The Quaint and Luminous Life of a Cha Lover

And so, the year ends.

2011-12-30T14:13:00.000+05:30

It feels very liberating to not have plans for the big 31st night. No resolutions either. No pressure to force yourself to do something cool. To meet friends and welcome the new year in style. Drunk.

I was, until last year, one of those. I whined and cried about not having a 'happening' New Year's eve. The man had to hear endless grumbling of how my life had changed after marriage and how my life had irrevocably changed after Mishmash was born. This year strangely, there are no emotions brewing. I find myself at peace with life and everything around me. And this year I have consciously chosen not to draft resolutions. Let me just live 2012 one day at a time, and give each day all my love and energy.

And to all of you, have a blessed 2012.

Woh kagaz ki kashti, woh barish ka paani...

2011-12-14T14:33:00.000+05:30

Majidi's Song of Sparrows brought me back to this space. I needed to be moved in a deep way to write. I had to be urged fervently and persuasively.

The film like Majidi's other's evokes a sense of void. A void in our lives and the way you (we) are living it. Devoid of little nothings that actually make a life worth living. I look at my 5 year old and feel guilty for giving her a life that's so forgetful - or so I think. I'm sure she'll have her memories. But not as good as mine. And I feel almost remorseful about living in a city like Singapore. Nothing against the city- but you know, the experiences she is having vis-a-vis what I had are so disconnected. I know its unfair to compare her childhood with mine - we are a generation apart. Still, how redundant can climbing Guava trees and chasing butterflies get?

Part of the problem lies in the parenting styles. My mother never bothered with what I was up to when I stepped out. It was not a matter of trust- it was just plain aloofness. What can a kid do outdoors? Play? pretend-destroy plants? Demolish a few sand castles? Catch worms? Pick up a fight with another kid? Snakes were regular visitors in our gardens- but she knew they don't just come to get you, a la Nagina. I spotted ALL the snakes in our garden and alerted my parents - including a Cobra. I was not allowed in the garden for 2 days. Once the fear subsided, ma let us out again.

My point is- to get Mishmash to play- I have to call 10 mums, arrange for a 'play-date', think about her picnics, fix timings to pick up and drop. I don't understand this style. I dislike it to the extent that I don't call and do these things as much as Mishmash would like it. I let Mishmash just play with whoever she finds in the play area. I'd like her to have her own experiences than me play-writing them for her. Let her encounter her demons, fight them herself. This over-parenting style is not my style at all. But i'm getting more and more coerced into following it, only to make her happy.

Saddens me to see her with I-pads and watching her play in 'protected play areas', with me watching over her all the time. Not done. I'd much rather have her closer to nature with a set of wild kids going on their own adventures.

I think the only way I can do that is by introducing my native place to her- my village Kanachchanda.

Magar mujhko lauta do bachpan ka sawan...

Mahalaya

2011-09-27T04:30:00.003+05:30

Woke up to Birendra Krishna Bhadra's voice reciting the Chandipath, invoking Ma Durga. Woke up the man for an early cuppa and he looked thoroughly confused. Sometimes I wonder who is more Bong! I missed being with dad as usual..he is the one who wakes up and tunes in to All India Radio for Mahalaya. These days its from a CD, though. I remember as a wee kid how I watched dad waking up much before 4 am to tune in to catch the AIR frequency. It took a long while to tune in and sometimes we'd lose it. Perhaps that was the magic and aura of listening to Mahalaya. Something so charming about the entire morning event. Last year on Mahalaya I wrote this , and I have nothing new to write about this Mahalaya either. I reminisce of the same memories again and again wistfully and wish I was a little girl again.

Shubho Mahalaya to all of you!

Of Indian Beauty Parlours and Maamis

2011-08-24T10:24:00.002+05:30

Decided to check out an 'Indian' beauty parlour. In the midst of the very urban and uber chic Orchard road, stood this 'plaza'. [One quick observation - plazas in Singapore often comprise of small time shops - fake electronic goods, cheap watches, souvenier shops, Indian darzis, etc.] This parlour was recommended by a Mallu friend , but I had forgotten the name of the shop, so decided to check every floor till I come across a familiar sounding/Indian name. Sleepy massage parlours, a specialised 'males only' waxing place that offered Brazilian wax(!), and dimly lit tailor shops dotted the first floor. I was having second thoughts about this ' plaza' but instinct told me to continue my search . The escalater took me to the second floor and I smelt something familiar. It was a faint smell and I decided to give my olfactory nerves a chance. The smell got stronger and I soon knew it was insence and within seconds I was walking into a cloud of smoke. MS Subbulakshmi's Suprabhatam played in the background. Jesus, Mary, Ganesha, Aishwarya, Sonali Bendre, Kajol - all stared at me from their respective walls. . Pochampally bedsheets covered with plastic, assorted machines waiting to steam, clean, wash their customers, and a stack of Tamil magazines lay strewn in a corner. I waited for someone to emerge from somewhere. I was in no hurry. I looked at the plastic flowers in a vase . The place reminded me of the parlour next to our place in Hyderabad. Then she appeared- a lady, about 40... oiled hair, in a simple cotton salwar kameez.

She - 'ess. What do you want?'

Me- 'threading, please'.

She- 'come sit . whats your name?'

Me- Aparna

She - ok ABARNA. New-aa?

Me- erm yes.

She- wait pleasss.

Out of no where a very noisy person enters the parlour. An old lady, gleaming bright, walks in and starts talking to the parlour's caretaker/owner. A barrage of words and sentences followed. I tried to keep pace with this lyrical outpour of very loudly and rapidly spoken language. From whatever broken Tamil I understood, I realised she had come straight from the dentist after her root canal for 'henna dye'. Then followed a very animated conversation with me in the middle, while she spoke to her -Aijjyooo, something something...parava illiya..something..seri..something something. Oooo 200 dollars aa? ..something something apadiya...aamaa, seri seri.

All this while, I was listening to the whole thing, with a lot of interest. I forgot that I was asked to wait while she continued her banter with her friend. There was more talk - some neice of her's from America had lost a lot of weight. Maatram vegetables diet.

'Ahem. Can I get my threading done please?' .

'Ess ess. One minute, can you sit. I will come in 5 minutes. Poor thing see, she got root canal. I will put henna and then do for you fast fast'. [she flashed the nicest smile. How could I say no?]

I settled down with a few magazines. Tried looking for a Femina or something in English. Found a half-Tamil half-English magazine called IMN (Indian Movie News). Got some beauty tips in a film magazine- on how to make your 'dandruff go off' and learnt how 'hair will shine superb'. A lady called Mahalakshmi Kamalakannan wrote this absolutely intense piece of beauty advice. Read a bit more about Mani Retnam's' Magnum Opus 'Ponniyin Selvan', and about this 'i'm too sexy for my shirt hero , Jeyram Ravi who acted in some Kaadhal movie (just curious, how many Tamil movies begin/end with that word?).

By this time, Suprabhatham was over, Bhavayami continued in background. I decided to close my eyes and listen. Just then, I was summoned. 'Abarna. Come. Let us finish off with your eyebrosss!'. I came out and saw Maami with henna on her head. As she plucked my brow, Maami, began a new topic. I was too distracted (and in pain) to concentrate on what she said. She was done in 5 mins flat. Perfect!

As I left this plaza, I was strangely satisfied. [If only she had offered me a cup of filter Kaapi]. I was just so taken by this out of the blue Maami-outfit in the middle of Singapore's most happening street, that I had no time to be cynical. I laughed as I passed by Gucci, Guess, Hermes, Marc Jacobs...the usual boring stuff.

Singapore, surprise me more pliss!

So long then, Sydney.

2011-07-01T06:53:00.000+05:30

When I left Hyderabad, I shed a few tears. It was mostly for the family I was leaving behind. Bangalore didn't move me much, but I knew I'd miss it for friends and for the fabulous city that it was. But Sydney is something else, and Nine By Thirty, Cherrybrook is something else all together. This house gave me a purpose, made my biggest and most important dream come true, gave us countless unforgettable moments and memories. But it's time to move, yet again. And this move is a difficult one, albeit, a move that we chose to make.

We've been in Sydney for close to 3 years now and it's only been fabulous. I've loved living the Australian way. Absolutely adored the happy, chill out attitude of the Aussies and the lush and picture perfect vast landscapes of Australia. Its without doubt one of the best looking cities in the world. People here are warm and relaxed. I've rarely experienced the tensions that a typical city dweller does. This beer drinking, steak eating, beach loving, barbeque mad country, has giving me a lot. Barring the winter and the fact that it is just so far away from home, I haven't had any complaints. At some point we wanted to settle down here, but the heart didn't agree with the head. For the first time, I'm at a loss for words. I don't know how to thank and say beautiful things about this country and the new friends we met here. I won't do justice with my writing...and mere words cannot describe my deepest feelings. I'll miss you Sydney. Miss you oh so much.

And I know, I'll come back to say hello to you again, Sydney. But it's time now to say hello to a new country and embrace and experience new sights, sounds and cultures. So long, then.

Aami gaayi..

2011-04-26T20:20:00.000+05:30

Found a lovely translation by Barnali Saha of the song, Ghore Pherar Gaan. And that's exactly how I feel at the moment.

I sing the going home song
My distressed soul calls me incessantly, asks me
Despite being miles afar
Why, why the bond is still so strong?

Thus my indefatigable body
Peregrinates day and night
Startled, I stop short
I think I hear that same old tune from somewhere
Rusty, yet scintillating in my mind

I cannot go back if I want
I have traversed countries and eons
Untraveled roads still lie ahead of me
Roads that cannot be tricked for sure

I wish I could go back to that village
To that shady bower of the Bunyan tree once more
That same old creek
The soft murmur of the breeze

Can you bid adeu to the to the grim and gay memories lying in the crevasses of your heart

Many a times I search for the lost country
I know there is no ending
The mirage flashes a thousand vague dreams
I cannot return to the idyllic childhood anymore, the road has vanished, the land is lost
I cannot go back if I want
I have traversed countries and eons
Untraveled roads still lie ahead of me
Roads that cannot be tricked for sure.

Blessings Unlimited!

2011-04-13T20:23:00.003+05:30

Aaaaacho!
Gaw Besss u mumma. I lubb u mumma.
Aaaachooooo! Aaaaachuu!
Gaw Besss u mumma. I lubb u mumma.Gaw Besss u mumma. I lubb u mumma.
(this continued through the day. The count stood at 37 Gaw Besss u mumma's and I lubb u mumma's )

Then, a while back. At 12.39 am. while we were all asleep. All the 3 of us.
Aaaaaachoooo!
Gaw Besss u mumma. I lubb u mumma.!!!

Awww baby! It's ok. Mumma's ok. Go to sleep.

But I lubb u Ma.

(where do these sugar balls come from? If I didn't hv a throat infection I'd eat her up. My baby. Myyy Mishmash)

Away from You, on a day like today.

2011-04-03T07:18:00.000+05:30

It's funny how we try to feel at home,

away from home.

We fool ourselves,

with the usual-

festivals and films,

food and friends.

Imprudently we believe,

we carry you with us

where ever we go.

You.

You, the one with a billion and some voices

that call me today,

as I try to make peace with myself.

So, how do you feel today,

with streets agog with your (my) countrymen,

frenzied and euphoric?

Did you miss me?

I worry, you didn't.

But I did.

Acutely.

I missed the air about you,

the pulse, the beat,

the rouse;

while we shed tears of joy,

albeit, away from you.

Oh, tell me again,

how do you feel, today?

What does it look like,

to see a billion and some faces smile bright?

Do tell, India, how does it feel like?

[Such a proud moment. Such a wonderfully proud moment. And I'm away from my beloved country.

Congratulations and celebrations, fellow Indians. How does it feel like, eh? :-) ]

Damsels in distress

2011-03-18T06:37:00.000+05:30

Over the last couple of days I watched about 4-5 films, including Hitchcock's North by Northwest. And its appalling how sexist all these movies are in their portrayal of women. I mean even Hitchcock's she-spy is such a darned damsel in distress. Not one female role in any of the movies I saw could do their job well. Be it the gullible bank manager or the junkie in Ben Affleck's Town or any random movie u watch, women characters are never meant to do their jobs right. They mess up, fall in love with the wrong people, are taken for a ride, have cat fights,are weak kneed when they see their heroes, can't keep their gob shut, are timid or are stupid.

Bah.

Note to self- pick up a book, soon.

Remind me please..

2011-02-17T14:36:00.000+05:30

why did we move away from India? What brought us here? Fresher air? More space? What does one mean by better quality of life? How does the quality of life get any better without family and friends? Friends. Where are they? I don't even know what it means to hang out any more. Adda is merely a nostalgic sounding word.
No really, remind me, why did we move away,again? It is over a year since I met my parents. I feel dead. I feel like I exist and live only virtually. There is no real me anywhere. I don;t really live any more.

Why did we choose a life devoid of friends and family? The greenery is getting to me. The spotlessness of this place is nauseous.

I quit. Take me back. I want to be home.

The prettier necklace

2011-02-17T10:54:00.001+05:30

Ma one and Ma two,
I'm having a tough time pleasing you two.

Ma 1, you are my biological mother,
therefore, an extra strand of garnet around Ma 2's neck shouldn't really matter!

You will remain the main woman of my life
even if I'm Ma 2's son's wife.

Do you think I love you less

because of an extra strand in Ma two's necklace?

For you I'll string a hundred more,
each one better than the one before.

So, be happy and smile for me,
come now, didn't you get that strand of Garnets for free? :D

Jealousy is not a virtue,
and that's something taught to me by you.

My lovely Ma one, you'll always be my muse,
so lets shake hands and call it a truce.

{ I made two necklaces for both the mums. Should have made both exactly the same. My bad. :D }

You tell

2011-02-16T06:23:00.001+05:30

Pallavi's post on racism took me back to an incident I faced in Sydney a couple of months ago. I was working on a story for Condenast Traveller, on Sydney. Of the many places to visit in Sydney, I wanted to feature Chinese Laundry or Ivy Bar as one of the top night clubs to go to. I made my way to the place and introduced myself to the staff and asked for the manager. Before landing there, I had tried in vain to reach them via email or telephone.
Once there, a waitress asked me to wait. I did, for over half an hour (it was afternoon on a weekday ). I was running out of time. I decided to make my way inside to look for someone who could help me. I found the same waitress who had earlier spoken to me, walking down the stairs. She looked helpless (very scared too) and pointed me to the manager, busy inspecting the bar. It was evident that he was told of my visit, but refused to come see me, let alone know why I was there. I walked up to him and told the purpose of my visit. He looked at me from head to toe and asked in a very disinterested and derogatory manner- 'what is it that you need'? He hadn't apparently heard of Conde Nast Traveller magazine, and that he couldn't help me. I asked him if he could get me through to the PR or corp com manager of Merivale, the group that owned both the bars. He refused. He said, he didn't know. I further asked if he could give me the email id instead. By then he was walking away.

I could have taken this with a pinch of salt and forgotten about it. But the condescending manner in which he spoke and eyed me like I was a piece of shit, really got me. I was really upset and walked away with tears gleaming in my eyes. And that's exactly what I shouldn't have done. I behaved like a perfectly insipid woman. He had the right to not give me any information if he so wished (though I doubt he knew ANY darn thing). But he had NO right to treat me the way he did.

What do you think I could have done?
And I'm not sure how to categorize this incident. Racist?

You tell.

I wish i had

2011-02-14T14:17:00.002+05:30

baked those cup cakes . I just had such a foot in the mouth moment. Half an hour after the earlier post, the man comes home with an FCUK dress and a while later my favourite flowers.

And now, I don't know whether to laugh or cry :).

Stumped! Floored! Totally in shock :)

(How awful do I feel at the moment? Not very, coz secretly I am all squish squash in my heart and going awwww).

oh!

2011-02-14T10:14:00.001+05:30

Someone I know got an i-pad today . Another one wrote a poem. Some have chosen easy and inexpensive ways of expression, like dedicating Youtube Love song links on FB to their Valentines. Long distance lovers are sulking. Our own heroine, Mishmash, wrote a 'Love Note' to my dad. This leaves us with The man and me.

He left for an 'important' meeting' early in the morning. Uncomfortably early. Uncomfortable because I'm tired of waking up early to make lunch and pack Mishmash's lunch box, make brekky, feed, clothe, drop her. And I haven't been getting much help or attention from this man. The same one who came to Pune from Delhi with A bottle of Dabur Amla Kesh Tel as a Valentine's day gift.

Rubbing my eyes I wished him a Happy Valentine's. He said, 'oh!'.

'Oh'.

No prizes for guessing what's for dinner tonight.

Hope you had a far better one!

[May be I should go bake a few cup cakes.
Nope. I won't.]

Summer and you

2011-02-02T10:08:00.003+05:30

Its sweltering hot,
and while it is so, I think of you,
mangoes and our Guava tree.
Summer does that to me.

Remember how I climbed on my favourite branch
to mug history essays?
With every boring para, I took short snack breaks,
crawled on to other branches,
and plucked those sun ripened greenish yellow fruit.

I shared them with you.
Though, you preferred raw mangoes
with red chilli and salt.
You had yours, sitting on the kitchen steps
while I had mine perched up there.

It is as hot these days,

and the tree and you are on my mind.
I get glimpses of the tree.
But you,
I can barely see you.

Do you think of me?
Of the butterfly catching expeditions we went on?
Surely you didn't forget the cycle!
Or, have you?

Tell me, do you still think of me,
perched on the Guava tree?

Do you?

Break Ke Baad

2011-01-07T05:58:00.000+05:30

Suffice to say, I was on a long break. And what I did in these months are a dangerous territory to tread on. Too many things then need to be told, parallel sub-plots will show up, and I have to needlessly end the deep slumber my head seems to be taking for a nice long time now.

A full year went by. A winning year, through and through for me. Lots of goods, fewer lows, big wins, small disappointments. In all, a model year. But for the fact that I sneezed more number of times last year compared to any given year that I've lived so far, I have no issues. I began with a holiday (India) and ended with one too (New Zealand). Nine By Thirty was born and I wrote professionally for top websites. My publishing dream has been carried forward to this year. I can already see it in the distant horizon.

From my family standpoint, the man didn't threaten me with divorce papers, and I managed to bring down my divorce threats to him by a record number. Only on one or 2 occasions- and they weren't exactly threats. I'm a little disappointed though that we both are showing strong signs of behaving like adults. I wonder if 2011 will see us both fight over things we fought over 7 years back. Its for us to wait and watch.

No big issues with parents or in-laws. Absolutely none. And this is a sure shot sign that we are a couple that belong to the youth brigade, no more. We talk to elders with caution and display very little rebellious tendencies to instigate them. Mishmash did not report us to the welfare guys here. She seems to know how to call the police though and say a thing or two about how her mum threatens to switch off the television. That seems like her only complain from her mum. Too much milk and too little TV.

I managed to lose a few pounds too. I still don't defy gravity, but I feel a lot lighter this January than in did in Jan 2010. Probably that's what gave me the courage to do this - yes, a perfect way to end 2010. Take a look

The year end bungy jump was a cherry on top for 2010. I'm especially proud of this feat because I'm actually a very timid person, scared of heights, roaches, lizards and the usual things such people are terrified of. This was one instance where I came face to face with my fears and I knew I had to conquer it.
And oh, What. A. High.

So this year, I have a list (I actually sat down and wrote a three page - I-will-dos - for 2011. And its already working. A part of one such 'will do' has already seen the light of the day, in a very exciting way. It is amazing the ways in which our wishes come true. Here's a look at how my year began-

[ Appeared in Bangalore Mirror 2.1.11] Linking it to the online copy- click on it to read.

BLR Mirror- 2.1.11 - Had the will, found the way

So yes, I'm having a party and the Universe is arranging it all for me. :D

As and when the items on my list get done, I will hopefully bring it to your notice. Given that its a 3 pager, I already know The Quaint and Luminous Life of a Cha Lover will see quiet a few exciting posts in 2011. Amen. Tathastu. Ameen.

Maha Ashtami

2010-10-15T05:45:00.003+05:30

Maha Ashtami.

Just another day for many,

away from home. Like me.

I attempted to make the morning

characteristic of special days like these.

Strong fragrance of incense

mixed with smoky aromas of

ballooned Luchis ,

hung precariously in the air,

unsure of its presence in an alien country.

And, it was silent,

the surroundings, you know.

I couldn't hear Ma's bangles clink,

or dad sing;

not even a distant beat of Dhaak,

or the resonance of a conch.

It was all silent,

as silent as the dead.

I sat by the porch,

all dressed, with a touch of vermilion,

to catch a glimpse of somebody. Anybody.

There was nobody.

Miles away, they must be sleeping,

and dreaming of the biggest day of the nine days.

Maha Ashtami.

But in some parts of the world,

its just another day.

