Not your 9 o' clock news

Unimportant, uncritical things that happened today.

I turned on the tap and water flowed.

The book opened.

So did the door.

Dinner happened.

What's your news?

Look who's home!

...and look what he's been upto!

Thanks to all the thathas and paatis and mama and mami and chithi and chithappa and athai and athimber and kutties and pilots and co-pilots and airhostesses and stewards and passengers and ground staff and man who switched on his mobile phone and other kind strangers...thanks for taking such good care of my little one and thanks for bringing him home safely.

In praise of...5

In praise of Michael Johnson

How can anyone so talented be so likeable? And so eloquent? And articulate? And humble but not in a false way? And handsome? And in a very disturbing way, normal?

If you'd been watching BBC's coverage of the Olympics, you couldn't have missed the fantastic Michael Johnson. A supreme athlete who never once failed a doping test, Johnson's record in the 100mts* was long regarded as unbreakable. Until a Jamaican stepped into the scene. When asked how he felt about his record being broken by Usain Bolt, the supreme Johnson quipped (and I paraphrase), 'Records are not like kids. You can't hold on to them forever. Plus, it's not as if I woke up every morning to maintain my record. Once I set it, my job was pretty much done.' Like I said before, too normal no?

*correction: it was his 200 mts record that remained unchallenged for a long time

In praise of...4

In praise of swimming

I swim three times a week - some 30 laps of a 30 metre pool. I've stuck to this routine for the past year. I went swimming until two days before my second one was born. And was back in the water about 3 weeks later. I see the same set of people nearly every time I enter the pool - Mrs. Amazon, Hippo, Johnny English, Jalkrida, Mouseface and Doggy-paddle. I rarely exchange more than a nod and a smile with these people. It's almost as if we all want to be left alone. I enjoy the solitude that water offers. There's no visual distraction. There is no temptation to bring in an ipod. There's just the water and you battling submersion. One, two and up for a breath. One, two and up for a breath.

A quick tale 212

The reluctant one

She sees the guests off and close the door behind them. She turns around and imagine the house through their eyes. Did they notice the clean carpets? The colour coded cushions and curtains? Did they note the fresh flowers in the vase? And the garden with its lush, trimmed lawn? She hopes they remarked on the small kitchen garden. And didn't find the air freshener in the toilet overwhelming. She remembered to smooth the bed covers and plump the pillows before they arrived. And if they had snooped into her medicine cabinet, they wouldn't have found anything to suggest embarrassing illnesses. Her mirrors were wiped clean, her bins emptied and her newspapers folded, their corners aligned. Bet on the drive back home, they talked about how well-maintained the house was. And what a great job she was doing of keeping it. Good thing is they'd never know that she’d burnt the toast this morning, filled the dying shampoo bottle with water, hid rotting fruit in the fridge, mixed coloured clothes with the whites in the washing machine and stashed away spices in the cupboard that were so past their expiry date that they rightfully belong to the government. Not her fires were extinguished. At heart, she was still an anarchist.

A quick tale 211

Best forgotten

I cannot live without you, she used to say. I swear I will die, she would threaten over the phone, if you don't come here in the next half and hour. And he would drop whatever he was doing to rush to her side. And today, they stand smiling politely at each other. He asking her about her well being and she noting how beautiful his daughter was. Each inviting the other to come home for dinner in a distant and comfortably vague future. And each hoping desperately that the other didn't remember their heady days of romance oh-so-long ago.

In praise of...3

The Olympics

There’s something about the sight of an athlete on a podium, face lit with joy at having claimed what is perhaps the most coveted piece of metal on the planet, eyes pricking in tears as his/her national flag is raised to the strains of a national anthem, that always has me reaching for the tissue. Isn’t it great that the Olympics which is arguably the best celebration of human endeavour on earth and an event that glorifies nationalistic pride also contradictingly enough, evokes emotions that are common to all of us? Isn’t it great that I can partake in Phelps’ incredible gold haul and in a strange way, be happy to witness such superb athleticism without ever once letting his nationality bother me? Do you find yourself rooting for the Gambia or the Eritrea only because, who knows, they may not even have live coverage in those countries and if you don’t, who will? I love the Olympics and what it does to us as a collective population while reinforcing national identity. It’s a shame that it will all be over too soon. And the wars we had briefly forgotten will resume from exactly where they were left.

