derogatory terms. Why is one a better hobby than the other?
So often I come across people who love to show off how much they've read. A person's worth is judged by the books that line his bookshelf - even if half of them have never been thumbed past the first few pages. Then there's the more dangerous association we regularly make. Between reading and intelligence. Is one because of the other? Is one due to the other? If so, how? Is there any tangible evidence to show that reading makes a better person? That devouring fiction will somehow endow the reader with wisdom (I use the term very loosely here, but you get the drift)? So why this snobbery when it comes to books? Your thoughts in the comment box please!
The Marathon Mummy
"...giving birth was tougher than a marathon", says this year's New York marathon winner Paula Radcliffe. We agree!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Dina Rabinovitch
I started reading Dina Rabinovitch's column in The Guardian supplement G2 a couple of years ago when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. She used to write every other Wednesday about her experience with unflinching honesty. Sometimes I'd have to put the paper down, look away and skip a few lines when I returned to her piece. Over the next few months, I became familiar with her 3-year old son Elon, her surgeon Dr Dubaisi and her large brood including several step children. She wrote candidly about her efforts to get her son to understand why she could no longer breast feed him (he was 2 1/2 already!), what it was like to lose clumps of hair following chemo and the experience of seeing a flat chest where once there used to be boob. And this morning I woke up to a G2 dedicating their cover article to Dina following her demise yesterday. She was only 44.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
24 hour no more
Sorry to've kept you waiting for so long. I seem to've lost steam with this one. I'd like to write something long, detailed and pointless. That means this challenge will have to be put aside for a while. Thanks everyone for participating. It was much fun.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
24-hour challenge - 7
It's avataram again. With his time-travelling Pallava monarch that was a definite favourite among the last lot.
Today's theme is 'curdle'. A slight difference this time being, you have until 0800 GMT Monday morning to post your entries. Look forward to reading your stories. Thank you.
Today's theme is 'curdle'. A slight difference this time being, you have until 0800 GMT Monday morning to post your entries. Look forward to reading your stories. Thank you.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
24-hour challenge - 6
The last couple of days have been quite mad around here. Hence the delay in announcing the next challenge. From the previous lot, I really liked avataram's hilarious short about Tachcholi Othenan although it was posted past the deadline (do I recognise the style from somewhere?).
Let's try something different today. Your story should include the words (phrase?) 'niggling fear' - in that order and not 'niggling' and 'fear'.
You have until 1800 hrs GMT tomorrow to post your story in the comment box. Look forward to it!
p.s. Thank you all for wishing the little 'un on his big day.
Let's try something different today. Your story should include the words (phrase?) 'niggling fear' - in that order and not 'niggling' and 'fear'.
You have until 1800 hrs GMT tomorrow to post your story in the comment box. Look forward to it!
p.s. Thank you all for wishing the little 'un on his big day.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
The 24-hour challenge - 5
Apologies for posting the next challenge much later than I'd promised to. I really like both alien and shruthi's entries.
Now for the next challenge. The theme for today is 'jet lag'. You have until 20:15 GMT Monday evening to come up with a story. Please keep it short and post it in the comment box. Thank you!
Now for the next challenge. The theme for today is 'jet lag'. You have until 20:15 GMT Monday evening to come up with a story. Please keep it short and post it in the comment box. Thank you!
Friday, October 12, 2007
The 24-hour challenge - 4
What a fantastic response! Thank you all for posting your stories. Alien, rupa and neha's entries caught my eye. But the runaway favourite was Aliskandar's short.
Today's theme is 'credit card'. You have until 14.30 GMT tomorrow to come up with a story and post it in the comment box. Good luck!
Today's theme is 'credit card'. You have until 14.30 GMT tomorrow to come up with a story and post it in the comment box. Good luck!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The 24-hour challenge - 3
I was bowled over by neha's brilliant short. This neha is apparently not the hugely-talented nehavish as I'd assumed. Who then?
Today's theme is 'cough syrup'. The time now is 13.40 GMT and you have until the same time tomorrow to come up with a story. Keep it short and post it in the comment box. Keep them coming!
Today's theme is 'cough syrup'. The time now is 13.40 GMT and you have until the same time tomorrow to come up with a story. Keep it short and post it in the comment box. Keep them coming!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The 24-hour challenge - 2
I really liked faitoo's odd little story to yesterday's challenge. Today's theme is 'socks'.
The time now is 16.10 GMT and you have a day to come up with a story. Please keep it short and post it in the comment box. Thank you!
The time now is 16.10 GMT and you have a day to come up with a story. Please keep it short and post it in the comment box. Thank you!
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
The 24-hour challenge
Sorry for the delay in starting this competition. The idea is simple. You have 24 hours to come up with a story based on a given theme or an opening line.
Today's theme is 'curry'. Please post your short story in the comment box. The time now is 15.30 GMT and you have the next 24 hours in which to come up with a story. Happy writing!
Today's theme is 'curry'. Please post your short story in the comment box. The time now is 15.30 GMT and you have the next 24 hours in which to come up with a story. Happy writing!
