Bed Time Stories

Ishika: Ma, story?

KG: Sure. Which one…ummm..Ok, The crocodile and the Monkey? OK, so once there lived a big crocodile…

Ishika: No ma, not this one. I want Giraffe story. Naughty Giraffe.

 

Ishika; Ma, story?

KG: hmmm….Giraffe story?

Ishika: No ma. Santa story. Naughty Santa.

 

Ishika: Ma, story?

KG: You tell me. Which one would you like to hear?

Ishika: Ummm….mmmmm…….Goldi Locks, naughty Goldilocks story, ma.

 

Ishika: Ma, story?

KG: which one?

Ishika: Naughty Krishna

 

Ishika: Ma, naughty dinasaur story ma

 

Ishika: Ma naughty meeshu story ma..

KG: Aha! OK. Once there lived a very naughty girl. Her name was Meeshu. She went about beating all the children in the park. So all the kids decided one day to teach her a lesson. They got a big box of chocolates and ate them all up without giving little naughty Meeshu any. Meeshu was very sad, and came crying to her mother. Her mother tells her, see, naughty girls are bad girls, if you hadn’t beaten your friends in the park, they would have shared the box of chocolates with you. So from that day on, naughty Meeshu became good Meeshu.…..

Ishika: No ma. not that story. I want that story- ‘ Meeshu’s papa gets Meeshu 2 boxes……’

KG: Listen to what ma has to say, else you say your own story and go to sleep.

Ishika: OK. Meeshu’s papa gets her 2 BIG BIG chocolates. She eats them all up (some violent eating actions). The end, ma.

Why KG would rather walk

A few days back, I decided, I needed to shed a few pounds. But I was in a hurry. I still haven't figured out this trait of mine. why am I in a hurry to conquer this world? All that I need, and want to do, has to be NOW. I need an Ipod NOW, I need to have a cheesecake NOW, I want to see Ma NOW, I want to lose weight NOW. Now, that was not possible. But Dippy had embarked upon the very popular GM diet and apparently lost more weight. I emphasise on 'more' because I haven’t seen an extra ounce of weight on any part of Dippy's body. She is as sexy and fit as a girl would dream to be. But she found fat somewhere, and burnt it, in one week. Exciting! So, I decided to give it a try too.

Imagine, just a week, and out comes a slim and sexy KG. Besides, the husband will be glad too. But honestly, the diet was more of a mind game for me than a game of shedding weight. I wanted to see if I could hold ground, and complete the diet, without giving in to Satan's temptation, that comes in a round shape with a hole in the middle. They are also called doughnuts. So I began the sojourn, with a refrigerator stocked with all that was prescribed. But I lost. On day 5, at 4.30 pm, I headed straight to the fridge and opened that box of Doughnuts and had, one after another- two full sugary cinnamony doughnuts. And like that was not sin enough, I opened the cupboard above the fridge and took out Haldiram's Murukku. Mechanically I ate. Then mailed Dippy, a self defamatory, soppy email, telling her , I was rather useless. Next call was harder- it was to the husband. He had been a big support (because I had asked him to be and he showed such keen interest, I knew he really wanted me to shape up)- he hadn't eaten well all through those 5 days- because I had declined to cook, what with all the excessive veggie and fruit chopping I had to do, to keep my stomach full. And he had ensured I didn't give up at all. So while he made me cook prawn curry and dosa for his friend and him, he convinced me, I would love fruit salad, in a manner that told me- if you can't do this much, you can't do much. So, when I finally told him, he guffawed, mercilessly.

That episode is over. Oh, and i did lose 2.5 kgs in 5 days. But the tragedy was, I had lost the battle with my mind.

And then I embarked upon this walk. Allow me to take you through this:

 

 

 

 

 

u(Check out the ipod gear :D :D, his gift :D )

 

Sigh! After this walk, I knew what it meant to be one with the nature. And while I enjoyed my Ipod and walked by this beautiful bay, I burnt some flab too.

 

Know what, this is a classic case of – ‘Those grapes are sour.’

Rains in Sydney

The rains here are different, you know

one can’t smell the saundhi mud fragrance, the wet musky smell

of clay.