In praise of... 2

Yngling

I have little idea about this sport except that it involves sailing in a small sailboat. I first heard of yngling when team GB won a gold last Olympics. Since then this Chinese-sounding sport has made an appropriate quadrennial comeback at this year’s Olympics. Which makes me wonder how one finds out if one’s good at yngling? How does a parent identify their child’s talent for this rather obscure and spectator-unfriendly sport? Does the bulb go off when a parent sees their child float a paper boat in a puddle with great skill? Do they then start taking their child for yngling lessons at the local water sport centre?

But isn’t it great that the Olympics gives a platform for these neglected sports and gives its practitioners a chance to shine in glory? Although I suspect that the chances of winning gold in yngling or slalom canoe (in which fewer countries presumably participate) is significantly more than taking home the swimming gold. Still, I love the fact that so much of TV time is dedicated to sport such as fencing. The rules of which remain a great mystery to me. Anyway, I got to catch the quarter finals of archery. I may not get another chance for the next four years.

Lost in Post

To a son who is on his first trip alone

Can one die of pride? I don't know. But your father and I came pretty close to that when we waved you goodbye at the airport a few days ago. You were a right trooper with a little canvas bag of documents around your shoulder and a bright green cap on your head. You cheerfully waved us goodbye, clutched your grandfather's hand and led him through the security check-ins. Leaving your poor parents to blink away our tears.

I understand that you are having a wonderful time back in India. Did you see the pictures that hang on the walls of your grandfather's house? Did you recognise the young girl that your mother once was? Did you visit all the places of my youth? I wish I was there with you to share some of your experiences. But I'm glad we found the courage to let you go on your own.

In just over a week's time, you will be back with us. This time you will have traveled across the world by yourself. I don't know of many 5-year olds who would have done that and still not make a big deal of it. And that just makes me feel proud. Dead proud.

In praise of...

A new series. I feel that I don't praise the things I like nearly as much as I put down those I don't. This is an attempt to acknowledge the unsung. Please feel free to sing praises of your own. Here's my first.

In praise of mother-toddler screenings

I've lost count of the number of movies I've missed watching in theatres over the past few years. The reason is really quite simple. I don't like to take my little one to movies that are not meant for him. And it's too much hassle arranging for child care if I have to go on my own. So I simply wait till it's out on DVD. On the only occasion in the last six years when I've been to watch a Hindi movie in a movie hall with a friend, there were kids running up and down the aisle much to the irritation of other movie-goers.

So what's the solution if you want to watch a movie and can't find someone to look after the little ones and don't wish to subject them to 3-hours of Salman Khan? Get yourself a ticket to a Mother-toddler screening. A novel idea that I only recently came across at our local cinema. These are special screenings - usually on weekday mornings - where mothers with young children under the age of 3 can come along to watch a film meant for adults. This means you get the chance to watch a movie without having to worry about tut-tutting couples in the front row when your little one starts to holler because "it gone so dark now" and wonders "when will it all be over?" two minutes into the movie.

Sure, the movies they screen wouldn't be something too violent or sexually explicit. And that rules out most popular movies. But still, it gives parents a chance to enjoy a movie on the big screen in a child-friendly environment. I'll raise my popcorn tub to that.

Memories of food – Modak

It was the first time I was away from home on my birthday. I had been working the whole day and for some reason that I cannot now remember, I had not spoken to my parents since morning. As I made my way home that evening, I stopped by at a phone booth and called them. I wished my father a happy birthday and he greeted me back – we share a birthday. We chitchatted for few more minutes and then I hung up. I had never felt worse as I made my way up the third floor to the small flat which I shared with two other girls. One of the few people I knew in the apartment block was a Marathi family who lived on the ground floor. On my way home, sometimes I used to stop by and play with their little two-year old. Soon I was being invited for a cup of tea and poha. And I before I knew it, I was picking up fruit and veg for them when I did my shopping. Their door was always left open and the fruits gave me the perfect pretext to drop by their place.

