Sunday, November 22, 2009

When the little boy smashed his beak

Sonny boy smashed his face against my heavy duty arms and pulled back, his little nose reddening and face squirming with pain.

"Goodness, Nandu, what the......" I started, rubbing my hurting arm.
I stopped, seeing Nandu's brimming eyes...
"But amma, Jafar's bird smashed his beak against the door and he's okay!"

Groan.....how do I explain to him that Jafar and his bird in Aladdin are not real, they are just cartoons? And that Tom, their favourite cat, can get flattened into a sheet and shiver back into shape, but that, well, isn't quite the order of things with little boys.

How do I explain all those subtle differences between real and unreal? That dinosaurs are not really real, while komodo dragons are; that ghosts and monsters are not real, but thieves and kidnappers are; that Barack Obama is actually Barack Obama, but Karan in HumTum is not Karan, but Saif Ali Khan and that the Khan takes on very many forms in different movies, but well, that's a little different from Vishnu taking on a dasha avatars?!!!

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Lovely & Loved

She: I am dark...
He: You are dusky and sesky!

She: The world loves fair folks...

He: The world loves Rani and Michelle!


He: Listen, let me tell you a story.
He wrapped his fair lanky arms around her drooping dusky shoulders and pulled her closer...

"Once upon a time, there was a village. The village was ruled by a king and a queen. The villagers adored their royals. They even hoisted a statue of the beautiful queen in the village square....curvy, graceful and chocolatey, like a.......chocolate fountain.

All the womenfolk of the village craved to be like the queen.

They tried a clutch of home remedies, secret recipes jealously guarded and handed down through generations of mothers and grandmothers.... a dribble of olive oil and a few slivers of the early morn sun, a steaming bath with the most fragrant cocoa and cinnamon and a few drops of hazelnut essence...

One enterprising villager even made a cream that would make one succulusciously chocolatey. The
Royale fancy store in the village square sold the cream in a hazel and honey-coloured tube....Dusky & Lovely. It came in different shades-cocoa, chestnut, cinnamon, caramel, butterscotch, ginger, mahogany and toast. The Sunday paper was splashed with advertisements for Dusky & Lovely featuring bronzed models draped in smooth velvets coiled around chestnut brown hunks. The ads promised tantalizing shades of mahogany and butterscotch within a few weeks of use, or your money back.

The matrimonial ads screamed, "Curvy, elegant, butterscotch woman seeks robust, bronzed man" Marriage brokers waxed eloquent describing the buxom beauties in their clutch....chocolatey, cinnamony, mochaey, lattey......They had such a hard time with the pale, creamy ones...goodness, they had to insist that the moms paint their wards' faces with the deepest shades of coffee or chocolate powder before clicking pictures. But darn it, it's so difficult to cover up the paleness beneath!"

By now, she was smiling through her tears....the sun had peeped out and sprinkled rays of golden sunshine over her smiling face....dusky & lovely or fair & lovely, it didn't seem to matter anymore....as long as she felt lovely, and loved.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

By the mossy green well

Once upon a time, there was a little boy and his sister. They were very close to each other, maybe because they were close in age, or maybe because they shared the same chores around the rambling household.

They had to be up before dawn to draw water from the mossy fern-lined well near the paddy fields. He would run along the mud banks criss-crossing the paddy fields in his valli-nikkar (suspenders of sorts) with a "Brrrrrrr......." emanating from his pursed lips, imitating an engine. She would traipse along behind.....with pot-fuls of water swinging from her dark lanky arms.

Then there was the mad rush back to freshen up and race to school. They would squat cross-legged on the ground and trace the alphabets on the sand. Whenever he got caught for some childish misdemeanor, she would watch from afar, eyes scrunched, as acha rained sharp smacks on his hand with a thin branch broken off the kilichundan maavu that grew on the outskirts of the compound.

Then, life intervened....seventy years of it...universities, spouses, children, homes, careers, egos, cold wars.....and they drifted apart....

Today, she is dying. And he is by her side.

Cold wars forgotten
Bruised egos forgotten
Broken promises forgotten

He slipped into the darkened room, sat by her bedside and held her hands. She looked up, a weak smile weaving through her bloated features...eyes misted over...and, once again, it was just the little boy and his sister, by the mossy green well.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

A tale of G, S and D

I had been Ganga Sasidharan for 24 years of my life. Well, at age 24, that's for my whole life!

Then I got married. And was expected to mutate overnight into Ganga Dhanesh!

How could I? I was GS, not GD.

And GS had a singsong tune to it. GD was too abrupt. I know, i know, that's not much of a reason...but you know GD didn't sound quite right. So I let it be. (And thankfully, everyone else also let it be).

Then, it started happening. New colleagues would pump my hands heartily and enquire warmly, "How is Mr. Sasidharan?"

I would simply smile and say, "My dad is fine" popping the smile out of the hand pumper's face, and probably triggering off "Oh no, one of those feminists!" thoughts....

Well, it's been 12 years since I've been playing the smile-popping game.

And I am kinda starting to feel a little different....a little more Dhaneshy, perhaps....esp., when three little Dhaneshes scramble all over me and the larger version watches on dotingly from his leather recliner. I seem to be the odd one out. And I decide to rechristen myself.

Hah! Easier said than done!!!

How does one incorporate the D without disturbing the GS? I can't simply drop S...that's so much a part of G. To make matters worse, my profession wasn't helping me either. Academic papers usually quote authors by last name...so either way, I'd end up being called S or D, but never G!

I am not S or D, I am G.

If I want to be identified as G, then I'd have to be Sasidharan Dhanesh Ganga or Dhanesh Sasidharan Ganga....gosh, that's not me either, and they simply don't sound right!!!!

Finally, after trying multiple permutations and combinations, I decided on Ganga Sasidharan Dhanesh.......yes, yes, I know....that doesn't fix the academic issue and it's a tad too long, but it kinda feels right and it sounds quite all right.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Why did God make daddies?


Son
: Why did God make daddies?
Mom : Hemmm......errr.....maybe...
Son : So that mummies won't be lonely.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Mango-pineapple pachadi...

Onam felt like the mango-pineapple pachadi I had made....sweet and sour...

Sweet, because, far away from Maveli's land, I could celebrate a lovely Onam with a bunch of multinational kids pouring over the athappoo, licking the ada pradhaman off the banana leaf, wearing Sohan's cream-coloured kurta and jeans.

Sour, because, ammumma and appuppa were in Trivandrum, achamma and achacha were in Ramanathapuram, maman, mami & baby cousin in Kansas and ileyamma, ileyachan and cousins in Gujarat.*

And I thought of my ammumma...
And of the lovely Onams we used to have....

One day, I think it was the day before Thiruvonam, we would all gather at Chathannoor, my dad's home. Mind you, my dad has 10 siblings....add in the families and you know the numbers I am talking about! Appuppa would be waiting for us, sprawled out on his wooden sofa. All the ladies would gather in the dark cavernous kitchen, its high roof darkened with soot from many a smouldering fire...how many stories would the soot be able to tell.....of the innumerable kanji and puzhukku prepared for the workers in the paddy fields, of the occasional chicken that would've been chased all over the yard before ending up with a fistful of spicy chillies in the blackened claypot....

After the sadya, everyone would leave, with a "poyittu varatte" to my appuppa...loosely translated that means, "We'll return." And return we did, every year, for an Onam together...

The next day we would gather at my mom's home in Trivandrum. This was a smaller gathering for you need to do the math only for four families. Ammumma would busy about, fussing over the tiny details, muttering at her horde of kitchen helpers. My dear ammumma was eternally fretting over the inordinate use of kothumbu, the most prized part of the coconut tree used as firewood. Finally, after a thousand frets and fusses, the sadya would be laid out on banana leaves and ammumma's yummy ada pradhaman would usher in the grand finale....

Yesterday, I thought of ammumma...
And of ada pradhaman...

I made the ada pradhaman, not the Double Horse instant variety, but the kind that is simmered over a slow fire for three hours, with jaggery and coconut milk, the way ammumma would have made it....
But I missed ammumma, and the Onams at her place...with all of us together.

*For those not familiar with Mallu, all these refer to grandparents, uncles and aunts

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Little lock-lovers

What's with kids and their moms' golden, err...raven locks? Mine freak out whenever I even think about getting a haircut. It's not that I am talking about cascading locks that sashay with every swagger of mine. C'mon, ever since they've started seeing me, I've only had a shoulder length crop. But hah, those little men! They fantasize about long, wavy locks that they can wrap their chubby little fingers through, and scrunch and knead and twist...

As though to drive home their point, whenever my mom visits, they immediately ditch my pathetic excuse of Rapunzelian locks and scoot to my mom's headful of springy curls, with a sly, "look, this is called hair!" look thrown at me! And to think that my mom has never been an ardent fan of her unmanageable mane of curls!

A democratic discussion on the right length of my locks was certainly out of question. Emotions would run too high, the arguments superheated. So when the Singaporean summer literally barbecued my neck and nerves, I decided to take matters into my own...ummm...into the hairdresser's hands.

When I got back, you should've seen their faces! 3 little boys who had just lost their gummy bears! My feeble protests of "See, now we all look the same!" fell on reddening little deaf ears!

Nandu (thoroughly distressed), "Amma, how can I draw you now? With spiky hair? Like acha?"

Oh no! I'd never thought of that! Nandu's family picture had to be perfect.....moms must have long hair and dads short.

Goodness! When did I create such cute little MCPs? Is it simply a man thing or did I do something to create such crazy little lock lovers?

But then, my self-doubts were somewhat allayed when my friends reassured me that they also have little lock-lovers at home...boys or girls, they seem to love mama's locks....the longer, the better!

Sigh!

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Cinderella


Once Cinderella, the Prince and her kids lived happily. She loved them dearly. How she sighed, remembering those happy days before her helper went on her annual vacation to Philippines. Soon, Cinderella had to do all the housework. She was dressed in a raggedy frock, a faded IKEA apron and pink gloves.

Then one morning, as Cinderella was furiously working the froth into the glasses, pots and pans, she heard a loud alarm. It was a reminder flashing on her iPhone. "Project meeting with students at Graduate Room at 10". Cinderella's heart began to beat.

She ran up the kitchen steps, almost bumping into her Prince. "Darling, the project meeting in the Grad room! I can make it, can't I?"

But before the Prince could answer, something from inside her shouted out: "You? Go to the University dressed in your rags? Talk sense, Cinderella! You're only fit to stay at home!"

The Prince was in a tearing hurry and hastened off to meet his Council. Cinderella was so unhappy she could hardly bear it. Alone in the house, she sat by the gas, her sighs escaping her bosom.

Then, a dazzling glow of light seemed to fill up her insides, making her feel bright and warm. "Do not cry, Cinderella," came a soft voice from within. "I am here to help you."

"H-help me?" Cinderella stammered. "But, how? Who-who are you?"

"Your Fairy Godmother," came the reply. "And with my magic wand, I shall see that you go to the University!"

Before Cinderella could answer, the mop had been banished and the apron discarded. In an instant, her rags became a smart beige blouse, coffee brown Marks and Spencer skirt and suede shoes! She was ready to be whisked by her Honda to the school, to discuss the intricacies of intercultural communication.

"Thank you, Fairy Godmother!" Cinderella whispered.
"Just remember, the magic can only last until noon, when the kids have to be picked up from school!"

Well, what excitement when Cinderella arrived at the University! Cinderella and her students discussed the intricacies of intercultural communication. Was the Wasta system similar to the Chinese concept of Guanxi? Which negotiation styles could be considered while interacting with colleagues from China? They discussed the whole morning, enjoying the debates as each hour slipped by.

No one had a clue that the animated girl in the smart outfit was Cinderella!

On the first stroke of noon, Cinderella remembered what her Fairy Godmother had said. The kids had to be picked up from school at 1!

"I-I have to go!" she cried, and turned to run down the hallway....

