Scribbling Away To Glory

Things I Hated as a Child but Miss as a Grown Up

2011-11-29T01:31:00.000-08:00

Oiled my hair after a decade. And what’s strange about it...I wasn’t even forced. I actually volunteered for it when Ma arrived last weekend. Funny how things you absolutely hated as a child, become acceptable....to the extent that you “miss them”, as a grown up. Here’s my list of top-10 things-I-hated-as-a-child-but-miss-as-a-grown-up:

Patla macher jhol and bhaat (mild fish curry, Bengali style, with rice)
Oiling my hair
Having house-guests who took over my room (and sometimes my life)
Loudspeakers playing “popular” Hindi/Bengali songs during pujo
Having nosy neighbours who would drop in any time of the day and sometimes stay back for dinner
Uchchey bhaja with kasundi (fried bitter gourd with a mustard sauce, popular in Bengal)
Having to do any sort of art and craft (how I hated my SUPW classes!)
Visiting relatives and spending whole evenings listening to them complain about some other relative or praising their own kid
Rituals and traditions (not of the “fasting” variety...but of the “make-yummy-food-and-decorate-the-house-and-wear-traditional-clothes” variety)
Being told what to do (so much easier than having to decide)

Image below stands proof of #9. My first Laxmi Puja at home.

Diwali Decor 2011

2011-10-31T01:53:00.000-07:00

I was quite lazy with my diwali decor this year. Some lights and diyas were put up at the last minute...and a rangoli I am quite embarassed about (a friend commented on seeing it "looks like a group of travelling ants that have suddenly lost their way") :(

Anyhow, here are a few pics of a not-so-bright effort at the brightest festival of the year:

Our Sheesha corner all decked up:

Some candles...

And some diyas...

And finally...the rangoli that Homer Simpson could have made:

Mahalaya 2011

2011-09-28T01:19:00.000-07:00

As a kid, waking up early was always a torture, except on two occasions – an early morning trip to Howrah station, from where a train would take us away from school, homework, Complan and forced music lessons with a very boring tutor. Baba took us on holidays every year. Except the south of India, we travelled to most of the popular tourist destinations - Rajasthan, Shimla, Manali, Goa, Bombay, Mount Abu, Puri, Digha, Chandigarh, Amritsar, Agra, Delhi, to name a few.

I remember waking up to see dew drops on the window and crawling to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then packing my toothbrush into the suitcase (the last item to be placed, along with the house slippers). The taxi ride to the station was always the best....brimming to my mouth with anticipation, excitement and of course the butter-toast that Ma had somehow forced into my mouth (warning me that the next meal would only be in the train...that too, close to midday).

The other time I did not mind waking up early was, of course, Mahalaya. It was not really “waking up” as such. Ma, Didi and I would lie on the bed as Baba tuned the radio. And as soon as he could get the magical voice of Birendra Kishore Bhadra clear and loud, he would come and fight for a place in our bed. We let him in, eventually.

And then all four of us would lie on the bed... with our eyes shut and hearts brimming with anticipation. I would plan my pujo days in my head. Who I’d meet, what I’d wear every day (a pretty complex calculation, as I would have about 17 dresses...and all had to be worn during the five days), where I’d go and what I’d eat. I would inevitably shed a tear or two...probably reminded that this would vanish in a blink, and we’d all have to wait for a whole year for the next pujo. That’s how negative I’ve always been. Even before the fun begins, I cry because it’s going to end!

I would find myself dozing off sometimes...and then I’d wake up to ask Ma if I had missed a certain song. And when the radio program ended, Baba would get up straight away for his morning newspaper and tea, while Ma and we would cuddle together for some time.

It was pretty special. And I wanted to keep feeling that way about Mahalaya for the rest of my life. I’d love to continue the Mahalaya tradition with my kids (when and if they are born). But with a husband who doesn’t really “get it”, born and brought up away from Kolkata all his life...I don’t think it’s going to be easy.
But I tried. This year...just like last year.

I set the alarm clock at 5am and placed my laptop and Mahalaya cd on my bedside table. As the alarm rang, I fumbled for the “Start” button on the computer...and then the “Play” button on the cd player. Very different to tuning into a radio station....but things change. And as soon as Birendra Kishore’s voice filled our room, I received a kick. K.I.C.K! From the Man-Who-Does-Not-Get-Mahalaya. “Can you please not ruin my Saturday morning sleep?”, he barked. Angry and upset, I stormed out of the room with my laptop...and headed straight to the guest room, picking up a box of tissues on the way. I knew I would need them. And I did.
I cried on my pillow for a good part of the chant and songs...sometimes almost choking at the thought of “how my life has changed”. Missing ma, baba, all my friends...and the little room in our Kolkata home, I cried till the sun was so bright that I could not be in bed anymore. The box of tissues was empty by then, anyway.

At around midday, I called Ma to check if she has listened to Mahalaya too. And she told me that she would have...only if it was Mahalaya that day. “What!, I thought Mahalaya was 7 days before pujo. And by that calculation, it HAD TO BE today!” Ma said, “Just because you guys have pujo over the weekend, doesn’t mean we should celebrate Mahalaya on a weekend too.” She was right. Pujo in Perth was on a Saturday...and I had therefore got all my dates wrong.

All this yearning and nostalgia and crying...all for nothing! I couldn’t even get the day right! From a tragic queen who cries on her pillow at dawn, I suddenly became the C-grade comedy artist who always gets things wrong.

So I ran for a new box of tissues.

Weekend Epidemic

2011-09-21T01:22:00.000-07:00

Are we glorifying weekends more than they deserve? Of course weekends are magnificent...but do week days really need to be as bad as we make them sound? Why do we have to wait for a Friday night to plan a dinner? Why can’t we drop in at a friend’s place after work, on a Wednesday? Why can’t we have a movie and pop-corn night with our kids on a week night? Why not go for an ice-cream by the beach to sweeten our Mondays or brighten our Tuesdays? They don’t really close down beaches for the five days, you know. We’re letting ourselves be sucked into the weekend hype, and grossly underestimating the fun that week days can be.

Weekend epidemic. That’s what it is. A peculiar disease that leaves victims paralysed for five days a week. Monday brings the worst symptoms....morning headaches, all-day nausea and massive yawns all through the journey back home. Symptoms get less severe as the week progresses....and by Friday, we are miraculously cured.

This can’t be the way to live. It’s almost masochistic! Why torture ourselves for five days....constantly yearning for the illusive end-of-the-week? Mondays will come and go. We’ll all need to wake up early to go to school/college/office till we are at least 65 yrs old (retirement age for most people without a lotto win). Once this statistic sits clear in our heads, it’s pretty simple...isn’t it? You either spend 65yrs complaining how hideous the Monday morning blues are getting by the day....or paint them a shade lighter, maybe even brighter.

We do what we can to save us from the epidemic. Pizza and movie night at home on Tuesdays...coffee with a dear friend on Wednesdays...shopping/window-shopping on Thursdays, which often ends in a dinner outside.

Do you have any such weekday ritual? I'd love some new ideas.

Running Out of Songs to Sing in the Shower

2011-09-16T01:18:00.000-07:00

Now, I am not a vintage person. I like all things modern and chic. I may take an occasional fancy to a pretty Victorian-style lantern....but usually, I like my things contemporary.

When it comes to movies and melodies...I am not so sure, though. My favourite songs are older than I am. But lately, I find myself drifting. There is this lack of “connection”. The melody may continue to enchant me...but the lyrics are far beyond the vocabulary I have grown up with. I mean, what’s with this obsessive stress on “churi” and “kangna” and “payel” as being integral parts of a woman’s beauty? On my best days, I’d be lucky to even remember to wear my wedding band! And “ghunghat” and “lal dupatta” are way out of my league too. So this jewellery/attire-centric seduction doesn’t work for me at all. For that matter...neither does the so-called endearing name-calling...”sajna”, “piya”, “sajaan”, “dilbar”, “sanam”. The setting too...I mean, who goes to “bageechas” to hear the “koyels” sing an ode to the lovers eternal bond? And who has the time to chase “bhawras” that hover over “kalis”? I mean...it’s not my fault that I find these pictures alien, right? My first date was in a cafe on a noisy highway!