On that particular birthday however, I didn't feel like socialising much and wanted to slip away as quietly as possible. But the elderly grandmother who saw me pass by, rushed to the door and enquired after me. I told her that it was my birthday and feigning fatigue, I made my way to the flat. No sooner had I shut the door behind me than there was a knock. The grandmother stood there holding an ever-silver tiffin box. It's Modak, she said offering it to me, you told me it was your birthday. It was the first bit of celebration I'd had all day. And I didn't need any other.

A quick tale 210

Something to talk about

I walk few paces behind you. Anyone who sees me will think of me as a dutiful wife following her husband. I quicken my stride. We're now walking side by side. Our shoulders graze. But our rhythm is all upset. I lift my leg before you and drop it to sync with you. Left, right, left, right. Like soldiers marching in tandem. I wonder briefly about grabbing your hand. We could swing it up down, up down. We could even hum a tune. If we were children, we would have added a hop. We would have looked like a jaunty pair. But we're adults. A married couple. We're taught to worry about what people say. And what the neighbours think. I cross my arm across my body. Taking it away as far from you as possible. I don't want them to get the wrong impression. We have children to think of. I don't want aunties to wonder if I'm still attracted to you. And I certainly don't want any gossip about possible romance between us.

A quick tale 209

This product and others like this one

This product was not tested on animals, read the label on the face cream she was holding. She felt good just holding it. Good holding the box that held the cream that was not tested on animals. Though she didn’t know how animals would look with face cream on them. Probably no different to how they looked without face cream. Fewer wrinkles, may be. But then, you would have to get real close to see that the difference. And you wouldn’t want to do that to an orang-utan. Or a rhinoceros. And definitely not a giraffe. As giraffes are reputed to suffer from real bad halitosis. Though that remains to be confirmed. And will remain a rumour as long as no one ever gets close enough to smell its breath. And if they did they may also notice that the giraffe has fewer lines around the eye. In which case it would be safe to conclude that the giraffe has had a couple of smears of face cream tested on it. Which may be good news for the face cream as it then proves that the cream works. But bad news for the giraffe which may not have a say in the brand it prefers. But that is only for animal rights activists to comment upon. And not for ordinary consumers like herself who simply had a few minutes to spare during a Thursday lunchtime and chose to saunter into a shop flogging face cream that had not been tested on animals.

Afternoon

If I made a list of things I miss about India, the weather would certainly not feature in it. I never loved the raw red heat of Chennai summers and now that I’m away, I miss it even less. But yet the other day, when I was talking to family back in India and I heard them complain about the ruthless afternoon sun, I realised in a bittersweet way, that it was indeed the sensation of a summer afternoon I missed most. Crisply dried laundry, lone trickle of sweat down the back, drowsy long afternoons. And this week’s Saturday poem from the Guardian captures it effortlessly well.

Afternoon

-MR Peacocke

The wool rolls down. The needless droop

A spider at the corner pane

Schemes for a pittance line by line.

The dull doves in the neighbouring wood

Call Could you do Do do You could.

A wakeless lull that's less than sleep

Brims in her eyes and palms and lap.

Something is finished. Nothing's done.

A lapse, a loss, a truce, a peace.

One lacewing trembles at the netted glass.

~

Here’s what I want from you. Your memories of summer afternoons. Be it a photo, a poem, a story or anything that to you typifies the blessed dullness of a scorching mid-day in May.