This is a toast to the Queen of Cinderellas, my mom...
...And a standing ovation to the many Cinderellas I know, who harbour precious little Fairy Godmothers in their souls, juggling home and work so beautifully that one simply wouldn't recognize the smartly turned out office goer, teacher, researcher... to be a Cinderella!!!

This story has been adapted from Spurgeon, M. (2001). Cinderella. England: Brown Watson
Image from www.cambridgeeducationaltoys.co.uk

Thursday, April 9, 2009

The sun of my life!!!

"A good and healthy flower with a thing to take care of it. The Sun. Mothers are like the sun....like you!"

Awwwww!

The moment.
I caught it and tucked it away.
To take out on a cold, lonely day.
I ran to my (amused) hubby.
I was all bubbly.
I called my mom.
A song in my bosom...

For my son had just scribbled those words on a card he had made for me. To be honest...it was followed by a rather suspicious "Thank you for the match attax" (that's his latest soccer trading card craze and I had just gotten him a pack!)

Well, so what? I just ignored the most probable incentive behind the poetic outpouring and went back to my sighing! For it's rarely that a flower thanks the sun...

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Of children and grandmothers...

The curtains flapped listlessly in the warm afternoon breeze.The smell of freshly fried jalebis wafted from the sooty kitchen. The boy twiddled his toes. An exquisitely lazy afternoon.

He had always wanted to see the insides of a camera. It wouldn't take more than 10 minutes, he told himself. He could open it and fix it back. Nobody would know. The absolute confidence of a 5 year old.

All it required was a screw driver. A few minutes of excited prying and poking later, the lens popped out and lay staring at him, accusingly, on the cold black and white mosaic floor.

A chill crept up his little heart.

As he bend down, he could hear the wrought iron gates creak open and the Herald coupe braking on the gravel. Acha* was home.

His eyes darted about...and caught sight of a safe haven...the folds of ammumma's** creamy white settum mundum.***

He sprinted and quickly hid amidst the warm folds of the soft cotton. He was wrapped by the smell of syrupy jalebis and of wood smoke from the kitchen fires. He peered out.

Acha was walking towards them, the broken camera in his hands, a storm starting to brew between his brows.

He took a step back, ready to fly. Ammumma's squishingly soft arms draped around him, pulling him close.

The folds of her cottons cocooned him. Her caress composed him.
He knew he was safe. Nobody could touch him. Not even acha.
The absolute confidence of a 5 year old.
He hugged her tight. She hugged him back.

Blessed are kids who grow up with grandmothers....

*Acha: father (in Malayalam)
**Ammumma: grandmother (in Malayalam)
***Settum mundum: a traditional 2 piece cotton outfit worn by women in Kerala, India

Thursday, February 19, 2009

"Happy Valentine's day, sir!"



"Happy Valentine's day, sir!" cheerfully chirps the telemarketer, Rajesh from Mumbai.

"Huh?" blurts the startled spouse.

"Happy.Valentine's.day., sir" more slowly and deliberately (probably rolling his eyes from his call center, wondering at this dolt who hadn't heard of V day!)

"What the?/#$@" the spouse again, sputtering at the cheekiness of the telemarketer, encroaching upon territory carefully reserved for the family!

Once the blurting and sputtering died down, I patiently enlightened the dear spouse that Valentine's day had spread its wings from our olden days in college. Now the Save ums on playhouse disney make V day cards for their friends and everyone wishes everyone else a happy Valentine's day...

"But the telemarketer..."

He's still protesting.....

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Fine formulaic fun

"I'm sheering for Mashaa!" piped a voice from the recesses of the bean bag.
That was the little chef, busy making Playdoh muffins for the F1 party. My dear little one has always had a soft spot for "sh"s....as he shouted his cheers for Massa.

"Amma, who are you voting for?"
Amma has never been an F1 aficionado but she quite liked the looks of Lewis Hamilton. And anyways, brown is so fashionable now!

"Okay, amma and I are voting for Lewis Hamilton" announced the aspiring rock star, cozying upto his mom in a you-and-me-only moment only a little one can create.

"I am for Ferrari...Massa, Massa, Massa..." the 8 year old future gold trader, cheered. The guy is a winner...at least he knows whom to bet on....as soon as Massa gave up, he gave up too.

"I am rooting for......Acha, who is leading now?......Ya, Rosberg."

Fortunes are fickle in Formula 1...10 minutes later...

"No, no, no....I am with Coulthard"

Agony as Coulthard drops behind....

"Acha, one laaaaaast chance.....Rosberg, again!!!"

Meanwhile, the little chef was onto dessert and the rock star was enjoying the cuddle and snuggle with his mom, while fiercely guarding his green tea and potato chips from the marauding hands of the bigger Martians...

Nope, none of us are F1 fans...but somehow, the racy bug that had bitten most Singaporeans during the first Formula 1 night race seemed to have had bitten us too....how else could a 4 year old rock star, his twin muffin maker and an 8 year old trader of yellow metal gather together for one and a half hours of fine formula fun, suspending the usual Martian attacks for....the Red Ranger, which ish alwaysh mine?!!!


PS: If you want to know... finally, Alonso won the race!

Image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:2008_Singapore_Grand_Prix_podium.jpg

Sunday, February 1, 2009

For 10 minutes...



I love my kids, but boy, do I empathize with Parvathy!

Every girl, divine or otherwise, is entitled to her own moments of solitude...at least in the shower.

I can understand why Parvathy posted Nandi to prevent anyone from disturbing her bath. When Nandi couldn't stop the Lord and Master Shiva from entering his own home, Parvathy went to the extent of creating a boy she could call her own, just to ensure that nobody, and did she mean it...nobody... enters her abode without her permission.

Sigh! Wish I could do that...if Parvathy had one Shiva to handle, I have three little martians who seem to be under the delusion that they own their mom's life...each and every minute of it.

In a house with an utterly imbalanced share of testosterone, a girl sometimes needs her own quiet space...even if the only own quiet space is a 5X5 feet bathroom. But no, the little martians can't let their lady love out of sight for a minute :(

As I pluck off a Spiderman sticker from the back of my hand, turn on the tap for a cool shower and the first drops splatter onto my hot, tired face...there comes a firm knock on the door, followed by a series of demanding thumps..."For God's sake, kids...i am just going to take a few minutes#@$%^&*"

"I have to tell you something, just right now."

Why do kids have to take Art of Living principles to the extreme? Live in the present, okay, but just right now? every time? #@$%^&*!

A white towel draped around an irate and dripping me, I open the door and do my freezing act..."Okay. what. do. you. want?"

One of those coy acts...sashaying from side to side, eyes abashedly flitting from me to nowhere..."Nothing"...another cute smile...

Swallowing the smile that's threatening to swamp my face, I try in vain to preach a basic lesson in respecting privacy.....but by now that smile refuses to stay swallowed and breaks out, completely erasing any lesson on privacy I was hoping to teach :(

Yet, hope springs eternal in the human heart and besides, I do need those ten minutes. So I persist. Now the knocks start only after 5 minutes. I hope persistence will pay off and they'll drop their Art of Living stuff and let me be...for those 10 minutes...after which I am all ready to plunge back into being licked and loved :)

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Saturday, January 24, 2009

A mom's wishes for her sons

Wide open spaces, green squishy grass, dancing sprinklers to flit through, tires to swing from, cycles to exercise those little legs, friends to chase and play with, large mango trees to sprawl under...these are a few of the things I wish for my four year olds...

Wide open eyes, sparks of curiosity, opportunities to explore, search and seek a world of words, maths, cricket, soccer, music, friends, sleepovers, camps and lots of play....these are a few of the things I wish for my eight year old...

Wish I could play master chef...take 4 spoons of early years school program from the US or UK, slowly but steadily mix in 12 spoons of (toned down) primary and secondary education from India, and finally top it off with 4 or 5 spoons of University program from the US...

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Abdul, the doorman




There are doormen and doormen. And there is Abdul. I used to think that doormen are a waste of resources in spite of the fact that I've always admired the strapping ones back home in India, with their puffed out chests, oiled and coiled moustaches and stiffly starched turbans. Later, I thought that automatic doors do the job so well and so neatly. Why waste able men to simply open doors? Till I met Abdul.

Abdul is the doorman at a private hospital in Singapore.

On Sunday night my little soccer star had a pain in his "knee bone" that he claimed in all earnestness, had been bothering him "for two years." Needless to say, I smiled, and went back to my reading.

On Monday morning a little maternal elf perked its head up and made me roll up my eldest one's pajamas only to see an angry red swelling on his knee. I panicked. The GP looked grave and did pretty much nothing to calm my nerves as she rattled off a list of possibilities...arthritis, infection, fracture...Visions of my son's soccer dreams fleetingly floated before my eyes. I bit my lips.

Somebody tugged at my skirt..."Amma, don't take etta (elder brother) to the hospital...people go to the hospital to die." Now this was serious.

I squatted down, held the worried four year old by his shoulders, looked deep into his dark, troubled eyes and said with all the love, firmness and confidence I could muster at that moment, "Darling, people go to the hospital to get better. They don't just die." That came nowhere near those profound statements moms in movies make, but thank God, he decided to believe his mom over the expert advice of his 3 year old nursery schoolmate.

We reached the hospital in thirty minutes, my forehead creased with worry, all my thoughts boiling over in a potful of panic, worry and guilt. As I hurriedly grabbed my bag, the door on my side opened magically and I looked up into a smiling, reassuring face. The doorman. Amidst a flurry of smiles and looks of concern, he muttered some soothing inanities and quickly opened the back door. "Do you need a wheelchair?"

"Uh..no, um..he's okay...thank you"

He quickly led us inside, made sure we were clear where to go and ran back to give parking directions to my hubby.

Every time, I've hurried to that hospital with a little bundle of worry in the backseat, Adbul has been there. Ever smiling, ever reassuring. Whatever the competencies of the doctors or nurses I meet later on, Abdul is the first person I meet. He is the first one to calm my nerves, to give me clear directions and make sure I reach where I need to reach in the shortest possible time....fairly crucial matters in the first few fumbling minutes on reaching a hospital, with a pain in the heart or a delirious kid in your arms.....

Thankfully, all the doctors I've met there have been very competent. But what brings me back to that hospital, again and again, is a feeling that they care. And it starts with the doorman.

Btw, the little soccer star is just fine :)

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A thanksgiving...

Everyone's wishing a happy new year
Then why does it feel like thanksgiving?

Thanks to each and every person
known and unknown
who's touched my life in so many ways
making it as blessed 'n' beautiful as it's today

Thanks to folks who held my hands in childhood
but have vanished from my life today

Thanks to folks who came into my adulthood
and transformed it in so many ways

Thanks to folks who stuck with me
from the womb to now...

Thanks to God who gifted me
so many precious people and
made roses bloom amidst the thorns
A deep and grateful thank you...

And where ever all of you are, may happiness be yours
this year and beyond...

PS: I am not quite the poetic sorts; so please excuse the pathetic attempt at poetry; this is just prose that flowed from my heart...and means different things to different people...love you all :)


Friday, December 26, 2008

"The Gods must be crazy"



A boy God steals butter. And grows up to have 16,000 lovers.
A Goddess keeps her husband out of her home while she bathes.
A God morphs into a beautiful woman. And has a virtual son.
A monkey God sets fire to a whole city.
An uncle kills six nephews.
The eighth nephew kills the uncle.
Cousins cheat at the game of dice.
Son incarcerates father.
A teacher fights against his own students.

OMG...how do I answer the boys? How do I soothe their concerns? Calm their frayed nerves? Good guys and bad guys, of course. But the rest of the stuff, the subtle ones?

We are particularly struggling with Parvathy's story and the birth of Ganesha.



The boys: Shiva only wanted to enter his own house. That's not asking for too much.
Me: Yeah, but Parvathy also has a right to privacy.
The kids: Gosh amma, that does not mean she can unleash all those sword eating Shakthis on Shiva's hordes...
Me: Hallo....how could Shiva even think of attacking a little boy in the first place? He was only obeying his mother's orders.
The kids: But the boy had Parvathy on his side.
Me: But Shiva cheated...how could he take Vishnu's help and kill the boy from behind?
The kids: Why not?