Pujo ramblings.

2010-10-14T03:39:00.001+05:30

Bangalis from all over the world are posting pictures of Ma Durga from their respective locations on Facebook. I go through all of them diligently. IK also sent me an email with info on a cricket tournament to be held at the Bangalee Samitee of NSW. I look at everything in a strange form of detachment. It’s my second year in Sydney, and I haven’t really made an attempt to socialise. I’m not complaining here. Just wondering at my lack of enthusiasm to embrace the new. I bet, had I been in Hyderabad I’d be cribbing to Ma come Saptami - ‘ma, do I need to go to the Pujobari on all days, and that too both the times?’ But as the day progressed I’d give in to an unknown energy that would have me dressed in minutes in a new cotton saree, which would always be Ma’s, akin to how Cinderallas’ mice and birds get her dressed.

Aimlessly I strolled about the Pujo Pandal looking for known faces and waving to Kakimas and Kakus, acknowledging the older with a polite, ‘Kemon acho jethi? ‘, and finally attacking bhog.

Its almost 2 years now, and I know more than ever, that my heart lies back home..and that its a matter of time before I head back. I know I just speak for myself here, perhaps because the other two in my family seem comfy amidst the green, clean, antiseptic surroundings of Sydney.

And as I type this I wonder if I’ll ever have to eat my words, once the festivities are over and all go back to their normal lives and I begin enjoying summer, down under.

BTW, the exhibition wasn’t the best. Some politely stopped by, some said encouraging words, one even said- ooorebabare kee daaam (Oh my goodness, how expensive! ), some pretended I wasn’t there, a lovely girl eyed a pair of earrings and kept hovering around my stall, but her mother had other ideas (she whispered something in her daughter’s ears and both looked at me very very accusingly [:D] and away they went from my stall- faaar away!); a friend or two I knew passed by without so much as to even look at the stuff on display. :D :D. (But at least I sold a few – thank God for people with an eye for the good stuff [:D :D ] pieces that helped me get back my stall fee). So yes, I’M LEARNING THE HARD WAY. And I’ve noted one more thing- I’m vastly misunderstood.

On the bright side online business is picking up, and well.

So much for now.

~ Ya devi sarbabhuteshshu, sakti rupena sanksthita ..

2010-10-07T11:02:00.001+05:30

Namasteshwai Namasteshwai Namasteshwai namo namaha~

Took a bath, plucked wild Jasmine (I think it is Jasmine) from the backyard, lit Diya and incense and put on Mahalaya on Youtube. Little things in life go a great length in making you happy. Called Ma, Dad and had a little chat while sipping on a huge cup of Lopchu cha. They were having cha too, after listening to Mahalaya. Felt a connection there and an indescribable yearning to be with them.

As wee kids, dad woke us up at 4am to listen to it. Those cold wintry mornings saw dad in his shawl over his ears and head, swaying to Mahalaya. I didn't understand much, but was generally excited that the entire household was awake that early to listen to music! I remember listening to it over the radio. (There were times I hated waking up to it too....in my teens I suppose). But I did love watching Hemamalini perform to Mahisasura Mardini on Doordarshan.

I wonder what kind of memories Mishmash will have of me. Will she have quaint memories like I do of my parents on days like today? Or are all memories quaint and evoke a fuzzy gooey feeling inside you?

For now, I have to be content and spirited about the forthcoming 'weekend Pujo'. Its ok that I won't accompany Ma to Ameerpet to get last minute matching falls and saree blouse pieces. Neither will I wrack my head thinking which 'jama' to wear on which day of the pujo. It is also okay that I will not be at the Bangalee Samitee Pandal, waiting for Dad to get me my Chicken-egg roll. Its ok. Its ok.

But yes, its time for Dhaak. And its time for the festivities to begin. Make the most of these nine days in whatever special way you can. I will.

Leaving you all with an absolutely lovely video- Dhaak

My feature in Conde Nast Traveller, India

2010-10-04T13:43:00.001+05:30

A quick update to share my feature that is up on Conde Nast Traveller, India (CNTraveller.in). They just launched in India, and I will hopefully manage to contribute to the site more often. Here's my first on Hot Destination : Sydney. Yaaay! Needless to say, I'm on cloud 9!

Also, am seriously contemplating on moving on - from KG/Ketchup Girl to my extra long name with two surnames, written with a hyphen, one of which vaguely resembles the name of Bollywood's ONLY star, and my sole heart throb.

For I ain't anonymous no more.

Until I make a decision, then.

BTW, Pujo ashche and I'm exhibiting Nine By Thirty's collection at one of Sydney Pujos - Uttoron- held at Carlingford High School, this Saturday. If you happen to be a Sydneysider, do drop by to see Ma, before friends and relatives back home see, have Bhog and take a look at me { ;) } and my glittering silver and beads.

Catch u soon.

Naheen, Ma, Naheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen!

2010-10-01T09:07:00.001+05:30

Already conscious about the way I look, especially when I am around her, Mishmash has been giving me some fashion tips, free of cost. So, the other day after I picked her up from her day care and was heading home, she pointed at a pretty Aussie walking in a summer dress, on a perfectly chilly evening. And she goes,

Ma, you should wear dresses like that.

I looked at myself self consciously. Dressed in my regular Adidas tracks, sneakers and sweatshirt, I thought, I looked sporty and cool. Mishmash, to my misfortune, thought otherwise. I replied,

Well, baby, your mumma doesn't have the money now to buy pretty dresses. She is in the process of making some. When she does that, we' can go shopping.

She looks confused and asks,

How does one make money?

I say-

well, mumma is selling all that jewellery you see her making in the study.

Utterly horrified she goes,

But mumma, you don't need to. You can always ask papa for money.

Amused, I tell her,

Baby, it is good to make your own money.

Not one bit convinced, and with heightened horror in her voice, from the backseat of our car, she goes,

Ma, please, ma, pllllllllllllease don't sell the jewellery. I'll ask papa, or we can go to the bank and ask for some. But promise me, you will not sell your jewellery? Prooomise?

I try to reason, looking at her round eyes, distress laden face, in the rear view mirror-

but shona, that jewellery is not mine. I'm making it to sell it.

But to no avail...she continued to look stressed and sad..

It was such a classic hindi movie moment, that I was left wondering where she got that - yeh zevar lelo daaktar, par mere bachche ka aapreshan karwado - type of flavour laced conversation in a four year old's mouth ? She sure hadn't seen any Manmohan Desai movies.

I think it was stupid to even wonder. She is my daughter after all. Its in her DNA.

My filmi bachcha. :)

(So, after Raj got back home, Mishmash remembered to tell him, papa, please buy mumma one, two, five... thirty dresses. OK?)

Nine By Thirty

2010-09-24T08:37:00.001+05:30

Sitting by a window, in a suburb called Cherrybrook, in the city of Sydney, a silver jewellery enthusiast decided to live her dream. From house number 9/30, this silver jewellery habitué, decided to make pretty somethings, for everyone to love. Today they are up for you, on sale.

"Moi' is the handmade line from Nine By Thirty. And ' Motley Street' is Nine By Thirty's hand-picked pieces from travels across the globe.

Here’s the logo

Designed by White Canvas, an ad agency partly owned by a very dear maverick friend of mine, the significance of the icon you see in green is an Oriya ‘A’ written in a stylized manner. A for? You gotcha :-)

Etsy shop with payment gateway opens soon, so please keep your cards ready :)).

I’m the happiest person in the world today!

Ready?

Presenting, Nine By Thirty!

Yaaaaaaaay!

Sultry Summer Afternoons

2010-09-16T10:41:00.001+05:30

4/A Tarak Pramanick Road, Kolkata

We hurriedly tried to finish lunch. Dada and I sat on the floor on mats at one end of the room against a wall facing the rest of the room. To our left were three Kakas or paternal uncles, all unmarried, in their early twenties and baba. To our right against the huge bed sat our grandparents -Thakuma or Bui as we called her and Dadu. Ma had the end of her saadi over her head, like she usually did while visiting Girish Park. She silently served everyone. With gestures they told her if they wanted another serving. No one spoke. It was one of those days, when no one spoke. All were lost in their worlds. You could only hear the dusty ceiling fan that was never oiled in its entire life, make a periodic noise with each round, and different chewing sounds from everyone’s mouth. One could also hear bits of broken Hindustani from the local basti . Occasionally Thakuma spoke. Mostly about second helpings for her eldest son and the name that was always at the tip of her tongue – “Basonti’ (Ma).

Dada ate with a spoon. He always did. Even fish. Our attempt to finish lunch quickly was foiled by Thakuma’s summons to ma to give us more rice. I protested. Dada didn’t. He never did. One of the early reasons for Ma to love Dada more than me, was his calm and accepting nature, even as a child. My protest was the first noise one heard in the room. Tipu the German Sheppard resembling mongrel, who waited in anticipation for our leftovers, picked up the sound and up went one of his ears. Ma glared at me, Baba gave me a swift glance – soft enough to say he was not angry, but firm enough to tell me, he can, if I didn’t take the second helping.

Finally the big plate of Mangoes came. I swiftly picked the ‘takua’ or the large flat seed , my favourite part of the mango. Tipu looked excited at the prospect of getting his favourite fruit, albeit, the peel. Thakuma looked on too. She was diabetic and wasn’t allowed mangoes. But Dadu in his usual indulgent manner put two slices on her plate as she mildly resisted.

Finally, the ordeal was over. Amidst belches and stretches all got up. Ma stacked up the ‘ointha*’ plates. She looked miserable, tired and sweaty. We looked on as she wiped the floor with a wet cloth, never once asking Dada or me to help her with anything. We didn’t offer, either. Folding the mats she went into the kitchen and sat down. I followed suit. She asked me to leave. She wanted to be alone, when she ate. Dada and I took off to sit around Thakuma while she made her Paan. We made one for ourselves with meetha paan masala. She had taught me to make the adult versions too. So I made one for her and Dadu. I then took my share and went off to sit by the wooden framed green window with iron grill, to watch the basti children play with a hope to catch a little street fight, if lucky.

Sultry summer holiday afternoons.

( An extract from a sultry Sunday summer afternoon from my yesteryears. Those afternoons were depressing. I don’t know why. But by evening everything would change.The picture above was taken on my visit to Kolkata in January this year. I begged my uncle and dad to take me to North Kolkata around all those places I had seen as a kid, especially 4/A Tarak Paramanick Road where I spent most of my childhood summer vacations. That letter box is still the same. The little red bench too. Thakuma usually sat there chatting with her friends.Will try and do a photo post of my memories of Kolkata. I was watching Pather Panchali again and suddenly had an urge to write about my childhood)

*ointha – used

A beginning

2010-09-10T09:11:00.001+05:30

So, I’ll be all out with my Silver venture soon. Still stuck with zeroing in on a name. Once that’s done, I’m all set. I did decide on three names- ‘Moon Shadow’ , Nine By Thirty’ and ‘Aparna’ . (OK so you finally know my name). But I think I need to dig deeper. I had no more patience left in me to hold back and wait to formally launch. So thought I’ll tease you all a wee bit. :D So, as a sneak peak, here’s something I made. Green Abalone danglers. Like?

While my ultimate dream is still to work exclusively with Silver, I think I’ll need time and most importantly capital for setting up my own workshop. Meanwhile, I am all ears – go on and tell me all you think about this piece. Bouquets and brickbats, both welcome. By the way this piece was made and was sold too :).

I’m off to Hunter Valley for a weekend getaway, that I so deserve :D. Though, the husband and my mini rascal are pretty much accompanying me, I still think I’ll have a wonderful time! You guys have a lovely Ganesh Chaturthi and Eid Mubarak to all!

Rant.

2010-09-08T08:13:00.001+05:30

The hardest and the worst thing, of being married with a child, perhaps, is the inability to let go of them sometimes and take a break yourself. This rings true of men and women who are dependent on their spouses, financially and are emotionally too attached. I’d really like to take off on a holiday for a couple of days all by myself. Just a few days. Mishmash and Raj, both mean the world to me, but getting away for a person like me is important. It was easier when I was in India and working, when I got my monthly breaks in the form of overnight Mumbai- Delhi trips. But here, I’m stuck at home mostly. I do get out, but only to come back to cook some more or pick up strewn socks, books, toys and clothes.

I woke up this morning to a terrible migraine. This comes a day after 2 days of terrible pain owing to my slip disc and 3 and a half weeks of pollen allergy induced cold, fever and horrible bouts of sneezing. I was so done today. I wanted to run to ma. I shy away from talking about my illnesses sometimes for I can see in friends and acquaintances a look, that doesn’t anymore want to give me the benefit of doubt. I dislike being called a weakling and I’m trying my best to make myself healthier. I exercise, eat healthy and am cheerful. I pursue my hobbies actively. I do my bit. But at times you indeed feel cheated when despite everything you do, these little aches are back, and people sympathise with my husband more instead of giving me a nod of understanding, for reasons not very foreign to our Indian mentality. I don’t need sympathy, but maybe if people around me are a little more sensitive and understanding, I’d feel better. I indeed look forward to the day when Paracetamol is not bought as part of our monthly grocery list. :) No one revels in being sick. And I’m most certainly not a hypochondriac. It is just unfortunate that I fall sick in Australia more often owing to the climate, and I’m doing everything I can to make friends with it :).

But for now, I really want to be away for a few days from this domestic humdrum. And I’m restless to achieve all those dreams, I dream all day long. I take no solace in being content with what I have. I must get those dreams fulfilled and do that quick.

Those who come back to reading this space, am sorry about such a morose post. But I had to rant somewhere. And being far from home, I’m so starved for company. So, bear with me, a little more.

Sure Daisy darling, you do your thing, but leave me alone, please

2010-08-23T09:08:00.001+05:30

Recovering from a terrible bout of Allergic Rhinitis. It sends shivers down my spine just thinking of the impending ‘Spring’ in September. A season change I’ve been so looking forward to after these bone-chilling months, suddenly sounds like a bad idea. I’m willing to stay wrapped in fleece and in cheap Chinese woolen tights, but I refuse to fall prey to pranks played by these impertinent pollens, who just don’t know how to mind their own business or behave. Spring seems like a wild time for these amoral things, all let loose.

I know it’s your season and you are excited and hence busy doing ‘your thing’. Flying all over the place, checking out flowers in full bloom and all. I also know that its very natural. We all do it. But why get into my nose? What does pollination have to do with my nose? While you might be busy looking for other flower babes, why come knocking on my door? I have nothing for you. Only nose hair. Go away, look for a lilly, dianthus, daisy, tulip for all I care. But leave me alone.

Aaaaaaaaaaacccccchhhooooooooooo! Arrrgh.

Mumma- Mishmash snippets

2010-08-22T17:35:00.001+05:30

Mumma mumma, wake up. Papa bought me 2 gifts from Perth and just one for you.

*smile*

He got me a pink tee shirt, ma. See? And look at these funny toys, ma.

*awwww*

He got you a fridge magnet, ma.

*wtf look of the century*

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Ma I threw papa’s pack of ‘ceeegrates’ into the dustbin!

*high fives*

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Ma, I have a better plan ma. How about this? Umm, see, we tell papa if he doesn't smoke, he gets a sticker. I can lend some of mine. But, if he smokes, then he gets nothing. I think the plan will work ma.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Mishmash, baby what really matters later in life is how nice a person you grow up to be. You must be a kind, gentle person, with a big heart. You must aim to be honest and good. Does that make any sense, baby?

But mumma, I just want to grow up to be a pop star.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mumma, I’ve told Khwwishna (Krishna) to make you better. And papa has promised to let you have an ice-cwweam, but only when you feel a little better. But, I can have one myself.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Adults or whatever we think we are

2010-08-09T12:18:00.001+05:30

Years back when I read this -

Grown-ups love figures. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?" Instead, they demand: "How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince, 1943,

- I might have smiled and turned to the next page. How adults behave was (is) hardly ever exemplary and hackneyed, anyway. At the most, that could have been my reaction to the above extract.

Today, however, these words caught me unawares and told me a thing or two about the way I was bringing up my little lass. Raj and I obsess over the kids and their age-groups that Mishmash mingles with. (Partly because I know from experience the repercussions of being influenced by older children, their conversations and things they like etc.) . But in all this business of letting Mishmash have the best and appropriate experiences, we (I) am missing out on what’s on her mind or what might be. Or simply looking through her eyes. If I did that I’d see and enjoy more. Give this a serious thought and it somehow makes more sense. I merely nod my head through her - “Ma, Alex gave me this, ma. Look. A purple shiny button. This is my secret gift for you on Mother’s day. Its Mother’s Day now, ma. Happy Mother’s day’.

I don’t think I need to de-code what she is saying. But am sure it’ll make me a happier being in trying to live like her. Simply. With love. With more imagination.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yesterday we had a little tiff. Raj and me. Irritated he said, ‘Its time you grew up and behaved liked an adult. We are adults now’.

Being an adult is tiring, cliché, banal and a nearly fake experience. I’m done being one.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I waited long enough to watch a movie with an A certification. Then, I did all that adults did. I wanted to be free when I was 12. Free from time restrictions. From exams.

But I still feel fettered and restless. May because I see too clearly?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The 7 year W(I)tch!

2010-08-02T07:30:00.001+05:30

This Benaroshi is terrible. I wanted a Red one. Not a Maroon one. The hair is tied too high up. The Chondon is messed up . Make up is too loud. I am the world’s worst bride. (As usual he had his trademark silly grin, which gave away nothing. Just a plain genuine, nice smile. What contrasts we were. And to think of this just before we were about to take the seven rounds).

I think you look gorgeous. Even more beautiful that I had imagined you to look. *smiles*

This gold looks ridiculous. XYZ said some shit about it.

Hey hey baby. Relax. Its our wedding. Can you believe it? Finally. *smiles*

Uff this garland. Is the Kajol smeared? I forgot to wear perfume. Am I stinking? Munni didn’t turn up and nor did Anu. I had no one by me through the make up. I want to cry.

Can I hold your hand? *Smiles*

What?! Aaah the safety pin. Where is Ma? Why is Ma never around when I need her? Where is Anu? ***** must be drinking at Outswinger with the rest.

Should I go get her? *smiles*

Shut up. Is the Lipstick too gaudy?

A few more hours. Then you’ll me just mine. *smiles*

How about this? I have to leave my parents. Live in your house. I’m starving. Haven’t had a morsel for I am supposed to starve or some such shit. Why doesn’t my dad want to do my Kanyaa daan? I want him here. Not kaku. I’m going to cry. When is the wedding going to begin for God’s sake! Everything is pricking me.

Do you want water? Have you taken your Voveran for the back pain? Will you be able to sit through? *Looks very concerned and then, smiles*

These toe rings. And that sandal I wore. I told you I shouldn’t have bought them. And I’m not going back to them for my make-up for the reception. Where in God’s name is Ma?! Nothing is going right. Dada didn’t turn up when he needed to bring me in. Bugger is romancing somewhere. Idiot.

*Smiles* In 4 hours. You will me mine. Just mine. la la la.

(He didn’t have the faintest idea what he was getting into. revealed very little in my dating years. *Evil grin*. Or maybe he did. He smiled his way through in a heart warming and genuine manner, like he always does. Listened to every daily soap-style rant of mine. Smiled as if I told him sweet nothings.)

7 years on and he STILL does it. Listens to my pathetic rants and smiles his way through my heart. Unbelievable that I wrote this a year back. Its 2 August again?!

Pardon me, but is it really 2 August ?

A pulsating, crazy, 7 years. No itch there. Just me, the wretched old witch.

Ok I’ll say it. I love you, too.

THIS IS IT !

2010-07-27T18:51:00.001+05:30

You know how you feel when you’ve just met or done a thing you’ve been looking for, all your life? Its an Unknown, yet a familiar kind of excitement. Like the ‘soul mate’ funda. Now, apply the same thing to what you you’ve been looking at wanting to do all your life.

You might be able to catch my pulse and get a sense of what I’m hinting at, if you are a regular here. You know how confused or unfocussed I was with my ‘life plans’. Sometimes I was wistful about my short-lived ‘corporate’ career, and then there were days when all I wanted to do was cook, clean and be a stay at home mom. Well, the book was never really a ‘career’ option.

All these days i was juggling with multiple ideas, talents and desires. All I wanted to do was taper my focus areas to one main activity, that I could devote my time to. Something that excited me, immensely. And like you might have already guessed, it turned out that there were several ‘immensely exciting’ things I could and wanted to do. So I started giving everything time. Photography, cooking, writing, firming up plans for my ‘silver’ venture. I was doing them all with a lot of panache. And the more energy I put into these activities the clearer everything got.