Dial 911 for Amma - 4

Yes, it was too late to have someone over. And yes, we would do just fine on our own. After repeated reassurances from the husband, the matter of having family over was finally laid to rest and we set about tackling other practical issues. Like packing a suitcase for the hospital. Like arranging for childcare for the firstborn while we were at the hospital. Like buying baby-stuff. When I went in for the 38th week check up, I was told that the baby's head had 'engaged' and that I was officially full-term. I was ready to deliver any day now. I must mention the wonderful support we had from neighbours and friends (many of whom I met through this blog - you know who you are - take a bow) who were ready to drop in at an hour's notice to help out. Though we had gone over all the arrangements, it could still all go completely pear-shaped. It was the unpredictability of the whole situation including that of the outcome, that was utterly unnerving.

Yes, I'd had a baby before and this was my second innings, but there was no guarantee that things would go as well as it had the first time. Didn't someone say that no two pregnancies are alike? Does it mean this delivery would be harder than the first? Did the midwife give me all the pain relief options? Did you watch that show on BBC Three the other day about someone having a baby? I don't remember it being that painful the first time around. Is there something I'm forgetting? What if it's a c-section? Doesn't recovery take longer and isn't it more painful? Oh god, what have I got myself into?

38 weeks and 1 day - At around 5 pm I decide that it's a good time to start stocking the fridge with pre-prepared meals. So the husband and I stand in the kitchen for about 3 hours cooking and freezing enough dal and sambar and curry to last us a week. That night as I hit the sack I ask the husband if there's enough petrol in his car if we needed to go to the hospital later.

38 weeks and 2 days - I'm up earlier than usual. I ring my mother and tell her that I had a strange feeling about the day. She panics but puts on a brave front (bless her!). She suggests I drink plenty of fluids and go back to bed. Later that morning, I pack the husband and son off, make myself a spot of early lunch, send an email off to a friend about how I thought today might be the day, draw myself a hot bath and then settle down for a nap. At around 1.40 pm, my eyes fly wide open. I check the time in the clock by the bedside. I know right then that the time had come.

I get dressed, come downstairs, ring the husband and ask him to come home. I have my second contraction. They are coming in 25 minutes apart. I call the hospital and inform them of this development. They ask me to ring them when I was having them a bit more frequently. The school was next. Could they please have my son ready at the school office for my husband to pick him up? And why hasn't my husband come home yet? The neighbour who was supposed to care for my son has already left work. So I try her mobile which goes unanswered. She must be on her way home. I leave a message asking her to get in touch with me straightaway. Outside a storm is on its way. I hope it doesn't make driving conditions difficult for us.

It's 2.30 pm, the contractions are coming in way too quickly and I know that we have to rush. As luck would have it, every single traffic light turns to red and we approach it. I grip my husband's so hard, I nearly break his fist (he claims later). But out of respect for my situation, he doesn't complain of the pain. We reach the hospital at 3 pm and I'm barely able to walk. The husband dashes out to fetch a wheelchair. Unable to sit in the car, I start making my way out to the birth centre. I collapse on the ground and am heaved onto the wheelchair by strangers. The contractions are coming in 2 minutes apart.

I reach the birth centre and flop onto a bean bag. The midwives are brilliant in there. I know straightaway that things are going to be alright. It's 4.10 pm and I am beyond exhaustion. But from somewhere deep within I summon this fiendish strength. And with one mighty heave, I push out a tiny little bundle. I'd had just 2.5 hours of labour.

The rest of the procedure is pretty usual. And I'm back home the very next day.

Some 6 weeks later, I have no regrets about our decision to not seek help from our families. It has, by no means been easy going. I have sorely missed being pampered and being fussed over. I cannot even begin to compare the unbridled joyous celebrations that accompanied the birth of my first son with the muted merriment that greeted the arrival of our second. But on the plus side, I have been able to relax and enjoy my time with the newborn without a cloud of anxiety hanging over me all the time. Even small things like breast feeding the baby where I want to in house without having to go into a secluded corner because there are others in the room, have helped greatly. Of course, none of this would have been possible had it not been for the brilliantly supportive husband. I know how lucky I am and what a gem he is! By and large, it has been a much more enjoyable experience this time. And that alone is worth all the sacrifices.