It's a never ending argument.....the lone ranger fighting for Parvathy and three little soldiers defending Shiva. Finally, pipes little Nandan...

“But the poor elephant...how can he live if they cut off his head for Ganesha?”

Silence.

(For those not familiar with the story, here's a modified version I found at youtube. The video simply shows Shiva chopping off the boy's head. No siree...it was not as simple as that...it was a whole horde of Gods and ganas up against the boy. Also, they have hoisted an elephant head on the shoulders of a bad guy, probably to assuage the sentiments of young animal lovers! Anyways, the video is not too bad...gives you a decent gist of the story)



Images: www.wikipedia.org

Thursday, December 11, 2008

When red bled...

The rich red bled into the coconut souffle white only to be caught by a dull gold studded chain that went winding all around the ample waist of the statue. I don't know what it was, who put it there, when or why. All that I know is that they were beautiful...three huge statues...gleaming white porcelain with splashes of red and gold. They looked radiant under the dancing shadows of the towering leafy avenue trees. They illuminated the little corner of the street they occupied. Don't know why, but on the wayside, on the cold brown gravel they simply didn't look out of place. I don't think they would have looked out of place anywhere, anytime...for a thing of beauty is a joy forever, right? Wrong.

One evening, as the sun was setting over the island rain forest, streaking the heavens with gorgeous dollops of raging reds, yellows and oranges, Intolerance came raging down the street, her veil flying behind her. She picked up the largest figure...and smashed it against the roughly-hewed brown gravel. It didn't break. She swore. Hurled it, again, and again...a deep gash snaked its way up the cool white porcelain...the red splashed onto the black tarred road and the gray smeared gutter...finally...it lay broken in a million little pieces of sparkling white, red and gold, the sunlight glinting off the shattered innards of the porcelain. Intolerance smiled smugly and walked back to her accomplice, waiting at the street corner. Smiles were exchanged and they went about their different ways.

Who cares whether the porcelain Gods were of Chinese, Indian or Malay origins? Does God have an ethnic origin, anyway? As long as people shut themselves up in imagined little silos with their own little versions of the One and Only, I suppose Intolerance will get the better of them...slashing statues, spirits and souls...

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Recession chic


when life throws lemons at you, make lemonade

Images: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The times are bad, dude, the times are bad...but is it...really?

There was a time when taking a bus looked like the act of a penny pinching miser. It was far funkier to rumble by in a massive SUV, grunting on par with bullying buses and lording it over the puny minions on the road. But now, to be caught seen behind the steering wheel of one of those gas guzzlers is...soooo uncool. The gal or guy in the navy blue suit hopping onto the purple and orange public transport buses or pedaling to office on a cycle has suddenly become...soooo hip.

Specialized themed birthday parties with puppets and magicians are also being popped out of the cool club. Get togethers in the kid's home with home cooked food and balloons or even just a little cake cutting in school seem to have become the in thing these days. The other day I was so pleasantly surprised (and the kids were so delighted) to receive a bucket full of home-made cupcakes as a return gift instead of the usual store bought knick knacks that instantly get lost in the pile of junk they already have at home. And guess what? The kids are having a blast!

And what could be cooler than to be seen with a green cloth bag at the check out counter, nobly refusing the plastic bags being offered by the admiring cashier, and making the rest in line squirm with shame? Or to be seen cooking your own meals at home? To be seen reducing, reusing and recycling? To be seen returning to a simpler, more sustainable way of life?

Recession chic...the cool way to be...

Saturday, November 15, 2008

The happiness quotient...


Images: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

"My son has been sleeping on his own since he was three!"
"I simply decorated his room with Spiderman stickers and he happily moved in...ta..da"
"Oh...it was a breeze..."
That's the gist of the depressing comments I used to hear from my friends. Everyone seemed to have done a beautiful job of moving their little boys and girls into fabulously decorated rooms of their own when they were as little as three or even one!

And me, the loser among all these super moms...here I was struggling to keep an 8 year old out of our bed! Shameful!

But, somewhere a little elf of a doubt persisted...what if my friends were wrong? Could the childcare pundits who advocate independence and individualism in kids be wrong? I don't know.

All that I know is, no longer able to bear the imploring looks and pleadings for one laaa....st night together (my little ones used to call the weekly Friday night community sleep...the 'family sleepover night') I finally gave in.

Now all five of us and a clutch of teddy bears sprawl out on a king sized bed pushed against another super single bed...little legs wrapped around me, stubby fingers rummaging my locks. Amidst muted giggles and quiet shushhs and the eternal fight for a corner of the comforter, we drift into a huggy, happy sleep, a Hotwheels car snoring contentedly under our pillow.

But you know what? I have a sneaking feeling that the happiness quotient in our family has simply shot up...their teachers wonder why the little ones are smiling more these days...and I wonder why I am feeling a trifle happier...

Thursday, October 23, 2008

For a slice of land in God’s own country...


Images: www.keralatourism.org

“10 lakhs for a cent!!! 10 crores for an acre of land....in Tri...Trivandrum” My hubby’s consternation bubbled and blew all over the arm chair he was bristling in.
The thin dry palm leaves, poised precariously over the armchair, quivered.
My lips curled ever so slightly in a smile.
“You know what? I can get an acre of land in the suburbs of London for...”
I continue with my Mona Lisa act...
“Gosh! I can even get a mansion in New Jersey...New Jersey” as though repetition would make it even more shocking!
I put down William Golding’s Paper Men and look up with my English Literature-gonna-give-Finance whiz-a- nugget- of- wisdom look and said… deliberate condescension dripping from each word, “But daahling, you are not buying in London or New Jersey…you are getting a slice of land in God’s Own Country! Daivathinte naattil oru nazhiyidangari manninu ponnum panam kodukkanam, mone!”

Sunday, October 19, 2008

The friendly neighbourhood provision man

Saw Wall-E.
Felt sad.
Earthlings destroying their planet with skyscraper high tons of garbage…cola cans, juice bottles, cereal boxes…a silent outcome of our excessive obsession with convenience living.

Suddenly thought of Mani….that was his name…I think. Most of you might know a Mani. The one I knew had a small provision store around the corner from my grandmother’s house. The store had a thatched roof, its dry gray coconut leaves straggling down from the edges touching the heads of shoppers. One had to duck under them to see a busy but smiling Mani amidst heaps of rice, pulses of many hues, salt and sugar bursting out of large brown jute bags and his cheerful welcome enquiring about everyone at home. Whatever we needed would be whipped out with a skillfulness that verged on the magical. A sharp twist and turn of the previous day’s newspaper and presto! there would be a large paper cone in his blue veined hand, into which he would scoop with equal dexterity a heap of small red round onions, the kind my grandmother asserted, was excellent for aviyal (for the uninitiated in Kerala cuisine, aviyal is a mild preparation of mixed vegetables blended with yoghurt and grated coconut, topped with a generous dollop of coconut oil). The spectacle that followed -- the wrapping of the paper cone, now bulging with plump red onions -- was nothing short of spectacular. He would flip down the edges of the cone smartly, whip a piece of grey coir string, bind it swiftly around the cone and tie a knot with a flourish I am sure only provision store Manis can create.

Mani’s store is still around. But hardly anybody throngs his storefront.

Folks shop at air conditioned grocery stores, stuffed with lines of ravishing bags and boxes of everything one could think of…oranges from South Africa, plums from California, pumpkins from Japan, jelly from Malaysia…dumped irreverently into plastic bags by too-busy-to-chat strangers at the cash counter.Sigh…

Folks might call this wishful romanticizing of mom and pop stores of olden days, but I couldn’t help but muse that Mani’s provision store with his heap of yesterdays’ newspapers and coir strings was a far more sustainable model, a shopping experience tinged with merry camaraderie, courtesy the friendly neighborhood provision man.

Monday, September 22, 2008

"A suitable boy"


I sat, soaking in the delicious aroma of books. The warm sun poured into the study, painting patterns on the polished wooden panels. In a corner yet unexplored by the curious rays, I was rifling through my beloved's files and folders, trying to make sense of the paperwork he had accumulated over twenty odd years.

I had met him as a fresh apprentice, young and bursting with ambition, at my father's prestigious law firm. He had looked like a friendly footballer, except...for those eyes. Deep and piercing, they bored through you, reading thoughts beyond. My dad had liked that. Dad had come off very impressed, after their first meeting. He was sure the astute young lawyer would go places and make a name for himself. Daddy had been right.

Shortly after, we got married. What followed had been a roller coaster ride through life; a life filled to the brim with a fine and famous law practice, plenty of wealth and a lovely daughter. He made a name for himself in the professional circuit. His sharp perceptiveness often won him difficult-to-crack cases. Even hardened criminals crumbled under that laser-like stare and gave up quite lamely. Like an x-ray machine, he saw through everything-motives, alibis, well crafted witness stories and defenses. Inevitably, he became a hero to plaintiffs and a villain to defendants.

He must've tempted Fate. With a single stroke of Hers, she snatched away my beloved. The doctors said it had been a massive heart attack. The earth gave way from under my feet. My daughter was still in college, not yet ready to fly. I couldn't calm the flutter within me, my heart trembling at every step, and every step was new to me. For till then, he had been in complete charge of our lives…the home, the practice, our daughter's college, the parties… I had always been in the back seat, safe and secure, knowing that he would take care of everything.

The shrill phone shook me out of my reverie.

It was my daughter calling from New York. She would call every Sunday morning. That was one treat I looked forward to. Her one-year-old had just started babbling and it was pure pleasure to hear her prattle. My son-in-law was a lawyer too, carving out a remarkable practice for himself in New York. They said he was very much like his late father-in-law: astute, sharp and perceptive...a true reader of minds. The older man would have certainly been proud of him. Anyway, my daughter was happy. Theirs was a joyous life, filled with work on weekdays and fun on the weekends. I was happy for them.

I was happy, also because I had managed to choose a "suitable boy" for my girl. That had been one of my biggest accomplishments-a choice I had made, completely on my own, without my beloved by my side.

If I keep reminiscing, the line will get cut.

I hurry to the phone and smile as I hear my granddaughter's chatter from the other end. They are calling from Amish County. My son-in-law has surprised them with a weekend trip to the quaint county in Pennsylvania. The Amish have captured time in a grain of sand. They fastidiously follow their forefathers' traditions, ride horse buggies and grow food on their own farms, holding life still, as the world rushes past. Interesting. I must tell my friends when I go for my morning walk. It was so nice of my son-in-law to spring such a sweet surprise on them! He is a nice boy. We chat for an hour. Bye, bye mommy, will call you next week, same time. Bye, dear.

I still remember the day my son-in-law had come home to 'see' my daughter.

Even today I can feel the butterflies tyrannizing my tummy. Would they like each other? If they liked each other, could I go ahead with the marriage? Was he a good boy? How could I know? The marriage agency had rated the boy very high, but then, they do that for every other boy in their files. I had made inquires. Yes, he came from a good family of professionals, well-educated, well-employed, well-cultured and well-heeled. The family had clearly passed the well-check. How was the boy? It could be a case of the black sheep. I had inquired at his college. Good, they had said. I had inquired at his office. Good, again. Everything had seemed all right.

How I wish my dear husband had been with me to make the decision! The astute reader of minds that he had been, he could have read the boy like the palm of his hand. I could've simply relaxed and let him decide. But that was not to be. It was five years too late. Today, I had to select. I had to select the "suitable boy" all by myself.

There was the gaggle of aunts and uncles to dish out easy advice, but I had to make the final decision. I had no yardsticks to 'judge' him by, no insights into the intricacies of the human mind to guide me, not after all those years spent in the safe haven of my home and hearth.

How I wish my dear husband had been with me!