Probably because, the ground here is all concrete, all clean?

 

The rains here are different,

its strangely silent outside.

May be, mothers here don’t let their kids drench themselves and jump on puddles, squealing with laughter.

 

The rains here are different,

people wear stilettos and lipstick and go to work under an umbrella, the size of a parachute.

Perhaps, here, they don’t like taking casual leave, to spend a wet day with Rushdie and coffee.

 

The rains here indeed feel different

with the kitchen oddly clean and aroma-free, no trace of Cha brewing, or coffee

making it sadly apparent that Ma is not around to fry begunis and Alu pakoras.

My Summer Holiday Home

Summer holidays meant the quintessential trip to Kolkata and Cuttack. While Kolkata had its own charm, I loved going to Cuttack more than Kolkata.

Here is the place, I spent part of my summers as a kid. Its Ma's house. I refuse to call it Mamughara or Mamabari. I think of this place as the place where Ma was born. This is the place where I learnt to have tamarind golis, spend long hot summer afternoons in some random relative's house pestering the life out of them. Oh and how can I forget those doll weddings, where Puchkas were served to the little guests. This is the place I so loved coming back, every year, to my beloved grandparents. And this is the place I haven't managed to visit in years together.



Aja's (grandpa) room. The place I had my morning tea watching oriya news on his B/w Konark TV. The cups and medals you see in that cupboard are all won by him as part of the Orissa Hockey team. My champ! And all the things u see stuffed here have been here for decades...Ma says Aja doesn't let anyone touch anything :). back then he used to have the best pen collection, hidden in that cupboard. I remember the smell of that room.....



I still haven't seen this room. A new addition to the house. But the lady u see here is Basi Mye(aunt/Mami), the biggest devotee of all Gods known to her :). be sure to get a glass of Rasna the minute you land in her room.



These stairs lead to the beautiful terrace, where we spent the evenings and sometimes nights in summer. Aie (Grandma) would get mattresses and mosquito nets, and we'd sleep right there under the moonlit night sky with stars twinkling above us.



The courtyard. This was the place for all the women to congregate in the evening over cha in stainless steel cups and 'Gulcose' biscuits. I heard the best stories there- of murder, of 'bad' mothers in law, of poverty, of the rich, of Gods and random relatives. I was allowed to hang around there, simply because I pretended not to read my Enid Blyton, and not listen to them. :D



I slept in this room with Ma and Aie in the afternoons. It was the best room back then. The window opened right into the gully - I wasn't allowed to peep- it was apparently bad manners to stand by the window. However i caught Aie doing that several times whenever there was a fight. :)




MY mamabari, deckedup like a bride on Diwali. Many many years back, she looked sparlking white, and had two giant lions on either side of the entrance. There was no iron gate. Each time I disembarked frm the cycle rickshaw, coming from the railway station, the entrance used to be filled with mamus and mausis all led by my grandmum waiting for us to reach. I have the same strange childlike excitement in my heart right now...


Chiku's parent's room. Back then when I was in class 2 or 3, when the joint family were all staying under one roof, this room was occupied by Banku Aie and her family. This was a room that was occupied by 6 people...Nilu , Banku Aie, Mami Mousi, kami Mousi,Bibu mamu, Bubu mamu. I spent many afternoons here listening to Aie telling oriya fairytales. As I grew up, I started calling her Mrs Banks.



A footballers room. No Ronaldo or Beckham posters. But a truly passionate sportsman: Bulu Mamu.



The huge wooden carved box you see, had held my fantasy for many years. They told me the box was full of Gold jewellery and diamons kept aside for my wedding :).



The entrance. Men hung around here on their cycles, scooters. No woman stood by the entrance chatting. Except ofcourse Aie, who would stop every passerby to ask after his/her wellbeing.




The modern room with an AC. Now occupied by the next gen cousins of mine. It used to be called the 'Budha Ghara' (old man's room). And it was used for random things. Entertaining guests, gossip, studies. A story went that at night a ghost came inside the room to pull your leg. For many years we slept there in the nights...i used to be terrified.