I went for my first class on ‘Silversmithing’ today at Sydney Art School. I learnt to make my own silver ring, out of a strip of silver. It took me 4 hours to make it. But this post is not about the how’s and what’s. All that you’ll find on my silver blog. What I want to share here, is the feeling . It felt so familiar- holding the metal, filing it, polishing it. As if I was meant to do it. As if the metal I so adore, was destined to be in my hands. (I swear, for the very first time on this blog, I am not exaggerating :-)).

The feeling was akin to meeting Raj :D. A this is it feeling, or like I hurriedly updated my status message from the bus, I’ve found my calling.

Happy. Happy. So happy!

For those who I know won’t go to my silver blog, here is what I made :

Thoda Ketchup Try Karo, Ketchup Hota Kaddu Bhara..

2010-07-26T12:10:00.001+05:30

So Manikarn sparked this off. A lot of people have asked me how ‘Ketchup’ came to be my blogging nick.

When nehavish, my favourite-est blogger, and then colleague/ friend introduced me to this addiction, I didn’t know I could mask my name. Yes, I was rather duh (notice the past tense pl). So when I finally got down to creating this blog and was prompted for a name, I had this sudden urge to remain anonymous. I wanted to be this mystery writer…basically I didn’t have the guts to go public. Its really a different matter that what I wrote in the initial years of this blog was pretty cringe-worthy.

But I digress. So I got thinking. I’m not exactly a patient person – so ideating about my blogging nick was getting me into a state of tizzy, and I had to settle on something quickly.

My eyes scanned my office interiors looking for clues. Pictures of beautiful Adivasis and little kids from government schools adorned the walls of the NGO where I worked. I was next to an orange wall. Nothing worked out somehow. ‘The Adivasi Girl’, or ‘Orangiee’ somehow didn’t quite cut it (: .

That evening I took a tea break to visit Bakers Inn (Hyderabad) to satisfy my Cheese Tart cravings. Little did I know that my blogging-nick was safely tucked between two sand-paper like tissues, inside the take-away box. I opened the box in the pantry and out came the tarts, tissues and a sachet of TOMATO KETCHUP. Aha. Eureka!

Absolutely nothing cerebral about it. I know. But really, do you care? Also, I’ve begun to wonder what the consequences this nick will face when I turn 60 plus. I think I’ll stick to KG, notwithstanding what my grand kids might have to say :). (Oh of course I’ll be blogging at 60, doubtlessly, through my arthritis! Whatever the hell did you think, aye?)

Of course, KG is no more unknown.. No, by ‘not unknown’ I don’t mean ‘popular’. By ‘no more unknown’, I mean, all those I was trying to hide from -friends, relatives, neighbours- they all know now, the face behind the ‘Ketchup Girl’. But I do take solace in people, who haven’t bothered to know more and go beyond Ketchup. You are happy with this Ketchup babe, and don’t want to know if Ketchup was Kylie or Kalyani in the real world, so long as the posts are published regularly. :-) Cheers to you all!

…is mein Kaddu nahin zara! Laal Rasile tamataron se hota hai tayyar , Volfarm! (All who remember this, please stand up!)

A list

2010-07-23T12:21:00.001+05:30

Exactly at this point in time, I want to

- join Art school, get a degree in Visual arts and major in Jewellery design.

- take a quick lesson in French Patisserie

- attend a workshop on creative writing

- book a stall in Bondi’s market place and sell silver jewellery

- take off to Bali

- pull out the water-colour tubes and re-create what I did eons ago

- give life to my Silver boutique

- pack my camera, tie my Nike shoe laces and set off to capture Sydney through my D60.

- make a cuppa and read Rushdie on my rattan reading chair

- go for a all girls holiday to an exotic island

- take a Himalayan holiday in Ananda spa

- go in search of ‘true happiness’

There are some very complex things too that I wish for. Mentioning those here will set off an alarm in the man’s head. So will let those points remain safe in the head.

I love lists. :)

Want to share yours?

Dog talk

2010-07-20T12:00:00.001+05:30

I don’t think it will be a lie to say that I grew up with dogs. We as a family never really brought home a dog, but we gave shelter to many. I was notorious for picking up puppies from all corners of the colony and bring them home, begging ma to give those ‘poor puppies’ a home. One such pup that our milkman- Krishnappa brought home, remained with us. Ma miraculously agreed to keep him and I like every other person in those days did, named him ‘Tommy’.

Tommy was the son of a mongrel. No lineage so to speak of. But he had the cutest tail , brownest eyes and very loyal. He walked me to school, and arrived bang on time to walk me back home too. He sat by me in the evenings, brought back my lost pair of chappal, allowed us to ride him like a horse, and destroyed ma’s vegetable garden with the vivacity of a mad dog.

He loved dad and me the most. He did have to bear the brunt of ma’s wrath for all the backyard destruction, but he never left us. When dad got back from work, he gave him a guided tour of our backyard, leading dad, mum and me from plant to plant, tree to tree checking if the fruits and vegetables were ready to be plucked. The colony I grew up in was also a very dog-friendly place. A lot of people we knew, had dogs. I still remember the names of many – Bamby, Snowy, Suzie, sandy, Rex :-). The idiom ‘Once bitten twice shy’ doesn’t mean much to me. When I was about 10 years old ‘Bruce’, my aunt’s Doberman, got a little irked with me, and gave me a little ‘identification mark’ for life on my cheek bone. That didn’t scare me a wee bit.

And when we went to Kolkata for summers, we had ‘Tipu’ (he was named after my brother and me :D) to play with at our grandparent’s place. He was a strange mango-loving dog. My brother and I adored him. Tipu’s ancestors- 3 generations before him, were brought up my my dad's family. Apparently Tipu’s mother Neeta loved listening to the Tabla that my youngest paternal uncle played and was quite a temperamental bitch. There was ‘Patchie’ too. But I know very little of her.

After I got married, my husband and I, both wished to bring home a pup someday. But that someday arrived a tad too soon and like God-sent wish that was express-delivered, a friend called us to ask if we’d be interested in adopting a lab pup, all of one month. We agreed without thinking much and brought ‘Coffee’ home. But we were young, restless and inexperienced. We weren’t ready for him. I wasn’t ready to handle the hunger tantrums every few hours. Coffee was just like a baby. I freaked out. We didn’t have the support of family either. My in-laws are not fond of dogs and my dad was not willing to take over the responsibility of bringing a dog home. Ma, I knew wanted to keep Coffee, but didn’t have dad’s support. So finally we gave him back to the owner. After that what followed was a miserable one month. I haven’t forgiven myself for what I did. And I know my only redemption will be by bringing home a Lab again.

Watching Marley and Me (for the second time) brought back memories of all the canines that gave me company in my childhood. Apparently Coffee is a lot like Marley. A complete rogue. :-)

I think every childhood must have a dog in it. Why just childhood, every person must share his life with a dog. Never mind what the pedigree, he/she will be your friend for life . In Australia when you register your pet’s name you also give your family name to it :-). I think its the cutest gesture – it’s your family after all.

I love the last few words of the film-

A dog has no use for fancy cars or big homes or designer clothes. A waterlogged stick will do just fine. A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb.
Give 'em your heart and he'll give you his. How many people can you say that about?
How many people can make you feel rare, pure and special?
How many people can make you feel extraordinary?

Pat, Arnab and Dalma.

2010-07-15T08:26:00.001+05:30

Arnab: You never made this before. How come no non-veg today?

Pat: Just felt like having Dalma. You’ve had this before . Ma makes it so often. It’s a true-blue Oriya dish.

Arnab: Oh ! this is that special dal that the ‘band-baaja walas’ have in a Oriya wedding? ha ha ha.

Pat: Where on earth did you hear that?

Arnab: Your mother told me. Apparently they make it in gallons, because the Baaja walas eat tons. So you made this for me?

Pat: Ma must have meant it in a different way. You have the knack to look at the flip side of things. Especially if there is an Oriya side to it.

Arnab: Why are you offended? But, I must admit that the Bong band-baja walas have fish-fry and a ten course meal, just like the rest of the invitees.

So, Pat, the band-party in our wedding had this ..…this Dalma?

Pat: May be they did.How does it matter?

Arnab: I bet in our reception, which my parents hosted, the musicians had the same food as the rest of the invitees. Bongs are large hearted, when it comes to food.

Pat: Don’t even get there . Why, yes! I remember you left my side in the wedding and served them yourself. But you know what, the way your Bong relatives pigged, I’d be surprised if there was anything left at all. I remember Poltu boasting about the 8 Pantuas and 6 fish fries he ate. Incidentally he wanted more but the guy who was serving didn’t return to his side with the fish. And is it true that the entire Midnapur gang of relatives who came fell sick after eating the ‘bou-bhaat’ (Reception) food?

Which brings me to the point, baby, why didn’t your parents have a buffet arrangement like my parents did?

Arnab: becau..

Pat: I’ll tell you. Because they were so sure of a mob at the buffet table. Half my relatives must have gone hungry because they didn’t want to stand behind the chairs of those sitting, waiting for them to finish. Was that Pujo bhog distribution or our wedding reception dinner?!!

Arnab: Oh please. I saw them all. Everyone ate. ok?

Pat: Anyway I couldn’t keep tab. I was too nervous batting questions from your kakimas and mashimas. Apparently the gold I wore was too little.

Arnab: (sensing ‘gold’ was a very dangerous territory to tread on)But you digress. We were talking about the humble Dalma. And here you have seamlessly digressed to my Kakima. Listen na, can you make me Kosha Mangsho tomorrow? I’m sorry, never again will I belittle the mighty state of Kalinga! Make that Kosha Mangsho with luchi, please?

Pat: It is Thursday tomorrow. It’s my veg food only day. I made a ‘gallon’ of this ‘Band-baaja special’, Dalma. Eat that. Good Night.

Arnab: Shit.

(other Pat and Arnab stories in the tab above, under the header called- KG’s short stories).

*Dalma is a special Oriya preparation of moong-dal and vegetables.

The Cha Lover

2010-07-14T09:08:00.002+05:30

This blog has said little about its title. Thought it can be best expressed with images. Completely inspired by Arch at Rang, I spent some very personal and precious moments with my only friend in solitude, Cha. I need to spend more time with my camera. It is indeed very relaxing.

Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world. ~T'ien Yiheng

There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage. ~Catherine Douzel

Tea should be taken in solitude. ~C.S. Lewis

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future. ~Thich Nat Hahn

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. ~C.S. Lewis

Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things. ~Saki

Liked?

Yesterday.

2010-07-11T14:06:00.001+05:30

Wasn't it just yesterday
we stole a bottle of gin into my room,
drunk, we lay still on the terrace to watch the full moon?

Wasn't it just yesterday
we pooled in coins to catch the first show,
entered a salon together, for the first time, to pluck our eye brow?

Wasn't it just yesterday
we went on our first double date,
and told a bunch of lies, when we got home awfully late?

Wasn't it just yesterday
he proposed to you,
then in a few years, yes, he did to me too?! (:D :D)

Wasn't it just yesterday
we planned our grand futures,
while painting a perfect picture, of a greener pastures?

It was yesterday, indeed it was,
when we knew not what it meant to be mothers
nor what it was, to change soiled diapers!

I never thought I'd think of us
in a tense, that's past perfect,
groping around for a bit of yesterday
is my current pet-project.

But in tomorrow, I have hope
to bring us again together.
Though, all my heart wishes for now
is a glimpse of you today, and not wait for a moment later.

Nostalgia is a horrid thing

2010-07-08T07:45:00.001+05:30

Know what, nostalgia sucks. Its a nosy little prick and always wants room for a night, for free , always at your place. And he comes knocking without a warning. A lousy, useless, thing- this nostalgia. Yesterday I got a visit out of the blue, when I was talking to Phish-phish. Turned out madam was travelling to Dilli by train, and then the darned chai-wala had to do a chai-chai number on the platform. And I had to hear him on the phone. That’s where the little prick boarded MY train.

It hasn’t left me yet. And it is not fun anymore reveling in old times. Why the hell is that when we talk of ‘good times’, its always yesterday, in the past? Its a load of crap and I am not giving in anymore to nostalgia. No, sir. I feel old when I do that. And feel as miserable as the German Soccer team (they lost, they lost!). Though I can’t be happier that they lost- a paradox?!

So then, as Mr.. George Wildman Ball apparently said, yes ‘ Nostalgia is a seductive liar’.

A few updates that you must have already noticed:

I now blog for Vogue.in. For their reader’s blog, on jewellery related posts. This happened via Silveratti – my silver blog, I so so love. I’m on cloud nine to be blogging there!

I won that Blog Adda contest. Pringoo sent a personalized mug to my dad. It has Mishmash’s pic on it and now rests as a prized trophy in my parent’s ‘show-case’ amongst assorted knick-knacks , wondering if they’ll ever use if for a cuppa!

And I have put on 3 kilos.

So long for now. And for all my pals who’ve tagged me, a little patience please. KG is down with the nostalgia bug.

A jealous mother and some conspiracies.

2010-06-20T04:35:00.002+05:30

In the one (almost) decade I’ve known you as a partner, and over the last four years, as a father, there’s much I’ve learnt of you. Some facts were interesting, some fun, some horrifying and quite a few bits of it were confounding things. But lets strictly talk about you being a dad.

So, from the time when you didn’t quite know what ‘positive’ in a pregnancy test really meant, to filling forms to admit your 4 year old in a public school, your progress has been good. This is not me rating you. Its your pink marshmallow. She will vouch for anything that has ‘papa’ in it. Actually, only she will. I’ll tell you why.

I still hate you for holding her the first time, before I could. (I should have sued the hospital, man. Chcha.). It was then, that a bond was made. A special one, which I haven’t figured yet. Something that makes her run to you, even if its me who bakes her the best cakes and buys her ALL the pinkness she demands. Its got something to do with you holding her first. I know and am convinced, it was a big conspiracy theory. And it all began there.

Because you worked late nights and passed gladly as a nocturnal being, ergo, had almost the entire night to play with her in her early years. She being a night child herself, obviously liked being in your arms in those twilight hours, watching you, fascinated, as you effortlessly balanced her in the folds of your left arm and attended con-calls with your right. So there, you had an advantage of a night job. (That’s when you and her, I suppose, made little pacts, eh?)

Even when she was unwell. Severely sick. She preferred you. Why? You held her firm while they poked those nasty needles into MY poor baby. I couldn’t bear to do it. But she mistook my maternal fears and instead, looked at you as her papa in shining armour, while you coochie-cooed into her ears and distracted her when she was poked. You cast your spell there too. Very clever.

Then, you take the most unfair advantage of being the taller one of us. Why, she likes being perched on your shoulders more than she does on mine. The view is better from yours, but obviously. How unjust. Really. She puts her face on your head and also gives you a little head massage. Just not done.

The beach. I like photographing you both - to ensure she has memories for later. So you pounce on this opportunity and dash with her into the waters? While she looks into your eyes, hands clasped tight, like you were God or something. What's the big deal about getting into the water, anyway? And you will never hold my camera while I take her in, won’t you? More conspiracy.

The puzzles you solve together are done, ALWAYS when I am cooking dinner. Easy way to keep me out. Easy way to tell her, see dad is so much fun. If this is not treason, what is?

The trampoline. It cannot take my weight. And I admit, I’m a wee scared of it. Does that mean you both jump on it all Sunday morn and mock me? Besides, I know you jump less and sleep more on it.

Oh well, dinner time takes the conspiracy cake. When you feed her, she likes it better. Of course she does, and will. Why wouldn’t she, when you help her eat faster, by eating little spoons from her plate, yourself? And both of you suppress giggles when I come to check on you both. You think I haven’t noticed it? Such wrong means to make her yours.

She thinks big of you, just because you can ice-skate? And I cannot? And you do all sorts of things to annoy me. Slouched on the couch, both of you, watching meaningless animation, for hours. I know, that’s another way of gaining brownie points, no?

The worst, perhaps is bed-time. Your stories. I won’t allow them. I’m telling you. Should you tell her The Ali Baba story as many times as she demands? And must you read her 10 stories always? That sets a bench mark, no? So, there. I’m so convinced of a plot. Of a big nasty understanding between you both, that began right from the moment she was taken out of ME.

Oh there’s more. I have a slip disc, hence I cannot try that Super-Girl thingy you do with her- taking her high her in your hands and swooshing her mid-air while she goes yipppiieeee I’m the Super Girl! But how would she know the meaning of ‘Slip disc’? I can’t blame her. And, last but so not the least, what can I do if I like to shop and you both don’t?

However, today, being Father’s Day and all, I’ll let you hog some limelight. Since she thinks of you in a rather big way, and would take away my brownie points if I don’t wish you a happy one. Hope you and your four year old have a good time. And I hope to God almighty, you stop playing conniving games with me. There will come a day, when she will realise.

But for now, just for now, we’ll settle with (just for her) :

My Papa Bestest.

Happy Father’s Day. Whatever.

(My entry to BlogAdda’s Father’s Day competition)

(Dad’s Pringoo gift.)

My First Crush

2010-06-15T16:36:00.002+05:30

First crushes are meant to be special. The kind that make you blush even after 30 years of the said cra(u)sh. Some talk of it with a sparkle in their eyes. Some die laughing, talking about it. Some brood, like forlorn Devdas-es, over it. Why, some even marry their crushes.

Mine was a tad different. I was on a ‘lookout’ for a crush. At the time when one’s ‘crush hormone’ is predominant, umm at about 12-13 years (?), I just couldn't make do with Pete Sampras, Charlie Chaplin (!) or Rambo, all three who adorned my wall. Even When Aamir’s QSQT released and all the girls around me were swooning, my crush-hormone refused to surface. I was in no mood for poster boys, film stars (though exactly at this moment, I’m very very weak-kneed for Shah Rukh Khan. I really could die for him, you know). I wanted the real thing. Even if it could just have been our neighbour’s son, who was kinda ok looking, besides the fact that he smiled at me, often, without reason. But I didn't budge.

You see, I wanted my first crush to be as real and special as possible. So I waited. Waited patiently while women around me walked about with picture postcards of Tom Cruise, Pierce Brosnan, Sanjay Dutt and of their first crush-and then steady boyfriend from their apartment complex/colony. And then, like Om Prakash Makhija in Om Shanti Om says that kickass dialogue which translates to- ‘the universe conspires to make your deepest desires come true’, I visited Bangalore the very first time in my life, with a friend. While she went her way, I was left to spend the day with a friend I knew for many years. We went to a pub. For the very first time. Then for a movie. And then walked aimlessly on MG road. It was then, out of the blue, he bought a stuffed toy (a dog), from a roadside vendor and gave it to me. (Come to think of it now, the toy was hideous, and anything but cute.)

What happened after that was what tripped me. He took me for a ride on his motor cycle. That did it. I saw the moon, stars and the sky like a digitally mastered painting. I knew I was sitting behind my very first crush. BUT. That guy. He didn’t have even an ounce of oh-my-whatte-sweet girl-like expression on his face. He was his usual 'good friend' self and out of the blue asked me who this other friend was who I had come with. Apparently she was 'striking' and to my horror when he finally met her briefly the next day, he shamelessly flirted with her. All this while, not one glance at me, ok. Not ONE. Instead, before leaving he gives me with very 'brotherly' hug and gives me some even more 'brotherly' advice. Sheesh. I wanted the earth to split.

That day on the bus back to Hyderabad, I was crying like Meena Kumari, whose love was not just going to be lost forever, but an even worse fate would meet it. Her so called love would remain a secret- an untold, un-felt one sided, sidey love story. I decided to blame it all on that furry –not –one –bit- cute- anymore- dog.

Years later when ma washed that stuffed toy (Her OCD Highness), I told her about it and laughed until tears rolled down my eyes. Many more years later, after I got married, I met him again. In a Pub. And told him.
That time, we both laughed till our sides ached and the table next to ours decided to move to a table far away from ours.
This post is my entry to Blog Adda’s My first Crush Contest.

The suicide

2010-06-10T07:24:00.001+05:30

The good part about being here is,
one can get away with a lot,
almost everything.

Controversies, slander, extra-marital affairs.
But what you don't realise is,
there are people here too,
and they are as real,
as the ones you meet on the road,
in the supermarkets.

All lurking around.
Waiting for the next juicy tid-bit.

You know, I've realised,
its worse than the real thing.
Too many people, too much invasion.

Sure, I invited them over,
indulged them, shared too much.
Now, its getting a little out of hand.

Emotions are running high,
jealousies abound,
excessive familiarity,
as much contempt.

So, how does one get away from here?

Shall I do, what in reality would hurt too much?
It would be legal too.
Let me kill myself,
That’s the best way to get away, from this.

ACCOUNT. DELETE. FOREVER.
Just a couple of clicks and gone.
How easy is that?

So, I have solemnly decided to commit suicide.
Virtual suicide.
And this is my last note.

Everything, everything is possible virtually.
Even death.