(only just begun)

Dial 911 for Amma - 3

Now, where was I? Yes, we were about to tell our families that we would take care of the delivery matters ourselves without seeking help from them. And when we did, I was surprised by the ease with which the news went down with them. It was an anti-climax. Do whatever you think will work, said my father. Alright then, said my father-in-law, you have our blessings. What? I wanted to ask. Are you not going to listen to my list of reasons? My lengthy rant about why I would want things done my way and so on? Oh well, I thought to myself, if you are really fine with it, then it's all sorted.

But as the months progressed and the families realised that we were serious about doing it all on our own, it became a bit more difficult to convince them. My mother-in-law took it particularly hard. Time and again she offered to come and help us. I don't know about you but I find it awkward to turn down offers of help. Like I'm somehow ungrateful and unappreciative of the person's generosity. And to have to do it repeatedly was not easy. There was the added feeling of guilt at not letting her spend time with her son and grandchild. It's just that I didn't think that the fragile and fortunately, good relationship I enjoy with my in-laws would survive the stress brought on by a new born child.

It's a scenario I've seen repeated once too often. Mothers and daughters falling out during the period immediately following childbirth. Really, could I hold my temper and not lose my cool with my mum-in-law? I didn't think I could. And so the last few months of my pregnancy were spent trying to reassure families back in India that we could manage on our own. Our families weren't entirely convinced that we could pull it off. Someone who was going to be visiting us was asked to submit a 'field report' on his return to India. Had we cracked under the pressure? Was the strain starting to show yet? I must admit that some of their misgivings did worry me. But the rock that is my husband was more than convinced that we would fine. But as we grew closer to the due date, I started to panic. Was it too late to call someone over from India?

(to be continued...)

Dial 911 for Amma - 2

My mother has always expressed her reservation about going abroad to help someone during delivery. Even if that someone happens to be her own children. While I respected her view, I couldn't help wondering why she was so averse to the idea. When other mothers seemed perfectly happy tending to their grandchildren and helping their daughters during the early months of the baby, why was my mother not keen on it at all? I suspect that her judgment on this issue was coloured by her dislike of her sisters-in-law (who did it all the time) and also with mild envy that she would never be called upon to do a service like they were. Well, little did she know!

Now, I knew from previous experience that childbirth is a time of great stress. I had my first son in India and it was an overwhelming experience. A combination of sleepless nights, turbulent hormones, physical and emotional exhaustion and the constant, stifling attention of family left me feeling utterly frustrated. I had had a perfectly normal pregnancy leading to a 'textbook' delivery. I had had a 4-hour labour (very rare in a first baby, apparently) and the baby was as normal as could be. And yet, all I ever heard was an exhaustive list of do's and don'ts that was designed to scare the toughest among us. Let alone a first-time mum. Not one smidgen of it was reassuring or calming. It was almost all bollocks in a well-meaning tone.

I knew from the outset that I had no chance of having it my way. Because I was up against the culture behemoth. The constant line I heard was that this was how things had always been done. After all, did they not raise us and countless other children this way? Frankly, what chances did I have against practices that went back hundreds of years (allegedly)? It reminded me of a story about a priest who used to go around a village performing ceremonies. An apprentice used to tag along with him in the hope of learning from the master. One day, when the priest had gone to a house to perform a ceremony, there happened to be a black cat in the house that kept running back and forth. The priest, being a superstitious bloke, ordered the cat to be tied to a pillar before he began performing the rituals. The apprentice made a note of it and years later, when he started practicing, refused to perform rituals unless there was a cat tied to a pillar!

When I had my baby, nearly everyone in the vicinity had an opinion on what was good and what certainly must be avoided. Don't go near this. Don't ever do that. Beware of this. God forbid should you ever do that. Yes, yes, I know they had my best interest at heart. But boy, was it relentless! To be fair, I tried to listen to every bit of advice that was thrown my way. Quite simply because it was hard to dodge them. And even harder to reason with. It was much easier to simply submit to it. But after about a month, I'd had enough. I hated the whole thing. And I swore to myself that if there was going to be another child, I would try and have it my way.