But then again, I don’t particularly like songs with words like “kaminey”, “lanfangey”, “badmash” “zandu balm”, “item” either. Do I use these words? Yes. Got nothing against slang, mind it! But still don't find them song-worthy. And am not tickled by aggression in love either. I mean, “touch me, touch me....or kiss me kiss me” sound to me like threats at gun point.

And the sudden burst of English words in a Hindi song...sentences...whole verses even! Pray why? It is almost bearable in some songs. But in most, seems like the lyricist has just taken his IELTS and is dying to show off his score. Very forced.

While I continue to enjoy my ghazal–kebab-vodka nights, I am worried that very soon I will run out of songs to listen to....or hum in the shower.

Tell me, do you feel like this too?

Faux Pas and Morals: Anindita

2011-09-07T19:08:00.001-07:00

Ani, a friend, a room mate, a dog lover...and a fabulous writer, is my next guest for this series. Thanks so much Ani, for doing this.
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I received an email from the Scribbler one morning in the not so distant past. She wanted to do a series of blog posts on Faux Pas and Morals, and she wanted to know if I'd be interested in writing a guest post. Oh goodie! I jumped at it. Because I love that blog, and that blog owner. I mean, what's not to love? She even sent me an example to use as a cue for my guest post!

So I agreed, and have remained in agreement for a long time before starting that guest post today. I hope I am not too late and that the Scribbler is still "thinking about tit".

Yes, I can feel her pain there. I lived through the typo-lifecycle myself a couple of days back when I signed off an email to an important client with my "Warn Regards". She hasn't written back yet, leaving me to wonder whether she took the warning seriously. Everyone else copied in that email - the PMs, and the sales people - have been looking at me shiftily ever since. One of them even smiled at me and said, "That was a nice email you wrote to Wendy".

Meh, sarcasm! You can't really appreciate it when your ears are all red and hot, and you're wondering whether others can see it.

From slip of the finger, to a slip of the tongue. I remember one particular incident where a friend, who had walked over to a colleague's cubicle, picked up a coffee mug from her table and commented: "My, what an ugly mug!". To which the colleague pointed to her neighbor and said, "It's a gift from S." My friend, trying to salvage the situation, then went on to say, "Oh S! Please don't mind. I am sure it looked this ugly only because it was upside down. Once we look at it from the proper angle, it won't look so bad." Dear foot, meet mouth.

And then there are the gems that are conceived out of our inability to remember a particular word... I had once overheard a conversation about an elderly mother-in-law who kept asking her mortified son-in-law in front of a room full of guests, why he wasn't wearing an underwear. It took some time for everyone to figure out that she could not recall the word "pullover". It happened. Really.

Which leads me to wonder how much people laughed when during a presentation where I was pitching our strategy to a client, I proudly said, "... and we have designed this activity in such a way that it will lead to a lot of apprehension in the learner's mind about what follows next." The client, with all seriousness, asked me: "Why would I give my business to you if you make my people apprehensive?" Then as I stood there all flustered, and beet red (so I've been told), he smiled and said... "Now, if you can make them anticipate it, then I can give your proposal a think." Cheeky. And utterly utterly mortifying.

We did get that business though. The nice gentleman had a sense of humor.

Moral of the story: No matter how careful you are, nothing is foolproof. Spell checks will sometimes throw up false positives, and your memory will occasionally fail you. You will, every now and then, speak without thinking, because God gave you "impulse" for a reason. It could be because he wanted us to learn from our mistakes. Or because said mistakes really make life that much more interesting and funny. So live it up, because that's the only way you can play it down.

Faux Pas and Morals: Sushmita

2011-06-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

Sushmita, a dear friend and also a role model for me, is my first guest for the Faux Pas and Morals: Guest Series. Could almost visualise the faces of her faux pas "victims"! Read on....
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Nagpur summers are real blasters and often it gets to you, particularly if you have a normal streak of insanity in you. I had left my work place; it was around 1 pm. I looked around for an auto rickshaw and not seeing one in the vicinity, decided to walk till the RBI square. By the time I stopped one and settled myself, I was frustrated. Suddenly I realized that my shades were missing; I searched, my bag, tapped my head (I often pull it up when I can’t see through the dark glass). It was not there; just bought it some time back, I groaned. ‘Ruko ruko bhayia…(stop the auto ..pls),’ I screamed and the poor guy almost pulled the brake in the middle of the road. ‘When I got into the auto, was I wearing my dark glasses?’ I asked the man, who was staring at me. “Madam, ap tow abhi bhi chasma pehne huye ho (Madam you are still wearing your glasses),’ he said, with an expression that clearly indicated his suspicion about my sanity. I composed myself with a self-important air, ‘ok, chalo chalo, let’s go.’ He moved himself a little forward, hanging on to the edge of his seat, for the rest of the journey, probably fearing that I may bite.
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I was buying some flowers at the florist, one day at Dharampeth square, a busy part of Nagpur. From the corner of my eye, I saw a white car parked at the corner and its occupant looking at me. I turned around, ‘aree that’s Alok,’ I murmured and waved my hand, across the road. Alok too waved his hand. I took the flowers and paid for them; then I crossed over. Alok had rolled down the car window. ‘Hey there, long time no see, what’s up with you?’ as the words pored out, as if there was no tomorrow, I realized that forget Alok, this person did not even resemble him. He was also smiling and nodding, a semi-puzzled expression on his face. I was too nervous to even apologize. I mumbled a quick, ‘see ya soon,’ and just stopped short of running.

Faux Pas and Morals: Guest Series

2011-06-28T01:48:00.000-07:00

Scribbling Away To Glory has two new feathers (pages) in its cap. See the band below the title image of the blog.

One announces the launch of the new Faus Pas and Morals: Guest Series.

And the other one...My Own Hall of Shame (collection of my old faux pas posts).

So here’s hoping that there will be no dearth of foot-in-mouth stories.

If you have one to share...be my guest.

Turning Thirty

2011-06-23T19:32:00.000-07:00

Thirty doesn’t feel like my age.

My neighbour’s age....maybe.
A good number for a fun party...definitely.
Number of shoes in my wardrobe...yes.
Vacation days back home...surely.
Minutes of exercise per day...the experts say so.
But my age...no, sir.

It seems like a serious age. Almost like you’re not supposed to feel excited about your birthdays anymore. Almost like you cannot wear the T-Shirt that says “There's too much blood in my alcohol system."

It’s the official age where you turn from “two-sugars-in-your-cappuccino” to “skinny-flat-white”. It’s when “holding your drink” should give you more pleasure than getting drunk (!!). It’ s when you cannot use the word “awesome” in any context...even if that is exactly what you want to say. It’s when you are expected to be fussy about your wine glasses...and not drink white in red or red in champagne flutes.

You’re supposed to set up the perfect dinner table for your guests...with table mats, shiny cutlery, coordinated drink glasses...the works (not grab your plates and sit on the floor watching TV). It’s when people start asking you how your investment properties are doing...or about the median price of a house in your suburb. Serious stuff, you see.

It’s when you no longer practise your cough and weak voice before calling in sick....but simply send a text saying “Not feeling too well...will take the day off.”

And of course there are things you cannot do anymore. “Cannot”...as in, physically/literally “cannot”. Like do “bottoms up” at a friend’s party...leave home without the anti-wrinkle sunscreen...fall asleep as soon as you hit the bed...run up the stairs without panting (or for those like me...even run to the toilet).