(Note to readers: ok, so i will be dead soon. And you can find me only in the other side of this world- the real world. Not here, the virtual side, where everyone likes to inhabit in. And yes, I’m only joking. I just liked the word-virtual suicide. :D :D You really thought, i can do it? Virtual or real, i love living far too much to die. And love all you lurkers for making my boring life so much fun :D)

Happy 33rd, hero.

2010-06-08T03:11:00.001+05:30

To the only bearable-bong man I know-

I see there is no point in being general and vague. No point in wishing you ‘a very Happy Birthday and hope you have a great year ahead’ type of ambiguous wish. For what ‘great’ really means, only the person wishing knows.

Since, I have the legal right to be and sound like your better half, I have half a dozen clear-cut wishes for you. Wishes that, I have realised in 6 (soon to be 7) years of marriage, bring utmost joy to your being.

1. Here’s wishing you get to eat cart loads of Kosha Mangsho and Luchi .

2. Here’s hoping the emails on your Blackberry never cease to decline in numbers. I know the joy your heart feels each time it goes buzz with a new email alert.

3. Here’s hoping Sydney remains extremely cold over weekends, just so you don’t have to head to the bath.

4.Here’s hoping that there is soon a dedicated channel that shows repeats of House MD, all day long.

5. Here’s hoping your injured shoulder heals soon. Just so you can then say- it has healed after so long, I don’t think I should risk injuring it again by going for tennis/exercising.

6. Here’s hoping you win that one million lotto you’ve been thinking of for so long now. ( But am really hoping you stick to the plan of letting me have 1/2 the share.)

And besides these, here’s hoping you, my dearest, that there are endless evenings, great movies, beautiful holidays, 24X7 mish-mash entertainment, more wine, more family time, more everything and kickass health.

For you, my hero, deserve the best and nothing less.

Happy Birthday.

A pile of whatever

2010-06-05T10:14:00.001+05:30

So, what I wrote in the previous post was sheer hypocrisy. You just saw the other side of the Gemini me. I have no business crying foul over those Dolphins, when I have no qualms chewing on a chicken leg. I should just shut up.

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Mishmash is very unwell. As I type she is kissing my left palm silly. She says she loves me more when she is sick. I’m heartbroken and lost for words.

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June is supposed to be ‘our’ best month. The happiest one, full of excitement. So far it doesn’t feel quite that way.

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R let Mish watch House- MD a few times. When she was delirious in high fever in the middle of the night she goes- ‘My brain is stuck. There is too much blood. I’m that’s why allergic to my brain. And So I cannot pee.’

NEVER NEVER take the effect of television on children’s minds as a joke. Everything is getting registered in the heads, their subconscious. Don’t ever underestimate what their heads can and cannot process.

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Last night’s dream was better. Mish saw me and her dad. I was mermaid, he was the prince. I rescue and marry him. She wasn’t present at the wedding because she was busy driving a spaceship which has fire in its behind, left-right-left-right.

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The Cove.

2010-06-02T14:33:00.001+05:30

When was the last time you really saw a hard hitting film/documentary? I still cannot find an appropriate emotion to describe what I just saw in 92 minutes of unbelievable footage on Dolphin/whale/Cetacean slaughter and trade in Japan, in this astounding documentary called, ‘The Cove’.

The Cove is not just another ‘animal rights’ documentary with compelling footage of gore and cruelty . And it goes beyond just gaining awards (its picked up quite a few, including an Academy and audience choice in Sundance). The Cove is a thriller of sorts. Just that this thriller, gives you no cheap thrills- just a big lump in the throat, by the time you finish watching it. And this lump, strangely remains.

Aren’t Japanese and Chinese followers of Buddhism (most followed religion) ? And aren’t Buddhists the most peace-loving and non-violent people? I know I say this at the risk of sounding absolutely illogical and incongruous, for we are humans first. And I forget, we humans are the most abusive and ungracious lot of all species. We are the most evolved, ergo the most powerful, ergo think we are greater than nature. We have the right to kill, slaughter, wreck , destroy.

What kind of people buy stuffed dolphins (guilty), pay big amounts to watch them entertain us (guilty) and then, pick up packaged meat of the same dolphins from super markets?

And what kind of government tries to cover up and promote a trade like this? I was confounded when I learnt, the Mayor of the town of Taiji (a whaling town in Japan, where a large source of income for most comes from commercial hunting of Dolphins) had proposed to introduce dolphin meat in all public school lunches. I don;t know what horrified me more- the high levels of toxic mercury Dolphins have in them that will be fed as a compulsory school lunch item or by the mere fact that these kids will be fed Dolphins.

The scene at the end where very high end hidden cameras show a beautiful blue ocean go crimson red while the hunters continue to hit, push and kill these so, so intelligent and loving creatures, nonchalantly will remain in my head for a very long time.

Sure, there are a million other issues, and saving Dolphins might not be your top most thing to do for your environment – but knowledge enlightens. This film will make you more sensitive, cautious and loving towards everything around you. And, Love is ALL we really need.

A must watch. For details on the director and cast go here.

How do you think?

2010-05-31T18:26:00.001+05:30

Why can’t we just think in isolation, without the 'so-called ‘help’ of catalysts? My man, he cannot apparently think without smoking. Some friends of mine can’t come up with ideas unless they wash down their throats with mugs of coffee. Some need alcohol, some food and I need gallons of water in the shower. I ‘think’ in the shower. These days, I’ve been trying more eco-friendly methods like making bigger pots of cha. That seems to work ok.

What do you do to think? And I am not talking about taking a walk, jogging etc. Those I think are- clearing the mind- activities. I am here, asking you, what is your thought catalyst?

Back to Basics

2010-05-26T11:13:00.001+05:30

I want to go back to basics. I want to give up this materialistic, misery inducing life and go to my village and start farming....erm or may be organic vegetable gardening. (Its time Orissa got its due anyway.) You guys can send me my monthly rations of Lush, Body Shop, and chota-mota gadgets that I might need from time to time. With time, I'll get over those too. As it is I’ve given up a lot of things. Like you, my loyal readers will rightly remember my tryst with the very fragrant Keo Karpin Body oil. I’ll soon out grow all this.

Dad has been waiting for mum to signal yes, just once. And I know in no time he’ll pack lock stock and barrel and head straight to Kanachchanda, my native place. Oh, it’ll be so grand to live together once again. (And right now it is annoying me no end to know Kanachchanda is not listed on Wikipedia, even under villages of Jajpur district, Orissa.) What of my family? Oh well, SHE can follow her mother if she wants to and HE can really stay back in Sydney and attend barbeques and watch ‘House’.

While, I walk on the banks of the river Kharasrata, have moonlit dinners on the ancestral home’s terrace, cook straight out of a chulha , and live happily ever after. No magazines to lure me, no shopping malls to bring out the Lucifer in me, and no more friendship requests on Facebook.

And I really believe I can do this, and do it well at that. And maybe , maybe, one day, I’ll be the queen of organic farming and both, Orissa and I, will get the much deserved attention and admiration, we’ve been craving for in a long long time.

(Back to Basics KG, Limited edition)

Déjà Vu in a piece of blue

2010-05-17T06:33:00.002+05:30

A monkey cap covering the head and ears, 4 layers of thermals, a wrap of woolen stole around the neck, fleece track pants, knee length woolen socks, gloves – like a warrior walker, I go for my early morning walks at the crack of dawn these days. But with the weighing scale telling me, nothings gonna really change, I asked the universe on Sunday morning, if she was planning on rewarding me for all this bravery (try waking up at 5.30 AM for a walk in peak winter, and you qualify for – because she braved the cold – award). I decided on giving up on this early morning schedule if something really awesome didn’t encounter me that morning.

Threatened that she’d lose my august company every morning, the Universe decided to make Sunday morning especially special. On my way back from the walk, I did something I never do- rather, I leave this job for the man. Checking the mail box. Who would write to me? Or shouldn't it be, who writes these days, anyway? Apart from banks and credit card statements and bills, there really is nothing usually in the little wooden mail box.

Assumed too fast. Turned out, something awaited me, after all.

Amongst an assortment of junk mail and pizza flyers, lay a quaint looking aerogram – in that lovely blue that reminded you of times long gone. All the way from the sub continent, with two priceless stamps of a legend, Satyajit Ray, this rectangle piece of blue stirred in me, a kind of mirth I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I didn’t tear it open, like I used to, as a teenager. Partly because I had forgotten where/how to tear it open. I fussed over it, read the addresses – to and from – and sat on my porch. As I untied my shoe laces, I kept smiling, looking at it. Like a guest I had just received from the railway station, I let the Aerogram rest awhile, after the long sojourn it had undertaken for me. Meanwhile, humming on a Geeta Dutt number, I made cha. Then, opened this little overseas visitor, with excitement I could barely contain, and waited for it to tell me all.

Inside, in perfect handwriting, dad had written little bits of news I already knew of. (Inasmuch as I appreciate the speed of technology and its efficacy, isn't there a strange joy in learning of some news from a handwritten letter instead of hearing of it over telephone? (or even worse- from a pixilated Skype window). But I pretended to learn of it anew. Apparently my uncle and aunt with my cousin are planning on a Himalayan holiday. Also, he wrote with unmitigated sincerity that he and mum had not been going for their morning walks since 3 days, all because of excessive cricket and adda. Dad also expressed his doubt over my postal address, specifically about the spelling of my street name. Evidently, he had cared to check and found the spelling I had mentioned was after all, correct. :D

The sky blue paper was full – not a little space left even to so much as add, a dot some where. Exactly the way I like letters to be. Corners, sides, little spaces – firmly packed.

That missive now lies next to my bedside, inside Obama’s ‘Dreams From My Father’, on the 67th page, like a bookmark. Akin to how my granddad marked the Bridge books he read. (Have you encountered something similar in your life? Opening books from your grandparents to find old post cards and inland letters strategically placed.

Thank You, Dad. I hope this is the first of the many you’ll eventually write to me. Those emails you type to me don’t feel half as lovely as the ones you write, literally. Do keep this dying art alive!

Men and gifts

2010-05-10T11:41:00.001+05:30

Mother’s day in these countries are so big and blown out of proportion, that I am sure most men feel pressured to do (read: buy) something for their wives (mothers). I didn't want my man to be coerced into doing something or give into conformity behavior, just because the world was doing it, or every window in the shopping mall asked him to do it on Mishmash’s behalf. Besides, I always feel, such things can be expressed best subtly and simply by just letting the mother feel special the entire day- a cup of tea, surprise breakfast…you know little things like that.

So I decided to take it head on a few back-

Me: Listen, don’t spend money this Mother’s Day, pl.

Him: Ok. Won’t you sulk?

Me: (Ignoring the latter comment, I go on.) My biggest treat will be u and Mishmash making me a meal…and keeping the home clean..just that one day.

Him: cook? clean also?

Me: Something basic ya. The idea is for me to keep off the kitchen. And cleaning …not much. Jut keep the cushions in place….the kitchen bench top clean..Mishmash’s toys in place, beds made….u know small stuff like that. Not vacuuming and all…

Him: *looks in disbelief*

Me: What?

Him: with pleading eyes he begs- Pleaseeeeeee…let me buy you something instead?

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First time interviewers, interviews in general and all the gas that goes with it.

2010-05-06T08:46:00.001+05:30

I am not an interview expert. But I have given enough and more of them to understand the WTF nature of (some) interviewers, especially those interviewing the first time. Some worst case scenarios:

The first time interviewer type 1- Psychographics : This person has no idea what it takes to interview a person. He /she is so overwhelmed by the whole idea of interviewing someone for the first time, that they often take it as a personal vendetta against the poor soul sitting across them. Its more of a commemoration and reminiscence of the first time they were interviewed when - they were attacked mercilessly. Years later now, the sides of the tables have changed. Its time to revel in the feeling of being the supreme being called the interviewer. So the main plan is to get the interviewee to squirm, go red in face, see them stammer, stutter, go blank. His/her purpose is achieved best if the interviewer can find a weakness to latch on to, and then go on questioning the person around it.

The first time interviewer type 2 – Psychographics: This person is shitting bricks, has no idea how to go about it, and is terrified by the CVs they have received for the job, especially of the one they need to interview, one of which seems far capable than him/her and ergo, intimidating. What kind of questions does this person ask? None- he ends up talking about himself, his job responsibilities, his achievements and by the fag end of the interview realizes what’s happening and in a flurry and suddenly acquired authoritative voice asks, go on, sell yourself to me.

The first time interviewer type 3- psychographics:

This person comes for an interview armed with the ‘ HR best practices’ questions. This person will ask these questions in this order: 1. Tell me something about yourself. 2. What are your strengths? 3. What have been your biggest achievements? 4. what will you do when…..blah blueh bleh (gives the interviewee a situation..most often it is a crisis management question or a question to check on the interviewee’s attitude) 5. Sell your self to me…..and this goes on

Note: the interviewer here is not one bit concerned about how the interviewee fares. This person is too busy drafting the next question in his mind for the interviewee. By the end of the interview the interviewer is more exhausted than the interviewee.

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So much for the first timers.

But besides them, I have issues with the way interviews are conducted at all. By the time a person is out of the complex web of psychometric related questions he/she has forgotten what job they had applied for. Apparently these psychometric tests give the employer a ‘sea’ of information about the applicant.

See, my point here is not that these questions are pointless. But i believe a lot has changed in the professional realm- people today come prepared with these questions. So chances are that (mostly), the answers they give are not the one they believe in one bit- but a forged, padded answer that bests suits the role advertised for. Especially for a question like ‘sell yourself’ . When I was asked once, so in a situation where everything is going wrong, how would you react- did she expect me to say that I will probably be pulling my hair out, yelling and hating the job??

Don’t you think it makes more sense for the employer to put the interviewee at ease, and then try and understand from the applicant’s point of view all the things he needs to understand.

Somehow, I don’t subscribe to the school that believes an interview is but a sales pitch.

The ‘Autumn of My Life’, already?

2010-05-02T12:02:00.001+05:30

I spotted the first, many days back,
but chose not to notice it.
Then today, I saw rows of them,
neatly seeded and shiny.
Bounteous patches,
happy and ga(re)y.

Some said,
'lack of care'
others (to humour me) said, 'genetically predisposed'.
Methinks,
its the epoch of the ‘Autumn of my life’.

Those grey strands of hair-
they mock and say,
'this marks the beginning of another innings,
in your scintillating and wondrous life'.

But I haven't let panic set in,
no, I haven't superannuated, yet.
So, bring them on-
shades of red, brown and blue, if you please.
There isn't a way, I'll let Grey take over,
and let wisdom prevail with such ease.

Wicked Woman, KG

2010-04-30T08:23:00.001+05:30

KG’s losing the wicked streak in her and getting all soppy. Notice how she hasn’t churned one fun post in the last so many months? Naheeeeeeeeeeeeeen!

So I’ve decided to let my wicked genes take over on Friday. I can’t afford being gloomy today. No no. Even if it looks like someone’s painted the town grey. An ugly shade of grey. So today I bring to you two terribly wicked things I did, but never revealed it to the victim of my wickedness.

At a you-gimme-the-heebie-jeebies-if-you-sit-on-my-sofa person’s home (WTF, really. You have a sofa, so I will sit. But trust you me, I still encounter such people. There is one right here in Sydney.) I saw a little tear on the sofa’s side. Not conspicuous at all. Very tiny tear. Like a hole. So very casually put in one of my fingers and then another and rrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiipp. I tore it. Of course the person wasn’t around. But I did it. Heeeeehawwwww. I felt terrible later. But today when i think of it I can’t stop laughing at my puerile behaviour. Well, she is still a darling. So what if she still doesn’t let me sit on her sofa. :D . No. she doesn’t read this space.

Second one- I was at a very close friend’s place in Hyderabad. I was spending the night there. I was pregnant then. I went into the shower to take a bath, and like all the showers in Hyderabad the excess salt in the water had clogged the shower holes. I looked around for a pin, but couldn’t find one. So I guilelessly picked up my friend’s toothbrush and scrubbed the shower clean. :D. And as innocently put it back into the toothbrush mug. Haven’t told her yet. And I know she doesn’t read this space all that ardently. I should have told her when I met her this time. Will tell her today. :D

I have plenty more to share, but I know I should do that only at the cost of losing my readers.

Last and final call for all 9W 478 passengers travelling to Mumbai

2010-04-29T07:38:00.001+05:30

Checking in.. Jet early morning flight.
In my Allen Solly trousers, laptop in hand.
Exasperated with the 10 minute delay in the flight’s arrival.
Catching up on email, in those 10 minutes.
Make that last call.
Sms him – on board.
Sms boss- running late.
Get into meeting.
Hug boss. (*Smile* I loved her. Still do)
endless cups of coffee. Black tea too.
Check into Taj.
Call my Bombay friends.
Meet some.
Order room service.
Catch a movie.
Sleep on a kings bed, Without being kicked out by your toddler. Without having to hear snores like a scooter without a silencer.
breakfast. Big one.
Hop into company car. Meet people.
More meetings.
Rush to airport.
Buy a bunch of kiddy books from Crossword at the airport terminal.
Get home. Give her a hug and the books. (he was away, as usual, remember?)
Appreciate your family more.

I could give anything to get back to this life again. Just to get my self esteem back. To feel important, to be taken more seriously. To feel like an individual, unfettered and independent.

Slow down, take a walk instead.

2010-04-28T10:10:00.001+05:30

Sometimes, it is the unfamiliar that is more comforting. How surprisingly satisfying it can be to nod at a stranger, watch kids unknown to you, play in a park, and walk an untrodden path.

It was this craving to be away from the familiar, my very own people and things, that took me out - along a bush walk trail, near our suburb. Called the ‘Callicoma walk’ within the Berowra Valley Regional Park, it is a 1 hr 45 mins trail. From home it makes for a good 2 hour walk. I didn’t go all the way to the end (Thornleigh), but did 3/4th of it and have come back with so many sights and sounds in my head, that its enough to make world peace :). Sandstone rocks, ferns, creeks, little birds, huge tall trees, lizards, and a favourite playlist on my iphone were my only company.

Next time this world irks you no end, just set off. Take a walk, literally. Nothing can beat a good walk.

Here are glimpses from my little hike.

Taken with my phone. Not great quality images, but good enough for a keepsake memory.

‘I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in’. ~John Muir, 1913, in L.M. Wolfe, ed., John Muir, John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir, 1938

Friday

2010-04-23T10:16:00.001+05:30

I have mulled often over you, Friday,
trying to understand what in you makes my heart so blithe,
my mind so light.

Much like one’s first love-
when one is utterly unmindful of what’s to come,
and so sure of happy times ahead.
Heedless of the past,
of anything.

When you think anew, work with an unknown ardour,
unfettered, you smile excessively ,
and are always, overtly gracious.

Yes, completely oblivious that you,
my lovely day, fizzle away.

Much like one’s first love.

(Friday to me is way more romantic that the weekend itself. I guess its the feeling that surrounds it..that is a generally happy and liberated feeling. Hehehehe!! I know I exaggerate and romanticize too much. :D But Friday indeed is a sunny day.)

When I was Away

2010-04-22T11:58:00.001+05:30

Happy Earth Day, my lovelies! I’ve been postponing just about everything in my life for a little later. The ‘later’ like ‘tomorrow’ never came. So I forced myself to take a walk- apparently a walk clears your mind and multiplies thoughts in your head. So it did. And it has now left me so stimulated that I want to do everything this very minute!

Let me at least feel the satisfaction of translating my high into words, will then get the show on road :D.

Wanted to share the two absolutely worthwhile things I did in the last few weeks.

1. Watched Kannathil Muthamittal

2. Finished Reading Sea of Poppies by Amitava Ghosh

Kannathil Muthamittal is a film I’d been meaning to see for the longest time and finally did over mugs of steaming cha. Sometimes when I think of Mani Ratnam’s films, I can never really point to his best work, because each one is such a pièce de résistance. And with Kannathil, I look at him with the same reverence as I have for Ray. It was delightful to watch a Tamil film, owing to the fact that I do understand the language in bits, though couldn’t have done without the subs. (Can I let out a secret? I need subs for Engileees phillums too. Ma kasam their firangi confounding accents can get the better of me :D) Kannathil Muthamittal, literarily translated as ‘A peck on the cheek’, had me thinking for a long while about adoption and children who cannot accept the reality when told. How hard it must be for both, the parent and the child. But that aside, do watch the film- rarely will you come across a film that indeed touches your soul…and watch it for Srilanka’s breath taking beauty and the civil war that didn’t let us see the other face of SL.

Sea of Poppies- OH. MY. God. What a tremendous book. Each and every line is a literary masterpiece, and I don’t for even one bit understand why this book didn’t win the booker (it was published around the time White Tiger was and Adiga won it). The language, the sheer amount of research that must have gone into it, and those characters had me asking for more. And I so can’t wait for the next in the trilogy. Any idea what its called?