The Kitchen. Oh its changed sooo much. It used to have a thatched roof, and coal chullhas...I remember Aie used to blow air with a plastic fan to make the embers burn....


Thanks Pintu, for these (the next gen Cousin)!

Of dreary stories and a bit of Love, on the big V Day.

There are a few stories we like telling, over and over, several times, despite knowing fully well, the person whom the story is being narrated to has been an audience before, more than just once. But we like these pet stories. And these are just about one or 2 stories which we adore so much. This especially comes from old nostalgic uncles and aunties, who switch to a flashback black and white mode, eachtime they see a gathering in front of them. One goes about my dad, which he has told us at least 30 times. He does it each time we are together and after a couple of scotch pegs. The story is about his college days.

And then there is a story which we love telling. About us. Raj and me. We love telling this story to our friends, much to their dismay, and to our delight. we can’t be happier on having a new friend over for dinner. On most such occasions, we end up telling our pet story, for sure, before the guest leaves. And we really never bother to check, if we’ve bored him/her. This is after all a story of how Raj met KG. And a story so important cannot be rated as good/bad/ugly. Its is simply, a nice, happy, plain love story. Boy pings girl, girl pings back. Yahoo! was the place to be, then. A few smilies exchanged. Slowly a few ‘coochiepoochie’ words too. Then more pings, regularly at 7 pm after college. STD calls too, follow suit. More money is requisitioned from Hyderabad. More calls. More vada-paus for lunch to save 10 bucks for an hour of internet at 7pm. Then some train journeys undertaken- some in unreserved compartments. Then the big words told, accepted, eaten, chewed and digested. But we love the part when the listener asks- so where did you first meet/where do your parents live? Either of this question, makes us both very happy. We have this gleam in our eyes to tell the answer. As if, we’ve been waiting for the question. And if the question is not asked, we tell the clearly not so amused listener- our very amusing (according to us), anyway. With a twinkle in our eye, with a quick glace at each other, we announce the fact that we both lived in the same building. His family on the first floor, mine on the fourth. Incidentally, they still do. Once we’ve done saying this, we wait for the surprise, the exclamations, the bowled over look – now these are expressions we think we see on their faces. For all you know and care, they find this very mundane.

But then, that’s ALL that is there to our story. Two little crows fall in love, both from the same tree, different nests.

But we love this story. And we expand the story manifold, with twists and turns, like a murder mystery. And it always delights us. Now that you’ve read this the zillionth time, be prepared to hear it again, from our own mouths, whenever meet again, over beer and nachos.

Because each time I say it, it makes me fall in love with this totally tactless, charming, mad, clumsy, loving man over and over again.

Happy Valentine’s.

On a day like today

The sky is an endless stretch of grey today. And I have been listening to this, over and over again. Sometimes you feel like listening to the same song, endlessly. And on days like these, I stare at the pouring rain and think of how we had shared endless cups of lebur cha and coffee, and wished we could do it today. This ones for you Phish Phish.

 

 

 

Amar sharatadin meghla akash..
brishti tomake dilam..
Shudhu srabon sondhatuku...
tomar kachhe cheye nilam...

Amar sharatadin meghla akash..
brishti tomake dilam..

Ridoyer janalae chokh mele rakhi..
Batasher bashite kan pete thaki...
Takei kachhe deke,Moner aangina theke...
Brishti tomake tobu firiye dilam.....
Amar sharatadin meghla akash..
brishti tomake dilam..

Tomar hathei hok ratri rochona
Ei amar shopno shukher bhabona
Cheyechhi pete jake, Chaina harate take
Brishti tomake tha-e fire chaina.....
Amar sharatadin meghla akash..
brishti tomake dilam..

 

(Srikanto Acharjo)

The evil Burger

The stacked piece of junk sat on the kitchen counter. And to make itself look less criminal, there lurked a bottle of orange juice behind it. The snob walked in for the fourth time looking at it. This time, she had a decided, firm look. She turned back and opened the refrigerator and took out a box, that looked stuffed with a whole lotta green looking stuff. She was just about to chuck the fat old fellow into the fridge, when it shrieked. “Hey! Listen. I know I ain’t the best looking thing around..I don’t have those fancy sesame seeds on my head, and I am all white. But, know what? I ain’t as bad as your gym teacher described me to be. I have a lil green sticking outta me….see? And the lil chic patty inside me is oven baked, so good for your heart, you, see? And the sheet of cheese, she is a lean babe, I know, I can smell her out…she is 90% fat free. Besides, what is that green mess you are planning on eating?”