The D-day had dawned, damp and dreary. Was that a sign? I didn't know. The 'boy' and his parents had come on time, accompanied by his sister, aunt and uncle. Everyone had been friendly and nice. What could that tell me? Everyone was friendly and nice on such occasions. The initial pleasantries done with, we had moved to the dining room, to let the 'boy' and 'girl' have a chat by themselves.

How I wish my husband had been with me! He could have helped my girl! He could have helped me, to decide!

Half an hour later, we had sauntered back into the room, hoping that they've been as successful as mind-reading lawyers! They seemed comfortable with each other. Could we take the smiles on their faces for approval? Here comes my turn. If they say 'yes', do I say 'yes' or 'no'? Dear beloved, please help me!

You know what my decision had been.

I walk back from the phone to my husband's library, all strewn over with the papers I have ruffled up.

My son-in-law has bought a new apartment for me, at one of the classiest addresses in town. Sensitive and perceptive as he is, he had realized that the rambling mansion had become too cumbersome for me to manage alone. So he had gotten me the brochures of the best builders in town. I simply had to select what suited me and he had bought it for me. A caring boy, indeed!

The new apartment would be ready in a month's time. In the meantime, I had to clear up my home of thirty odd years. I gathered up all the papers and piled them on top of the desk. There remained only one more cabinet to go through…one that contained my husband's personal papers.

I shook out the contents of the cabinet. Out fell dusty old papers on vacations, our daughter's college education and…one on marriage proposals for our girl! An amused smile slowly crept up the corners of my lips. He had started looking for a 'boy' even then! He hadn't told me about that! Probably, he had wanted to 'surprise' me with his 'find'! Wonder what kind of a boy he had wanted for our cutie pie. There were quite a handful of them. Quite a few had been approved too…lawyers, doctors, bankers, engineers...What was that thick envelope at the bottom of the pile?

The rejected ones.

Smiling, out of curiosity, I opened the envelope. Out tumbled a sheaf of papers, on top of which was a resume with a photograph stuck on it…my son-in-law.


Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Friday, September 19, 2008

$20,000...babies anyone?

$20,000 for a 3rd baby!!! That's the tax rebate you will get for producing a little citizen for Singapore!

In my mind's eye, "We two, Ours two" stares at me from the back bumpers of large trucks rumbling along on rugged Indian roads, with two painted white flowers on either side of the slogan. The slogan was nice, it rhymed. I am told it later became, "We two, Ours one". Didn't seem to rhyme so well, but seemed to make sense for a country already reeling with little citizens!

An Internet junkie

The prospect of a summer vacation does funny things to you. One of them is to create a Godzillian to-do list for the vacation. Do this, plant that, buy this, sell that. After many delicious do-nothing days you wake up to see the semester hurtling towards you with the Wal-Mart sized list not even given a dekko....aaargh...

Out ambles the mammoth of a list and you look around for the easiest one to start on first. Small successes help. Clear the Inbox. Aahh...that is easy-peasy :)))

Out pops yahoomail and you start...hmmm....now where should one start? 3124, the pregnant Inbox screen screams at you...Huh? Well, what are MBAs for? Lemme break this huge task into bite size chunks....what can I delete first? All those side-splitting funny emails? No, no, no, I need those...it’s my storehouse for a rainy day when I might need a good laugh. How about the scores of newsletters that I've subscribed to in the hope of reading them when I finally get the time? Well, what if I manage to finally get the time and settle down on a quiet summer morning to read them? Then I’ll need all those emails to bury myself in. Nope...I need those too. How about all those mails sharing photobucketsful of life with me? However can I delete the lovingly shared memoirs of my nearest and dearest? No way!

As I chide myself for this crippling inability to squish the delete button, I muse that it might be a hangover from my more mundane material life...a life filled with unending stockpiles of ancient outfits neatly folded and stashed away, only to be taken out, sunned and returned lovingly to its cosy corner for another year or so...all in the now fast receding hopes of slipping into those once upon a time single digit sizes; or my son’s textbooks and notebooks religiously being hoarded away in quiet dark nooks and crannies of the attic.

As the years march past...std 1, std 2, std 3...and three boys burst through the ranks of nursery and kindergarten, I am sure my spouse will have to stage a coup and overthrow the burgeoning piles of paper in the face of my shocked protests...‘OMG...that’s his first drawing’ ‘aaah...not this....this is his first certificate from the little firefighters association’ ‘and look at his first A...mmm.....’ tiny precious memories scrawled all over my heart. And I just learned the other day that my maids have decided to take matters of the daily news in their own hands and have been clandestinely collecting and selling off the newspapers to the Singaporean version of our raddiwala. They just don’t get it, do they?

Aaaahh...for the joys of opening up a fading pink ‘n’ cream roses printed box from ages bygone, covered with the fine dust of a few score years and to peek into its deep contents that haven’t seen light for ages, except to linger as a dull glow in some corner of my heart....to feel the softness of my baby’s first socks, once bright red berries he had picked on his way back from school, assorted strings of coloured wool we had collected on a lazy summer afternoon, a photograph with the edges shaped like a heart...

I sigh...wanting to cling on to all those precious thoughts, outfits, photos and berries...As though a sign from the virtual heavens, the unlimited storage sign flash across the screen, instantly brightening up my spirits. I console myself that at least an overflowing mailbox in virtual life is not quite a sin as in real life...I am told I don't ever need to delete a single mail...the guys at yahoo have figured out a way to store all my little emails in some far away cyber corner...for ever and ever... Perhaps Internet junkies are souls like me who can unabashedly stash away all our virtual junk in some remote corner of cyberspace far away from the prying eyes of maids and spouses.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Thar she cuckooes...

Tick, tock...went the cuckoo clock. She (why ever do we think of cuckoo clocks as females?!!) reminded me of sandy muttams, wraparound verandahs, sprawling mango trees dotted with misty green mangoes and silence...utter silence, broken only by the gentle tick tocks of old grandfather clocks (there we go again...why not grandmother clocks?) From the daily hassles of the tread of city life, I got transported to some corner of my memories, to some long forgotten tharavadu in some long forgotten corner of Kerala.

Anyways, once she had been assembled and comfortably perched high up on the wall, she was well on her way to her first cuckoo in our home. All of us waited eagerly, five mouths a tad open, five pairs of peepers a tad too open and thar she cuckooed! The cuckoo was in her home and all was well with the world...until day two.

She started falling behind by just a teeny weeny half hour...what's half an hour in the great Indian journey of life anyway? We remembered the clock-maker's advice of 'adjust the clock back and forth till you get the right time.' Thus started a game of adjustment. My spouse was in charge and diligently kept 'adjusting'...for a week or so. But all of his mechanical engineering skills was wasted on the dear cuckoo who seemed to have decided to cuckoo only whenever she felt like it!

As with all good endings, we decided to look at the bright side of things. Now she brings a quiet smile to our faces whenever we hear an earnest cuckoo, while we resolutely ignore whatever the digital clock displays, as though mocking his hopelessly clueless cousin from the Black Forest. Our son has been insisting that we junk it and get a more reliable battery operated one, but somehow we just can't...we seem to have fallen in love with lovingly and slowly winding her up and listening to her totally out of time cuckooes:)

In a land where everything ticks like clockwork, our cuckoo clock transports us to a land of sheer romance...of sandy muttams, wraparound verandahs, sprawling mango trees dotted with misty green mangoes and silence...utter silence, broken only by the gentle tick tocks of old grandfather clocks...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Gen Z??????

One evening, my then two year old was cranky...whining and crying for no particular reason, at least for no reason obvious to me. Suddenly wisdom dawned...whip out the sure fire, time tested strategy of moms...distraction!

Desperately seeking some inspiration, my eyes fell upon a tree bursting with greens. Immediately, I launched into one of those spontaneous story telling sessions...up in that tree...way, way, up...Don't get me wrong...the tree wasn't exactly a Redwood. In fact, it had got struck by lightening a couple of months back, but the brave little tree had gone into overdrive and sprouted hundreds of tiny green branches and was now literally a picture of health, vigour and vitality! (I am sure the neighbouring trees must have told their off spring to learn from that brave little fella!)

Anyways, for the sake of holding my young one's tear-blurred attention, I had to stress the 'way, way, up.' Slowly, the little head turned to look at the tree with a new found awe. Eyes widening with wonder, he listened as I continued, the creative side of my gray matter switching into hyper active mode.

"On the top of that tree, is a teeny-weenie nest."
Li'l eyes widen...huh...I never knew that!
The gray matter's warming up.
"In that nest, are two teeny-weenie eggs."
Wow, mouth drops open, a tiny drool escaping from the corner.
"In that nest, are a mommy bird and a daddy bird."
Now, that's news!
The gray matter's simmering by now.
"The mommy bird and daddy bird take very good care of their teeny weenie eggs."
Really? Cool!!!
And now......the gray matter poises to announce the dramatic climax!
"One day, the eggs hatch and two teeny weenie birds pop out!!!"
"Eat?"

The gray matter froze. This was supposed to be a regular old fashioned chweet li'l shtory about two sho shweet li'l baby birds, whom you are supposed to go all gaga, googoo over, and all that the little one could think of was...to eat it up? Aargghhh !*$@#!!! But anyways, if you want to know, he stopped crying :)

Monday, July 14, 2008

Time in a grain of sand

If only i could hold time in a grain of sand...freeze time, as my kids would say when they run around playing 'freeze.' Most of us would have played it sometime in our lives...somebody would say 'freeze' and everybody would stand still, till the freezer says 'move.'

When I touch my baby's chubby arms and rounded wrists, innocence swamping his face, I want to make time stand still. When he runs up to me with adoration bubbling in his eyes, I want to make time stand still. When I return from work, and he throws himself at me with boundless joy, I want to make time stand still. When he begs me to sing him a lullaby, to read him a story or put him to bed... when i feel so needed, wanted and loved, I want to make time stand still.

For I wonder, how long will this last?

Saturday, May 17, 2008

The great NO

Ever wondered why primary school teachers are given training in early childhood development? They need it, pal, they need it. It is then sheer commonsense that the guys and gals on the front line also need training. But then, why on earth aren't parents or soon-to-be-parents protected against...err., well…I mean...y’know…sent to parenting seminars on 'bringing up children without too much damage to everyone’ or something on those lines? Hold on…here's a disclaimer...if you are one of those parents who manage to explain calmly to their children why they do not need the 5th tube of Pokemon toothpaste in 2 weeks and if your kid is the kind who appreciates such sound and sensible parental logic, then please do not read on. But if you are one of those mortals who lose it pretty fast after the third calm and controlled explanation, let me share a simple life saver which works. Learn to say, “No.” Yes, it’s as simple as that! But this one doesn't come easily...you need tons of patient practice.


For starters, stand in front of the mirror; imagine chubby cheeks and twinkling eyes (a tough act, given that you are gazing at a rather hassled and stressed out vision), make a blank face, go ahead and try it, say “No, dear" (or chanda, or raja, or darling or whatever).


Now imagine tears welling up, sides of shivering lips drooping down…steel your heart, prop up the melting facial muscles and say, “No.”


Of course, next imagine the tantrum…the full blown variety, the kind they usually reserve for use in supermarkets…arms flailing, decibel level hitting dangerous levels, pulling stares from everywhere--steel everything and say, “No, sweetie” (or equivalent).

Sounds tough? No, it isn’t. It is one of the easiest words to say. Try it. And wait it out...in the meantime, focus all your attention on the $10 sliver of organic Japanese pumpkin in the chilled vegetable section. Act as though you had nothing to do with that bawling kid trying to wreck your shopping cart. Surprisingly, you’ll find that the storm dies down faster than you’d expected it to. And so does the frequency of future storms. After all, no kid can suffer the indignity of being ignored, least of all to a pumpkin, whether Japanese or organic.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

I am OK (I hope so :)

"Celebrate your mother on Mother's Day!
Remember your mother for all the sacrifices she has done for you...For the lullabies she has sung to you..."