It’s when parents start taking you seriously and expect you to become parents soon. And of course, you’re expected to have “savings”, not just a “savings account”. Maybe even time to think of your child’s college fund...and not invest your entire pay in retail therapy (no matter that the child isn’t born yet).

It’s like you’re supposed to see the world differently...because the world believes that you must have grown tired fooling around.

So I was expecting great things when I woke up today. I lay awake for a few minutes...for some kind of epiphany. But the only call was one of nature. So I ran to the toilet (and panted).

After a close inspection of my morning face in the mirror, I decided I would walk differently from today. Hold my head higher...and my stomach tighter. The latter wasn’t easy, even in an empty stomach.

“Grace” is what I’d aim for (“maturity” could wait). But my phone rang with the birthday text messages from friends round the world. And my SMS ringtone...that of a cheeky boy whistling at a sexy girl on the street (what we call a “ci-ti”, back home) reminded me that even “grace” could wait.

Of Faux Pas and Morals - Part 4

2011-06-01T23:10:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't read part 3, part 2 and part 1...

It came to me like an epiphany...

That the greatest morals...

Are born...

Out of the greatest Faux pas…

We’ve all come across typos. They make us laugh or cry, depending on which side of the typo-lifecycle we are. The typo-lifecycle starts with someone in a hurry (or someone with bad spellings and spell-checker deactivated) and ends with someone with good spellings/sharp eyes/lot of time to kill. Often the “start person” is the same as the “end person”, which is a curse (because ignorance of the typo could be bliss).

Now, dear reader, that you have patiently read my dissertation on the Origin and Lifecycle of Typos, let me tell you what happened yesterday....

Team sends me an email listing the pros and cons of purchasing an expensive software. As team lead, I am supposed to make the decision and send out a purchase order.

However, the benefits of the software did not seem to justify the cost. So, after writing my standard email saying “Nice work...good research etc”, I conclude with “no decision” i.e. buying some more time to “think”.

So I write this:
Let’s think about tit.

A sense of foreboding gripped my lungs as soon as I hit Send. Was it?...Did I just? O damn!

Because it was sent to a team of writers, no one would have missed the typo (though this one time, I wished they were not as good at their work).

In my defence, I told myself “When you actually say those words, it sounds like that anyway”. But since then, I have hardly taken a break at work or even left my desk for a coffee. There was no way I could have faced anybody who had the “I know what you are thinking about, you perv” look on their face. But I can almost hear suppressed laughter doing its rounds in the office. Just hoping that the deadlines won’t let them dwell on the typo (or what it inadvertently asked them to “think about”) for too long.

Moral: Freud may NOT have had a point. But people will bring him to life everytime there is a slip (of the tongue or the keyboard). Silence is your safest bet.

Date Night

2011-05-27T00:07:00.000-07:00

Extremely inspired by Date Night, A and I decided we should go out on dates as well. Though we have no kids to take a break from...and more often than not, we actually need a break from each other, the prospect of dressing up and going for dinners on week nights sounded good.

We thought we’d take turns each week to plan the date and it would be a surprise for the other person. Now, because I don’t drive, keeping the venue a surprise, is a challenge. But I did it in the past. I don’t tell him where we are going, but enter the address on our GPS and ask him to follow the directions. (We believe that our GPS has saved our marriage for so long. I don’t (OK, can’t) read maps...but insist on never being late anywhere. This was frustrating for A. We could fight in the car “till death do us part”, because reading a map, driving, and fighting was a perfect recipe for a roadside accident. So, a GPS was bought. Marriage and lives were saved.)

But, I drift.

I decided I needed fancy dinner dresses for these dates. To which A said “It’s only us two, why do you need to dress up so much?”. To which I said “Either we do this how it’s supposed to be done...or don’t do it at all.”

Case won. I went shopping.

The following weeks were spent researching the restaurants of the city. We both did that separately, of course. I had my list of fancy places that were busy even on week nights. I hate eating at places where it seems as if the chef cleaned his wok after a year, just to cook for us. I need people around me in the restaurant. Happy, well-dressed, well-behaved people who seem like having a lot of fun. A, on the other hand, didn’t care for “people” at all. As long as the food was good, he didn’t mind walking into a place where no man had ever treaded.

So it was going to be “interesting” to say the least.

Yesterday, was our first “date night”. It was my turn. I wore my new dress, of course. I also thought that a movie would be good, especially because Hangover 2 was releasing on the day. So I bought movie tickets and booked a Nepalese place close to work. I had read good reviews of their momos.

On the way back from work, we decided there was no point going back home and then driving all the way back. So I suggested we go shopping till our dinner reservation time.

We did. Except that A said he’d rather sit somewhere and play poker on his iPhone than walk with me to a million shops. So he chose a nice little corner in the shopping centre as I made a mental list of the things to buy.
The SALE signs allured and hypnotised me. Shoes, bags, knitted tops, candles, books...what could I possibly ignore? When I could not carry any more bags in my two hands, I decided to call A to tell him I was done. But my mobile battery was dead.
Nothing to worry, I thought. I knew where A was sitting. I started walking towards him.

The look on his face when he saw me seemed to suggest either of the following:

“Sign the divorce papers RIGHT NOW and never attempt to get in touch with me again.”
Or

“If I kill you now, I won’t regret spending the rest of my life in jail”.

I thought he was mad at the amount of money I had spent (I had quite a few bags on me). But turned out that it was 8.55pm. Not only had we missed our dinner reservation...we would also miss our movie if we didn’t hurry.

So we hurried. Not a word spoken. Just praying that Hangover 2 would wipe out the memory of a date night gone terribly wrong.

And it did.

P.S. We laughed so much during the movie that it seemed a little silly to start a fight on our way back home. As for our “date nights”, I don’t think we are having one anytime soon (or ever at all).

Of Snug Wintry Dreams...

2011-05-03T02:27:00.000-07:00

A pair of long hand-knitted woolen socks to keep me warm...

A snug patchwork quilt to wrap myself in...

A tall glass of steaming hot chocolate...

A lazy afternoon on my hammock with books...

Or a quiet evening by the fire, with friends...

Could life get any better?

Images: Courtesy Google

My Holiday in Penang: A Sneak Peek

2011-04-13T02:09:00.000-07:00

Enough has been written about Malaysia. Penang in particular. The beauty, the history, the food, the culture...the usual. Considering that I have cobwebs to clean, sandwiches to make and toilet rolls to buy (not necessarily in that order), let’s keep this short...shall we?

OK, so I was in Penang about a month back. ‘Twas F-U-N. Parasailing in particular. How I defied gravity, don’t ask. There is a video to prove that I’m not bluffing. A video that has become my husband’s most treasured possession. Because nothing else gives him as much joy as a drink in one hand and the company of friends who will happily laugh with him as he watches his obese and clumsy wife run for the take-off.

Aside - Will be bluffing if I say that it’s not funny. Because it is. E-X-T-R-E-M-E-L-Y.

Anyhow, food eaten, drinks drunk, water sports attempted...we decided to go sight-seeing. That’s when Sheriff... Muhammad Sheriff...makes his grand entrance. Picked up from a tours company outside our hotel, Sheriff is your usual chatty, curious and energetic tourist guide/driver. To summarise him, I’d say: Bald, big belly, enthusiastic photographer who asked me to “pose” at the drop of a hat, and an immense eagerness to educate us about Penang, and learn as much about Australia as he could in the short time.

So this Sheriff took us around Penang. “There are two seasons in Penang”, he said. “The Arab season and the Relax season.” Apparently, Arabs are the cause of Penang’s thriving tourism...and they like to visit every year, at a certain time. Any other time is the “Relax” season...as there isn’t much business.

With that, we reach our first destination, the Penang Butterfly Park. Interesting place. Held some caterpillars and touched a few butterflies. In the middle of the walk, Sheriff points to this pair of butterflies, which were hanging from a single leaf. “Madam, look! They are ‘hanging out’ together”. And with that he laughed his big-belly hollow laugh. We laughed too...more at his mirth than at his pun.