 

The snob not able to believe what she just heard, glared at it, chucked it into the fridge and turned to leave. This time, it spoke in a  – I know you better than you think- kinda tone:

“Look here babe, stop pretending. In exactly an hour from now, you’ll come running back to me, and gobble me up like a goblin. So, before I get all soggy and sad, just pick me up, will you? Fool. Go on. whatcha waitin fo??”

 

She smiled, an embarrassed smile, and looked around, to see if there was anyone eavesdropping on this scandalizing conversation. Hurriedly, she opened the fridge before she changed her mind for the fifth time. Dumped it on a plate, perched herself on her couch. Bite after bite, she savoured it to her full satisfaction.

 

Burrrrp! “seeeee????? I told ya!”, the snob’s  tummy mocked.

 

An extra 10 minutes on the treadmill, promise promise promise. She muttered under her breath and hit the bed for a noon nap.

KG’s one liners for today

• Motherhood is all about falling in and out of love.
• Parenthood is a college your never graduate from.
• The grass is greener syndrome is the root cause of all misery.
• Happiness lies in your Ipod.
• The mirror in your bathroom is the best priest, and your loo the safest confession box.
• Your kids will never learn from you.
• Sex is the most overrated activity
• Love is the most underrated emotion
• A cup of yogurt a day helps maintain Old Mac Donald a healthy bacteria farm.
• The sooner you accept the fact that your kid likes Tom more than Jerry, the better it is for you.
• It is a comforting thought that Calvin is a child.
• After a point, all lose hair. So while you have it, let them down.
• Whoever told chocolate is an aphrodisiac was lying
• Buying lettuce is a depressing thought.
• I’ll never figure Americans.
• Gift your husband a TV, it guarantees you a good night’s sleep.
• You have a reason to visit your lawyer, if your husband snores.
• Making ‘enough’ money to last you your lifetime is a nice sounding myth.

Roots

After 3 long months, the longest I have ever taken to finish a book, I finished Alex Hailey’s, Roots. I found it very hard to believe that Hailey actually traced back his ancestors, and that too, a good 200 year  old ancestor. Inasmuch as I would like to believe him, am glad ‘Roots’ is classified as a novel and not an autobiography. Though Hailey tries his best to give us a 12 year account on how he managed to trace back his Roots, he does work hard in lodging some evidence to back up the fact that most of what he wrote in the book, is true. A bit of searching and wiki-ing threw up plenty of controversial stuff on him- plagiarism, incorrect statement of facts and more. So much for one of the best selling books for years.

 

Having said that I also believe, no good thing should be analyzed too much. If you do enjoy something, let it just be. Delving too deep only brings out more skeletons, makes things murkier.  So, I will let Alex rest in peace. But then, Alex did give me a thought or two to chew on.

 

Have we ever thought of tracing back our family tree? Have we ever thought why our grandparents always told us stories about their forefathers, festivals and the like? And why with each generation, we know a lot less about our forefathers than what a generation above us knows.

 

And and even more troubling thought:  what am I passing on to the next generation, in turn? My daughter is growing up on a staple diet of stories that range from Mickey and Minnie to Spiderman and the animated Hanuman. I wonder if she will ever know what her great grand father ever did. Or how the women swung in Cuttack during the ‘Raja’ festival. Will Meeshu ever know what “Podo Pitha’ tastes like? Will she know that Nilamoni Das, her great grandfather was a great story teller and an even better story teller was his father, whose name, I don’t remember myself. Oh! What shame!

 

I don’t care if Roots is a book with a bunch of facts or all was Hailey's brilliant imagination put to use. I worry, Meeshu’s grand daughter will not know either Ma’s name ……..or mine, for that matter.