So this time, even before we'd picked up the phone to call India with news of the impending new arrival, the husband and I had made our minds up. We were going to manage things on our own. The fact that my mother's health wouldn't permit her to travel or to be of assistance to us made it an obvious decision. But how would the family react?

(to be continued...)

Dial 911 for Amma

There was a time, some years ago, when nearly every other month would see some aunt or the other jetting off to the US to assist their daughter during childbirth. The process would start with announcement of the good news followed by frenzied months of preparation. It would kick off with applications for passport and visa. Every new development would be discussed, debated, put to vote and finally taken a decision on. If there was a small item in the Hindu on page 14 about restrictions to the number of visas being given out that particular month, favourite gods would be invoked, sacrifices promised and fasts undertaken in order that such a decision not affect the concerned family member's application.

An auspicious day would be chosen and packing for the trip would commence. Sarees would be chosen, suitcases dusted off, woolens borrowed and dry-cleaned. Contents of the suitcase would be constantly rearranged like a loose-limbed jigsaw puzzle. Half a kilo of thuvaram paruppu would take the place of a sentimental maroon saree when a casual mention during weekly phone calls to the US would reveal that dal prices had risen sharply in the preceding months. There would be the mandatory horror story narrated by another US-returnee who would recall how a ghastly black customs officer refused to let a pack of rasam-podi enter the hallowed grounds of America. And as the big day drew close, the pace would be stepped up. Like a bee hive, the would-be passenger's house would buzz with activity surrounding the trip. Finer aspects of the visit would be nailed in place, numerous rehearsals of the procedure - from check-in to immigration - carried out, farewells would be bid and just as you begin to wonder if they would ever leave, they would. Over the next months, we would hear all about trips to Niagara falls, dollar conversion rates, massive supermarkets, twin SUVs at the garage and 5-bedroom suburban houses. Some years later, when the cousin was having another child, the whole procedure (with the exception of passport application) would be repeated all over again.

Sometimes I wondered why the aunts and uncles were never invited to visit their children at times other than during child birth. Did my cousins not think their parents (particularly the girls') deserved a holiday in the land of milk and honey? And why did the aunts and uncles, despite whispered stories of endlessly lonely days stuck in the house with an infant while the parents went out to work, always seem eager to jump on the next flight westward? Is it because this would be their only chance of visiting the promised land? And a rare opportunity to spend time with their grandchildren?

Such were the thoughts crossing my mind when I called my parents in India last year to tell them that there was to be an addition to our family.

(to be continued...)

Must read

A wonderfully honest post.

Just a walk in the park

Good luck to all those running today's London Marathon. I use this opportunity for my shameless annual plug. My own moment of fame when I ran the 26.2 mile/42 km course 4 years ago. It feels like yesterday, in fact it still hurts. Here are some images.

Soundtrack of the moment

I absolutely love this song. It was used brilliantly some years ago in the excellent (though ridiculously titled) C4 documentary 'The boy whose skin fell off'. And now it's been used in the latest Cadbury's commercial. What's your soundtrack of the moment?

Penmani and other things

A couple of new and interesting questions are up on Penmani that you might have an opinion on.

And I'll be announcing a new participatory exercise soon. It should keep the blog ticking over nicely while I get some semblance of normalcy back into our chaotic existence now. So watch out for that.

Also, please join me in wishing my dear friend Anouradha Bakshi a wonderful birthday today. Happy Birthday, Anou!

Saturday Poem

Still taking questions for Penmanis. Please send them in to ammania@gmail.com. Thank you!
-a

The Woman who Worries Herself to Death

by Kathryn Simmonds

She wasn't robbed or raped or made a scapegoat of,

she didn't take ill-fated flights on shaky planes and

no one splashed her house in paint. Kids with hoods

and sovereign rings and hates left her alone. That twinge

she sometimes felt was just a twinge. Her fillings didn't leak.

At office dos she danced and no one laughed.

Her children didn't have disorders, fail exams, take smack.