Monday, October 08, 2007
Rubbish
Yesterday I found a cigarette carton in a recycling bin. I wonder if the smoker swallowed the cigarette fumes instead of letting it out into the air.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Reflections on seeing a paati
Today I saw a photo of my mother's mother for perhaps the first time in my life. She has been dead for a long long time and my own information about her is rather sketchy. All I know is that she passed away when my mother was 4 years old. My mother used to say that she left home after having made paruppu thogayal for dinner. And never returned alive. When I was young I was never curious about my maternal grandmother. And rarely asked my mother about her. Even if I had, what could my mother have told me? She was a mere child when she was bereaved.
So much so, I'm not even sure what my grandmother's real name is. Ramalakshmi, I think. Or is it Nagalakshmi? And yet, when I saw her photo today, I couldn't take my eyes of her. I wish I knew more about this young woman sitting next to her newly-wed husband. She must have been no more than 16 or 17 in that photo. And already her shoulders were rounded and her eyes lined with fatigue. Did she have a premonition of the short life ahead of her? The five children she would bear in quick succession and leave behind soon thereafter? She's not even smiling in the photo. Did someone tell her that it is not proper to smile at a stranger behind the camera? Or was it the weight of her husband's hand on her shoulder that made it difficult for her to relax and smile? By contrast, her husband, my grandfather, is a strapping, handsome young man in his early twenties with much to look forward to. I've heard a lot about his intelligence, his supposed brilliance as an academician. His legions of students who, almost 30 years since his demise, still talk about him with great awe. No achievement on that side of my family, particularly academic, goes without being credited to the grandfather's genes. Two generations down the line, the man's presence still looms large. And yet, so little of his wife is known.
I go back to look at her photo and I'm drawn to her face. It is deeply moving to think that I'm her direct descendant. Perhaps I inherited some of her traits. Her love for sweets. Her tendency to put on weight. Her stubborn nature. I will never know. And I will never be able to tell my children about it. But for now, I gather my son and show him the picture. This was my paati, I tell him. He seems vaguely interested and then runs away to play with his cars. But someday I will tell him that she had five children and that the last meal she cooked was a thogayal.
So much so, I'm not even sure what my grandmother's real name is. Ramalakshmi, I think. Or is it Nagalakshmi? And yet, when I saw her photo today, I couldn't take my eyes of her. I wish I knew more about this young woman sitting next to her newly-wed husband. She must have been no more than 16 or 17 in that photo. And already her shoulders were rounded and her eyes lined with fatigue. Did she have a premonition of the short life ahead of her? The five children she would bear in quick succession and leave behind soon thereafter? She's not even smiling in the photo. Did someone tell her that it is not proper to smile at a stranger behind the camera? Or was it the weight of her husband's hand on her shoulder that made it difficult for her to relax and smile? By contrast, her husband, my grandfather, is a strapping, handsome young man in his early twenties with much to look forward to. I've heard a lot about his intelligence, his supposed brilliance as an academician. His legions of students who, almost 30 years since his demise, still talk about him with great awe. No achievement on that side of my family, particularly academic, goes without being credited to the grandfather's genes. Two generations down the line, the man's presence still looms large. And yet, so little of his wife is known.
I go back to look at her photo and I'm drawn to her face. It is deeply moving to think that I'm her direct descendant. Perhaps I inherited some of her traits. Her love for sweets. Her tendency to put on weight. Her stubborn nature. I will never know. And I will never be able to tell my children about it. But for now, I gather my son and show him the picture. This was my paati, I tell him. He seems vaguely interested and then runs away to play with his cars. But someday I will tell him that she had five children and that the last meal she cooked was a thogayal.
The 24 hour challenge
This should be tricky. But here's the idea first. You have to come up with a story in a day's time. I'll give you the theme or the opening line to a story. And you post your entry in the next 24 hours. I'll try to pose a new challenge every other day. And the most profilic and the most creative writer will be judged winner at the end of the month. A couple things to bear in mind. Please keep your stories short and please post them in the comment box. All clear? Good, we'll get rolling in the next few days.
Monday, September 24, 2007
A quick tale 200
Suniti said...
Wow! That was a great Ammani.
September 25, 2007 10:20 PM
Janaki said...
Why do all your stories haveto end like this always?
September 25, 2007 10:53 PM
Singer the minger said...
This reminds me of a short story by Sujatha. I think you are running out of ideas.
September 26, 2007 1:12 AM
Juvinile said...
Congrats on the 200 ammani. Uve dunnit in style.
September 26, 2007 5:50 AM
Pesidunit said...
[…]'ammani posts her 200th quick tale'[…]
September 26, 2007 8:07 AM
Blogeswari said...
Ada thoo! Idhu oru kadai. Idhukku ivlo comment! Kizhinjidu po!
September 26, 2007 12:45 PM
Aldo frodo said...
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September 26, 2007 2:56 PM
Anonymous said...
What is the point? I think this blog is highly over-rated. I prefer Nilu anyday. Where is theothernilu?
September 26, 2007 10:45 PM
Wow! That was a great Ammani.
September 25, 2007 10:20 PM
Janaki said...
Why do all your stories haveto end like this always?
September 25, 2007 10:53 PM
Singer the minger said...
This reminds me of a short story by Sujatha. I think you are running out of ideas.
September 26, 2007 1:12 AM
Juvinile said...