Our last destination was a bird park on the other side of the island (sparing you the details of what we did that whole day). To go there, we needed to take a giant ferry...the kinds that transport cars and even trucks. Our car (with us in it) drove into the ferry...and it confused the hell outta me. Suddenly I grew all philosophical and imagined how we would appear to God (or whoever stays in the clouds). What was our exact location, really? Earth>Continent>Country>City>Suburb>Ferry>Car ?
I had never been inside two vehicles at once.

Anyway, Sheriff continued with his “tourist guide” duties. Pointing to a bridge on the other side of the ocean, he said “You want accident, you take ferry. You want suicide, you go to bridge.” Now why he thought I’d want accident or suicide on my vacation, is beyond me.

Anyhow, bidding adieu to our friendly (and sometimes creepy) tour guide, we took a flight to Kuala Lumpur. From there, we were to take a flight to our next destination: Kolkata.

And just when I was preparing to nod off, my fellow passengers decided to put up an impromptu show. If your journey to India comprises more than one leg...and if your last leg happens to be from City A to Kolkata...doesn’t matter what City A is, you are bound to be entertained. Because the flight would be full of Parle-G-eating, nose-digging, 75-decibal-speaking, seatbelt-sign-disobeying, flight attendant-harassing, aisle-blocking, toilet-clogging, more-food-demanding Bongs. They filled in their “arrival cards” with the seriousness of a board exam. Discussing the options to tick off, copying answers and consulting whether it would be illegal not to declare a half-empty pickle bottle in their luggage.

And I thought the fun was yet to begin.

P.S. I know I promised to keep this short. But couldn’t figure out which Sheriffism to leave out. Apologies.

The Confluence

2011-04-11T01:16:00.000-07:00

You found love at that young age
And an engagement ring on the dresser
You realised what it is to be happy.
And it changed your life forever.

You found yourself touring the world
Hills, oceans or was it the plains?
One moment you were with the Pharaohs
But in a blink, you were in Spain.

You found yourself in his arms,
And in the embrace, you’ll hit a chord.
You found he understood you
Even when you didn’t say a word.

You found a baby in your belly
And you closed your eyes in prayer.
You found it was a little girl
Who brought all the joy in your share.

You found you were a family
Growing stronger in love each day
Together, the three of you,
Could keep life’s storms at bay.

You found he woke up at night,
And couldn’t sleep very well.
Was it stress? A secret love affair?
Something was wrong... was all you could tell.

You found yourself at the Chemos
The love of your life was in pain.
You found yourself wiping his tears.
And swallowing your own...in vain.

You found yourself at his death bed.
Dying to join him in death.
But holding onto his little girl,
You had to live...
Amidst the tears you shed.

Dedicated to my friend, whose name means “Confluence”. Praying that she finds all the strength she needs.

Of Faux Pas and Morals - Part 3

2011-03-30T00:53:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't read part 2 and part 1...

It came to me like an epiphany...

That the greatest morals...

Are born...

Out of the greatest Faux pas…

I was having a girlie problem. Let’s leave it at that. Now, to explain that to an all-male team...and a male manager, is not such a joy, as you would imagine. But you gotta do what you gotta do. Because coming to work every day was becoming a nightmare. I’d rather sit on my bed with my laptop on my lap and work from home. My company allowed that.

So, I guzzled my embarrassment with a piece of digestive biscuit and a glass of water. And wrote an email with the words “gynaecological problems causing acute and constant pain”. One can always guise the most awkward moments using serious clinical terms. I did too.

My manager (nice fellow, god bless him), read the email and came up to my desk to say “No worries, do what you have to.”

I gulped and sneezed....and then pulling myself together, I thought I better make a statement. So I said “I may not work from home at all. If I need to, I’ll figure out in the mornings.” And even this wasn’t enough to shake my manager’s poise. So he said “Yes, D. Whatever suits you” and walked away.

Now in the next few minutes, I visualised my reproductive organs being projected in the boardroom and my all-male team sombrely looking at a PowerPoint presentation that my Manager had made, titled “Let’s Make Our Womenfolk Comfortable at Work, Folks”. And he didn’t trust if his employees’ parents had explained the birds-and-the-bees story well enough. So he left no brick (organ) unturned.

Now, all of it was my imagination, of course. My team continued to write SQL code or talk in their usual database jargon that I still don’t understand. In short, they were far away from the birds-and-the-bees story.

But I shuddered, nonetheless. In an attempt to “clarify” my problem further (as if the poor man hadn’t had enough), I wrote another email. This time, I wrote:

Oh, just figured that I sounded very “strange” when I said “I’ll figure out in the mornings”. Just so that you know, I am not pregnant :). (there was no awkward smiley...so just used a normal smiley)

No warning bells sounded when I hit the Send button (and I was told Microsoft Outlook was so clever, huh!). But since I hit Send, I fidgeted on my chair... playing my email over and over in my head. If there was any “dignity” or “grace” ever associated with my name (I doubt, though)....I had poured acid over it. What an ass I had made of myself! Why on earth do I give silly unnecessary details to the most important people of my life? Why do I take a completely serious and logical situation and manage to make it hilarious to the point of being tragic? Where did “pregnancy” come from? True, in my last India trip, that’s the word I heard being used in as many emotions and contexts as could be:

As a “question”: An airline attendant, after carefully scrutinising me, asked A, “Is your wife pregnant?” And A, with a serious face, told him “No, she’s just had a big meal.” (Of course, A tried to make up to me later by saying that it was the “dress”, not me)

As an “exclamation”: Old aunts with nothing better to do or over-curious neighbours: “Married for four years and still not pregnant!”

In sympathy: You poor thing! Don’t worry. It’s all in God’s hands. To which I wanted to say, "It’s not a matter of “hands” anyway ;)”

As an advice (unwanted): "Have you tried doing the Supported Headstand yoga posture?"

Of course, all of these people assumed that we’d been trying to conceive and failed. Myth. So my irritation at all these people expressed itself as nervous humour (or a miserable attempt at it) directed at my poor boss (of all people).

And just when I was about to write my resignation letter (a suicide note would have been more apt, perhaps), my mailbox flashes with a new message. And my boss writes:

No worries ... I’m a man so I made no such conclusions :)

Yippee! Bless that man. Somehow, this one line convinced me that I can continue to work here. Nevertheless, will the ghost of Bridget Jones please find somebody else? Thank, you.

Moral: There is a reason why people don’t openly talk about certain things. Still. Not because they are taboo or awkward. But because very few people have the poise to talk about it without growing donkey’s ears.

We are Six...but we are One

2011-03-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

I thought I’d hug them when I see them again. If I ever saw them again...all together, that is.

A tight, bear hug....one that would last at least a minute. One that would take their breath away, (literally)...till they screamed “let go of me”.

I thought I would stare at their faces...to familiarise myself with the lines I hadn’t seen forming. Just like we counted pimples when we were in school.

I thought I’d tell them how much I missed them...even though I told them so, every single day, for the last four years.

I thought I’ll scold them for thinking that visiting me in Australia...all of them together... was too impractical a thought (considering family commitments, job responsibilities and tours, financial constraints). Maybe I would squash them with my hug till they promised to visit. Like we said “god promise” in school.

When I really did see them this time, after three long years...T-H-R-E-E, I acted like a lunatic. I screamed out gibberish in public, as if I was having an epileptic attack. I gave them wet kisses too...much to their discomfort. But I couldn’t see their faces till I wiped off my misty eyes. And they turned misty again.
The reason I have never written about them in my blog is that I never thought I could explain the relationship we shared. “Friendship” doesn’t quite describe it. It’s not powerful enough for us. For what we have, only we can feel...and only we know. What we mean to one another, no words can describe.