So then, I have been up to all this monkey business. You?

And before I end- can I say a simple Thank YOU? No no, not in the ‘The Power of Positive Thinking’ sense. I really do want to thank you bloggiques, who I look forward to entertaining every day. Though off late I’ve barely written anything that’s even remotely hilarious. Still, it matters that you read. And send me emails out of the blue to say mostly good things :D. So then, Danke, for being around.

hmmm items of my life

2010-04-13T07:27:00.001+05:30

Bath- hmmmmmm
Laundry- hmmmmmmm
Cook Dinner- hmmmmmmm
Walk - hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
job applications- hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Exercise- hhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Write Chapter 5- hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Of last minute urges and smells

2010-04-08T11:28:00.001+05:30

Oh God. Just when I know I have just 4 hours left before the guests come and I haven’t even embarked on the main phase of making the Biriyani, and the entrées are still just an idea swimming in my head, i get this terribly deep urge to scribble something. I need to write. Have you ever had this feeling? You know the last minute feeling, before which you gotta do that thing. Like reading the entire Paradise Lost before entering the exam hall for your final year literature paper. Or how you have to take that last hug from your boyfriend before the train left. And then again you come back for a kiss? Even steal an extra few gooseberries from your neighbour’s backyard before she caught you just on time? (I have done that BTW. Gunu, you reading this?)

SO i have exactly that feeling right now. I have guests for dinner, tonight. And i am here blogging to save my life. So then this urge comes straight from the shower. Last weekend, I got tired of asking my man to fund my expensive Body Shop creams, and so did some shopping that wouldn’t dent his pocket or my ego. I bought KEO KARPIN BODY OIL. Before you imagine any further lemme get one fact straight- every true blue east Indian must have his/her body moisturized. That used to be done with a good rub of mustard oil before bath and soon conscious people upgraded to coconut oil and then came Keo Karpin body oil. I am not even getting into the olive oil segment. I hated this oil massage ritual as a child, but you know it just stuck. (When you are standing next to a bong/oriya you cam literally SMELL them out!!) I gave it up for a bit- a couple of years between college and marriage when I took refuge in the Elizabeth Ardens, Lush and Body Shops of the world. And then when I couldn’t fund my own cosmetics, I decided to go desi. Whey waste 100 dollars when 4 dollars can do the same job. (A little too fragrant for my liking, but who cares :D. As long as there are no scales on my hands this winter.)

This afternoon when I opened the bottle to take some, I almost jumped out of my skin. That smell. Oh MY GAWD. Was I Kolkata or was my grandmom standing behind me? It was like reliving an entire patch of childhood again! Its amazing how some smells take you back and a horde of memories come screaming back to you. And boy, ain’t that smell STRONG :D. OK, it ain’t as bad as the Navratna oil. But still. It was pretty pungent though sweet smelling. All my bath required was a lal gamcha (the red checked cloth towel) and a Lifebuoy soap, to transport me to a time a place I so so crave for, suddenly.

Sigh.

But I still detest a mustard oil rub. UGH.

My Biriyaaaaaniiiiiiiiiii!!!!

Intolerance

2010-04-08T10:15:00.001+05:30

Have you ever noticed, how intolerant we are of others? Intolerant at various levels. Why do we look for similarities when we meet people? Why do we gel better with people who share interests with us? Have you ever wondered why you feel happier or more secure around a person who is ‘a lot like you’ in many ways? Even if you are really dissimilar there must be that one thing that binds you together- like say reading books. You and I can have totally different interest areas and hobbies or for that matter even opposed attitudes, be we still like each other because we connect at a certain level.

But why is that important? Why do we accept or reject people on the basis of some self created biased ‘connection’?

I was giving this very phenomena a thought. Isn’t this intolerance of some kind?

Why can’t we just accept people without preconceived biases?

Mine.

2010-04-03T18:11:00.003+05:30

In between you lie,
hands outstretched.
One on him, the other on me,
displaying your allegiance,
even in deep sleep.
I notice,
my index finger clasped tighter,
than his.
Pleased, I smile.
Carefully, I wriggle in,
making room for another finger or two,
in your wee palm.

The Third person

2010-03-31T08:36:00.001+05:30

Just for the effect, Antaheen’s soundtrack played somewhere in the background. She deliberately placed her Ipod docking station in the bath, to hear a faint trace of ‘Pherari mon’ . Her organic Tulsi Cha was hot and ready in her favourite white pot and the Facebook window on her laptop was closed.

She opens the draft. Looks dreamily out of the window and stares at the trees. The leaves she noticed were slowly turning a sad autumn orange. Why did she have to look at it sadly? That was her. Vague. Repressive of upbeat emotions. Getting back to what she had set out to do, she returns her glassy stare from the window to her laptop screen. She minimizes the doc. A brilliant blue, orange and white image of Ladakh stares into her face. A picture from Flickr. She returned her gaze back to the window and this time saw a little drizzle. She instinctively drew the sides of her sweater, closer and poured some tea into a cup. She wondered where the Tulsi had come from. Made a mental note to plant one in the empty pot lying in the garage, over the weekend. She moved the curser to maximize the Word file. She saw a lot of words, inverted commas and exclamations. But could read nothing. She kept gazing at the screen….

Ok, tell me, does talking in third person glamorize my image? :D :D :D

So darned bored, I can’t tell you fellas. Besides, Mrs Melancholy is home. Hope her visit is brief. Atithi, tum kab jaoge?

(And you thought this was a pati patni aur woh type of post eh, rascals!)

I Love You, Daddy

2010-03-26T06:03:00.001+05:30

(Oh yaaay, oh yaaay!!)

Because I was always the one standing in front,
between your arms,
holding on to the handle of your blue Bajaj scooter.

Because you always picked the bones
from my piece of fish.

Because you always bit a piece of the guava
before giving it to me.
Ensuring I got the sweetest one, much like Shabari .

Because you came just for me,
to save me from the dreaded bus ride,
in that black and yellow taxi.

Because you waited anxiously, yet patiently,
when I got home late.

Because you sat behind my Scooty
and shouted into my ears- i’ll get you that loan, don’t worry.

Because you cried like a baby,
when your lil girl went away to be someone else's.

Because you fumed and raged
when you saw me wronged.

Because you came home with goodies every evening
when I was expecting my mini-me.

Because you held her, just the way you might have held me
when I was born.

Because you love her, the way you loved me,
only more.

Because I know when you hold her,
you see me in her.

And because you are MY Daddy,
the best one can ever be.

Happy birthday Dad.

Bedtime stories part 3/conversations

2010-03-23T17:06:00.001+05:30

Papa: ………….so the robbers reached the bank and stole all the money. They were a real bad bunch of robbers. The police didn’t know how to catch them. They were thinking of ideas..

Mish: I’ll tell you papa. We can pretend to be girls and then go kiss them. But we won’t. We will actually beat them up.

Papa: oh. *eyes wide*

(Ma interrupts): Mish where did you get that idea from?!

Mish: it came from my head, Ma.

*************************************************************

Mish: …but girls always kiss boys

ma: and..

Mish: then they run away, when the clock strikes one and two.

Ma: hmmmm. We need some dinosaur and crocodile stories tonight.

*****************************************************************

At the school.

Mishmash: I have been telling dad that I want a baby brother. But dad doesn’t listen to me at all.

Teacher: Your daughter here tells us that she has been asking you for a baby brother. * sly smile*

Dad: *Turns beetroot red* Why baby, lets first go home, fetch mamma and then go to the supermarket and buy you one?

Mishmash : *happy and does her trademark butterfly flutter*

At the supermarket: papa, i want Ice ceeeeaaaaaaaaaam. Pink one.

******************************************************************

I don’t want to be a super woman

2010-03-17T09:29:00.001+05:30

No I don’t.
I don’t want that title, neither the accolades that come with it.
Aren’t a lot of us doing it already? Busy being super women?
Can I just be a woman?
And still be admired for who I am, and what I do?

Where the hell am I?

2010-03-15T07:39:00.001+05:30

Today morning was dedicated to try and decide on - what I really want to do in my life. Not that I haven’t had this conversation with self before. Just that today it seemed imperative. I had to do or die. Desperately I scribbled, googled, doodled and finished 2 pots of Darjeeling. I know being desperate takes you no where. But I wasn’t going to again write to unknown consultants begging them to please gimme 10 minutes of their day so I could prove to them what a kickass marketer I can be to their clients. I wasn’t going to waste my week thinking about that book that I can still write (which obviously I am not, because I simply can’t) or that passion I can still pursue. I just wanted to make a decision and do whatever the hell it takes to do it. And guess what? I still haven’t figured. I’ve been vacillating between a million things and I’m left with basically nothing.

Oh God, please.

This is not me.

Edited to add: AND THEN I READ THIS-

“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me.” ~ Erma Bombeck

when you are sorry

2010-03-12T12:04:00.001+05:30

Everyone does stuff to hurt people knowingly or unknowingly at some point in their lives. But when someone is hurt, little does it matter if it was done knowingly or otherwise. There are two parties to this. The one who hurts and the one who is hurt. And both suffer at the end of it. Trust me on that one. I have been on both sides and I know being on the side that hurts the other, suffers more. Sometimes it remains the biggest regret. More so when its done unknowingly. Its so dire that you can’t even undo it. It kills you. The word ‘sorry’ seems hollow, futile, insincere. And nothing can appease you. You just have to live with it.

Like one of those heart-breaking childhood memories that still remains with you, haunts you. You have no escape.

Live, regret, repent. Like a curse, I’m reminded, may you never make peace with yourself.

To shoot or not to shoot

2010-03-11T08:48:00.001+05:30

Have you seen the number of pictures people upload on social networking sites? And if you’ve cared to notice, of those pictures they upload, the number of pictures dedicated to random shots of the sea, birds, flowers- anything but group pictures, have gone up? Not just that, the cameras they use are also pretty high-end. A photographer friend of my remarked rather scornfully, ‘everybody wants to be a photographer today’.

Now that statement cheesed me off.

Well, I belong to this new photography crazy crowd. However, if you ask me, I have a completely different opinion about us ‘wannabe photographers’. In my case, I was genuinely interested in shooting images and taking a professional course to help me do that better. But for some they just want to do it for the want of a hobby. I think our generation of youngsters have come to feel the lack of doing something substantial, that goes beyond their professional realm. They want to stop going to malls (or so I think) and take up a hobby that’s not too complicated to be taken up at the ripe age of 30. While you might want to sit on your favourite armchair and philosophize that you are never too old to have a hobby. To you, I suggest try doing it first. Photography, blogging, sports, cooking, painting- suddenly I see people making an effort to wake up on a Saturday and pursue the good life. And then, they want to share with the world, their wonderful Saturday exploits. :) hence, Monday mornings have newsfeeds packed with new photo-uploads on Facebook.

So, what’s wrong with that? Why must professional photographers feel threatened :)? OK maybe not threatened, but why feel bitter? Aren’t you happy this world has fewer lazy people? Sure, you feel bitter that you still are filling that piggy bank to buy that high end DSLR, while your friend Jaggi, who knows nothing about the manual mode, shutter speeds, exposure, blah, bleu,bleh- is strutting about a D300s with the auto mode on and clicking pictures of every flower and butterfly his viewfinder can find. Of course, he is using flash in broad daylight, but again, what the hell is wrong with that? This friend Jaggi wants to do something apart from sleeping until 12 noon, and he has the money to buy a high end camera and it makes him very very happy. That’s why, on a Saturday morning he hits Brindavan gardens and shoots like crazy- every leaf, petal and fountain in sight. He is a happy man, and you are sulking in that corner yearning for some expensive lens. And what is worse, you’ve cursed, bitched, mocked and done everything negative possible and whiled your day away. And then there are people who shoot awfully cool pictures without knowing any technicalities of a camera. You have an issue with that too?

Just let people be, ya. Shoot and let people shoot (as log as they are cameras :D). This world will be such a wunnerful place then, you’ll see. Being good or bad, average or superlative, all leads to nothing but STRESS. As long as you enjoy doing something, do it. The minute you peep into your neighbour’s to see if their dinner is better than yours, the colour green will blind you.

Mind it!

(I know some of you might want to object to this theory of being ok with being average - like Ayn Rand would have said. But you know what? Today I'd rather be more inclusive than scornful. That way I'll sleep better. Aren’t we spending too much time critiquing? You’ve passed that literature paper writing a critical analysis of Paradise Lost, long back. Move on, dude).

What's in my backpack?

2010-03-08T06:09:00.001+05:30

I went through my entire blog today. Each and every post. I cringed quite a few times, at the immaturity of my thoughts just a couple of years back. But this post is not about how wise or otherwise I have grown up to be.

As I browsed, I realised, with each post, there was so much I did not write. And that's where that familiar feeling of regret came all over me. Regret over the fact that I didn't start blogging anonymously. Regret that what I write is weighed and based on how a certain section of people I know, who read this blog, might react. I write, but never the entire story. And the worst of all, I don't write stuff that deeply saddens me. This is quite unlike me. I have always been the outspoken one, who didn't give a rat's ass about what the world thought of me. Or, wait, was I really that carefree? Maybe not. But my friends might want to think otherwise.

Regardless, I am now the typical Indian daughter, daughter-in-law, wife, sister, mother, friend, neighbour, relative- who talks, walks and writes with extreme caution. Suddenly it matters what 'they' would think or say to me. When the hell did that happen? Is that why I feel so weighed down? Or in Clooney's words, is that what's in my backpack?

So, I am beginning to ideate on ways of going back to being my good old (nasty?)self. Won't be an easy task, given that I have changed way too much (even for my liking).

But there's one thing I most certainly want to do - ask George Clooney, 'will you marry me'?

Julie and KG

2010-03-03T11:50:00.001+05:30

Saw Julie and Julia last night. And last night was perhaps the first night where I dreamt of chocolate recipes the entire night. Needless to say, I woke up really hungry. More about the film- what a splendid film! The reason I loved this film so much was probably because I saw so many shades of Julie in me. Mostly the bad shades. Or lets just say the i-wish-i-could-change-these ones. Julie’s inability to finish just about anything she undertakes, her lack of accomplishments- despite her talents, the way she sets to blog, damn, even the way she whips- actually I am almost Julie’s mirror image. But for her petite figure. Oh, and the way she loves cooking. How it settles her- that’s so me.

The film, really inspired me. And predictably it stopped there. Doesn’t inspiration make people do things – but me, it only makes me dream some more. Or maybe, it me and not Ms. Inspiration’s imperfections at play. I am going severely wrong somewhere. But where?

However I think if one answers the question that Julia’s husband asks in the film, life should indeed get less complicated-

what is it that you really love doing?

Julia in the movie said, eat.

I don’t know my answer yet. I love too many things, to decide on one. That’s probably why I am so stuck-in-a-rut. Nothing seems to move. May be I ain’t pushing it hard enough. Whatever, it may be, I am not in the best state of mind.

(Didn’t I somewhere just write the words- I AM INSPIRED? I hate being a Gemini)

Cocoa Hearts

2010-02-19T09:11:00.000+05:30

Made this for you, mid-morning.

A gesture to say, a lot of things

besides, I love you.

It took 2 energizer batteries

for the milk frother,

some cocoa, dark roast coffee

and a particularly genial mood, to create this.

But . You.

You took the mug from me.

Obliged,

you said thank you.

Slowly you sipped it all,

wiping the froth off the mug, and the cocoa too.

(But really, you didn’t notice? NO?)

Sure, I understand.

Times are tough,

numbers and excel sheets make more sense to you,

and graphs seem prettier than cocoa hearts.

But, I’m sure you’ll understand this-

the kitchen needs a break,

and the books by my bedside need to be read.

So, this weekend,

eat those numbers, and romance the graphs too,

I’d rather you be on the couch,

honey, its time you got your due.

The 7 cardinal sins list somehow misses out on the deadliest of them all-

2010-02-12T07:17:00.001+05:30

..force feeding. Have you any idea how torturous it can be? You’d probably have experienced once around your wedding when laddoos were shoved in your mouth, and all you could do was shut up and swallow it, when all you actually wanted to do was throw up on their faces. But those are rare moments, and you let them just be, because it was your marriage after all. A little bit of holding back your volatile emotions is always called for in such times. (How else will you prove you are a good bahu?)

But what I experienced this time around my trip to India, was horrifying. I am a self confessed foodie and you guys know it. I cook an awful lot, and eat it too. And as if that was not enough I have a complete blog dedicated to it. But that does not by any means indicate that I can wake up to having Koraishutir Kochuris (a deep fried bread stuffed with peas) every goddamn morning for brekky.

Its insane! And why, why why do people assume that I am shy? Do I look it? Also when I say, ‘na na please aar paarbo na’, (no, no I can’t have any more), does it sound like ‘ hyaan hyan aaro dao’ (yes yes, bring it on)?! No offence to all my loving relatives back home, who only just wanted to show their love. That showing love and stuffing your guests are synonymous, I had forgotten. They wanted to do just about everything and bring on plate every possible edible item they thought their, Jamai or Bou must have, because they were visiting for the very first time.

How sweet, said my heart. How acidic, said my Oesophagus. Believe you me, each time any of my relatives opened their mouths to talk to us, an edible item was dropped like an atom bomb on the conversation. For instance, while we were having a perfectly normal conversation about our lives in general- aar kee bol, Sydney kemon laagche? (So tell us, how do you find Sydney?) ---And before either of us could reply, they continue with---Aai shon, Toder oikhane Singara pawajaye? Hyan re jilipi khabi, Nondolaal theke mishti aanabo? Kee khabi bol? (hey listen do you get Samosas there? You want to taste our Jalebi? Should we get some sweets for your from Nandolal? Just say what you want to have).

That’s it- before you protest, they have vanished into thin air, to go bring home more sweets to entertain their guests. Even when they spoke to Mishmash, the context was always laced with food. Aai Meeshu..eeesh kee roga bachcha ta re. Rosogolla khabi? Aaaaye !!babyr jonnye mishti niye aaye toh! Oh ma khabe na bolche…oo mishti bhalo lage na? Nimki khabi ? aaye nimki niye aaye babyr jonye. (Hey meeshu, poor child how thin you look . would you like some Rasgullas? hey get some Rasgulla for the kid…ooh you don’t want them? Then have something savoury…hey…). But Mishmash got lucky, coz she asked for chocolates each time they asked what she wanted to eat. And she got it!

And it went on and on and on. I thought all my relatives, spent 3/4th of their time making, fetching, talking food. And the remaining 1/4, we ate. By the 6th day R was so sick, he had to take a flight out. My adorable Aie (grandma) was really upset. Of course she was sad that her Jamai had left earlier than scheduled, but she was sadder because he had left without tasting the specially ordered ‘rabdi’ .

Don’t get me wrong at all. I love eating. But when you only see, smell, walk, talk, hear food- and food that you don’t want to eat, it gets agonizing. And what’s with bhaat/rice??? Is the quantity of rice you consume directly proportional to the amount you love your maternal aunt? Very very stressful, all this food linked with love business. OH, i forget Maach/fish. Should you ALWAYS exclaim- OH MA! MAAACH KHAYENA MEYE TA, EEEESHHHHH! (Oh Lord! This girl doesn’t like fish!).

One evening we came back late after gorging on oily rolls, chaat, and a ton of street food. I was reeking of food. We got home and all I had on my mind was hitting the bed and popping Zantac. But the moment we entered, we were greeted by eager uncles and aunts telling us that they’d been waiting for us for the dreaded D word- DINNER!. Erm, excuse me, but what was that I just had 1/2 an hour back? My aunt and grandma would continue to coax me into trying all the ‘specially made for you’ dishes , this, that…blah bleu bleh…!

That was the night R had that absolutely side-splitting dream- he saw my aunts holding giant size plates loaded with sweets, dhokla, Luchi, and assorted food, shoving them into his face, and their words echoed- ‘ei nao mishti khao, ei nao dhokla khao, arre nao nao, aar ektu bhaat nao’ !! He woke up palpitating, sweaty and very very nauseous. Needless to add he ran straight out to the toilet..

And rest as they say and GoIndigo knows, is history.

Khai Khai Koro Kano, Esho Bosho Aha Re.

(The evening R left amid chaos and sheer madness, because he needed ‘urgent medical care’ which neither Cuttack nor my Doctor relative could provide him (what a firang, this man, man), I called on him the hundredth time in the evening to ask on his health. I heard a lot of background noise…i asked him where he was. SHOPPING AT HYDERABAD CENTRAL, he said.)

3 months, 3 thousand images and a million memories!

2010-02-08T06:11:00.001+05:30

Apart from the extra kilos around my waist, and 6 kilos of excess baggage (that’s all, really), I came back from India with three thousand photographs.