Congrats on the 200 ammani. Uve dunnit in style.
September 26, 2007 5:50 AM
Pesidunit said...
[…]'ammani posts her 200th quick tale'[…]
September 26, 2007 8:07 AM
Blogeswari said...
Ada thoo! Idhu oru kadai. Idhukku ivlo comment! Kizhinjidu po!
September 26, 2007 12:45 PM
Aldo frodo said...
Great blog. If you want more pleasure for your measure, visit this site. Great XXX
September 26, 2007 2:56 PM
Anonymous said...
What is the point? I think this blog is highly over-rated. I prefer Nilu anyday. Where is theothernilu?
September 26, 2007 10:45 PM
Saturday, September 22, 2007
A quick tale 199
This is him
This is him. It was taken in 1984. When he was applying for a passport. The office was going to send him to a conference in Paris in a couple of months and he needed a passport pretty soon. He went to have his photo clicked on a Tuesday morning. I asked him if he could wait until the following day as everyone knows Tuesdays are not auspicious. He chided me for being so superstitious and left for the studio. The photographer told him that he should be wearing something dark coloured and so he rushed home to change. He's wearing a deep blue coloured shirt but you wouldn't know that because it's a black and white photo. It cost him 20 rupees for 6 copies and an extra 4 rupees for the negative. I laughed when I first saw the photo because he looked so grim in it. As if the doctor had just delivered some very bad news. He was annoyed when he saw me laughing and told me that only fools grin stupidly at a camera. We stuck 4 copies onto the application form and enclosed a loose copy with it. I don't know where the negative went. But I've kept the 6th copy in my mani-purse.
He was diagnosed last June and they said that he was already in stage 3. He passed away in August. At least he didn't suffer for long. Sometimes when I open my purse to pay the milkman or the vegetable vendor, I wonder if I will only remember him as the man with the severe expression from that photo. Of course I won't. I have wonderful memories from all those years together. Some of the best ones were never captured on camera.
This is him. It was taken in 1984. When he was applying for a passport. The office was going to send him to a conference in Paris in a couple of months and he needed a passport pretty soon. He went to have his photo clicked on a Tuesday morning. I asked him if he could wait until the following day as everyone knows Tuesdays are not auspicious. He chided me for being so superstitious and left for the studio. The photographer told him that he should be wearing something dark coloured and so he rushed home to change. He's wearing a deep blue coloured shirt but you wouldn't know that because it's a black and white photo. It cost him 20 rupees for 6 copies and an extra 4 rupees for the negative. I laughed when I first saw the photo because he looked so grim in it. As if the doctor had just delivered some very bad news. He was annoyed when he saw me laughing and told me that only fools grin stupidly at a camera. We stuck 4 copies onto the application form and enclosed a loose copy with it. I don't know where the negative went. But I've kept the 6th copy in my mani-purse.
He was diagnosed last June and they said that he was already in stage 3. He passed away in August. At least he didn't suffer for long. Sometimes when I open my purse to pay the milkman or the vegetable vendor, I wonder if I will only remember him as the man with the severe expression from that photo. Of course I won't. I have wonderful memories from all those years together. Some of the best ones were never captured on camera.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
A quick tale 198
Brindavan Express
There’s something wrong with her, I thought to myself as the elderly woman strode past me for the tenth time in the last five minutes. I watched her as she walked down the length of our train carriage. She reached the far end, turned around and started to come back. She must be 60 or 70, cannot tell for sure. She was one of those people who seemed to have been old for a really long time. Tight grey curls that had escaped the tiny grasp of a pony tail framed her evenly lined face. She wore a bright green saree and a matching blouse and appeared well-cared for. She was the kind of woman you would expect to bore you with details of her senior bank manager-son, her government-employee daughter-in-law, 16-year old grandson Rahul or Ajay who was studying hard to get in to a professional degree course and her 12-year old grand-daughter who had just become ‘a woman’. Except she did none of these. Her eyes looked vacant and she kept mumbling furiously as she marched up and down the train carriage purposefully.
Brindavan Express leaves Chennai at 7 am on weekday and stops at several small towns before reaching Bangalore just past noon. It’s favoured by city-dwellers who work in small outposts. Today was no exception and our carriage was packed with office-goers on their way to work. And they all seemed determined to ignore the oddly-behaved elderly woman in their midst. After watching her for another 20 minutes or so, and noticing no change in her behaviour, I decided to do something. Amma! I called out to her. She walked on by without registering my call. I followed her as I tried to get her attention. I was right behind her and when we reached the end of the carriage, she turned around and came face-to-face with me. She looked straight past me. Are you with someone, amma?, I asked. She didn’t seem to hear me. Amma? I repeated. Is your family with you? Son? Daughter? Somebody? She reacted with the same vacant expression. And I noticed something akin to panic flit past her eyes. I was keen to avoid a showdown so I let her pass.
By now, I had the attention of the entire carriage. Did anyone see her come with somebody? I asked out aloud. A few heads shook no. I went around asking the same question. And no one had seen her being accompanied by family. I spent the next half-an-hour walking along the train asking others if they were missing an elderly co-passenger. I returned to my carriage with a plan. I found out that the next big station was Katpadi Junction. I’m going to hand her over to the station master, I said out aloud to those in my carriage, and he should be able to do the needful. No one seemed to care what happened to her. They busied themselves with magazines, happy to have her taken off their hands.