Huh? I was supposed to do all that? Gosh, would the kids think that I am one flop of a mother? I hope they are not reading the newspapers...aaahhh! Anyways, whenever I have attempted lullabies...the best I could ever do was a "Ba, ba black sheep...or a twinkle, twinkle little star"....the kids have had to shut me up fast so that they could have a fighting chance to nod off in peace. In fact, we were all rather relieved to discover a gem of a cassette full of lovely lullabies which would lull all of us off to sleep!

As for sacrifices...he, hum...well...I feel so ashamed saying this, but you know what? I think I quite enjoy my life...y'know, not too much to complain about...what with the early morning walks by the canal, the weekly Javanese massage by my favourite masseuse, the Friday night dinner for two...ouch, am I having too much fun? Is there something called too much fun? Gosh, I must be doing something terribly wrong here. Shouldn't I be sacrificing something at least, for the kids? Shameful mum I must be, for sure!

Depressed as I feel, I turn to my mom...ah, now that's a different story. I don't remember any lullabies (don't think she's the Nightingale sorts anyways...now you know...blame it all on genes!) but sacrifices, I am sure...though she's the last person on earth to remember what she did or remind us of what she did for us. But I still remember waking up delirious with fever in the dead of the night, and there she was, a Nightingale of another sort, sitting on a chair beside me, fighting sleep (Ah...now I do that for the kids too...genes, huh?...so i am not too bad, eh?) But she looks at me with a what's-this-kid-saying-expression, whenever I recount to her this tale, all dewy eyed and senti.

You see, quite unlike a few moms I've met (usually the in-law variety) she has a strong case of maternal amnesia...not the regular kind where the mom conveniently forgets all the bawling, screaming and kicking and remembers only the smiles, halos and hugs...but the kind where she has no clue whatever she did to bring us up (anyways, she's only too glad to say that her mom did all the bringing up)! What a mum...I hope my kids get maternal amnesia too...I mean, of another kind...the kind where they forget what a blast their mom had while she let them grow up having a blast too! Anyways, as my spouse's regular tag line for Valentine's Day goes (of course, the day wouldn't have even registered on his consciousness, despite all the commercials screaming hoarse about it) "everyday is a Valentine's Day for us" so I suppose "everyday is a Mother's Day for me and my mum" too!

Tired of grappling with all these little guilt trips and justifications, I turned to the phone...for the soothing comfort of the daily chat with my best friend, my mom.

Image: http://photobucket.com/image/mother/Messiloca/mother.gif?o=1

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Ah...for some mindless entertainment

Tom And Jerry.

A long time ago, I had decided that when I was all big and grown up, I would never tell my kids, “When I was your age…” But can’t help it, so here goes…Ages ago, when I was a kid in school, the TV was a place for mindless entertainment. Different matter that entertainment those days meant only Krishi Darshan at 7.30, the weekly dose of Hindi film music a.k.a. Chitrahaar and the feature film on Sunday evening. The only time I would squirm was when we had to watch the UGC educational programmes, where gray suited Professors would intone about molecules cavorting with others of their kind and its inevitable consequences. All that I remember about those programmes are grays, grays and yet more grays.


The other day, tired after a day at school (beats me why University is also called school!) I plonked down with my kids in front of the TV for some good ol’ mindless entertainment. It seemed mindless enough--some spunky looking creatures helping their friends make valentines-- till matters turned rather serious when the creatures went on to figure out that it’s better for each one to do what he/she is best at…drawing, cutting, pasting etc. After this lesson in division of labour, the famous mouse and his friends were to entertain us…finally, for some truly mindless fun! Then to my shock, that once-upon-a-time-simply- hilarious mouse and his friends marched upto a smart tune and started teaching us the alphabets! I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. All that I remember of the mouse, his uncle and his ducky friends were hours spent laughing over their antics. To see them mouth alphabets and math tables was indeed a rude surprise!


I had barely recovered from all this education when along marched a certain Captain who told kids what to eat! He kind of looked like a very bright and cheery Superhero, definitely a far cry from the gray suited Professors of UGC days. Flexing his bulging muscles, he authoritatively prodded into kids that baked potatoes are certainly a better choice than French fries. Of course, my spouse marvels at all this educational stuff, masquerading as ‘cartoons’ and innocuously injecting some sense into the kids.


But for me, frantically searching for something to calm my over stimulated gray matter this was certainly not mindless entertainment. I ran to my room and searched out a good ol’ Tom and Jerry DVD. Apparently, the dear ol’ cat and the mouse have been berated lately for all their violence, but for my post-University and post kids-channel frazzled nerves the simple story of a cat chasing a mouse was indeed very calming and soothing.


Image from www.photobucket.com

Monday, March 17, 2008

When Rama ruled Dinoland

“Sonu, why don’t you narrate the story of Ramayana?” I prompted my son, the words dripping heavily with maternal pride. Who’d said that when Indians leave for foreign shores, they forget their culture and heritage? In fact, a joke which did the email rounds said that Indians become more Indian when they go abroad! Guys and gals who lounge about in jeans and sneakers in Mumbai slip into kurtas and sandals in Massachusetts. Folks who gobble up pizzas and hamburgers in Bangalore make a beeline to Indian stores in New Jersey to stock up on dals and frozen samosas. Yes, we do become more Indian when we step out of India.

That's probably 'coz once we leave our 'desh', we are confronted with visions of our American-Born-Confused-Desi kids growing up on a steady diet of Dinosaurs and Power Rangers asking, “Amma, what was the name of that dude again…the guy with the ten heads?” That’s when frantic parents with grandparents' threats booming in their ears, “instill our culture in the kids” run from pillar to post or rather from Indian store to Indian temple, to bring up Indian kids the “Indian” way.

It was with this noble intention that I had jumped with great enthu into the world of "Amar Chitra Katha" with its fabulous collection of Indian fables and folklores. Every night I would huddle with my son and an Amar Chitra Katha and read to him stories of Krishna, Rama, Arjuna...On Diwali, we took him to watch Ravana Dahan in nearby Pennsylvania. We were quite proud of ourselves and our attempts to instill a sense of cultural identity in our little one…na, nah no confusion for him…he must know both Ram and Dino.

Soon after Diwali, we came over for our annual vacation and in front of the entire household, eager to watch their little US-bred babu in action I proudly presented my son, with his excellent grasp of his cultural roots. And promptly came the opener...

“A hundred million years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, Rama was king of Ayodhya!”

Talk about one American-Bred-Clear-Desi!

Image: www.photobucket.com

Sunday, February 17, 2008

The ultimate sale

I had just reached the US and barely understood the drawl. Of course, by the time I left the place three years later, I had wised up enough to know that “Quarteret” is actually “Carteret,” but not so in those days. Whenever the phone rang, I would literally start sweating. Trained completely in a rather neutral Indian English accent, I was forced to do a gal-from-the-hinterlands-act asking those American voices to call back with a, “husband not home” lame-dame excuse. They must’ve conjured up visions of a large eyed innocent-looking village belle in a bright coloured ghagra choli (modeled after some 1960s Hindi movie heroine, of course!) who has come to visit her Pardesi ilk in New Jersey!

One day, the phone rang. I groaned…oh no, time to put up yet another of those wide-eyed village belle acts! But that call was like no other. A deep somber voice at the other end spoke up…I could figure out that he (I think it was a he) wanted to sell something to D’hanesh (that’s Americanese for Dhanesh, my spouse). Then it became kinda deadly serious. In between rolling r’s and swallowed t’s I could hear him rasp about graveyards and tombs. By then, I had become nearly hysterical. Call later, call later…husband not home…husband in office…I blurted and slammed down the offending instrument. My heart was thumping…now what on earth had all that been about? I had heard about the Great American Salesman and had answered many a call for donation to the friendly neighborhood police force and such, but who on earth would want to sell…a...a.. grave? The spouse enlightened me in the evening that the caller only had my best interests at heart…he was just trying to secure a comfortable post-life abode for me in a nice, wooded, iris-filled cemetery down the road…the ultimate sale, indeed!



Thursday, December 6, 2007

Silence of the lifts



Whatever happens to people when they enter lifts? Normal Joes who usually overflow with the milk of goodness act like they are in a tomb. They stiffen up and stare into space, an inch within their face…come to think of it, it’s a tough act to do…when you are packed together like pickled sardines and “space” is the few inches between your nose and the next guy’s. But most folks pull off that act pretty well. They manage to pretend that their co-lift-travelers don’t exist and that they are in a serene nirvanic moment, at one with their souls (I can almost see a bevy of souls bobbing up and down inside the vacuum of the lift!). Those few seconds, when the lift glides--or hurtles, depending on which part of the globe you are in--seem like an eternity, as though time stands still and laughs at the deadpan stares.

Of course your co-passengers can make matters better or worse. Put a bunch of Indians and Chinese together in a lift, and chances are you’ll feel teleported to Tutankhamen’s presence. Add in a couple of Americans, and chances are you’ll get cheery, full-bodied-- hi hullos, how are yous, good mornings and byes--which kind of make the brief but stifling journey a little less stifling.

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Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Where angels fear to tread

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A pair of gigantic golden elephants greeted me as I walked in. The hostess smiled warmly as she led me to a large wooden divan encrusted with brightly coloured gems and stones. I perched myself rather gingerly, on the edge, mortified I might nudge off a stone or two. Eventually I mustered enough courage to settle in a little deeper, only to be poked in quite the wrong place with sequins from the exquisitely embroidered cushions!

My eyes swept around, rather reverentially, taking in two graceful nymphs doing a Namaste, elegantly holding up the lamp shades. My saucer-wide eyes fell on two large tusks, rising royally from somewhere behind the sofa, an ornate clock hanging rather alarmingly from the tip of the tusks. The Burmese teak coffee table had a few carefully strewn glossy books (on the latest fad of the times…India and its heritage, what else!) which I am sure nobody ever turned a page of!

No, I was not in a hotel lobby, but was visiting an old buddy who, by the look of his horde of elephants and arty paintings, had certainly spent some quality time on the interiors of his home.

These are times when I long with a rather musty old fashioned nostalgia for the days when a house used to a home…and not dressed up like the presidential suite in a star hotel, or sometimes even like a Salarjung! Those were the days when one could plunk onto the well-worn comfy sofa with a steaming cup of coffee, safe in the knowledge that no gem or sequin would nudge any vulnerable spot and nonchalantly dangle one’s feet over the sides without the dread of demolishing a marble nymph or two. One could saunter through the home quite at ease, without the constant terror of tumbling onto a sanguinely reposing Buddha or toppling over the priceless crystal figurine shipped all the way from Vienna!

But these days, even angels fear to tread in our homes, lest they trip up the ancient vase from Ho Chi Minh City or smudge the intricate weaves of the Persian adorning the Italian marble floor. Folks seem so obsessed with displaying stuff which should rightfully belong to museums that houses come close to resembling hotels or curator’s havens and make us warily wind and weave our way as through treading treacherous territory.

image: www.photobucket.com

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Colour, not color

I’ve nothing against Bill Gates. He is a wonderful guy who makes billions and gives away millions. Brilliant! Kudos to him! May there be more of his ilk! But I do have one grudge against him, or rather, against his MS Word. I don’t like it when it tries to teach me spellings. ‘Colour’ has a u in it…I don’t like ‘color’ and I don’t like my Word document crisscrossed with red lines reminding me of my Convent school days when good ol’ Sr. Maria would comb through my English composition paper with her bleeding red pen. After having spent 12 years of my otherwise beautiful childhood under the watchful eyes of the nuns (bless their kind souls) trying to mug English spellings which have no rhyme or reason for existence, I’ve no intention of being ‘corrected’ now. No sir, ‘colour’ has a u in it and so does ‘candour.’

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Cotton Hill Heights


I was chug-chugging along on the evening Express from Cochin to Trivandrum, rather lost in the building brochures strewn all around me. After an hour or so, bleary eyed, I looked up to notice a rather lean mean looking bird…I mean a thin wiry lady who looked rather important…at least, it was pretty obvious that’s what she thought of herself. She was one of those arty sorts, in a stiff white starched cotton saree, a huge bindi and chunky ethnic jewelry in black metal. I don’t know what inspired her to talk to me (I don’t think it had anything to do with me; it must’ve been the absolute boredom of a 5 hour long journey in silence), but soon she condescended to have a conversation with me.