We have known one another for years...since the days when F wore thick roundish Horlicks-bottle glasses, J could eat only chilly-chicken and fried rice in restaurants, A was a sports captain who made us proud, S was so thin that we had to hold her in strong winds, P had a mushroom-cut hairstyle and said the most inappropriate things in critical situations. Of course, I was, and still am, the Hitler...disciplining, correcting and trying to make brutal reforms in them.

Together, we have seen failures and successes...marriages and broken hearts....sicknesses and tragedies. We have shared a smoke, spilled more tequila than we drank...and laughed till we cried. In fashionable concerts, we have snorted like pigs, much to the dislike of the elite company. In movie halls, we enjoyed just sitting with one another...more than we ever enjoyed a movie. Till some of us parted cities, we spent every Durga puja together. We went on our silly boy-watching expeditions, where nothing fruitful ever happened. We simply watched our “secret” crushes...and came back home to talk about it through the night. We went shopping for earrings in Gariahat (every dress needed a matching pair)...and dress materials in New Market. We shared everything...from tailors and tutors, college notes and clothes, crushes and stresses, money and even blood. We spent nights consoling or comforting or gossiping or confiding....and woke up puffy-eyed next morning. We have praised and criticised one another...and our intentions were never less than the best. Some of us have flown across cities to be with the rest...to celebrate or to mourn. We have made long distance calls across time zones to share a laugh...or a tear. We have woken one another up in early mornings before exams...and also put one another to bed in times when even sleep deserted company. Gracefully taking care of one another...and our loved ones (be it aged parents or ailing siblings), we have been more than family. Our bond cotton-balled us during crisis...but also triggered us to overcome our weaknesses. Our united voice has fought with the world when needed...because a finger pointed at one of us is like a finger pointed at all of us. We have couriered gifts of love across continents....ice-creams even, (coconut-flavours from Naturals travelling in iced boxes from Mumbai to Kolkata). Our photos hang in our living rooms...the memories of which can soothe a tired soul. Blood isn’t thicker than water. But our relationship is. We are six...but we are one.

No matter what life throws at us, we know we are blessed. For to have just one such friend is a joy...and we are S-I-X.
So here’s letting you know...all over again...
You are the health in my sickness...the joy in my sorrow...the reason in my madness.
Love you all.

Image: Courtesy Santanu

The Litmus Test of Creativity

2011-02-03T17:33:00.000-08:00

The difference between the creative and the non-creative...
The motivated and the uninspired...
The dynamic and the languid...
Is essentially the same.

And that is, the creative/motivated/dynamic, never grow up.

Don’t close this window or remove me from your blogroll just yet. Hear it out.

Be it in Norway or Nepal...country or city...in palaces or slums, there is one question that every child comes across.
Could be a cheek-pulling uncle or a school teacher trying to be motivational...or simply one’s own mind looking for answers, that one question hits a child from all corners.
And the question is:
What will you be when you grow up?

In olden days the answer to the question ranged between:
Teacher>doctor>pilot> writer>actor (I wanted to be a bus conductor, but I don’t think that counts) .

These days (with internet, television, play station and heaven knows what else), no one, I repeat, NO ONE, can predict what the answers might be. I saw a little girl on TV wearing a cute little pink dress and matching pink ribbons who said “Mujhe bara hokey mard banna hai.” (meaning, I want to be a “man” when I grow up.) I kid you not. She really said that...and it scarred me for life.
Anyhoo...
Many of us find the answer to this question straight after college/university. In fact, the current education system is such that we can rule out most of the options by the time we leave school. When I left school, I was convinced that they had forgotten to include that one subject in the curriculum that I would find interesting. Again, I don’t think that counts.

But what I mean is, we all move into jobs and careers...change jobs and careers...make drastic changes even (our plumber used to be a hair stylist). But somewhere down the line, we stop asking ourselves “What will I be when I grow up?” Either because we think we have grown up and are stuck with our lives/careers forever...or because we are too busy asking other questions (like, How does my neighbour make so much money? Who can I gossip about at lunchtime? When do I buy that shape-wear that promises to reduce two dress sizes without one having to even look at a treadmill? etc)
That is where the creative/motivated/dynamic differ from their opposites.

They never stop asking themselves “What will I be when I grow up?” I won’t insult your grey cells by asking you not to take that literally. Obviously they grow up physically (have bigger organs, lesser hair, etc, though some of the unfortunate ones continue to have acne)...and mentally (no longer eat mud or put their hands inside a puppy’s anus). What I mean is...they never give up on life and its possibilities.
The languid, like me, plod along in life...trying to keep their jobs , paying their mortgages off , squeezing in a few children and holidays, reading a few books at bedtime...even planting some trees on days they are feeling exceptionally energetic. But that question “What will I be when I grow up?” is wiped out from their memories.

The creative/motivated/dynamic however, continue to re-invent themselves, find new hobbies, create new talents, learn new things. They do all the mundane things, mind you (yes, the mortgage and kids and trees). But somehow, they can still take themselves to learn salsa, pottery, French cooking, photography or whatever it is they fancy. They build their garden bench...write a book...paint an interesting wall art...or even open a boutique by the sea shore. It’s only with their child-like confidence, youthful exuberance (or call it what you may) that they create new horizons every day.

In short, they never grow up...never give up...never, never.
So the litmus test, boys and girls, is in asking the question “What will you be when you grow up?” Try it on some adults you know. If the person frowns or scoffs, just give them another drink (they need it). But if their eyes brighten up...and they clear their throats to answer you with great excitement, just hug them and tell them how special they are.

So here’s a virtual hug to all my creative blogger friends...and here’s a pat on the back, in Aussie style: “Good on you, mate!”

One Good Thing

2011-02-02T21:02:00.000-08:00

The other day, I realised that there are more things that annoy me than make me happy. That’s not a good realisation, as you will guess.

Spot a skinny lady on the bus – Annoyed.
Pick up a handbag at a store... and then make eye contact with a price tag that equals my pay check – Annoyed.
Find a public toilet when I badly need one...but realise that there is no toilet roll once the job is done – Annoyed.
Come back home to find no left overs or ready-to-eat food in the freezer – Annoyed.

(All of the above happened to me on a single day, in that sequence)

But this post is not meant to be about the negatives. It’s about that one good thing that is so easily accessible, so affordable, so within my control...and such a joy.

It can light up an evening... even after the most terrible day at work.
It can light up a day...just the anticipation of going home to it.
It can make a whole weekend worthwhile.
It is easy and fun.
It can shut up when I want it to.
It is unconditionally good to me...even if I haven’t dressed up for it, or cooked it a meal.
It picks up my call even at the wee hours of night.
It doesn’t judge me when I burst into tears or laugh like a hyena.
It keeps me company when everybody else seems to have “other plans”.

Movies, what would I do without you?

Republic Day 2011

2011-01-26T23:01:00.000-08:00

Yes, I enjoy being served with a smile at the bank (on the rare occasions when I do need to step into a branch) and not being barked at with a frown...

Of course I love the fact that we live just ten minutes from the beach...the blue, pristine, white-sand beach of my dreams; not the hawker-infested, muddy, bottle-floating, industrial-waste-smelling waters...

There is no denying that I started enjoying long drives once I left the potholes/traffic/pollution behind and moved to Oz...

True, I can go to work without feeling bogged down by dirty politics, useless rivalries and the constant feeling of not being recognised or appreciated. Much relieved to know that I can walk out of office at 5pm when I have completed my work...and not wait for the boss to leave (even if there’s no work), before I can sneak out...

And I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge the material comforts that living in this country provides. True, I have to wash my clothes, do the dishes, cook the food, mow the lawn, fertilise the garden, fix the broken table, assemble new furniture, clean the cobwebs, spray pesticides, shop for grocery and even paint walls myself. But I can buy that Kindle for myself and the home theatre for hubby without a blink, swim in the pool of my own house, drive a decent car and still go for overseas holidays...