At Katpadi, I alighted first and gently helped her get off the train. She didn’t resist and held on tightly to me like a child in a fairground. The station master’s office was a dark room with a fan whirring noisily somewhere in the ceiling. I explained the situation to him and he listened to me patiently. They had another case like this last month at Vyasarpadi, he told me, the family didn’t want to take care of the old man any more, so they let him wander. But what can we do? Anyway, leave her here. The lady constable has gone for her lunch break. Once she comes back, I’ll ask her to do something.
I was told that they would arrange for the old woman to be taken to Chennai where they would lodge a complaint in the missing people’s registry. If no one came forward to claim her in 30 days, she would be sent to some mental-health institution. I looked up at her still clinging to me like a little girl. I’m sorry, Amma, I said to her quietly, I cannot take care of you any more. This is probably better for you than living with us.
I heard the train whistle going up. I prised her fingers open and freed my arm. I started to run without turning back. Tears were flowing freely as I boarded the train. We should reach Bangalore in 3 hours’ time.
There’s something wrong with her, I thought to myself as the elderly woman strode past me for the tenth time in the last five minutes. I watched her as she walked down the length of our train carriage. She reached the far end, turned around and started to come back. She must be 60 or 70, cannot tell for sure. She was one of those people who seemed to have been old for a really long time. Tight grey curls that had escaped the tiny grasp of a pony tail framed her evenly lined face. She wore a bright green saree and a matching blouse and appeared well-cared for. She was the kind of woman you would expect to bore you with details of her senior bank manager-son, her government-employee daughter-in-law, 16-year old grandson Rahul or Ajay who was studying hard to get in to a professional degree course and her 12-year old grand-daughter who had just become ‘a woman’. Except she did none of these. Her eyes looked vacant and she kept mumbling furiously as she marched up and down the train carriage purposefully.
Brindavan Express leaves Chennai at 7 am on weekday and stops at several small towns before reaching Bangalore just past noon. It’s favoured by city-dwellers who work in small outposts. Today was no exception and our carriage was packed with office-goers on their way to work. And they all seemed determined to ignore the oddly-behaved elderly woman in their midst. After watching her for another 20 minutes or so, and noticing no change in her behaviour, I decided to do something. Amma! I called out to her. She walked on by without registering my call. I followed her as I tried to get her attention. I was right behind her and when we reached the end of the carriage, she turned around and came face-to-face with me. She looked straight past me. Are you with someone, amma?, I asked. She didn’t seem to hear me. Amma? I repeated. Is your family with you? Son? Daughter? Somebody? She reacted with the same vacant expression. And I noticed something akin to panic flit past her eyes. I was keen to avoid a showdown so I let her pass.
By now, I had the attention of the entire carriage. Did anyone see her come with somebody? I asked out aloud. A few heads shook no. I went around asking the same question. And no one had seen her being accompanied by family. I spent the next half-an-hour walking along the train asking others if they were missing an elderly co-passenger. I returned to my carriage with a plan. I found out that the next big station was Katpadi Junction. I’m going to hand her over to the station master, I said out aloud to those in my carriage, and he should be able to do the needful. No one seemed to care what happened to her. They busied themselves with magazines, happy to have her taken off their hands.
At Katpadi, I alighted first and gently helped her get off the train. She didn’t resist and held on tightly to me like a child in a fairground. The station master’s office was a dark room with a fan whirring noisily somewhere in the ceiling. I explained the situation to him and he listened to me patiently. They had another case like this last month at Vyasarpadi, he told me, the family didn’t want to take care of the old man any more, so they let him wander. But what can we do? Anyway, leave her here. The lady constable has gone for her lunch break. Once she comes back, I’ll ask her to do something.
I was told that they would arrange for the old woman to be taken to Chennai where they would lodge a complaint in the missing people’s registry. If no one came forward to claim her in 30 days, she would be sent to some mental-health institution. I looked up at her still clinging to me like a little girl. I’m sorry, Amma, I said to her quietly, I cannot take care of you any more. This is probably better for you than living with us.
I heard the train whistle going up. I prised her fingers open and freed my arm. I started to run without turning back. Tears were flowing freely as I boarded the train. We should reach Bangalore in 3 hours’ time.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
In The Night Garden
It's official. We are addicted to this eerily surreal and refreshingly ridiculous offering from Cbeebies - yes, the same house of art that brought us such classics as Teletubbies and the unforgettable Balamory. Presenting In The Night Garden. Featuring Ickle-pickle, Upsy-daisy, Topplyboo, Ninkynonk, Pinkyponks, Ponty-pines and the slightly suggestively named Maka-Pakka. Please do not adjust your sets.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Caught my eye
A couple of lovely posts that deserve a wider audience. One, in which Madura goes shopping (warning: adult content). And two, in which Ahiri urges the little 'uns to cover the planet with their footprints.
First day
The boy went in to school without so much as a look in our direction. We kept waving. In case he did.