Once I had revealed my credentials, she cocked her head regally to one side, and said, “I stay at Cotton Hill Heights” with a rather expectant air, as though expecting my jaw to drop down in awestruck wonder and amazement. It didn’t. The air was thick with awkward embarrassment. I had no clue where this grand stately “Cotton Hill Heights” was. But it was obvious she was expecting a jaw dropping show. So with all the politeness I could muster, I sputtered, “Yes, yes of course…Cotton Hill Heights! Great! Amazing, yes…good job...ahem!”

It didn’t work. The expectant look was slowly turning into a disgusted scorn at this ignorant peasant from the backwaters who had never heard of “Cotton Hill Heights!” That’s when I tried to recoup the situation as well as I could, by muttering what a long time it had been since I had been to Trivandrum. I am sure many new fabulous apartments must’ve spring up during the last few years when I was away in the US. The star spangled part of my red-faced ramblings kind of softened her piqued countenance. Ok, that’s why. Otherwise, no soul in the state of Kerala could’ve been ignorant of “Cotton Hill Heights!”

I was returning from Cochin after shopping around …for what else, but an apartment…the favourite hobby of NRIs these days. I had been bombarded with the glossy brochures of builders who seemed to have sprouted overnight in this otherwise typically laidback and charming port town of Kerala. Windsor Castle, Park Manor, Belvedere, La Casa, Venetian Heights…the builders threw grand English and European names left, right and centre. The list was endless. I went peeking around the streets, half expecting to see dukes and duchesses popping out of these ‘castles’ and ‘manors.’ But to my slight dismay, I could see only good ol’ Mallus happily yapping away within the iron grilled walls of Windsor Castle and Venetian Heights.

What’s with us and the names of our homes? The new housing complexes, that are literally mushrooming where there’s an inch to put down a shovel and a rake, have been fascinated with all names ‘forgin.’ The Queen of the Arabian Sea has been no exception. Tudor manors and castles jostle for space on the shores of her scenic, mosquito ridden backwaters, making bird like women on trains snap at ignorant home-shopping NRIs.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Hollyhocks and Physics


Russian women are beautiful. My uncle who had gone to Russia had come off very impressed and declared that they were like… hollyhocks. I couldn’t have agreed more when I finally met a specimen. Tall, slim and dainty with long dark hair and light eyes, she was indeed sheer beauty in bloom. She sashayed along with an air of ease and relaxation about her. She seemed perfectly carefree, her gait oozing with a languid idleness. All that she ever did was to go for a swim in the pool, attend art classes and look pretty…a pure bred dandy, a true social butterfly, a brilliant beauty uncluttered with any boring brains...na, na the gray stuff in the upper storey and she certainly didn't go well together.


And then, we met. She had organized a barbeque on International Day and we had gone, prepared to put up with the incessant chatter of such ‘empty’ heads. With all my smug pride of being a doctoral student, I introduced myself. That’s when she shook my hands and said, “Hi, I am Natalya...I am a PhD in Physics.” Did my glass drop down? I know my jaw did. The perfect hostess, she hurried to reassure me, “No, no, it’s just that in Russia everyone takes a Ph.D.” The jaw dropped even further. I come from a land stuffed with graduate bus ticket collectors, but a country chock full of Ph.Ds?!! She looked like she had handled many such jaw drops earlier, so she calmly continued, “We finish our bachelors, then go on to do our Masters and PhD. There’s no break. So we finish University with a PhD.” From that moment on, I vowed never to judge a hollyhock by its looks alone!

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Any news?!!


Once upon a time, a measly month or so into marriage, out would pop the naughty smile and pesky question from the ever meddling Great Indian Public, “Any news?”

What the?! Just tie the knot and start making babies? Hallo, there is a huge bridge to be crossed between making babies and becoming parents. Obviously the former can be done by anyone who has biologically progressed in life; na, nah…not the latter. C’mon these aren’t good ol’ times, when parenting came instinctively…when moms and dads knew how to be...moms and dads.

Oh no, no, no…now we’ve truckloads of experts…child psychologists, early childhood specialists, neo-natal growth consultants and who else… breathing down nouveau parental necks….often about how a good ‘talking to’ can tarnish tender minds. No scolding, no reprimands, treat them like adults...blah, blah, blah. But these days, the experts are swinging right back, saying parents must not be friends, but parents…sigh...what a complication! As though all this expert advice was not enough to topple you into utter parental confusion, innumerable aunties and the Great Indian Public also join the expert gang, shoveling their own "tried-and-tested" home-made parenting tips down your feebly protesting throat.

In fact, quite a few trusting New-Age parents (the kind who turn to webmd.com for medical advice in the middle of the night), who themselves had been brought up quite firmly, had swung to the ‘expert’ end of the pendulum and started mollycoddling their babies (usually the hapless first born!) But thankfully, by the time the second one (or two or three!) came along, the first one would have taught the parents enough to chuck the 'experts' and the aunties out of the window and take parental control into their own capable hands…back to trusting good ol' parental instincts!

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Hibernation

Dear friends,

Thanks a ton for all the enthusiastic responses and lively conversations we've had. I thoroughly enjoyed all of them. From now on my pace of writing might slow down as my second semester at NUS begins. Amidst theories and research methods in CNM I don't think I'll be able to scribble as much as I'd love to. But I still hope to post at least once a fortnight. So do bookmark the blog and check it once in a way.


Cheers,
Ganga

Saturday, July 28, 2007

From swimming to shovelling and...back!

“Ednaaaaa…coffeee…” I stretched out the lower limbs and rotated the ankles. Aaah…it felt good. It was a nice warm morning in Singapore. The spouse had driven off, the kids had gone to school…the Monday morning frenzy had abated and that peculiar calm after the storm had descended as I lazily called out for coffee. Edna, my Indonesian maid, appeared bearing a tray laden with an IKEA mug full of the steaming life saver and a plateful of my favourite biscuits. As my lips dipped expectantly into the fuzzy froth and the aroma of rich coffee filled my nostrils, I sighed and leaned back deep into the leather recliner filled with a warm sense of calm and contentment. Now… to leisurely plan the day. Should I trot off to Vivocity? Or call one of my chums over for a gossipy brunch? Or simply relax in the Jacuzzi with my endless thoughts for company? The last option seemed very appealing. So filled with the coffee, I slipped into the swimsuit the ever-watchful Edna had laid out on the already made-up bed, picked up the sun-dried and ironed bathrobe and headed for a few pampering moments in the water. It had rained the night before. I missed a step….


Down, down, down I tumbled…and fell…on a carpeted floor of a bedroom. What the?! The sun was reluctantly peeking through the window blinds over the dreary wintry landscape. Groan…I was still in the US…holidaying…sigh! We had come for our niece’s christening. It had been a long awaited trip…I had heard so much of the great Amrika from friends returning…the wonderful land where folks lived charmed lives in their huge McMansions. Exactly! That’s exactly what had dragged my spirits down into the wintry slush. Call me whatever you want…lazy or plain spoilt, but I was simply tired of helping out with the endless McChores of the McMansion…the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, snow shoveling…brrrrr…Whaddaya think? S is for snow, snowmen and sliding down snow slopes? Na, na, na. Don’t be naïve. How do you think they extricate their cars from the garage after a heavenly shower of the icy stuff? They shovel, man…shovel…every snowy day…just to get the car out of the garage and then…to get it out of the driveway… sigh! Oh Edna…how I long for blissfully restful days, for your coffee and my jacuzzi!


-Based on a real life incident when my Singaporean friend went to the US for a much awaited holiday and ran back home to ‘rest’!

Monday, July 23, 2007

Motorcyclists Sans Frontiers

I had barely recovered from the last swerve when another zoomed past!

#@%&**@# I swore loudly. Either the bike would’ve crashed into the car I was driving or the biker would have reached the Accidents and emergency cell. I was coasting to a stop at a red light, when this guy dressed in black, on a huge black bike roared by my side, made me swerve and then he zoomed on only to crash brake at the traffic light a few meters away! Why ever could he be in such a tearing hurry to reach the red lights? As usual, nothing untoward happened, except for my shattered resolve not to swear and a few skipped heartbeats.

Motorcyclists are the scourge of the road. They seem to flout every rule in the book as they zip to the left and zap to the right, squeezing through every little gap in the traffic. When there is a traffic jam, they are at their roaring best. After all, these privileged breed of road hogs need not wait for time or traffic. When there is barely half a meter between vehicles, they will writhe through. When there’s absolutely no space to squeeze through, they mount the footpaths or road shoulders. Then of course there’s that all time nightmare…the pizza guy on his bike!

And no, I am not talking about India only. This happens in Singapore too. Shocking, aye? Yes, it is. Makes you wonder…. do motorcyclists share an international code of traffic rules or what? A code way above mere mortal-made traffic rules of respective countries? A Motorcyclists Deadly Code of Daredevil Driving, perhaps?

Friday, July 20, 2007

"Guacamole Live"


“Guacamole Live!” the menu announced. We were at a Mexican restaurant called ‘On the Border’ and my spouse was eager to show me this ‘live’ performance. I was fascinated. 'Guacamole' sounded like an exotic sea creature with tentacles and the ‘live’ part of it made it sound even more exciting. After a sampling of enchiladas, chicken quesadillas and steak nachos, it was time for “Guacamole Live!”


A waiter pushed a cart towards us laden with stuff and whipped out …an avocado! I had never before felt so much respect for that not very particularly good looking fruit. But the performance that followed was indeed spectacular. He told me how important it was to select just the right avocado …firm but ripe. Then he cut it open smartly, scooped out the big fat seed, and started spooning out the buttery insides. Next, he chopped some onions, tomatoes and chillies; threw them all together with a little bit of parsley, a squeeze of lemon and salt and simply mashed them into the creamy avocado chunks…Guacamole Live! (Guacamole from Mexican Spanish ahuacamolli, from ahuacate ("avocado") + molli ("sauce"))


From that day on, I have always had this new found respect, not just for the avocado, but also for the American sense of showmanship which converts the mere making of an avocado dip into a spectacular spectacle!



Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Monday, July 16, 2007

Denim skirt or iPhone?

“There’s a sale on at Isetan. Should I get that long denim skirt for 6o dollars?" I kind of mused aloud.


My spouse turned his head away, ever so slightly; with an expression that was a delicate mix of exasperation, puzzlement…a never-can-understand-women sort of expression.


“What the?! How can you?! Can’t you think of anything other than clothes? How can you keep buying them? How many do you already have?”


Nay, I didn’t utter a single indignant word in protest. Instead, I simply asked, “Tell me, what's the one thing you’ve been thinking about in the last one hour?” knowing very well what it would be.


A sheepish grin, “iPhone.”

“And how much does it cost?”

Another sheepish grin, “600USD”

"When was the last time you bought some geeky stuff?"

Yet another s. grin, "Last weekend" (And that's because he's free to shop only on weekends)

"How much did it cost?"

By now he was grinning from ear to ear, "Ok, ok...200 dollars!" (Thank goodness, our man is not a stay-at-home dad...I dread to think what would happen to our monthly budgets!)

I didn’t say a word more, neither did he. The next day, I bought my denim skirt (with a jacket to match), absolutely guilt-free.



Sunday, July 15, 2007

The rebel



“Low crime doesn’t mean no crime”…police banners caution complacent Singaporeans.

One night, while lazily walking along a lonely stretch of beach along the well manicured East Coast Park, I met him. Wild, untamed…anyone would have admired him, with his unruly, don’t-care sort of beauty. A foreigner, a stranger from faraway lands, he had this daringly defiant attitude, which being a rarity in Singapore, kind of amazed and alarmed me. Amongst a sea of law abiding citizens, he did not fit in. Where not even a tree grows free and untrimmed, he was carefree and wild. He did not care for rules or order. He chose a stance and stuck there, steadfast. I felt enamored.