Her husband didn't love his secretary

or get the sack. But, if you saw her fidgeting

towards the dawn, her breathing playing tricks,

a thousand what ifs snaking in a queue, you'd feel for her,

you'd wish she had something to pin her torment to.

Courtesy: The Guardian

Thank you

...for all your wonderful wishes. Is it me or can anyone else smell a wet nappy?

Say hello to...

...little Tikku, younger brother to Jikku (aha! you thought the names couldn't get sillier). Born March 10, 2008. Both mother and newborn are doing well. Now, if you will excuse us for a little while...

A quick tale 210

Concerns

My son says that his friend would look after Jimmy. Which friend? I ask. A college friend, you don't know him, he replies. That's true. I don't know many of his college friends. But my son has promised me that Jimmy will be well cared for by the friend. I hope the friend – what is his name? I enquire. Ramanathan, he says. But I thought he mentioned Srinivasan early on. My memory must be playing tricks on me. Anyway, I hope the friend remembers to take Jimmy for walks every day. Once in the morning and once in the evening. The vet said that apart from a slight liver engorgement, Jimmy is in good condition for a dog his age. He is coming up to 78 in human years, would you believe it! We're about the same age and he is in a much better shape than I am. My diabetes and arthritis are worse than ever.

After my husband passed away in 2004, I became even more reliant on Jimmy for company. I didn't want to move in with my son but my fall last month has left with no choice but to pack my bags. My younger grandchild is asthmatic and her mother reckons dog hair might aggravate her condition. That's why I couldn't take Jimmy with me when I moved.

Where does Ramanathan live? I ask. Who? my son wonders. Ramanathan, you know your friend who now has Jimmy…where does he live? Ah, him, very far away. About 3 hours' drive from here. Are there vets nearby? Jimmy is due for his monthly check up on the 25^th, I remind him. It's not a village, you know, he sighs. There are supermarkets and restaurants and internet cafes and schools and hospitals and I'm sure, vets where he lives. But how would I know about it? I've no clue where his friend lives. I wonder if I should ask him if Ramanathan is a vegetarian. Because Jimmy eats meat three times a week and I don't want him to miss his treats. But I'm sure my son would have told his friend that. Does Ramanathan live in a flat? I ask. Because Jimmy needs some space to run around. He's never been a dog to sit still or sleep all day. My son doesn't answer. His back is turned to me. So I ask him once again. No, he replies. Ramanathan lives in a large, towering bungalow with a 50 feet garden at the back. Jimmy would like that.

Penmanis!

Ladies and laydaas! I often have a lot of burning questions and issues (okay, some rather dull and pedestrian stuff as well) that I would like to have opinions on. Most of them relate to women. So I thought, why not start a separate blog dedicated to asking questions and uncovering answers, however uncomfortable? So that's what I've done here.

Remember the 'the bee in my bonnet' series? And how much fun it was? Why not run it along similar lines? If you wish to contribute, then please let me know by writing to me at ammania@gmail.com

The way it will work is we pose a statement or a question relating to women - like for instance, "why do even so-called feminists feel the need to go on ridiculous diets?" and invite responses. All set? Let's get going!

update: First posts up! Check this out

Mother's Day

A varied selection of letters on Mother's day. You can read them all here.

Thank you!

Mother's Day Letters - Final Call

Send your letters to ammania@gmail.com marking Mother's Day in the subject line. Word limit: 200 words.

Further details may be found here. All letters will be published on Lost in Post on Sunday, 2nd March 2008. Thank you.

Triolets - top three and then some

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

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.

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.

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!

Triolet - final call

The challenge is almost up. You've only got till Thursday to send in your triolet. My top three will be announced this Friday.

For inspiration, please go here, here, here and here. Details of the competition may be found here.

Good luck!

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

Announcement

I will be announcing a new exercise which involves your participation soon. Watch this space.
-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…

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.

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.

---

Love - 'Under the Sky'
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.

-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.

=======

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

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.

=========


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

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?

-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

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/

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

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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'?

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'?

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 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?

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?