Thanks so much Archana, Shyam, Shoefiend, a4isms, SS, Deepa, G3, Bubby, Naga Mama, WA and all others for writing in wishing the little one luck.
Thanks so much Archana, Shyam, Shoefiend, a4isms, SS, Deepa, G3, Bubby, Naga Mama, WA and all others for writing in wishing the little one luck.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
For a son about to start school
Next week this time, it will be chaos around the house. Your dad and I will be running helter-skelter trying to get you ready in time for your first day at school. Like parents around the country, Appa and I will be making sure that your uniform are ironed, your lunch box packed, your shoes polished, your hair combed, your teeth brushed...my head swirls even as I think of all the chores to be done. And there are all the instructions we need to give you. Raise your hand when you need to use the toilet. Finish all your lunch. Don't play rough in the playground. Listen to what your teacher says. Don't talk during class...but despite all my worries, I'm excited for you. I don't see it as the end of a carefree chapter as much as the beginning of a significant period of your life.
Soon your days will be dictated by the school calendar. And you will settle into a comfortable routine of school days and weekends. Your vocabulary will swell and you will make new friends. You will learn to read and to write. You will be embarrassed of me and Appa and banish us from talking to your friends. For our part, we will dread going to the PTA meetings and we will pray that your teacher will have nothing to complain about your behaviour. There will be PE injuries and head lice to contend with. Lunch menus to think of. Summer uniforms to sort out. Holiday camps to enrol to...
But somewhere amidst the chaos of such tumultous change, I will miss our time together. All these years when I didn't have to share your days with the school. When I could let you stay awake and watch TV and not worry that you will wake up late for school the next morning. When we could go on a holiday in May because we felt like it. Or ride the local train on a Tuesday morning on a whim. I will miss you, kutty-ma.
And it's not going to be easy for us watching you go through the school gate for the first time. But we will walk away knowing that our little one is in safe hands. And will be running home to us in just over six hours' time.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Idli
This morning I was wondering what it is about the idli that I dislike it so much. Is it the endless rounds of preparation? Soaking, grinding, fermenting and THEN cooking? Or is it the idli's inherent frailty as a dish to stand on its own? Its constant dependency on something more pungent to support it? Or is it the idli's inoffensive, non-threatening, bland nature that it's suitable only for those under 2 or anyone recovering from a particularly unpleasant illness? I don't know. All I know is that I have never taken a liking to the steamed rice cake - the English description doesn't quite fit, does it? A bit like Pattu mami in pant-shirt, not right at all!
And there's more. Idlis are fussy old things. No ordinary pans would do. It'd have to be a special perforated idli plate. And it has to be cooked only for so long. Any more or any less and it's a toss up between rock and raw batter for breakfast. Idlis remind me of that ugly cousin who insisted that the girl he marry meet a 101 conditions. You just want to ask him to shove it and get on with it!
And it doesn't stop there. There's this whole side-business of chutnies and sambar to accompany the idli. After all, you can't serve the idli on its own!
Yet, there I was on the first morning of a bank holiday weekend, soaking three portions of idli rice to one of whole ulutham paruppu. Adding a teaspoon of vendayam. Returning in the evening to grind them to a smooth, lump-free batter. Seasoning with salt and tucking the half-full pot into a corner in the boiler room. Waking up in the middle of the night to see if there was enough room in the pot for the batter when it doubles in volume. And wondering, not for the first time, why I even got started.
I'll spare you the rest of the agonising steps in this recipe. The end result was less than fluffy and would rate about 6 on a Saravana Bhavan idli scale. Still, when we stuffed our faces with idlis and molagapodi and washed it down with a glass of buttermilk, I sensed smug satisfaction spread all over my being. For a brief while, I felt like an ideal wife. One who feeds her family idli for breakfast, not dried cereal or worse, bread! I felt one with all my sisters back in India and elsewhere who follow the idli ritual every week. It was an inexplicably deep connection. I even resolved to ask my idli-making friends for tips on how to better the batter.
I would be lying if I said that I dislike the idli less now. My distaste for it remains just as strong. But an idli every six months or so shouldn't hurt. Unless I dropped it accidentally on my foot and broke it - the foot, not the idli.
cross posted at chaipani
And there's more. Idlis are fussy old things. No ordinary pans would do. It'd have to be a special perforated idli plate. And it has to be cooked only for so long. Any more or any less and it's a toss up between rock and raw batter for breakfast. Idlis remind me of that ugly cousin who insisted that the girl he marry meet a 101 conditions. You just want to ask him to shove it and get on with it!
And it doesn't stop there. There's this whole side-business of chutnies and sambar to accompany the idli. After all, you can't serve the idli on its own!
Yet, there I was on the first morning of a bank holiday weekend, soaking three portions of idli rice to one of whole ulutham paruppu. Adding a teaspoon of vendayam. Returning in the evening to grind them to a smooth, lump-free batter. Seasoning with salt and tucking the half-full pot into a corner in the boiler room. Waking up in the middle of the night to see if there was enough room in the pot for the batter when it doubles in volume. And wondering, not for the first time, why I even got started.