But none of the above-stated experiences give me goose bumps. I still rely on something like this for that rare feeling of pride, love, nostalgia and yearning:

Happy Republic Day.

Silly School Girls Club

2011-01-11T01:46:00.000-08:00

I have known girls who drew the outline of a men’s brief on their answer sheets in response to a question that said “Give a brief outline of Shylock’s character in Merchant of Venice”. No, that’s not true. I don’t know any such girl. But wish I did, because am sure there are a few.

But I did know a Hindi-speaking girl who, in answer to a particular question in our Bengali exam, wrote this in her answer sheet:
Please refer to page 11, answer 2 of Obhagir Shorgo .

For a girl who chewed Pan Parag at that precious age, she did pretty well, I’d say. She had memorised word for word from a Questions and Answers book for that year, without hassling her delicate brain with the fate of Obhagi. Therefore, she had inadvertently done what many of us wanted to do i.e. directed our Bengali teacher to open the particular page in a book and look for the answer herself, if she was that desperate.

I also knew somebody who bribed me with a packet of chips in class 2, when she peed in her pants in class and wanted to keep it hush (I was the only privileged witness to the tributary).

But nothing beats another girl who took it a step forward. She pooped in her pants and obviously couldn’t keep it hush (even if she promised a lifetime’s supply of chips to the whole class). Our History teacher (a dainty, fragile, mouse-like lady) fainted at the stench. The school cleaner (one of the few male employees in an all-girls convent), came to the rescue with a broom . What was he thinking? To beat the last bit of shit out of her with a broom?

And of course there was that girl who slit her wrists to write a bloody letter to her class teacher...her latest “crush”. The letter never got posted or handed over to the person intended...but we all took turns to inspect her wrists and pinch her wounds too...to see if she was faking it. What a happy hetero-sexual lady she now is! Wonder what makes so many school girls fancy their female teachers. Or do school authorities intentionally recruit masculine female teachers (with beards) to stop little girls from fancying real boys?

The school authority too had their share of silliness, especially trying to outwit the smart girls. Note to self: At that age, the crown of “smart girl” went to anyone with a boyfriend. But I digress. I believe that our convent had assigned a dying nun (one who had as much fun and sex in her life as does a domestic mop) to set our “School Uniform” rules:

The socks must start from where the dress ends
The shoes must be bought from the nearest “disability” store
Ugly, red, thick household curtains most be worn as ribbons on two equally oiled plaits

In short, no effort was spared to make us look as attractive as household rats. Therefore, any girl, who managed to acquire a boyfriend in spite of the household-rat look, was nothing short of “smart”. One such girl was spotted with a boy outside school premises, by one of the dying-nun brigade. On being interrogated, she said that it was her “brother”. The following week, we were to have a school fete, where families of students were welcome. Our noticeboard read “No brothers allowed, except infants”. The smart girls turned up with their boyfriends in the fete. On being interrogated again, they said that the boys were their boyfriends and assured the nuns that they had left all their brothers at home. Of course the girls spent their next weekend writing “I will learn to behave myself”, in immaculate handwriting, 500 times on ruled paper...but what the heck.

Silliness in school was so much fun. Don’t you think?

P.S. Obhagir Shorgo is a story about a young girl whose name pretty much defined her life. Obhagi = bad destiny.

Image - Courtesy Google

The Grasshopper Syndrome

2011-01-07T00:21:00.000-08:00

Call me old fashioned...old...boring...or unambitious. But I like stability. No, I love stability.

I wish I was part of an older generation...when people seldom changed jobs, cities, partners, cars, houses or friends. Our generation, on the other hand, seems to enjoy the adrenaline rush that comes with visa stamps on passports, flight tickets, removalists, mail redirections, house hunting, friend finding, learning new languages and cultures. In short, we love hassle. In fact, we love it so much that we happily give up everything that was truly ours (friends and family) to run after an elusive “something”. Some call it opportunity...others, quality of life.

Some friends I know are still taking the same route to work every day, sitting at the same desk I saw them at, 4 years back. Of course they have seen promotions and raises and office tours. But they are essentially based in the same city, same company. And I have changed companies (innumerable times), cities (twice, with a strong possibility of a third time, which we talked ourselves out of), countries (once) and suburbs in the new cities (three times, twice in the same year). There is a general lack of loyalty to a place or phase of life. We seem to have the “grasshopper syndrome” (not the Biblical one, but a more contemporary epidemic). And this constant moving around has left me root-less, to say the least....and yearning for that feeling of belonging.

My dad retired from the company he joined straight after university. And I, his worthy daughter (NOT), changed four companies in one year. I kid you not. F-O-U-R. What a year it was...mad, mad year. Result? Yes, I have made more money than my first company could ever pay anyone...even its CEO. Yes, my learning curve also looks healthy. So no regrets there. But the reason for changing from my third company to the fourth, is not that obvious to me. Let’s say, it happened...and I did not resist it.

Only the other day I was telling a friend how my in-laws (who are in their late sixties, early seventies) are still in touch with friends who they have known since their college days. The same set of friends who came to my husband’s rice ceremony, came to our wedding...and will come to our kid’s rice ceremony (if we have any). And remember, they did not have facebook to be in touch. No “poking a friend” or “sending a smiley” or relying on birthday alerts to wish your friends. It was all plain love...and a lot of sincere effort to keep the relationships going.

Now that’s the kind of thing I miss. We make new friends every year. And by the end of the year, most relocate to other cities or countries, fading into the “virtual” world. I doubt if there will be any of my friends attending my kids’ marriage (note I don’t have any yet), who can teasingly pinch their cheeks and say “Getting married, dude? Remember how you peed in our bed once and covered it with auntie’s scarf?”

I have often heard my dad-in-law say “Your mom (in law) got this ABBA record as a gift for me, with her first salary. The sound quality is still superb.” That’s another thing I miss. I don’t really have any thing that goes back years. The books and CDs that I really thought were “mine” are in India still, in the room that used to be mine. The international luggage allowance wasn’t enough to let us carry all our “emotional assets”. We just carried the “utility” things, that too, the bare minimum. Wish I can sit on a day bed someday, with wrinkled cheeks and toothless gums, and exclaim “Got this day bed on our sixth anniversary. Bloody good quality the mattress is.”

Remember “Central Perk” from the TV Series, “Friends”? It’s not a real place. It is based on Cholmondeley's, a coffee shop and lounge in Usen Castle at Brandeis University, the alma mater of the show's creators. But it was a coffee house that the “regulars” visited often throughout the series. In fact, they didn’t really have to call one another saying “meet me at the usual place”. They kind of stopped there after work, almost as a ritual. Wish I had something like that. Somewhere to stop...everyday...every-single-day, amidst the whirlwind of daily chores and responsibilities. Some place where my favorite people would turn up, every evening, by default. That regularity... that routine...is what I’d love. But alas. We have to send 571 emails to plan a dinner...and 689 mails to plan an evening at the beach. And we go out of our way to make sure that we try a different place (restaurant or beach) every time. What’s this obsession with “trying out new things?” Why not just find a place you like, and stick to it?

Till not so many years back, there used to be a crack in the balcony of our home in India. Every time I asked my mom why she didn’t get it fixed, she’d say “Oh that! It’s when you banged against the wall on your tricycle.” Now, it’s another thing that I fail to understand how a toddler on a tricycle can cause such a crack on a brick wall. What stands out is that fact that we lived in the same house for 30 years. By the time our kid (again, the one that’s not born yet) goes to high school, we may have changed so many houses that the poor thing would spend more time memorising new post codes every year than actually reading or remembering anything of value.

Is there a way to turn the wheel around? A way to rewind and live in the good old days? I can’t seem to think of any practical solution. Because even if we make a conscious effort to “grow roots”, people around us, wouldn’t. Pray, tell me, is there any cure for the “grasshopper syndrome”?