When your trip is a long one, you tend you forget a lot. That’s why when R asked me, ‘so, what did you do’, I really didn’t know what to say. Three months (well, almost) is an awful lot of time to spend in any place that’s not home. No, even if its your parent’s, in-law’s, friend’s, grandparent’s. Its 1/4th of an entire year, spent in places living out of suitcases, meeting friends and relatives- some close, some odd ones, eating oil and sugar rich food, sleeping on different beds, using different loos, AND, spending most of your holiday going up and down like a ping pong ball between the fourth and first floor, in an antique lift.

But, this was only to say that, I DON’T REALLY REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED IN INDIA! At a glance I remember that my charming old Hyderabad would shut down every other week. I witnessed a total of 7 Bands all because of the Telangana- Andhra issue. I’m in no mood to debate about this absolutely preposterous subject, and that’s the most I can remember going back 3 months.

And that’s exactly why I am so kicked about the 3000 odd images sitting in tiny yellow digital folders . They stare back at me and narrate to me, little tales, moments and all that I so easily forgot. They tell me that I had an insane amount of fun travelling to Bangalore, Bombay, Kolkata, Cuttack and exploring Hyderabad like I never ever did.

You know, I feel ashamed to say this, but I will. I so played by the book. I was being so typical. Like over enthusiastic firangs, who want to ‘see’ India. I behaved that way too. Something that I thought I never would. I think living abroad does that to you. You appreciate all that you always had around you but never cared to experience. And once you visit, you want to do it all!

To think that I woke up early and literally coerced a friend to tag along, just to photograph Charminar and Chowmahalla palace, is in itself an achievement for me (16 years in Hyderabad, and I did it only this time around. Tch. Tch.).

But that gave me such elation! We spent an entire morning checking out Charminar and then Chowmahalla palace. Only when my D60 stopped clicking any further because the memory stick was full, did I realise how much I really enjoyed being there. I loved the images I captured. Here, take a look at a a few:

I went as berserk in Kolkata and Cuttack too. And what a joy the City of Joy brought to me.

But but but- that deserves a different post altogether.

For now, am more than just glad to be back. Am so so so glad that I don’t have to take another piece of clothing out of those ugly red oversized suitcases, and neither do I have to fold it and put it back in. Sure, I miss people. And miss those people who I couldn’t manage to meet. That’ll be my biggest regret.

But for now, it’ll have to be just this. Because KG these days has to help with ‘homework’ from school. A terrible pursuit, which she thought she had left behind for good, many many years back.( Am sure with the advent of homework Mishmash wishes a thousand times that she was back in the warm, fuzzy and thoroughly spoilt care of her grandparents again. )

But listen all, KG will be visiting friends and neighbours in the virtual space, soon. Please keep her pot of cha and biscuits ready.

(Erm Rose, thanks gal, but just the cookies will do. Can’t stand plain milk. Care to spare some chocolate in it ?)

A quest for the bygone

2009-11-23T18:27:00.001+05:30

With the passion of a detective

she launched a search operation, on the afternoon of her arrival.

Possessed by a ghost of the past,

she looked for little objects, doodles,

and old books.

In her quest for retrieving the old and elapsed

she stumbled upon a treasure

of useless memorabilia -

a dusty autograph book, stuck plastic sheets of picture albums,

her class 10 science notes, a stray letter by an old forgotten friend

and memoirs that lay trapped in an old maroon coloured diary.

She took each of these in her hands

and breathed in deep.

Apart from dust that made her sneeze,

she had a strange urge to narrate,

erstwhile tales to someone. Anyone.

Its now a favourite afternoon adventure.

Like kids who sneak out on summer holidays after their caretakers sleep,

she slowly steals away from her little one,

who sleeps oblivious to her mom’s clandestine noon activity.

Its been over two weeks,

and she continues to rummage the attic,

and dust laden cupboards,

seeking times and memories

that she wished were still around.

Home is where the door bell is.

2009-11-22T19:58:00.001+05:30

You know, this space wouldn’t look as desolate, had it not been for the darned door bell. Its the most abused object in India, and it took me one full year away from home to notice it. And I never thought so many people visited us in a day- watchman, driver, domestic help1, domestic help 2, cook, watchman again, doodh wala, kachrawali, neighbour with a special dish in hand, neighbour again to take back that steel katori (like i’d auction that away), sabji wala, phoolwala, the electrician, the plumber, cable guy, internet guy, shessssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh!! But yes, it felt like home indeed to wake up to these people on day one of landing in India.Its amazing how one switches off to the most conspicuous and in your face din of your daily life, by just moving countries.

(There, the door bell again)

Its been nice so far, and a lot of peculiarities about my own country suddenly surfaces, hits, amuses and baffles me. These wouldn’t have even registered had I not been away. And needless to say, I am thoroughly enjoying these little quirky everyday nothings. For example, take our watchman. I realised that i see him more at our and other resident’s doorstep than at the main gates guarding the apartment premises. But why blame him, he only does what he is asked to. I see a lot of him (Somaiyya) - more than twice a day, thrice too, sometimes. Today he was going door to door distributing a notice that, in short meant, in order to minimize the use of our antique lift, and thereby postpone its impending demise, no domestic help/doodh wala, newspaper wala etc. will henceforth be allowed to use it.

I don’t own a flat here, else I’d have quite a few words to say and have ways to deal with a notice like this.

And I really cannot deal anymore with- oooh how thin your kid looks! Don’t you feed her?

There’s another classic one- you look fairer after your stay in Australia!

One more – how is your husband dealing all alone? Who is cooking for him?

And a quick update- the Hyd Bongs seem very excited about Saurab Ganguly’s newest show- ‘Dada Giri’, and still gossip and make merry with the same gusto. Some things never change. And I have been shamelessly haggling with the auto-rickshaw guy. :-) It felt lovely ! ;)

(another bell)

For those who missed me and emailed me asking me my whereabouts and wishing me a good trip, thank you. I missed you all too. But now you know who is to be blamed for this conspicuous absence. The door bell, surely.

Hopefully, I’ll be back soon, and am soon coming over to your space to catch up. Chai-nashta taiiyaar rakhio!

Sale

2009-10-29T06:35:00.001+05:30

Oh, btw, I have stuff for sale. A brand new Blackberry, latest model and all. Comes with a 6 year old husband, 40 inch Panasonic flat screen and its remote, ABSOLUTELY FREE. Pick up and drop to be organized by you.

Interested parties pl leave a comment. Will contact you.

--KG

Nature at my doorstep

2009-10-29T05:37:00.001+05:30

I spotted a tiny flock of petite colourful birds on the lemon tree, from my bedroom window. Figured, they visit everyday to wake us up. And then there is the neighbour’s cat and their stout dog constantly pooping in their garden, which, also has a slide, a green swing and a huge trampoline. Something Her Pinkness has ordered to be bought for our garden too. Their cat is black, something Ma would be horrified to learn. I left the vacuum cleaner’s sponge filter outside to dry, and when I tried to bring it back in, saw 4 snails sticking to it. Must be the incessant Sydney rains. The weather Gods are hopping mad. We’ve done something really contrite for them to behave this way, bang in the middle on the royal Australian summer. The lawn needs mowing and the leaves needs to be blown and collected. As I write this, my eyes see only green and shades of yellow, an occasional red and purple. All, as good, if not better than the blue expanse I was used to. The vibes the current space is giving out is pleasant and I feel like I am reliving my honeymoon days in Munnar, with all the tall trees and greenery around, not to mention the nippiness.

And the Jasmine creeper which our Korean neighbour planted, I reckon, years back, gracefully adorns our fence too. When I leave the doors open I realise there is one thing less to buy from the supermarket- room fresheners. Actually and there’s more I won’t need to add to my weekly shopping list- Parsley, Mint and lemons. :-)

A vital lesson learnt- embrace what the Universe grants you with open arms. They will in turn hug you back :).

(Pardon the quality of pictures. All taken by my phone)

A Good Bye

2009-10-23T06:56:00.001+05:30

Dear Home,

Its what, just a year? And i am already leaving you. But you must understand that I didn’t have a choice. You must know that I loved you. The minute from when I saw your bare walls, your huge French windows and the best of all- bay view. But all good things come to an end, and so should my stay with you. As I strip you off furniture and leave you bare I realize how little I appreciated being with you. How often I took for granted that setting sun that literally was a private show you arranged for every single day, just for me. I wonder if my morning cup of cha will feel the same, without you. And I must tell you that you inspired me to pen ‘By the Bay’, which has now come to a complete stand still. I don’t know if I’ll ever write with the same sensitivity and sentiment. You inspired me intensely, and just staring out into the blue expanse gave me such a sense of calm, being away from home. You were my first home, away from home. Thank you, for settling all those unsettling feelings about a new place and country.

I’ll come see you, and wave at you sometime, ok?

With love

Ig-nobel

2009-10-10T07:47:00.002+05:30

When Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel for Literature, he had composed a beautiful song- ‘Ei Monihar Amaaye Nahi Saje’ – that roughly translates to and conveys ‘I am not worthy of this honour’. Such was the modesty of great men in those times.

Obama, take that.

Ei monihaar tomaye nahi saaje.

You are most certainly not worthy of this honour. Or may be this honour is not as honourable, after all.

We live in a strange age indeed.

Correction and edited to add post IK's comment:
tina, a small addendum::

RnT did not pen "ey monihaar amaay nahi sajey" on the news of the nobel prize... he wrote it on receiving the knighthood and then returned the honor in protest against the mass killings in jallianwala bagh....

but what ever, the concept of the song as u have visualized it in your blog vis-a-vis Obama and the nobel is apt....

thanks kaku. I remember bab telling me the story..got it wrong. :)

Just heard

2009-10-08T11:40:00.001+05:30

Me: baby, we are moving into a new place

Mishmash: Oh. But I’ll really mish Aushtrallia

Me: We will stay in Australia. Its just the house. We’ll move out of this home and go into a new one.

Mishmash: mum, can we pleash take my room there?

Me: mmm ok.

Mishmash: Micheal Police lives near that house?

Me: May be. I don’t know

Mishmash: Can we take papa too?

me: Of course!!

Mishmash: *big toothy grin*

We, the civil society

2009-10-07T17:44:00.001+05:30

This video is making the usual viral rounds of FB, like most funny videos. Hundreds have laughed, ‘thumbs upped’, and left ‘LOL’, ‘ROFL’, ‘awesome’, etc. type of comments on seeing this video. You too will, like many of my friends and acquaintances (in all probability) laugh.

I don’t want to sound like a cynic, but really, those of you who laughed without a thought, are so disconnected and unaware of the state of our government schools.

This video takes me back to my one year stint with an NGO called Naandi. I was part of their ‘Civil Society Cell’, that mobilised the civil society, like you and me, corporates etc. to come and volunteer/help in their elementary school programme, which was run in partnership with the government of Andhra Pradesh. It was during those 12 months that I went into government schools with donors, programme coordinators and sometimes alone too, to monitor how the programme was being implemented. My husband and I had also ‘adopted’ a school, which required us to visit the school at least once a month to interact with the children and meet their parents and encourage them to send their children to school everyday, besides financially helping the school in the form of books, teaching aids etc.

Most of these schools didn’t have teachers, let alone benches and uniforms for the children. But this was the least of our worries. Our biggest challenge was to get children to attend school. The mid-day meal programme that was also run by Naandi was a big attraction for most of these children whose parents couldn’t afford 2 square meals a day. So a free meal was most welcome, and if that needed their kid to be in school, so be it. But not all thoguht that way. Some didn;t go despite the free meal. Some attended only the day when free uniforms were distributed.

I saw no reason why they should come either. With a school so shabby and a bored teacher, what was their motivation? In one of the schools where a corporate had very active volunteers and conducted quizzes and other such programmes, children never missed going to school, albeit on the day the volunteers went. A kid from that school had come up to me and begged us to come more often. ‘aap teacher kaiku nai ban te didi’ , she had asked me with perfectly innocent eyes. I didn’t know where to look. I still cringe. I didn’t have an answer for her. She also added, ‘aap log aate toh bohut maja ata ischool mein, nai toh bejaar lagta’.

When we were in school and were asked ‘what would you like to be be when you grow up’, we all said those standard- engineer, doctor, teacher, etc without thinking much. The doctor, engineer, etc manifested inside us and we steered towards becoming something in life. These kids also had similar ambitions- just that I knew most would end up helping their dad sell vegetables, become domestic help, daily wage labourers etc and the slightly better ones would probably study further. But most would drop out.

Tell me if we are not sensitive to issues like these and sensitize others in turn, who will?

I smiled when I saw this Video too, looking at the kid in front who had really animated expressions! And its high time schools bid a good bye to rote memory. But I guess that will take a long long time.

(Note to self: KG, enough of these posts I say. Time for a breather. Time for some hilarity now).

5 books I’ll read again

2009-10-06T11:53:00.001+05:30

And these aren’t in any order. Just that I have read these over the last few months and they are still fresh in my mind. I also think that in a rush to read more, I tend to overlook finer points in a book. Its a lot like having a lot of appetizing food on the table, where you want to try them all and in a rush forget what each tastes like. Somehow you didn’t eat enough of each, or had forgotten the taste, or even better..you remember the taste, loved it and want more of it. Re-reading a book for me is a lot like the last bit. Loved a book, remember it, and now want re-read for fresher, different perspectives.

Eat Pray Love – Friends, bloggers, acquaintances kept recommending this book. I picked it up in the book store, read the synopsis and kept it back. I was in no mood to read depressing anecdotes from a middle-aged woman’s life. Then, I read a fantastic review somewhere, which said, it was another life-altering book. I thought maybe I was wrong. So back I went and finally picked it, and haven’t regretted it ever since. Forget that depressing stuff- the book is far from it. The book records true accounts by Elizabeth Gilbert, written during her travels to India, Italy and Bali. She is hilarious and most insightful. She tells the most profound lines in the simplest possible manner, which makes you go hmmmm and mwahahahahah in the same breath. I absolutely heart the book. I think EVERY woman would relate to this book in someway or the other.

An excerpt: “Groceries, baby, listen to your friend Richard. You go set your lily-white ass down in the mediation cave every day for the next three months and I promise you this- you’re gonna start seeing some stuff that’s so damn beautiful it’ll make you want to throw rocks at Taj Mahal.”

Markus Zusak, made me shed copious amounts of tears.Not just at the end of the book, but through the book too. And if he made me cry, he made me smile too. I haven’t read a better book in the backdrop of the holocaust. Death is the main guy in this book. Liesel Meminger is the book thief, who is under the care of her foster father Hans Huberman, who is a painter and an accordionist. (Tragedies and a musical instrument is a must, no?) I fell in love with three characters in this book, Hans, Liesel and Death. Sometimes I can’t thank God enough for my nationality. I don’t know what life would have been like as a German, or being Jewish for that matter.

Buy this book. If you have an older kid- in his/her teens, gift one to them too.

I am an eternal romantic. After reading this book, I saw the movie too. That’s when I thought I should have stuck to just reading it. Its a book that brought out many emotions in me- mostly the kind that lovers feel- euphoria, desperation, anguish, hope, and just plain Lowwe.

Marquez is the best. He is indeed my most favourite author of all times, though I haven’t yet read his Memories Of my Melancholy Whores. has anyone here read it? The main man in this novel, Florentina Ariza reminds me of my own husband. No no, R is far from being quaint. He is most handsome :d. But Florentiono’s resolve and love for Fermina is so much like R’s grit to make me his. He waited real long for me, you know.

And Fermina Daza reminds me of me. Just that we ended up marrying and i saw better sense in saying a yes to him. I’ve always been a tad vain and have made the most stupid decisions in my life. I always believed there was nothing like True Love..I thought it was but a notion. But read this book and you’ll see how that notion changes to something concrete. And such rich language! Deservedly a Nobel prize recipient. Ah Marquez, I wish I met you some day. I cracked up at many points in this book. Here’s one classic line from Dr Urbino, Fermina’s husband in the novel- “The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast’.

Its a strange kind of happiness you experience, when you read a book before the film releases. And while I read the Time Travelers Wife I had no clue, this was being made into a film. when I began reading the book, I was a trifle irked with the concept itself, and almost junked it. But it was a gift on Valentine's, and in the top list of a gazillion booklists - Amazon, that BBC thingy going around FB, OZ book stores, internet, where ever you will care to look. It was one of those- 'read before you die' types. So i read it anyway. And it kind of grew on me...the more I read it, the more I got used to the idea of of time travelling- else it sounded so fantasy-ish, and i am not a big fantasy fan. I haven't read the Potter series or the Lord of the Rings- yep. Go ahead mock.

But this one really got my attention. In the loo, around the kitchen, on the couch- this book followed me everywhere.
More than anything else, what I really thought and understood, was the importance of living in the present - now and here..in the moment. Its not the greatest thing to keep wanting to visit the past and neither is it all that thrilling to visit your future before hand. It kind of warps everything, your present included. And of course, the kind of love the book talks of is a trifle tough to find. I mean, I don’t think I'll ever marry a Time Traveler. Who wants that kind of tension, man. Imagine, here I am introducing R to my parents, and there, swoosh, he vanishes into thin air, and is romancing me in college days.. Its a tough concept to accept and comprehend unless you've read the book. Oh, I so can't wait to see the film, its going to be more fun watching it, am sure. And I wonder what genre it will be classified under???? fantasy? Sci-fi?

Methinks, its about romance. For this book, more than anything else is, about LOVE.
I suggest, go get a copy. (wrote this bit when I read it first on FB. Did a cut paste job here :) )

Scribbler got me to reading this. And I can’t thank her enough. For I have been savouring this book, little by little, lest it finishes and leaves me with no mirth. Its funny. And I really cannot say a word more to exactly say how funny. By far the funniest celebrity memoir I've read. Dawn French’s memoir comes in the form of a series of letters. And here’s a sample from one of her letters to her dad -

“We have experienced overexcited, drunk people standing on chairs and announcing, to a whole piazza of unaware and frankly uninterested tourists that we are over there in the corner, look. We’ve had photos taken from the balcony of our hotel into our bedroom, and on one excruciating occassion, Len and i were on honeymoon in Kenya and the dining room of Brits joined in a loud chant of ‘we know what you’ve been doing’ as we entered. Exit swiftly stage left. Room Service, thank you, goodnight.”

So if you are in one of your worst moods, just pick this up. the book clubs here are promoting this book as one of the 50 books you can’t put down, and I so agree.

I have 3 books queued up- A Rohinton Mistry, a collection of shorts, and Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey. Btw, has anyone here read Chimamanda Adichie’s newest collection of short stories….did you like them? And who here has read Pratibha Ray’s Yajnaseni?

We are in a lot of trouble, baby.

2009-10-05T18:02:00.002+05:30

It was a long weekend for us too. So after tacking all the crankiness of my little baby, who always strategically falls ill on weekends and long weekends, and tucking her in bed after 17 failed attempts, the husband and I decided to watch some telly.

I don’t generally join him, unless he is watching World Movies. But today, I just wanted to vegetate on the couch and stare at the screen mindlessly. I was staring at the screen and thinking of something else. And soon enough I realized I couldn't do it, because I was watching CNN.

Scenes flashed in front of my eyes-

From Somalia….thousands of displaced civilians, hundreds of hungry babies, flies swarming above their heads sickness all around and teenage jihadists with a machine guns..

From a burning California..orange flames engulf the TV screen. I see nothing more.

From a devastated Philippines after the storm. Broken, shattered, uprooted, displaced. Gloom.

From a decrepit Indonesia, under rubble. Thousands dead. Bodies buried under debris. Misery. Fear. Horror.

From a war ravaged Afghanistan. Meaningless. Mindless. What more can be destroyed there, really?

From a distraught Islamabad..So is suicide bombing the hottest selling profession?

From flood battered Karnataka and Andhra. Homeless, orphaned, marooned.

By then my head was on his shoulder and I heard him say ‘our world is in such a mess…while nature’s fury is at its worst in some places, people are screwing up real bad in others..we are in deep shit baby..’

I got up and went to sleep, incredibly sad.

What does one do when one feels this way?

(Couldn't sleep, so here I am trying to share my anguish)

Edited to add: may be this is why people rather watch rakhi's mum in big boss . That kind of reality tv is better than the real stuff.

Why would a mother do this?

2009-10-04T15:37:00.002+05:30

What kind of an abysmal show is Pati Patni Aur woh? What the hell is NDTV imagine out to achieve? Why are TV shows getting so regressive? And the MOST important question- What in God’s name were the parents thinking? How the hell could a mother give away her baby, and for heaven’s sakes, a BABY, to these so called stars, or for that matter, any darned stranger?

I am so appalled at the very format of this show. Are you watching this crap? Will you turn off the TV, please?