I'll spare you the rest of the agonising steps in this recipe. The end result was less than fluffy and would rate about 6 on a Saravana Bhavan idli scale. Still, when we stuffed our faces with idlis and molagapodi and washed it down with a glass of buttermilk, I sensed smug satisfaction spread all over my being. For a brief while, I felt like an ideal wife. One who feeds her family idli for breakfast, not dried cereal or worse, bread! I felt one with all my sisters back in India and elsewhere who follow the idli ritual every week. It was an inexplicably deep connection. I even resolved to ask my idli-making friends for tips on how to better the batter.
I would be lying if I said that I dislike the idli less now. My distaste for it remains just as strong. But an idli every six months or so shouldn't hurt. Unless I dropped it accidentally on my foot and broke it - the foot, not the idli.
cross posted at chaipani
Friday, August 24, 2007
A quick tale 197
Libra 23 Sept-23 Oct
Since you no longer tell me about it. I have started reading your daily horoscope to find out how your day was.
Since you no longer tell me about it. I have started reading your daily horoscope to find out how your day was.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
A quick tale 196
An empty shell
Her aunt Rukmini had been specially summoned for the occasion. She has an auspicious touch, grandmother had insisted. Everything she's involved in, ends well. Gomathy herself had woken up early that morning. Earlier than usual, having been unable to sleep much of the previous night. Which is why, she would remark many years later pointing the photo to her grand daughter, I have those dark circles under my eyes. She couldn't tell her grand child about how Rukmini athai had smeared a good half-a-tub of kohl under her eyes in the name of warding off evil. And how she had run quietly to the bathroom to wipe it away. And how, because there was so much of it, she didn't manage to take it all off. Her grandchildren grew up in a world vastly different from her own and they would laugh at her old stories.
Gomathy had chosen her mother's deep blue silk saree and a matching blouse to go with it for the day. But someone had suggested that it would make her appear dark in the photograph. And everyone knew that nobody wanted a dark bride. So a pale orange chiffon saree that belonged to a neighbour had been picked instead. Gomathy's mother oiled and plaited her long hair, smoothing its wavy curls as she ran the comb down its length. She then tied a yellow ribbon at the end. Gomathy winced as her mother tugged out a few strands from the back of her head to hook a long string of jasmine flowers. Finally, her mother had taken her aside and dabbed a generous portion of Cuticura talcum powder on her face. Gomathy could still recall the sticky sweet smell of talcum powder as it mingled with the sweat from her mother's arm as she lifted it to use to the powder puff. A big round pottu, like a fullstop smack in the middle of her forehead, completed her make-up.
They had paraded, all four of them (three was an inauspicious number) - her parents, aunt and herself - to the most prominent studio in town. She was made to stand against the backdrop of a cloth curtain which had the image of a lush waterfall painted on it. The photographer had propped a papier-mache pillar which came up to her waist, for her to lean against. She rested her arm on it as if it were a short friend. The photographer then adjusted the lights in his studio this way and that way and she struggled to keep her eyes open as bright light beamed straight at her. Twice she batted her eyes just as the camera clicked and the photographer chided her for doing so. The third time her eyes leapt open, more in anxiety than anything else. It made her look surprised as if she had not been expecting to be photographed in that studio.
In the following months, the photo would be circulated among families with eligible young men. It would catch the eye of 24-year old government employee Jagannathan who thought Gomathy resembled a frightened doe. They would be marrried five months after the photo was taken. And it would recede to the far corners of Gomathy's trunk where it would lie undisturbed for several years.
This afternoon, Gomathy's 11-year old grand-daughter Lavanya was visiting her and she had wanted some old family photos for a school summer project. As Gomathy picked up the photo, she noticed how it had lost a lot of its detail, much like her memory. The waterfall in the background was barely distinct and the pillar by her side looked faintly ridiculous. Almost all the people associated with the photo were now dead and gone. Her time would come soon. And when she left, she would take with her the last remaining memories attached to the photo. Leaving behind the empty shell of an image. Here, said Gomathy handing the crispy thin photo to her grandchild, you can have this one. It's just an old photo of mine.
Her aunt Rukmini had been specially summoned for the occasion. She has an auspicious touch, grandmother had insisted. Everything she's involved in, ends well. Gomathy herself had woken up early that morning. Earlier than usual, having been unable to sleep much of the previous night. Which is why, she would remark many years later pointing the photo to her grand daughter, I have those dark circles under my eyes. She couldn't tell her grand child about how Rukmini athai had smeared a good half-a-tub of kohl under her eyes in the name of warding off evil. And how she had run quietly to the bathroom to wipe it away. And how, because there was so much of it, she didn't manage to take it all off. Her grandchildren grew up in a world vastly different from her own and they would laugh at her old stories.
Gomathy had chosen her mother's deep blue silk saree and a matching blouse to go with it for the day. But someone had suggested that it would make her appear dark in the photograph. And everyone knew that nobody wanted a dark bride. So a pale orange chiffon saree that belonged to a neighbour had been picked instead. Gomathy's mother oiled and plaited her long hair, smoothing its wavy curls as she ran the comb down its length. She then tied a yellow ribbon at the end. Gomathy winced as her mother tugged out a few strands from the back of her head to hook a long string of jasmine flowers. Finally, her mother had taken her aside and dabbed a generous portion of Cuticura talcum powder on her face. Gomathy could still recall the sticky sweet smell of talcum powder as it mingled with the sweat from her mother's arm as she lifted it to use to the powder puff. A big round pottu, like a fullstop smack in the middle of her forehead, completed her make-up.