I crept back every evening to catch a glimpse of him. I admired him, in secret. I didn’t dare to go forth and meet him. He scared me. His defiance scared me. I admired him from afar. I feared for him. I didn’t want the rulers to destroy him or worse still, make an example out of him and splash him across the front pages of Straits Times.

Can you keep a secret? Don’t breathe a word to anyone, please. I haven’t, and he’s still camping out on his little stretch on a lonely corner of the East Coast Park. Or else, the landscaping guys, enraged that their picture postcard tree border on the coast had been messed with, might turn up in their tempo trucks, uproot him mercilessly and throw him back to sea from where he had rudely splashed onto the reclaimed shores of S’pore... as a defiant brown coconut.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Movie makers' magic

Finding Nemo was amazing. I still stifle a sob when I watch Marlin regain consciousness and finds his family all gone…all except one tiny, pulsing orange egg…Nemo. The movie has a simple story line. A father fish, Marlin, loses his only son, Nemo, who gets caught by a diver, and father goes in search of his son…Finding Nemo. Simple and straightforward. My little twins love it. At the peak of its popularity, they used to watch it at least 6 times a week!

Within days of its release in S'pore, we took the kids to see Shrek 3. I was as excited as the kids, as we had thoroughly enjoyed Shrek 1 and 2. But instead, we got to watch an adult movie... clothed as a kids’ movie. No wonder my twins (the definitive judges of a movie’s success) were wandering all over the movie hall. They glanced at a couple of interesting scenes, but the movie had totally lost them. C’mon, what can 2 year olds understand about bra burning, which is what the ‘super hot princesses’ Cinderella, Rapunzel and Snow White do, when they decide they will no longer wait to be rescued, but instead rescue themselves.

Indeed I am sure there’s a market for animated movies which appeal to kids and adults alike. But sometimes when movie makers mix the magic formula of megahits, they seem to overdose on the adult potions and totally kill the intended recipients!

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

The harrumpher...

Harrumph…hmmmph…the doctor thoughtfully grunted as he intently scrawled in my little one’s medical record. Oh no, I groaned inwardly, he seemed like one of those who check you and shove a prescription at you, without any explanation whatsoever…the “I know best, you need not have any clue about what’s going on inside your body”…type of doctor. My little son’s sky rocketing temperature was not responding to any medication. He was shivering in my arms, almost delirious. The doctor pushes a digital thermometer into my un-protesting son’s ear, yanks his shirt up to check his chest, then sits back and asks me, “Well, why have you brought him to me?” What the?! I could’ve whacked him with that skeleton hanging by. Wasn’t it obvious why I was there?


He is not my regular doctor. My regular is like one of those typical American doctors, who seem to instinctively understand your worries, plays with my boy and says ‘let me see what Bob the Builder is doing in your ear’ before checking his temperature and explains everything to me in a language I understand. Something on the lines of … “this cannot be rotavirus since the characteristic smell is not there (makes a face to demonstrate the pungency of the smell), we can’t rule out dengue, but because of reasons 1, 2 and 3 blah, blah, blah, blah…they translate medical rigmarole into something which every Ravi and Rita can understand. Essentially, they put you at ease. Of course, I would certainly prefer an uncommunicative but competent doctor to a make-you-feel-good nincompoop, but given a base level of competence, any day I would vote for the doctor who drives my ailments away with medicine and drives my worries away with words.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Fevicol bonds

Birds of the same feather flock together. The human variety ‘Fevicols’ together.

On the last day of the semester, the professor had ordered pizzas and green tea. The students milled about, descending mostly on the Japanese seafood pizzas (and I’d always thought pizzas were an Italian thing!) But the milling had a curious pattern to it. The three ‘lone’ Indian students in the class had wafted towards each other, relieved to have found kindred spirits. The Singaporeans had found their own soul mates and the Filipinos, Vietnamese and South Korean students had fused with a peculiar pan-ASEAN bonding.

This happens even in the condos (a.k.a. an ‘apartment’ in US and ‘flat’ in India). Most of my neighbours are of Chinese roots, with a good measure of Caucasians and 3-4 families of Indian origin. We co-exist pretty decently, but come the weekend and the patterns start forming. The Chinese would have a family party by the pool, the Caucasians would gather at the barbeque pit, and the four Indians would go their four different ways! Due to a sore lack of quorum, the Indians have not yet been able to form an all Indian caucus. But in another condo they have perfected the art, complete with intra gang warfare! The Global Indian school kids (and moms) on one side and the Delhi Public school gang on the other, not to mention the Great Indian north-south Divide….the pav-bhaji Vs idli-sambar gangs!

But while we are busy bonding and warring, the kids are cavorting in the kid’s pool…a happy bunch of yellows, browns, blacks and whites, with mops of black, blond and brown hair bobbing enthusiastically in the water. Wonder whether this will last for at least as long as childhood lasts? Or will they even grow up as multinational natives of the world, with ‘fevicol’ bonds of friendship sans colour codes?!

Monday, July 2, 2007

Fevicol Bus AD

Friday, June 29, 2007

The Singaporean



Black, oiled hair combed back carefully, a fat moustache with pride of place on his brown face, a chunky gold chain bracelet on his wrist and AR Rahman’s ‘Chinna, chinna aasai…’ blaring forth from the taxi radio… the cabbie looked every inch an Indian. Having just landed from the US, full of folks with all kinds of American suffixes… Indian Americans, Mexican Americans, Arab-Americans, I asked him curiously, “Where are you from?”

He stiffened. “I am a Singaporean.”

“Yes, of course!” I am impressed with the nationalistic spirit. But with the naiveté of the newcomer, I persist, “But, where are you from, originally?”

A pause…then with all the trained politeness of the Singaporean cabbie came a nonchalant, “Oh, my father had come from India.”

Aha! My Sherlockian observations had been right!

“From where in India? Tamilnadu?”

The guy didn’t seem to be enjoying this dogged digging at his roots, “Yes, from Karaikudi. Many many years ago. But I was born and raised here.” As though saying, my dear lady, I have nothing to do with any other country. I am a full blown Singaporean, ok lah!?!

Mercifully, I was sensitive enough to sense the slight strain of annoyance in his voice and step off the questioning. Whatever it is they do to cabbies in Singapore, it’s certainly very patriotic stuff!

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Morning namaskara


I hate alarms. They tear into the most delicious moments of sleep…those delicate moments between deep slumber and clear consciousness. But the doctor has said if I want to extend my quota of mornings I better get up for my daily dose of exercise. For the love of life, I reluctantly push away the warm comforter, slide out of the cozy, still-tugging-at-me bed and trudge into the cold bathroom. After I pull on my yoga outfit, I drag myself for my early morning namaskkara…no, not surya namaskara, but the digital version…laptop namaskkara.

I had last checked it only before going to bed. What if something earth shattering has happened during the last seven hours? What if some long lost uncle has bequeathed his humongous fortune to me? Or worse still, what if somebody has been generous enough to leave a comment or two on my blog? I hurriedly flash a smile at my hubby who’s already getting refreshed at his laptop and sit down to tap and click. 15 minutes later, we both get up, refreshed and ready for the spiritual namaskara. This early morning dip into our digital life, the first of a series of energizing dips throughout the day (till we reluctantly switch off to sleep at night) seems to have come to stay in our ever connected lives.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Fashion fusion


Long slinky legs, polished and pampered to perfection, lovely arms draped loosely by her side, L’Oreal-dyed silky hair shining in the Singapore sun, Veron sashayed towards us. The men must’ve a hard time trying not to imagine the rest…actually, the tiny wisp of white cotton covering her perfect bosom and the rag of denim which passed for shorts, didn’t leave much to the imagination. She said it was the sun…so sweltering hot in S’pore…how can anyone ever cover up? Anything below the knees is such a shame. In my modest jeans and top, I must’ve seemed like a medieval anachronism to her. Veron is a grand femme fatale….a visual treat to be admired and enjoyed. She is a charming person too and can keep you engaged both with her looks and words, though I suspect the words lag a poor second behind the looks.

In one of my lazy do-nothing moments, I was idly ruminating that I’d never seen Veron fully clothed. She was indeed the Asian heroine of the bare-all brigade.

“Hey, long time no see…how aaare you?”

I twirled around to see…not slinky long legs, but swishy long skirt and a full beige blouse with a smart bow at her slender neck. I froze.

“Whatever happened?!” Now, that sounded too rude.

“I mean, er...you know? You...look so…formal” I managed to stutter.

“You know what? I thought I should dress more formally for classes. I am quite late.” She said cheerfully and started hurrying.

She had started offering home tuition classes for homemakers (once also known as ‘housewives’). I walked with her towards her new student’s house, deeply skeptical whether such a noble sense of scholastic responsibility could have induced such a superb sartorial change. Veron rang the doorbell and shortly after, it was opened….by a tall and elegant lady clad from top to toe in a black purdah.

3 months later…

“Hey, long time no see…how aaare you?”

I dropped the cat and twirled around, not sure what I’d find this time. In her new avatar, Veron was smothered in a beautiful white blouse and smart denim capris. Walking beside her was a tall and elegant lady…clad in a jeans and blouse, her L’Oreal dyed hair shining in the S’pore sun, peeping through the matching hijab (head dress).

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Georgekutty-de marumon Noo-Orkkil-aa


“Payyan Noo-Jersey-il ninna” (The boy is from New Jersey)

“Nalla paisa-kkarana” (And, loaded too)

The broker tried to sell the ‘payyan’ (‘Payyan’ means ‘boy’ in Malayalam, but quite aptly, in Mallu marriage parlance, when a full blown man starts looking for a mate he is again called ‘payyan’!) So far everyone had seemed quite impressed with stories of the sprawling suburban McMansion, the BMW, the six-figure salary...and software, of course! The sun seemed to be shining bright and sunny on the marital future of the ‘payyan’.

That’s when Mariamma cheerfully chirped,

“Georgekutty-de marumon Noo-Orkkil-aa” (Georgekutty’s nephew is in New York)

The broker stiffened. Now where did Georgekutty come from?

Mariamma continued, “Let’s ask him to check the guy out.”

Uh, oh…

“Edi, Mercy-ye…,” she called out to her daughter,

“Aa Georgekutty-de marumonte perentha?” (What’s that Georgekutty’s nephew’s name?)

“Email him and ask him to find out about this payyan.”

The broker got up, graciously thanked his hosts for the tea and parippu vada (a snack) and left hurriedly. The payyan didn’t stand a slip of a chance against the Internet. Most probably by the end of the day, they would know about Maggie waiting for the fellow to come back and carve the Thanksgiving turkey with her.

The way the world has gone! In good ol’ days who could ever have known about Maggie and her turkey, all the way around the globe? The globetrotter could have come here, married a ‘kili-polathe pennu’ (a bird-like girl…er, that’s not quite it…well, a beautiful girl) for a big fat US-ian dowry and trotted back to Maggie and her turkey. But these days, Georgekutty and his ilk’s nieces and nephews are not only spread all over the world but are also broadband connected to home 24x7, and there’s nowhere to hide Maggie and her turkey. Depressing times indeed for good ol’ two-timing NRI payyans!

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Forever young!

Once upon a time, 30 had seemed so far away. When my cousin took that point-of-no-return plunge into the great three O, I mailed him a sad and ominous, “oh my gosh, you have covered almost half your life”! Now I am well past that figure and it doesn’t feel so bad any longer. But disturbingly, he seems closer to me in age than ever before! I suppose when you are 5 and he is 10, he has seen double the life than you have. The gap seems to shrink very unfairly when you arrive at 30. Now we seem to be in the same jolly boat, the Terrific Thirties. The new youth looks like a faraway and fabulous 40! The deadline I am sure will get pushed farther afield as we slowly but surely keep hurtling towards it. When aged relatives would pass away peacefully, and grandmas would shake their heads and say, “He was so young…only 75” I would shoot my surprised eyebrows, and give them a skewed look. I suppose I’ll empathize with them when I reach thereabouts and push the youth frontier further north.