Besides, why would an audience want to watch real time couples going about their lives? What’s so darned interesting about that? Haven’t you enough to deal with in your daily lives, yourselves? Don’t you have children to play with, a partner to have a conversation with, friends to hang out with, books to read, chores to complete, parents to spend time with, star gaze, read stories to your toddler, music to listen to…? Why would you want to waste your time watching such utterly harebrained shows? Don’t you think there is so much more to life than revolting television shows, that creates enough and more hungama in our otherwise normal lives?

I hear there have been protests against this show to go off air. And i read here that the show won’t go off air until it gets a Government notice( Gayi bhayns paani mein) .What I don’t understand is, how did this even go ON AIR. By the sound of it, itself, it sounds illegal, then how on earth did this manage to get aired. And to my horror, I see people enjoying these shows. Imagine the impression it can have on young minds!

Sometimes I think, media and broadcasting should be completely Govt’s prerogative. I know, I know… but see what happens with privatization.

I am totally dismayed…and this is such a sad thing.

A thread shop

2009-10-01T12:20:00.002+05:30

Pat’s photo tag is absolute fun. Fun because every picture one clicks, has a story. Each and everyone. And given the number of picture folders on my notebook, this was going to be a tough one too. I closed my eyes and clicked on a folder and then picked the 10th photo.

The folder was ‘Sydney Rocks market’. Its a market close to the harbour in Sydney, and is most charming. Open from fri-sunday, the Rocks Market has food, drinks, cafe, exhibits, art, flowers, people, and is a whole lot of fun.
Armed with my D60 I gallivanted about the market, and it was an utterly romantic experience. The quaint lanes, smell of fresh street food, stalls selling Oilve oils from their estates, wine tasting stalls..it was like a dream. I wandered about, a little away from the market place and came across a tailor shop with walls dotted with threads of all possible colours.

It reminded me of Ma. Ma stitches all my salwar kameezes and her sari blouses. She does it as a profession too. Way back when I was in class 12, things weren’t great financially. Pujo was approaching and we didn’t have money to buy ourselves clothes for every day of the 5 days of Pujo, which wasn't really required, but as teenagers, it then seemed very important. We never made it apparent, but ma knew how I might be feeling. Dad was out of a job then, and he was possibly going through his worst phase in life professionally and personally. That’s when ma swung into action. She spread word that she could deliver orders over night. She took orders of Salwar Kurtas, frocks for little children, cushion covers…what not – she took more than she could handle. But she managed it. That’s how she pooled in enough money to buy Dada and me new clothes for all 5 days of Pujo.
I remember her sitting through late nights and stitching crappy synthetic salwar kameezes (a fabric she so abhors). And over one month she made a lot of things possible for us, as a family. Ma set it right. I recall accompanying her to Ameerpet, an area from where she picked her threads, lining, needles and other such stitching supplies. I used to stand out side the store enthralled at the sheer number of thread shades available.
All that stitching for a living might sound filmy as you read, but as i write, tears well up.

‘

And as I see this pic today, I think of her and the very popular business that she is running today, only out of sheer will power. Through my college days, I never once wore a ready-made kurta. And the ones ma made for me were such sexy ones!

Ma, if you ever visit, I’ll take you to this shop. I promise.
There were such lovely pics from Rocks market you know..and there are more stories to say. But let’s leave that for another day.
*********************************************************

Not tagging anyone, but urge you guys to do a tag on a photograph with a story. If the pic is random its even more fun. You’ll see how a story will unfold right before you eyes, even before you know it.
The rules:
1. Open your first photo folder. (I did that blindly)
2. Scroll to the 10th photo.
3. Post the photo on your blog and tell the story behind it and
4. Tag people to do the same.
Those who respond to the tag, do lemme know. Would love to see the picture and read your story too :).

Much love.

All for an email

2009-09-30T16:08:00.001+05:30

Every morning I open my email with the hope of receiving nice, gossipy, full of missives, loooooong emails. Instead, I am flooded with FB notifications, forwards, bank emails, junk, and missed pings.

Wasn’t it just a few months back that I wrote about the dying art of writing letters? And now look how, even emailing is replaced by social networking. It takes what, a few months (?) to make meaningful things redundant these days?

Mommies replaced by nannies, nannies replaced by day cares.

Husbands replaced by lovers, lovers replaced by one night stands.

Children replaced by pets, pets replaced by e-aquariums, e-pets and e-farms.

Real socialising replaced by e-socialising, e-socialising replaced by a strange sense of depression. (I so wanna elaborate on this one, but just can’t seem to catch the pulse of this feeling. Its a strange sense of existential crisis. I just can’t seem to explain. If you can feel the nerve, care to speak up ).

Breakfasts replaced by on the go muesli bars, they in turn replaced by sugar free chewing gum.

Visits to parents replaced by telephone calls, and in a few days time am so sure these phone calls will vanish too and SMSes will rule the roost.

Sex taken over by sleep, sleep taken over by last minute customer presentations.

Work taken over by ambition, ambition replaced by money.

UGH…..the way we live these days! There is something so surreal about it. I’ve begun to start believing in the Matrix theory. Maybe everything is after all simulated?

:D. Ok ok. All for an email??? I am dying for a soppy loong girlie email. Doesn't mean men can’t churn those. They are perfectly capable of mush. They just think its against their religion to express anything that remotely resembles mush.

May be all that I really am craving for is some romance. In that case its going to take a while. For the man I live with has temporarily abandoned me and is dwelling in his fairly tale land of presentations, customer reviews and clients. How exciting, he keeps saying, from time to time.

How dismal, is what I say.

Pati, Patni aur Groceries

2009-09-23T12:20:00.002+05:30

Talking about groceries during Pujo itself shows how detached I am from all festivities in this region. But I shall crib no more, lest you stop paying visits to my virtual space. So then, groceries. Lets talk about how grocery shopping can completely ruin a perfectly happy evening. We know that its an inevitable part of every normal married life. Just like making breakfast, polishing one’s shoes and paying bills are. But why does it disturb (some) men SO much? I mean, don’t these help us get by through the week? So why does my husband behave like he has been asked to clean poop? I ain’t kidding. His face really distorts and I see anxiety lines and and expressions one witnesses during extremely stressful situations, at the mention of ‘weekly groceries’.

Some conversation samples:

Him: Shall we do it the day after tomorrow?

Me: No eggs, no bread, no veggies.

Him: Fish?

Me: Nope.

Him: fine. today then. *making goo face*

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Him: You go to the veggie section, i’ll go to the meat section. We’ll be done in 15 minutes flat.

Me: Is this some sort of a race? I’d like to check out some stuff.

Him: uff. Fine.

Me: Ufffffffffffffffffffff. Theek ache. Ato ghyan ghyan korte hobe na (why u getting irked?)

Him: Aami ghyan ghyan korchi na (I am not)

me: You get mishmish. I am going home.

Him: Oho. Chill na.

Mishmash: I want tooooooooooooooooooy. waaaaan!

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Him: I thought we got 5 kilos of rice just a few weeks back? Need more already?

Me: I don’t have rice, Meeshu has half a bowl every day, we don’t exactly have a lot of guests home. You do the math.

Him: Fine. You don’t have to blame me for everything.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Him: Are you sure we need baked beans? I thought I saw a tin the other day.

Me: *Putting it back and heading straight to the cash counter*

Him: What the hell happened?

Me: Nothing. we are done.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Me: Ran out of onions

Him: mid week shopping sucks . arrrrrgh!

me: I’ll get them tomorrow. Don’t start now.

Him: Fine.

*after sometime*

Him: do you need only onions?

Me: you are going?

Him: might as well.

me: sweet. Have cha and go.

Him: Nope will come back and have. Have run out of cigarettes.

me: Aha.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Him: You know babe, u must learn driving.

Me: Oh yeah? Just so this one thing that u help me with, will also be done by me?

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Some of his expressions:

Outside supermarket: *Feeling Zen about life*

Inside supermarket: *Life is a bitch*

Inside Supermarket mid way: *I wish I was a bachelor again*

Inside supermarket when wife is at the plastic dabba section* : *Goo face*

Cash counter: *Acute Trauma*

Outside with the shopping cart: *ready to cry*

While dumping groceries in the boot: * dead beat*

In the elevator: *I need a chilled beer*

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Him: I’ll help u with the groceries ok?

*disappears*

*reappears again checking his Blackberry*.

*Disappears*

*reappears again after groceries are stocked up*

Hey, want a glass o wine?

And mmmm what’s for dinner?

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The one time I let him go shop alone, he came back with shocking pink, Raspberry flavored garbage bags. Apparently the garbage won’t stink even if i don’t throw it away for a week!!! And yes, chucking garbage falls under his to-do list.

(You know why this upsets me so much? Because exactly 6 years back, grocery shopping was the most romantic thing to do, together. Look how perspectives change).

Asche Pujo

2009-09-17T12:29:00.001+05:30

Every other person I know is in a Pujo mood. Ma is getting her blouses stitched, Baba busy collecting Fab India kurtas. Pujo committee meetings in random bong homes are taking place every evening and luchis are being fried already in anticipation of Pujo. And to make things worse I have at least 5 people sporting Pujo related status messages. I am gonna cry, right here, right now.

I want to smell the smell Scribbler talked of in her post.

I want to buy new clothes for every day of Pujo,

I want to eat double dim and chicken er roll, kobiraji and Moghlai porota.

I want Mishmash to run about with Ishaan around the ‘pandel’ and beg me for ice creams.

I want Raj to stand amongst his old friends and their wives and talk of old times and slip out for a smoke.

I want to do PNPC with kakimas, mashis, mad Tracer and her not all that mad, but mad nevertheless, sister, and my dearest Mooooon.

I want to bum free cha and fruit juices off kakus.

I want to stay up late night listening to local bands crooning tunelessly.

I want to check out new courting couples, quick exchange of glances, and the signs of this generation’s first courtship.

I want to wait endlessly for Bhog, and rush to get chairs for the entire friend, family and extended family group waiting to be seated.

I want to simply sit under the tree near the stalls, and listen to bachcha antakshari, and their fights.

I want to sit behind a row of kakimas and listen to them gossiping about whoever.

I want to have Radha ballabi for breakfast.

I want to rush to give pushpanjali on Ashtami.

I want to sway along with the dhaaker awaaj.

I want to see ladies in crisp fluffy new Taant er shaari.

I want to feel bad on Navami that its all ending.

I want to go hug everyone in my sight on Bijoya.

I just want to be pujo-happy.

I want to be able to see Ma, Baba on Pujo. Nothing can be worse than spending a Pujo without them. Nothing.

Jaaa…Kende Phellam. :((

Childhood revisited

2009-09-15T11:55:00.001+05:30

Just when I was wallowing in my 4 lb weight loss, my slip disc gloated back. I should have stuck to walking. Anyway. Now that I am bed ridden for a few more days, there’s time to blog and look around the virtual world.

Its funny how every little thing that your kid does takes you back to your childhood. Today it was Mishmash’s make shift house, made with throw.s and stoles. I remember doing that as a kid and insisting ma fed me inside the ‘house’. There were times when I’d play house-house with friends and we’d have an elaborate family. Someone became the father, someone the mother – who btw, always stayed home and cooked. And there’d be a crying baby, a doctor, a maid, a neighbour, even a dog! The game extended with robbery, so police had to intervene, and so on. here was no end to imagination :).

So today when I saw Mishmash playing the age old Role Play game, it caught my fancy. She pulled in her dad to be part of the family. She liked entertaining guests, who had to constantly knock at her door, and she’d pass on a cuppa coffee or some such. She cooked and went to office in her ‘car’ . In between she called home too. She made me tea, strawberry milkshake and chocolate pudding. I wanted to stop her and say, sweety, why don’t you relax while papa made you some hot soup instead. :D. But it was heart warming to see her driving to work :))). She even held a little purse (imaginary one, again) and looked at her watch as she left for work, saying see you later alligator and blowing a kiss.

And in all this I pondered, how happy she seemed with the make shift home, make belief family life, unreal plastic food. She embraced it all like it was real. We did it too in our early days, thinking adulthood was bliss. Little did we know of the challenges, fear, grief and the sheer humdrum of being ‘big’. I hope she lives up to be as happy and contend as she looks in these pictures. And hope she makes the most of her childhood. For one, I so wanna go back to being 3 again.

Neighbourly love

2009-09-12T13:03:00.001+05:30

All things bright and beautiful,

all creatures great and Bong.

Its time you changed your attitude,

haven’t we been neighbours, all along?

You mistake our humility and quiet,

mock and call us lame,

so lovingly christen us as ‘Oodey’

and think, Oodey and cooks, are just the same!

My dad’s family hail originally from Orissa and the initial years of my dad’s life was spent gallivanting on the banks of river Kharasrata that ran through their village, Kanachchanda. Dadu relocated to Kolkata to give his children better education, and a taste of city life. They schooled at Rama Krishna Mission and dadu secured a job in LIC. Having lived all their lives in Kolkata, dad and other uncles of mine had strong influences of the Bengali culture (but obviously), but never once forgetting their roots. When we as a family relocated from Kolkata and moved down south, to Karnataka, where I was brought up, we encountered many Bengalis. We were the only Oriya family apart from another family in the colony of Shahabad. We got drawn to most of the Bengali family gatherings, mostly by virtue of my father’s extensive knowledge of the Bengali culture and literature. He writes beautiful Bangla poetry does the most enchanting kobita abriti (mejo kaku is better at the latter though). We socialised so much with Bengalis in my childhood that I learnt Bangla by default. Rabindra Sangeet was a part and parcel of my growing up years as much as Sukumar Ray and shopping for stringy frocks from Gariahat market. But then we were equally exposed to Oriya culture. So I hummed and enjoyed the Oriya –Aahe daya Maya Biswa Bihari, to Pannalal Bhattacharya’s Shyama sangeet renditions with equal enthusiasm. Alongside, dad also introduced us to music from down south too. While still in class 2 or 3 dad regularly played Shakarabharanam, and over the years I’ve grown to enjoy Hindustani and Carnatic vocals.

And I grew up like that. Respecting, loving and enjoying all aspects of different cultures I was exposed to. Without bias. Without any kind of preconceived notions. Making racist comments are part and parcel of any Indian’s life. And I did that too. But only injest. I have dated south indians, north indians, east indians, west indians- sadly no one from central India (grinning, are you? Or do I see shock?). But have never really broken a relationship over cultural differences.

But when it came to Bengalis, as I grew, I held a strange love-hate stance. Love for everything Bengali- I will not elaborate. You know what sweeps me off my feet. I have written about it often. But what puts me off about them, often results in extreme prejudice towards the bong fraternity. I know of some families who grew up entirely in the south of India (Hyd, Blr) and who literally owe their lives to the people and the place the live in. Ask them if the wished to ever go back to West Bengal, and they' refuse single mindedly. But will criticize the ‘Madrasi’ (what an unjust, annoying term) until their last breath. And everything is in comparison to ‘amader culture’ (kaalchaar). Like the provincial minded they behave as if culture of any sort originates and terminates in Kolkata, the culture capital. To them Amartya Sen is a Bong first and an economist next.

Oh and their attitude towards my fraternity- the Odiya folks. We are called Oodeys who cook in their houses. Kelucharan Mahapatra, Pratibha Ray, Nandita Das, were cooks too in their houses? To them Orissa means a visit to Puri, a quick darshan of lord Jagannath, pujo shopping of Bomkai and Sambhalpuri Sarees and a dip in the sea. All this, besides haggling the life out of the conch seller on the beach.

And while the busy Bengali intelligentsia debate over Didi’s politics and the rising fish prices, let me tell you, they have little regard for anyone or anything non-bong.

What makes me sit up at 6.30 am on a Saturday morning to narrate my life’s cultural influences? A sense of raging anger. I am seething. And the reason will not be disclosed, of course.

You might want to argue- not ALL like that. I’ll agree, gladly.

You might also want to argue and disagree to all that I have said. Be my guest.

And while I swore to resist racism, you people compel me to become one.

(My bong blog friends, none of this was to insult you. I love you way too much for this kind of outrage. You are my evolved, lovely, beautiful bong bondhus :-))

On Talent

2009-09-09T08:30:00.001+05:30

Can anything, anything at all be more touching, beautiful and astounding as this?

Kseniya Simonova, a Ukranian sand artist, who won the Ukraine’s Got Talent show (2009) by depicting the life of Ukranians during World War II. This one had me in tears.

Original link found here

And while we are at Talent shows, I had to put up this one. Orissa’s time had come. It meant so much to me to see The Prince Dance Group, winning the show. I loved their other acts as well- the Krishna and Dushavataar acts. But this one really filled me up with rare emotions .

What of all those cribbers who endlessly complain of a lack of facilities and training in our country. Some of these guys are labourers…and just about all from extremely modest backgrounds. Enough thoughts to ponder on, no?

Ciao.

Where art thou?

2009-09-09T07:45:00.001+05:30

Where art thou, my beloved?

I miss the ardor with which

you sank into me;

miss your contours filling me,

and the invigorating smell of your Darjeeling.

But more than anything else,

I miss the calm,

and a certain tranquil that composed you.

Where art thou, dearest?

Your books call out to you,

cheerlessly.

Pray, why do you dust them,

when you don’t intend to hold them in your arms?

Come baby, sink into me,

pause a while.

Get off the ugly notebook,

please.

Come into my arms,

and I’ll tell you a story.

Your virtual life is boring and bland,

let me take you to another fantasy land.

Oh where art thou?

(There were days I spent endless time on that rattan easy chair and read into oblivion. I seemed to have lost touch with so many things that really made me happy, the small little pleasures of life. Time to wake up and deeply smell my Darjeeling)

Honest, so they say

2009-09-07T09:16:00.001+05:30

So well, thank you Swapna. This ones the first badge adorning my template :). Thank you for also loving and passing on the Honest badge to the ‘pink’ space dedicated to my Pink Princess.

The badge requires me to say 10 honest things about myself. Ok, if you insist on the honest part. :).

1. I like my toilet seat down, please.

2. I can’t do without my pot of Darjeeling.

3. I suffer from severe OCD and Paranoia.

4. I hate living away from my country, but also love living in Sydney. :D

5. I think bongs have inflated egos :D :D

6. I worry, I’ll never own a dog.

7. I worry about Meeshu falling in love with a loser.

8. I am quite the drama queen.

9. I used to be an athlete in school. One look at me now and you’ll think this is the most dishonest answer on this list.

10. I am head-over-heels in love with my family.

Now for tagging 7 other honest blogs:

Pat’s Colours Dekor

Rose’s: From My corner

Joe Pinto’s

Lil More than Mommy’s Blog

From Swapna’s blog I understand one needs to pass this badge on to 7 more blogs and write 10 honest things about yourselves. Do that if u feel like it.

For people who have been blogging for a while and understand the blogsphere, here’s a question: who makes these badges? How and when did this passing around of badges start? I was a trifle confused when i first got this from Swapna. May be someone can care to throw some light?

See you later, Alligator.

Pat and Arnab (Part 4)

2009-09-01T11:49:00.001+05:30

Patrali: Wish I was in India, at least these two months.

Arnab: Awww…missing home?

Pat: mmm. Food. All this craving isn’t helping. And Pujo. Can’t feel a thing here. Ma must be busy getting blouses stitched for her new sharis. *Sigh* Jhuma am sure has bought 20 salwar Kurtas this time. B****.

Arnab: True true. Aww craving is she? What does she want?

Pat: Mitu wants Puchka, Mutton roll, Kobi raji, Moghlai porota, chicken cutlet, uffff. *Wistful sigh*

Arnab: Poor little thing, you’ll give her acidity with all your talk. Erm, who decided on ‘Mitu’? You?

Pat: Yep. I can’t leave such an important decision to you or your family. What if you guys name her ‘Tultuli’, like your cousin? Imagine being stuck with a name like that all your life!

Arnab: Arrre, its a sweet name. ‘Daak- naam’ should always be sweet. Let’s call her Pommy.

Pat: Listen lets drop this. We’ll pursue when its time. And Arnab, Pommy? Wouldn’t u rather name your Pomeranian that? *scoffs*

Oh how i wish I could have just one teeenyweeny bite of a Malpua. This is such a torture. Oh Maaaaa!

Arnab: Oh poor you. Let’s then go to Shipra’s house? Rajat called. Said Gopa di is coming too. She will feed you well.

Pat: Na baba. I’d rather stay home. You call Gopa mashi, didi? She is your mum’s age, you know. But I remember last time she took such an offence because I called her Gopa mashi..No wonder she adores you, and literally glares at me.

Arnab: Hahahahha. You went wrong with a fundamental rule, babe. Refer to all ladies who are older to you by 10 years or less by their name.If they are 10 plus whatever, simply call them didi. No mashima business what so ever.

Pat: Jaaa Taaa complex women have. Forget it. Listen, lets go on a holiday, na? At least I won’t feel so forlorn.

Arnab: Mmmmm… we can. But I really don’t enjoy going on holidays these days with just you.

Pat: I’ll let that pass.