They had paraded, all four of them (three was an inauspicious number) - her parents, aunt and herself - to the most prominent studio in town. She was made to stand against the backdrop of a cloth curtain which had the image of a lush waterfall painted on it. The photographer had propped a papier-mache pillar which came up to her waist, for her to lean against. She rested her arm on it as if it were a short friend. The photographer then adjusted the lights in his studio this way and that way and she struggled to keep her eyes open as bright light beamed straight at her. Twice she batted her eyes just as the camera clicked and the photographer chided her for doing so. The third time her eyes leapt open, more in anxiety than anything else. It made her look surprised as if she had not been expecting to be photographed in that studio.
In the following months, the photo would be circulated among families with eligible young men. It would catch the eye of 24-year old government employee Jagannathan who thought Gomathy resembled a frightened doe. They would be marrried five months after the photo was taken. And it would recede to the far corners of Gomathy's trunk where it would lie undisturbed for several years.
This afternoon, Gomathy's 11-year old grand-daughter Lavanya was visiting her and she had wanted some old family photos for a school summer project. As Gomathy picked up the photo, she noticed how it had lost a lot of its detail, much like her memory. The waterfall in the background was barely distinct and the pillar by her side looked faintly ridiculous. Almost all the people associated with the photo were now dead and gone. Her time would come soon. And when she left, she would take with her the last remaining memories attached to the photo. Leaving behind the empty shell of an image. Here, said Gomathy handing the crispy thin photo to her grandchild, you can have this one. It's just an old photo of mine.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Be a soldier
I don't know what purpose war serves. I certainly don't know what the outcome of Kargil war was. But this post by Blogeswari who happened to be in Ladakh at the time of the war is a moving read. Even if the video is somewhat gushingly sentimental.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
A quick tale 195
Coffee Malli
"Just one muzham, amma. You will be my first boni this morning, amma. "
"Such nice mallis! How much is one muzham?...That's too much! I don't know how people can afford flowers at such such rates! It's not as if people have jasmine growing in their gardens. Coming to think of it, who lives in a house with a garden these days? Not like in my time in Madurai, where we used to have seven beautiful malli creepers in our garden. Appa would make me and my sister water them every evening. I remember Amma used to deposit coffee powder from the previous day's filter at its roots. And Akka used to call it coffee malli. Not jaadi malli.
You know, our mallis were the most fragrant in our neighbourhood. Pankajam maami from two doors down the road would send her grand daughter on Thursdays with a small bowl to pick up the flowers. Amma would be furious. Tell your grandmother that there are mallis in the flower market as well, she would tell the little girl, before plucking out a few bruised ones from the creeper. And in summer! Aha! The creepers would be bent double under the weight of its flowers. Like a woman pregnant with twins at the end of her term! You should never count the buds, Amma used to say. They can hear you and they wither out. Every evening, she would pluck them and tie them into a dense garland using vaazhai naar. She would cut them into two equal halfs for akka and me to wear on our hair. We always fought over who had the longer share of the malli garland. Appa didn't like us wearing it long so that it fell in the front of our face. Like cheap filmstars, he would say. So we would wear it across the back of our head, pinned on either side. What? I told you...Five rupees for a muzham is too much...I can only pay you three. No? Four rupees fifty paisa is still too much. Three rupees or nothing. No, not even four rupees. Okay, okay. Fine then. Find somebody else. "
"Just one muzham, amma. You will be my first boni this morning, amma. "
"Such nice mallis! How much is one muzham?...That's too much! I don't know how people can afford flowers at such such rates! It's not as if people have jasmine growing in their gardens. Coming to think of it, who lives in a house with a garden these days? Not like in my time in Madurai, where we used to have seven beautiful malli creepers in our garden. Appa would make me and my sister water them every evening. I remember Amma used to deposit coffee powder from the previous day's filter at its roots. And Akka used to call it coffee malli. Not jaadi malli.