Confessions

2010-12-23T18:57:00.000-08:00

Dear A,

I may curse you for sleeping peacefully (and snoring even) by my side, when I am awake all night biting my nails in anxiety...
But here’s a confession.
I love you for being Mr. What’s-there-to-Worry.

I may tell you how I hate you for spending hours trying to fix a broken pump or a rusty lock.
But here’s a confession.
I love you for being Mr. What’s-there-to-Give-Up.

I may scream at you for tearing my hair...and messing it with your sweaty hands...
But here’s a confession...
When you clumsily hold my hair straightener... narrowing your eyes and wrinkling your forehead... trying to focus on the back of my head...to help me straighten the strands of hair that I find hard to reach...you look the cutest.

I may tell you that I’d rather watch a movie with you...or go for a drive...than spending time in the kitchen...
But here’s a confession...
When you cut and chop and grate and stir and mix and blend and grind and pour...to me, you are no less than a magician creating magic with his fingers.

I may nag you every morning for taking so much time to take a bath...
But here’s a confession...
I love listening to the happy tune you whistle when you are in the shower.

I may tell you that sometimes you are such a child...
But here’s a confession...
You taught me all that is to be learned...for you taught me how to love.

Happy Wedding Anniversary.

Love,
D

P.S. Loved the anniversary gift you got me...a Sheesha to sit perfect in my Bali corner.

Christmas in a Bottle

2010-12-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

Imagine a scene from a Hindi movie, where the protagonist is about to find out that he has lymphosarcoma of the intestine. The sombre hospital bed....white linen... and a tired looking patient with dramatic dark circles around his eyes. The doctor removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, before pronouncing the words that would trigger temple bells to ring for the next five minutes. And then the various levels of zoom in and out on the patient’s face, temple bells, doctor’s face, temple bells, patient’s mother’s face, temple bells and patient’s face again.

It was something similar. Though in my case, it was my school hall instead of a hospital...and my Arts and Crafts teacher instead of a doctor. But it was with the same drama (same removal of glasses, pinching the nose bridge and sighing) that she broke the news to my mother at a Parent-Teacher Meet at school. “I am afraid Mrs Sengupta...your daughter will never be able to make an embroidery or even as much as sow a button. I have never seen someone as clumsy and untidy as her. Keep her away from glue, scissors or anything related to art and craft. She is just not meant for it”.

That’s how bad I was (err...still am). I cannot even wrap a gift neatly or cut a piece of sticky tape without making a mess.

But with all the wonderful DIY projects in the blogosphere, can’t I get tempted? Have I lost the right to pick up a pair of scissors just because my Arts and Crafts teacher had passed such a verdict years ago? Absolutely NOT.

So this is what I did this weekend. I picked up empty beer bottles, which looked like this:

And glued some Christmas-coloured (red, green) ribbon at their mouths to make them look like this (please ignore the wrinkle in the ribbon...that’s just the lymphosarcoma of my clumsy fingers):

And placed a flower and butterfly in the bottle, like this:

Aren’t my butterflies cute?

Linking to Patty's Weekend Wrap Up Week 11.

It's that day again...

2010-12-15T16:23:00.000-08:00

When a day is special for a particular reason, we celebrate it in a particular way.
For birthdays, we cut cakes and blow candles.
For wedding anniversaries, we renew our vows with a romantic candle light dinner.
For Valentine’s Day, we proclaim our love to dear ones.
For Durga Puja, we eat, pray and dress up.
For Diwali, we make sweets and light firecrackers and diyas.
For Christmas, we have a turkey roast on the dining table and gifts under the tree.

But when a day is memorable for not one, but several reasons, pray, what does one do?

It’s that day again.

The day when the sun rose, the birds chirped...but it was night all day long.
The day when we regretted every harsh word we said to one another...and rejoiced at every loved moment we shared.
The day when we recognised our true friends...and realised there were quite a few.
The day when the house was full...but we had never been so lonely.
The day when even the wisest amongst us didn’t have answers.
The day when we lost our faith...but found it at unexpected places.

The day when I woke up as a child...but never went to bed again as one.
The day when Ma lost her best friend...and I lost my Baba.

Baba, remembering you today...as every other day. I haven’t got you flowers...but got another bamboo plant (like I did last year). I will watch it grow...and remember how you smiled.

14.12.2010 - 9 years since you left...

P.S. I tried to write a positive post as last year's...but it didn't happen.

LOL-ly

2010-12-12T17:52:00.000-08:00

It's been three years now that a lolly tray has been an integral part of my Christmas decor.

My definition of "festivities" is "fun", "nostalgia", "good company" and of course
"indulgence". A lolly tray is one of the very few things that ticks all the boxes (can you think of any better company?)

So here's what I did this year:

You are supposed to ring the bell (notice the little thing hanging on the black handle?) each time you take a treat. That spreads the cheer
and is a signal for me to refill the tray. The bell, by the way, is my anklet...terribly re-purposed :)

Linking to Patty's Weekend Wrap Up Party!

The Philosophy of Friendship

2010-12-07T00:18:00.000-08:00

Sounds like a crude metaphor, but friendship is like an investment. If you can invest your time, emotions, efforts and thoughts, you will reap a lifetime of support, companionship and fun.

For those who don’t know me, let me tell you, that I have been a GIANT of an investor in this sector. Friends have often meant more to me than family.

Millions of people have zillions of theories on friendships. In the years and years I have inhabited the Earth (yes, I have started using anti-wrinkle creams and hair colouring will soon be a need, not a want), I have seen my own philosophy of friendship changing quite drastically. It started off as pretty simple. A friend is someone I can have a good time with.

I met people who can keep me entertained through a tsunami of troubles. They are gems in their own right...and it is such a delight just to be with them. Funnily enough, I can laugh with them but can never trust them with my innermost thoughts/beliefs. Whether it is the comfort level, the fear of being judged /misunderstood, or the sheer lack of “attachment” in the relationship....I do not know.
Obviously, I realised that there was something missing...and it was time to modify my philosophy to: A friend is someone I can have a good time with...and someone I can open my heart to.

I have people who I can be completely honest with. No problems opening my heart (and untying a few of my arteries even) in front of them. But I wouldn’t really call them my friends. Some are aunts or cousins or family members who have assumed the roles of mentors or well-wishers. Many would argue that these people are “friends”...just like a “mother” or a “sister” can be a person’s best friend. But my definition of a friend also pre-supposes the fact that I “chose” the person to be my friend, from a thousand other options. Family is not a matter of choice really....
So I added another frill: A friend is someone I can have a good time with... someone I can open my heart to...and someone I chose among the rest.

Every person, I believe, has a pattern in their friendships. Call it my unfulfilled desires to be a philosopher or a French filmmaker, but I do believe that every person goes through a friendship lifecycle/pattern, which is typical of that person. We may not be aware of the pattern...but if we give it a thought, it isn’t hard to identify.
Mine is something like this:
Meet a person> Like or dislike immediately> If dislike, keep a mental distance/a degree of detachment from the very start>If like, invest all I have got...and open my heart (and arteries) to them, almost on the way back home from the first meeting. And THAT is the root of all troubles. Because, with time, I realise that the person is far from what my initial instincts were. More often than not, the Red Riding Hood turns out to be the Wolf himself...and I wallow in self-pity and self-criticism at being so naive.

After some bitter experiences, I decided to polish my theory yet again. A true friend is someone I can have a good time with... someone I can open my heart to...someone I chose among the rest...and someone who stands the test of time.