Wednesday, June 13, 2007

For a simple cuppa


"Extra large, large, regular?"
A regular, please. (wherever did 'small' vanish to?)
"With sugar or without?"
Mmm..with sugar, of course! (what a question! do i look like a diabetic to him?)
"With milk or without milk?"
With, please.
"Low fat or full fat?"
What was that?
"Low fat or full fat?"
Oh...well, make it low fat please. (darn the guy, makes me guilty even here)
"Java beans or Arabic beans?"
What the?!...anything will do. (As though I knew the difference, anyways!)
"Hand ground or machine pound?"
That was the last straw.
Just give me a cup of coffee, will ya? The way your mom makes it at home. Take a cup, put in some sugar, some Nescafe, little milk and froth it up, then pour in some more milk and froth it up, man!

Ha, what would I not give, to barge into an Indian Coffee House and order a "Coffee" and simply wait for a steaming hot cup of deep flavoured, aromatic coffee to arrive at my table!

Saturday, June 9, 2007

Yogic driving

A car is a waste of money in Singapore. The public transport system is simply terrific. But for a family of seven (count in the maids too) public transport became rather difficult when cabbies started scrunching their skeptical eyebrows on seeing the entire brigade approaching. So we blew 90K S'pore dollars on a rambling 8-seater Honda Odyssey. That could have got us a Lexus in the US (sigh!) Anyways, we were shuttling around in our new found freedom which guzzled a hot $90 of petrol a week. Nothing seemed amiss till we noticed we were getting a mere 6 km for every liter of the golden liquid. What the?!

The spouse’s mechanical engineering soul (long lost to the banking industry) reared its head and preached a new philosophy – yogic driving. Practice principles of yoga while driving. First, take a deep breath. Chant silently to yourself…"I am not in the rat race. I am going to drive at my own sweet pace, without obstructing traffic or causing any serious harm to anybody."

Inhale deeply (of course, am hoping you’ve exhaled after the last one), start the engine and idle it. It’s like the long walk in the morning you know is good for you, but have never really got around to taking. It gets the blood flowing through the veins and the adrenaline pumping. So give your engine, I mean the car’s, a good morning walk. Idle it and let the oil pulse through its veins (or wherever it’s supposed to pulse through).

Accelerate slowly, oh ever so slowly, like you are stepping on a petal (no, that’s not a spelling mistake…it is 'petal' and not 'pedal'). Reach a decent speed, somewhere slightly below the speed limit and ease off the accelerator. Coast. Maintain speed. Use cruise control.


Good job! Now you are in the signature pose…the coasting asana. Do not accelerate or brake unnecessarily. All movements should be fluid and languid. When you approach a red signal, let go off the accelerator…watch the speed drop from 50kmph to 40 to 30 to 20 and coast to a gentle stop. Royally ignore the driver who’s dashing from behind only to crash brake at the stop light. Often, by the time you finish coasting, the light would’ve turned green and you can continue with your asana!

On the highways, practise this with all the sanctity of a yogic pose. A Porsche might zip past at a 120kmph. A Beemer might boom by with a snooty glance at you. Ignore them. Resist that sweet urge to press down on the accelerator and show those creeps what a Honda Odyssey can do…well, actually not much. But that’s beside the point. Resist all wicked temptations to remorselessly crush the pedal.

Don’t get pulled into the rat race or in highway parlance, onto the fastest lane. Drive on the second fastest lane at or slightly below the speed limit. It might be a good idea to tag behind a truck moving at a decent speed. Logic is nobody wants to follow a truck, so you can coast along serenely, in uninterrupted yogic nirvana.

My spouse, the guru of yogic driving, has been enlightening depressed owners of petrol guzzlers, and stories of mileage moksha have started cruising in. As for us, a couple of weeks of yogic driving has pushed the measly 6km per liter to an impressive 10.5 and the weekly petrol bill has tumbled from a numbing 90 to a fabulous 50! So, take a deep breath, utter a little prayer of ‘Aanjaneya control’ and coast to a great mileage!

(STATUTORY WARNING: These techniques have been tested out on well maintained Singapore roads. Similar success cannot be guaranteed on roads badly in need of repair and in no circumstance must drivers test this out on such roads. In case somebody still wishes to experiment, this blog bears no responsibility for the outcome.)

Thursday, June 7, 2007

On Mallus...my favourite breed

God's Own Country...whenever I think about my beloved homeland lovely pictures flash across my mind...of vast expanses of backwaters, of white cranes suddenly taking flight from amidst paddy green paddy fields, of vibrant colours and expressions of Kathakali, of smooth and languid movements of Mohiniyattom, of sadya on a vazha ela, of ammumma...but, then from some hidden away and forgotten recess of my mind will seep out pictures of life-stunning bandhs, the bearded mundu clad angry young man, fighting for the rights of the underprivileged in Uganda, of misguided revolutionaries, of the snobbishness of the upper castes and all those dirty little crawlies from the mallu almirah.

Yes, I am proud of my homeland, but it's a mixed bag of feelings, feelings which are at its best when I am away from it all, when only the backwaters splish splash in my mind and everything is calm and green and peaceful.

As for the quintessential Mallu...there are plenty of varieties. The bearded one I've already mentioned. This is the typical traditional variety whose blood literally boils when he even thinks of Malluland. The one who steadfastly wears only mundus and is a true blue Mallu...poke him anywhere and only pure blooded Malluness will gush out. He is the one you can see at the forefront of jadhas espousing the cause of...well, does the cause really matter?... espousing some cause. Thankfully, this indigenous variety is fast disappearing due to the encroachment of better economic opportunities and that terrible villain he has been fighting all along...globalisation.

A less virulent version is the kind who is comfortable only when surrounded by other Mallus. Then they are at their very best, cracking Mallu jokes only other Mallus can understand, bantering, at their jolly best. Take them out of their Malludom and they are lost. They utter only the slightest and necessary inanities to live life with so much difficulty among other non-Mallus. They somehow manage to put up with the rest of the world while fervently looking forward to the next Mallu meet.

Then there is the expat variety. The ones who say 'I am a Mallu, but have been born and brought up outside Kerala" usually in Mumbai or Delhi or the Gulf. This variety denies having to do anything with the quintessential 'Mallu' but would like to be a part of whatever is good and celebrated about Malludom, like say, ayurveda, kathakali or the backwaters.

Yet another hybrid sort is the corporate Mallu. This breed might have been 'born and brought up' in Kerala or 'outside' but is able to comfortably live amidst Mallus as well as non-Mallus. They navigate different social circles with ease. They are equally comfortable with Armenians, Americans, Australians and Asians, including Mallus. They do not deny their Malludom, but accept its pluses and minuses. They take the hartals and the houseboats in their stride.

Of course, this is not to say that all these varieties do not intermingle and cross pollinate. They do, and quite often varieties transform from one to the other too, usually in the order in which they are presented in this piece of writing.

Whatever might be your personal inclination, you can't certainly complain of lack of choice when it comes to selecting your Mallu friends.

My Pakistani pal

Today I touched a Pakistani…yes, I did! It was my first real life encounter with one. And no, she didn’t slip the carpet from under my feet, nor did she do any other bad girl stunts. In fact, I am still amazed that I came off pretty much unscathed, very much in one piece. Well, this certainly was no ‘Pakistani’ as I had often envisioned with dread. So I was quite taken aback when baby faced Razia came up to me and introduced herself. When I saw her walking towards me with a smile on her face, I actually felt very happy…at last here was someone who wanted to talk to me.

I had just moved in to Singapore from the US and was almost at my wits end with folks around me pretending that I didn’t exist. Now I know they were not being rude. They were just being… themselves. I don’t know whether it’s a Singaporean thing or not, but they take such a long time to smile at you, leave alone talk. It took my neighbor a full ten months to cautiously volunteer a smile. We still haven’t started talking, though the smiles are coming on pretty consistently. Imagine how depressing this must have been for an Indian whose genes are conditioned to being part and parcel of her neighbor’s lives plus borrowing a bunch of coriander leaves or a cup of yoghurt in the proverbial hour of need. Leave alone the cup of yoghurt, I couldn’t even squeeze a smile out of folks.

Naturally, when I saw this Indian looking face amidst a sea of stiff, sullen faces, I was happy and relieved. The cordial neighborly juices started coursing through my veins. We kept walking towards each other till we were near enough for her to say, “Hi, I am Razia…I am from Pakistan.’ My smile froze. My spine stiffened. Goodness gracious! A Pakistani! I didn't know where to turn and run. But Razia kept smiling and extended her hand.

Would the proffered hand of friendship hold something deadly? Oh my God, here’s the first face of a friend and it turns out to be a Pakistani. In my desperation, I called on all my Gods and…extended my hand. Nothing happened…just a soft warm hand shake! Phew! If anybody’s feeling lost, let me give you a bit of history.

Way below the Vindhyas, cocooned within the great Western Ghats, far away from the marauding invaders from the North, lives the Mallu in God's own Country (Kerala). He has been more or less insulated from the fiery wars up above and the fears and terrors of the Partition. Strictly speaking, none of the tensions way up near the Pakistan border has really affected the Mallu’s day-to-day life. His friends and neighbours, an eclectic mix of Hindus, Muslims and Christians live happily with their daily quota of bandhs and hartals. So whatever vague vision he has of the Pakistani, has been firmly moulded by the media, specifically movies. I forget the movie, but there was one where Naseeruddin Shah is a famous and gifted singer who comes to India with his troupe and later turns out to be a Pakistani spy. Chilling. There are many more on these lines. A pure bred Mallu, I had also fallen prey to these stereotypes.

So my first encounter with a Pakistani was well, not what I’d been expecting…a gun toting, mean Mogambo. Instead it was a chubby amiable lady, who was very sweet and sociable. Yes, my cynical Mallu mind did wonder whether it was all just a smokescreen. Was she doing a Naseeruddin Shah act? I don’t think so. It’s been almost a year since we’ve been neighbours and Razia is a gem of a person. So much for stereotypes! I even exchange the neighbourly cup of yoghurt with her...my first Pakistani pal.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Rose flavoured tobacco


"Wow, you are smoking like a pro!" the guy squatting on his haunches beside me said. I was taking my first tentative puff of rose flavoured tobacco from the ornate hookah kept on the floor next to me. It sure felt good...easy, smooth.

Dhanesh was with me. It was our ninth wedding anniversary and we had walked up and down Clarke Quay trying to size up the place, before settling in for Marrakesh, a Moroccan place. I wouldnt demean it by calling it a restaurant. 'Place' would be more apt, for it was truly an experience. In fact, as we sauntered out two hours later, we decided to have more of these'experiences' instead of staid old dinners to mark special occasions.

As we walked in, it felt like we were walking into a home, a tad elaborate one at that, or maybe a palace of sorts. It was dimly lit, and furnished with rich brocades and what seemed like silk. There were no tables and chairs, hence the home-palace feel. Instead, there were cosy nooks, lining the wall. They got that look by arranging small but inviting sofas flanked by two-three soft footstools. Right from the ceiling, flowed down reams of some sheer transparent fabric adding to the cosy nook feel. But guess what we selected...a swing! It was an beautiful swing, very elegant and plumped up with comfortable and satiny cusions.

Once we settled down and started swinging the stresses out of us, one of the the Arab looking waiters (my husband was sure they were Indians) materialised quietly and handed us the drinks menu. The cocktails were delicious. The lychee something and the Marrakesh special were simply yummy. We ordered a grilled meat platter which went very well with the drinks. All this while we were tapping away to Arab music...light, frisky, yet alluring and soothing in some way. The mood was perfect. That was when we thought we'd try a hookah! Wasn't it bad for us? Isn't it tobacco? Oh, forget it! It's not as though we are going to do this everyday. It was simply wonderful.

As Dhanesh footed the 100 dollar bill and we walked out, we knew this would be a night we wouldn't forget in a long time to come.....