You know, our mallis were the most fragrant in our neighbourhood. Pankajam maami from two doors down the road would send her grand daughter on Thursdays with a small bowl to pick up the flowers. Amma would be furious. Tell your grandmother that there are mallis in the flower market as well, she would tell the little girl, before plucking out a few bruised ones from the creeper. And in summer! Aha! The creepers would be bent double under the weight of its flowers. Like a woman pregnant with twins at the end of her term! You should never count the buds, Amma used to say. They can hear you and they wither out. Every evening, she would pluck them and tie them into a dense garland using vaazhai naar. She would cut them into two equal halfs for akka and me to wear on our hair. We always fought over who had the longer share of the malli garland. Appa didn't like us wearing it long so that it fell in the front of our face. Like cheap filmstars, he would say. So we would wear it across the back of our head, pinned on either side. What? I told you...Five rupees for a muzham is too much...I can only pay you three. No? Four rupees fifty paisa is still too much. Three rupees or nothing. No, not even four rupees. Okay, okay. Fine then. Find somebody else. "
Thursday, August 02, 2007
I'm bored
Cannot remember the last time I read something on a blog that had me all abuzz. May be I'm not looking in the right places. All the blog aggregators (is that the right word?) seem to favour the tired old familiar few. So I'm turning to you. Please post link to a post which inspired you. Or atleast made you pause before you resumed sipping your coffee. It can be from any blog. Yours. Your best friend's. The dog's. Just drop the link in the comment box. And while you're at it, include while you love it. Thank you.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
A quick tale 194
We were awkward at first but soon we were talking
How is it? she asks me. What? I demand even though I know exactly what she is referring to. Living abroad. What's it like? she asks again. She's always been like this. Wanting to know everything about you. There's a child like curiousity about her. That you almost forgive the intrusive nature of her questions. She hasn't changed much in the 17 years since I saw her last. Yes, there's the grey hair and the roundness that comes with motherhood. But other than that, she still reminds me of the best friend she once was to me. Which is probably why I spotted her straightaway at the airport yesterday. She had come to receive her brother and I was arriving on my biennial visit to my homeland. We were awkward at first but soon we were talking as if there had just been one long gap in our conversation.
I had married straight after college and had not really bothered to stay in touch with friends. Not even my best friend. So we had a lot to catch up. She suggested that we meet today. I stir my coffee and look up at her. She's still waiting for me to answer. Do I tell her about the crippling loneliness? Or the rounds of failed IVF? Do I tell about the fear the grips me whenever the phone goes off in the middle of the night? Do I confide in her my almost constant worry about aged parents left behind? I lower my eyes and watch the coffee swirl. It's good, I tell her. Life is good. I can feel the warmth of her envy as I lift my cup to my lips. I take a satisfactory sip.
How is it? she asks me. What? I demand even though I know exactly what she is referring to. Living abroad. What's it like? she asks again. She's always been like this. Wanting to know everything about you. There's a child like curiousity about her. That you almost forgive the intrusive nature of her questions. She hasn't changed much in the 17 years since I saw her last. Yes, there's the grey hair and the roundness that comes with motherhood. But other than that, she still reminds me of the best friend she once was to me. Which is probably why I spotted her straightaway at the airport yesterday. She had come to receive her brother and I was arriving on my biennial visit to my homeland. We were awkward at first but soon we were talking as if there had just been one long gap in our conversation.
I had married straight after college and had not really bothered to stay in touch with friends. Not even my best friend. So we had a lot to catch up. She suggested that we meet today. I stir my coffee and look up at her. She's still waiting for me to answer. Do I tell her about the crippling loneliness? Or the rounds of failed IVF? Do I tell about the fear the grips me whenever the phone goes off in the middle of the night? Do I confide in her my almost constant worry about aged parents left behind? I lower my eyes and watch the coffee swirl. It's good, I tell her. Life is good. I can feel the warmth of her envy as I lift my cup to my lips. I take a satisfactory sip.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Thank you!
LAFTI would like to thank Janani Srinivasan (Canada) & Fatima Hyde (of Fashion Creaters, Bangalore) for their generous donations.
Thank you very much!
Thank you very much!
Cult of Bad Mama
Sticky post. Please scroll down for update on Virtual Coffee Mornings
Intro
Don't get me wrong. I don't object to motherhood per se. I certainly don't have a problem with all-sacrificing, 100% unadulterated love-incarnate, earth mother type motherhood either. My struggle is that that is the only kind of mothers I ever read about. The ones who spend their waking hours worrying about little Johnny's milk intolerance and blogging about how much poo little Sweety has deposited. I mean, where are all the real mothers? The ones who plonk their little ones in front of the telly so they may check out ex-boyfriends on orkut? The kind that sedate their non-coughing infant with Benadryl so that they can watch Sivaji in peace? The sort that secretly dream about adoption so that they don't have to go through morning-bloody-sickness again?
This is the blog for the less-than angelic mothers. The ones like me. Share your sordid stories here. The ones that are frowned upon elsewhere. Pour them out here. You are human after all. If you wish to remain anonymous, drop me a line at ammania@gmail and I will publish it for you. Come on, ladies. Join the cult. Yummy-mummies not allowed.
cross-posted at http://cultofbadmama.blogspot.com
Intro
Don't get me wrong. I don't object to motherhood per se. I certainly don't have a problem with all-sacrificing, 100% unadulterated love-incarnate, earth mother type motherhood either. My struggle is that that is the only kind of mothers I ever read about. The ones who spend their waking hours worrying about little Johnny's milk intolerance and blogging about how much poo little Sweety has deposited. I mean, where are all the real mothers? The ones who plonk their little ones in front of the telly so they may check out ex-boyfriends on orkut? The kind that sedate their non-coughing infant with Benadryl so that they can watch Sivaji in peace? The sort that secretly dream about adoption so that they don't have to go through morning-bloody-sickness again?
This is the blog for the less-than angelic mothers. The ones like me. Share your sordid stories here. The ones that are frowned upon elsewhere. Pour them out here. You are human after all. If you wish to remain anonymous, drop me a line at ammania@gmail and I will publish it for you. Come on, ladies. Join the cult. Yummy-mummies not allowed.
cross-posted at http://cultofbadmama.blogspot.com
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