Arnab: Ufff. Don’t get mad at everything I say. You know how much I miss adda. Just that it gets boring with just you and me..I wish we could go on a holiday with a nice group of…

Pat: lemme complete that for you…a nice group of Bangalis. Really Arnab, for the first time, your so called bongness has let me down. You are probably the only bong who is not as romantic as his fellow bongs. One thing always struck me about you fellas, back then u know. Your amazing appetite for love. Die hard romantics. And age has nothing to do with it. I know adda means much, but saying something that is so outright unromantic is not so bong after all. Wasn’t it your idea to hit Victoria memorial, and sit underneath an umbrella, have jhal muri and talk of times that were yet to come? Whatever happened to that? The only reason I married one of you, maane, a bong, is because of this crazy streak. Do you even remember the day you bagged that job and you came to propose? You came with a stick of Rojonigondha (lily), because you couldn’t afford a Dutch rose. But you seemed the happiest. We ate at Kanai’s- Jilipi and Shingara. And you sang that ridiculous song for me….

Arnab: babaaaaa. You look like Suchitra, when you are angry.

Pat: Baje kotha bolo na to.

Arnab: *Animatedly sings*

Ar kichudin tarpor bela mukti,
Kashba’r oi neel dewal-er ghar
Shada-kalo ei jonjal-e-bhora mitthe-kothar shohore,
tomar amar lal-neel shangshar

Pat, I’ll love you always with the same passion of a romantic fool. Pack your bags. Its a road trip, baby!

Pat: *Hides an evil grin and thinks* – It ALWAYS works….just provoke the ‘Bangali hero’ in him. Hero!!! thinks he is Uttam Kumar *sniggers*.

Saturday afternoon reminisce

2009-08-29T10:46:00.001+05:30

My mind shifts with ease,
to the reverse gear,
conjuring life and times,
long gone.

Like an alert child,
it wanders about known territories,
where memories lay scattered.
Its careful not to wake up
the ones she had put to sleep, eternally.

Gently, it treads on them-
some lie with their face down, like ashamed children,
some hide, nervous,
and some come right ahead and greet,
in a manner that's rather obvious.
(Like they knew, I was there looking for them)

It is those memories I seek,
the ones with a warm fuzzy smile,
those that come rushing, to hug me.

It is in those memories I wish to saturate,
laze and natter with,
on this forlorn Saturday afternoon.

For only in those days,
I seem to find,
my quiet and rest,
and live again like I did then, to the fullest.

So here’s to those memories-
memoirs that make me smile,
and make my jaded Saturday afternoon worthwhile.

Of Gods and accessories that please them

2009-08-27T15:34:00.001+05:30

I am not a religious person. I am rather secular and offer prayers to the one(s) above. The ones above could be Jesus, Zeus, Allah, Durga, Satyanarayan, Saibaba, Guru Nanak Dev – just about any one who qualify as Gods. Having said that, it doesn't mean I don’t idol worship at home. I do. But this post is not about religion and idol worship. I don’t think I can churn out such an exalted post.

A while back I lit a candle when the sun set – the act called ‘Shondha’ or ‘Sonjo’ as they refer to it in Bengali and Oriya respectively. No thanks to the ultra sensitive smoke detectors (which btw, I set off 3 times, all because of the husband’s wretched Maach Bhaja/fish fry), I have to make do with an aroma lamp burner. Oh! yah, baby, I am a modern worshipper. So, my Gods have this spa like environment around them- inhaling whiffs of lavender perfume, and the t-light candle serves for the Dia. Sometimes I also play Bhajans straight from my ipod Nano fixed to a portable speaker. I told ya, I am hip.

But, what I miss most about the entire set up is a conch and conch blowing/shankh bajano. I miss it so much. You know how you associated with different sights and sounds at different times of your life? I associate conch blowing with many things – as a primary school kid, shank bajano always reminded me that there was not much time left for the night to come- so buck up and finish those bloody chapters for the next day’s exams! As a a teenager, it only meant- ‘girl, you’re stuck now, no point asking ma if you can go out, even if its for 10 minutes.’ But as I grew, the sound of it relaxed me, gave me a sense of peace.

But the most special memory of conch blowing was during my wedding. The fact that my in laws live 3 floors below, made the conch blowing almost like a competition..I clearly remember, each time we heard sounds from the first floor, my mum picked our’s. There was a mini Pujo happening at our apartment. Each time people from the first floor blew the conch, it was our clue to blow our’s, coz something was about to happen. Either Totto was on its way up to our place or something on those lines . Our wedding was the most amusing one . So when the time for Bidai finally came and mass tear glands were dutifully at work- I could hear both, the shankh bajano at flat 404 and at 101. The 404 one sounded heart rending as hell, and the 101 one sounded happy and festive- Pujo like, heralding the new bride to her brand new family.

Amusing as hell , I tell you.

Digressed enough.

God, forgive me, for I am unable to offer you the sights and sounds you are familiar and comfortable with. It must be tough for you to live with the sounds in this house. And I also know, that you know, its difficult for me, with a 3 year old who insists on pressing the plus sign of the volume button till our neighbour’s eardrums burst. Perhaps you can help? Only divine intervention can stop us.

***************

PS: One more memory- Sunday morning – Mahendra Kapoor croooning away soon after the blowing of the ‘Shankha’- Mahaaabhaaaaaaaaraaaaat, Mahaaaabhaaaraaaaaaaaaat, Mahaaabharaat!

A click will help.

2009-08-26T06:03:00.001+05:30

Haven’t done this before. Dunno if it will work. But will give it a try. Would love the feel of a win. So if u really did like those short stories and laughed, do vote for my posts here and make me the Indiblogger of the month. You got to be a member of www.indiblogger.in , to cast a vote.

Oddments

2009-08-25T07:45:00.001+05:30

I asked this question to ma when I was in class 8- it was more of a rhetoric question, actually. But not once did I ever imagine that I will be asked a similar one, by my puny little three year old rascal.

Mishmash: Ma, tomollow we go to Tamanna house?

Me: No. She has school tomorrow.

Mishmash: I have school tomollow?

Me: Yes, you do.

Mishmash: Mummy has school tomollow?

Me: No. I am ‘big’ and am finished with school.

Mishmash: Big people no go school? Mummy no go school?

Me: That’s right.

Mishmash: When I be big? I big ma. Sharanya (a friend 4 months younger) small baby. I big . No school tomollow. Ok ma? Ok? Maa, ok? ok?

Me: Not ok.

Mishmash: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.

(I had asked ma, ‘how long should one endure school, I am big enough to give it up’ . I was 12.)

*******************************************

This weekend told me living in Sydney was not going to be such an alien experience after all. We had an invitation packed weekend. The Sunday lunch was at a bong’s place. We had a double lunch invite (touch wood, I never had this kind of active social life back in India either). We dropped by at the first place and then went over to the second, bong lunch. The husband obviously had not bothered with breakfast- a bong lunch needed a lot of free space in the system. (So dutifully he downloaded, full marks to his super efficient metabolism and digestive system. Just like he can sleep where ever and whenever he wished to, he controlled his bowels, similarly. Its amazing. Really. ).

Anyway, we landed there- the first ones to land. Should have known, this was a bong get together and adhering to time was an insult. It only meant you have come to just eat and leave. On the contrary, reaching late and starting with drinks and entrées even if it is well past lunch time means, you are the true blue bong- the adda baaj bong. Soon the rest arrived and the adda began. After 2-3 pegs of Gin, things got clearer and the adda more passionate. Yes yes, coming to the point. And mind you this kind of adda can happen ONLY amongst the venerated pure bred Bengali. The topic in debate was- how to take over -a now in tatters tire company. Should they email Mamata didi or call her directly? One dada strongly objected to email- saying her juniors would never let the ‘voice’ reach didi. So the Dada in question would himself call Didi and explain their business proposition. The money to revive would come collectively- through various loans. The husband tried to interrupt and add his two pence- setting up an industry in Bihar was simpler than West Bengal-..before he could go any further, the dadas, ate, chewed and beat up this opinion supported by a hundred theories of how things had changed in WB.

And mind you me, this was not just another chat where one heard guffaws and snorts now and then- this was a full fledged serious discussion- how to revive a dead company. 4 dadas with Gin and lime in one hand and sheek kabab in the other, were going to save West Bengal, from its doom. had there been a dada or two, more, Didi would be summoned herself, to calm their soaring spirits.

Adda in its purest form, entertainment at its best.

*******************************************

The husband to be was visiting Pune. This was 8 years back. Roomies seemed disinterested in the entire event. Said they didn't have the time to pick him up. Actually, like clandestine revolutionaries they were all the while making those atrocious placards you see in the pictures below and recording dhin-chak hindi numbers. One of them I think reads- ‘Das band’, and the other reads “aami tomake khabo’ (meaning, i want to eat you – a personal endearment i often used, which was made rather public by a vishwaasghaat.)

They appear out of no where at the railway station with garlands and those placards with chiranjeevi and Rambha, to welcome Jamai-babu to be. If i remember right a few 5 rupee notes were also thrown in the air. And all the four danced the Govinda dance. A portable tape recorder perched on Pravi’s shoulder that played the cheapest songs ever in the history of Bollywood. Needless to say, I was livid and didn’t know where to hide my face and was sure the man who arrived from Delhi, would take the same train back that very moment. But he stood there gloating, like a local MP. Almost as if no one in his entire life had ever showered such love. I guess that was his first (and last) ever moment of public glory. People standing on the platform gaped at the Tamasha. Some clapped. Some smiled. Most frowned. Like me.

Today, I am laughing my guts out. And praying fervently to gimme back those days- take me back, take me back- just for a day. Pretty, please?

****************************************

Is old, gold?

2009-08-20T17:55:00.001+05:30

If there is anything at all that really scares and upsets me it is old age. And I am equally sensitive towards the said leg of one’s life. Its not the fear of death. Death looms large everywhere and all the time. No point being scared of death. But what overwhelms me about old age is the fear of losing the ability to hold together everything- loved ones, your own life and everything else around you.

Today Meeshu refused to talk to my mum – one of her moods. Ma didn't take too kindly to it though- she said this was the fourth time Meeshu refused a chat, and obviously I knew she was hurt. I think the word is ‘rejection’ here. Dad and mum are aging gracefully, touch wood, but there are certain things that scare me when I put myself in their shoes. Both their kids live away from them, and they live away from their native and have made Hyderabad their home, regardless of how much dad would like to disagree to that statement. I am sure they feel lonely at times. Their social life is more active than ours, but still. I am certain they miss us and as they grow older, they grow that much more dependent on each other, with none of us around, and that is heart wrenching.

The other thing about old age is seclusion. Given my tendency to go into long periods of meaningless depression, I wonder, what kind of old woman I’d make. A real wound-up, sarcastic one, is my guess. Lets leave that to time, ok?

Old couples always move me. When Thakuma (granny) left Dadu (grand pa), way early, Dadu became a recluse. He stopped playing chess with his grandchildren, and I never again saw him laugh his hearty laugh again. The two were inseparable. I remember when Thakuma went to bathe, Dadu would dutifully take out her petticoat, sari and blouse outside the bathroom. He chose them everyday and washed them too. Thakuma was severely diabetic, and Dadu tried every possible ayurvedic, allopathic, homeopathic remedy in this world to help her. Of course the main issue lied with food. Dadu discreetly looked the other way when Thakuma gorged on all things forbidden to diabetics. And when Thakuma passed away, my dad, the eldest and most loved of all her sons, grieved the most- more because he felt he couldn’t do his bit for her, staying away from her. And she left too soon. A similar sentiment runs through my mind too. I don’t believe that a girl once married leaves her home behind. I look at it differently. I think a woman has more than just one home after her marriage, and her ties with her parents, only get that much stronger. And she needs to keep both the homes together. Not that its her sole responsibility, but I think women are so much more deft and competent in handling such matters. I know its a blanket statement and not all will agree.

Sorry, I know my thoughts are very muddled.

I have always wanted to retire by the sea- but that kind of seems way unwise or whimsical. Of course, old age is charming, if you make it to be- but is it that easy? I know of many charming old people. They make their life beautiful by constantly doing something worthwhile and more than that by being lively. And that’s precisely my point- when u grow old, you have to be relevant, shiny and effervescent, to be loved. And when will sons and daughters learn it is never about money, it is about them- their presence in their parent’s life, at times when they most need them. And mind you these times are not just when they fall sick.

And lastly respect- that can come only with love. And love is seldom bestowed on old age. Its usually sympathy or complete apathy.

Double sigh.

I’d can’t end the post like this. So here’s something that happened this morning: I lost my cool with Meeshu, over her finishing the morning glass of milk. She simply walked up to her room, dug out her magic wand and waved it at me saying- Abla –ca- dabla turn mummy into a cock-loach. And coolly walked away. What unnerved me was the fact that she usually turned me back into mummy, but today in her anger, she’d left me that way - a sick little Cock Loach, and I’ve remained one since morning.

Do cock-loaches grow old? They sure survive nuclear explosions, so its not so bad after all.

XXX

The Bestseller

2009-08-20T07:29:00.001+05:30

She liked dreaming-
they kept her busy.
As an attempt, she set to dream a dream,
but this time it was of a literary variety-
what of all those people asking her to write,
she decided, a novel it would be
and a full fledged one at that.

But endless dishes and laundry kept her from the mighty pen,
and she loathed the humdrum of her grey laptop keys.
(A Mac book pro, some day, she wistfully mused)
Determined to write anyhow, she resolved to do it her way,
while simultaneously performing dismal chores,
she penned the bestseller in her mind.
Contrary to what she had presumed at the outset,
the means to put together her novel , came to pass as much fun.
She’d be assiduously fighting the cobwebs and a lethal spider,
while in her mind, the hero mercilessly beat the goons .
As she deftly got the tadka sizzling with red chillies,
she orchestrated a steamy scene.
The protagonist blew bubbles at her lover,
while her toddler splashed water in the bubble bath,

Her favourite was while she did dishes,
the more she scrubbed, the longer the fight scenes between the couple got,
and the wretched frying pan, came out all clean.
(Sure, the couple made up too).

However it was a cause of much embarrassment,
when she drifted into her fantasy world penning a faux dialogue.
The guest invited for tea asked questions, only to be stared back blankly,
with a wide beaming smile.
Insulted, the guest declared the host deaf,
and much worse, nuts.

But she worked hard,
and the harder she worked at the wearisome chores,
the more imaginative and descriptive, her story got.
She was pleased.

She ended each day with work left for the next,
and in her mind words and unfinished sentences floated,
like strange verses.

Soon, she was tired, and wanted everything to halt-
meaning well, she wanted the story to end,
but the elusive climax never did come.

Sighing, she got up to vacuum,
and bitterly brooded, that’s how it was schemed to be.
These dreary chores will never end,
and the imaginary book,
likewise, will remain one-
unfinished and illusory.

Next morning as she embarked on making an omelette,
she broke open the hero’s skull,
almost spitefully.

A dream

2009-08-18T05:24:00.002+05:30

I looked at the quiet, round face,
her wee thumb gravely parked on her chin,
and eyelids lightly shut.
But the eye balls rolled about fiercely behind those lids-
dreaming perhaps, I thought.
Was it a giant Dinosaur? Could be a pink candy floss,
or big warrior mosquito, at the most.
Those were her favourites, after all.
Also, what more could those wee eyes dream of?
She snuggled deeper, into my arms,
and opened her eyes at last.
They were twinkling, I noticed,
in glee.
What could it be? Had she seen a mammoth Barbie in her dream?
I was informed, before she could be asked-
“Ma, the big bad Michael* police, desssstoy the school”
she recounted with mock shock.
But nothing that she did or say, hide the sheer joy in her eyes.
(Note to self: postpone talking to kid about dreams coming true)

*A character her parents created out of utter desperation, to instill some amount of dread in an otherwise ‘out of hand’ child. Notice how she now uses him for her personal purposes.

Once upon a Phulka

2009-08-14T08:07:00.001+05:30

Non FB users must be irked beyond belief that a person (a full fledged adult in her thirties) can churn out two consecutive posts inspired by something as unseemly as a social networking site. Ok this one’s not so much to do with the site itself, but for the response I got to a particular photo that I had published- yes the same one u can now see. When I woke up last morning to see a huge barrage of responses to the picture – ‘My Phulka Phooloed’ (not sure how I’d translate this- my flat bread fluffed?), my head immediately reached out to the memoir zone for a story that was aching to surface.

It was just before I got married. I was an exceptional cook, even back then (sorry, can’t help suppress the humility in me). I could dish out just about any cuisine and feed a packed party full of bong Kakus and Kaki Mas, who btw, eat a helluva lot. And it was in one of those bong parties that, I was asked the most imperative question of my new- life-to be : “tui ruti banate paarish?’ (Can you make Phulkas?). I wish I was asked if i could sing instead. Because saying no to that was easier than denying the latter. Ma who was standing behind me suppressed a giggle. I was further informed- do you know you will be marrying into a house hold who has two diabetics, and have ‘ruti’ as part of their everyday menu? Thankfully she asked me this in her mock masi-sasuri (aunt-in-law) voice, because I was itching to retort back. So to that I said- the house I will be marrying into has a cook of 15 years, she makes them ruti, didn’t you know?

The answer led into something else, which I better not discuss now, should the post run into a tattletale instead. So lets leave it there. But the stigma of not being able to ‘belo’ a phulka remained with me. And in those days I was the crusader of every unjustified cause. I was this rebel who was waiting to be roused. So I gave this whole phulka incident a feminist twist. I rattled away on how women are being judged and that women are still inspected and interviewed goods, all this much to my mother’s amusement and chagrin. She clearly understood the dissonance in my head and knew, all I wanted to actually do was learn how to roll out a fluffy phulka. However, I repressed this desire to the darkest corner of my head and forgot all about phulkas. To make things better, Raj is a rice lover. Imagine my delight. Also, post marriage, I always had cooks, first at my in law’s and then later when we moved out. And all my cooks, ‘beloed’ beautiful round fluffy phulkas.

But who knew what fate had in store 6 years down the line? Who knew that it was cheaper to eat out everyday, than have a cook in Down Under? After living on rice for months I was beginning to look like a perfect guinea pig for Atkins diet researchers. Last weekend when I finally stood on the weighing scale after successfully pushing it out of my sight for 8 long months, I thought of that evening. So can you make ruti?

So I tried (of course, I had tried several times earlier in India and I’d end up having burnt, hard phulkas, that resembled different country maps every day. I had finally given up). With Raj by my side to gimme that added support- ‘yes u can make those perfect round rutis like Tarla Dalal’, I set to make the elusive phulka.

And the rest I’ll leave to the picture, they apparently say a thousand words?

The socialite

2009-08-12T21:46:00.001+05:30

(Warning - Only for facebook addicts)

Without any make up on, in sheep print pajamas, and a glass of Pinot Noir,
she socialized.
Effortlessly, she went from person to person, men, women, even children;
With a hello here, a smile there, she decided to mingle with more authority-
she begun with liking people’s pictures, gave thumbs up to her boss’s inane notes
and left a *sigh* at a cousin’s ‘we are off to Bangkok’ status message.
However, she didn’t know how to react when a random colleague sent her a request,
to be her neighbor, at some farm.

She gifted a Louis Vuitton bracelet to her up market friend,
and sent some jalebis to her desi pals;
she got back some too- a box of chocolates and a pair of Hawaianas
She speed dated and compared her movie taste with a few ex colleagues.
So now, she was a pro.

A socialite, like a million others out there.
Time now for some tomfoolery and mischief-
she flung Justin Timberlake at a few, threw some jellos too,
even tripped an old classmate.

With romance on her mind now,
she badly wanted a bubble bath with him.
That’s when, she saw his mom, gawking at her,
and in the same breath calling her a ‘mutual friend’, of her and her son's.
How could she not greet her? Such impertinence was not in her,
ummmmm send her a polite private message, maybe, instead of scribbling on her clean wall?

So she did.
However, she made a faux pas,
like she always did, while socializing (clumsy, inept goat that she was).
But how would she have known that one click would mess it all?
(Did it serve a premeditated, impish purpose of placing the two links above each other?)
Oh,to think of all that effort to befriend her in real life, and later ‘friend’ her in virtual life too.
It was not her fault of course, it was the mouse's.
The insolent acrylic rat, instead of clicking the message link, poked my partner’s mom.
Oh! How harrowing!
Of course she knew, the word ‘deliberate’, would be the point in argument tomorrow morning, over the phone.
Traumatic indeed.

Next time, she decided, she’d take an auto rickshaw.
She’d go meet her, face to face,
say hello and share a real cup of tea.
Then, for sure, hit the bar and party in a cocktail dress,
hug a friend, backslap a few, and go soak with her partner,
in hot water and some actual bubbles.

(Difficult to appreciate or criticize, if you are not on Facebook)