I thought this was a pretty robust theory that I could carry to my retirement home. But no. After a few years away from family and childhood friends, living amidst peer pressure, jealousy, competition and general nastiness, a funny thought descended. A friend is someone who you can share your joy with, almost to the point of being shameless. Need an example? OK, you buy a shiny new car...or get a promotion, you should be able to run to the friend and “show off” almost in a child-like way. No maliciousness in that “showing off”, mind you. Just the sheer joy and excitement that bubbles up from your stomach and lands straight on to a friend’s hug. If you have to hold back, or think about the consequences or rehearse your actions/words when sharing good news, you are not really dealing with a friend. At the cost of sounding strange, let me make a confession. I have no inhibition sharing my sorrows/troubles with people. Most people will be secretly happy at other people’s sorrow...which is why I don’t mind spreading some joy by sharing my grief. But when it comes to joy, I am cautious (quite opposite to the norm I think).Because I believe that only a true friend can be genuinely happy for your happiness.

So, here I am, with what looks like an epic of a statement:
A true friend is someone I can have a good time with... someone I can open my heart to... someone I chose among the rest...someone who stands the test of time...and someone I can share my joys with.

P.S. If I revise this yet again, will keep you in the loop. Or maybe not. Where’s the fun in living life by the book, even if the book was your own writing? So girls and boys, go give your friends a hug...or call them to say how much you miss them...or invite them over for a cuppa and some gossip...or send them a handmade card...or visit them with a flower from your garden....or pack your bags and get away for the weekend...or simply go through your photo album and remember them fondly. Whatever you do, don’t forget to tell me about it (or tell me if you have some philosophy yourself). I’ll come back with my cuppa to read every word you write...

Blessed or Deprived?

2010-11-24T22:42:00.000-08:00

A sparking stainless steel tea kettle now stands on my gas top. I find myself aimlessly walking into the kitchen numerous times during the day, just to take a peek at it. Kitchen was never the favourite part of the house for me. But seems like that’s going to change...as long as the kettle looks shiny and new. It’s the highlight of the last weekend shopping, when I bought loads of feel-good stuff ranging from incense sticks to tea lights. The kettle, however, is not just a feel-good item. It’s a saviour for me, really. No more making a mess when I pour tea into cups from a saucepan. Tea in a saucepan!! I hear you exclaim. Yes, I had an electric kettle that boiled water for practically all my kitchen needs ...from instant noodles to tea-bag tea. But occasionally, on Saturday evenings, when there was no plans to step out of the house, I’d make that much-loved masala-malai tea... and the two of us would huddle under a blanket, lie together on a sofa and watch a movie. That’s when I used a saucepan to simmer my tea leaves and let the milk boil and froth for ages, to create that thick malai layer on top. And that’s when I poured the tea all over the bench top and spent hours cleaning it afterwards.

But the kettle is going to change all that. I can now have a taste of India, without all the mess of an Indian kitchen. And it whistles too, when the water reaches boil! What more can I want? OK, I do understand I am over-doing the excitement...but that’s because I did feel a child-like excitement at a new toy.

I dragged A from the study to show him how cutely it whistled...a low, meek, whistle that seemed to say “yes-the-water-is-boiling-but-there-is-nothing-to-panic”. He looked at it for a second and with the nonchalant face of a sleepy sea-lion, he said “Don’t tell me you have never used a whistling kettle before? My mother probably got one as her wedding gift and has been using it ever since.”

Now, I am not the kind of person who turns into a live wire at the slightest comparison with the mother-in-law. I get along pretty well with her, touchwood. But his statement made me wonder...

My mum never had a whistling kettle in her kitchen, so I hadn’t grown up seeing one. True, it was not the first time I had seen one...but it was the first time I owned one. And hence all the excitement. For A, it was like looking at a telephone. Something we had all seen, used, over-used... and taken for granted. As life goes on, we will grow older...acquire more things, see new places, be able to afford much more than what our parents could back in their times (partly because they were in India and partly because technology hadn’t advanced that much anyway). Does that mean we will forget what it is to be excited? The real, pure, innocent, unadulterated, child-like excitement! The kind of excitement that needs an exclamation mark at the end of it, just for emphasis!

Will our children ever say “Wow, I love my new pencil box!” Or will they just say “thank you” and head back to their rooms nonchalantly with their booty? Will they ever spend sleepless nights, waiting anxiously to go to school the next day to show off their new pencil box? Will they ever nag us to let them sleep in the garage on their shiny new bicycles? Or keep the new CD player beside their pillows? Or wipe their new school boots with the edge of their school uniforms on the way to school?

Is excitement a fast-fading, soon-to-become-extinct emotion? Is “taking-for-granted” the new epidemic that will change “living” as we knew it? Are we “blessed” to have everything we ever want? Or “deprived” because we can’t feel the purest of feelings anymore?

Of Cats and Real Estate...

2010-11-11T22:16:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: Cat lovers may find this piece un-cool.

I am not a cat-lover. That doesn’t mean I throw stones at cats that I spot on the road....or intend to hurt them in any way. It simply means, I don’t LOVE them. In fact, if they were on facebook, I don’t think I would have clicked the “Like” button either.

Those who know me well would say that I am terrified of cats. I wouldn’t contradict that. It’s no big deal, you know. I recently discovered that there are so many like me that they actually coined a name for it i.e. ailurophobia.

Ailurophobia specialists would understand (if they exist) that I am not sure why I am scared of cats and since when I developed this fear. I have ALWAYS been scared of them, let’s put it that way. So much so...that with my first salary, I actually hired people who covered the windows of our house in Kolkata with a net like material, to prevent the intruders to creepily walk into our ground-floor flat and give me a heart attack. Which was the main reason why I always wanted to stay in an apartment, preferably on the 15th floor (because cats wouldn’t really know how to use an elevator...and it’s possible that they take the stairs up to the 10th floor. But it would take a super cat to climb more than 10 floors).

But alas, we bought a cottage style house. And bought it from a person who had a pet cat. And this person sold the house to us and started renting the house next door, because he is building a palace elsewhere and would rent till that palace is completed. So the cat owner is now our left-hand neighbour. And the house on the right-hand also has cats. And we have a cat magnet in our backyard...a fish pond!

Now, let me make things clear. I love my house. But I doubt if I would have bought it if I knew I was entering a catty neighbourhood. Now, how would you make a cat understand mortgages and real estate and ownership? The previous owner, who is now our neighbour, probably didn’t even try. So his cat still thinks that our house still belongs to him. I spot him on the kitchen window sill, wagging its grey tail and demanding a hug. Sometimes it sits on the fence, grinning at me. Watching my koi fish seems to be its favourite pastime. Oh, and did I tell you that it chases butterflies in my lawn? How picturesque, I hear you say. How tummy-rumblingly scary, I would say.

Sometimes I feel like photocopying the “Land Title” and “House Ownership” documents, highlighting our names on it, magnifying the Council’s rubber stamp...and keeping it on the fence for the cat to read. But I spent two days teaching the letter A to my 2 yr old niece. I would have to spend a lifetime with the cat to make it read the legalese. And if cats really have nine lives, I may have to spend nine lives with it (because this cat doesn’t look exceptionally bright to me).

As if this wasn’t scary enough, this cat seems to be quite the chocolate-faced heartthrob (it’s brown, in case you wanted to know). For I have often seen it loitering around aimlessly with the other cats of the neighbourhood (yes, there are many more). I concluded it was a male when I saw it chasing two other cats down a lonely alley (what’s eve-teasing called in the cat world?).

I think its owners have been pretty liberal with its upbringing and apparently told him that it was OK to get his dates home. And because he thinks our home is HIS home, one night I saw it hosting a pool party in my backyard, with what looked like, a million other cats. Needless to say, I did not sleep that night out of fear...and I mean the hand-shivering, teeth-clattering, nail-turning-blue kind of fear.

Today, however, would go up in my biography (everyone has their biographies written these days...and I haven’t totally given up on the idea of becoming famous), as a black-letter day. I saw the cat squatting on the lawn and staring at me sternly. From behind closed doors, I said “shoo-shoo” (just before I passed out). And instead of “shooing away”, it shat in my lawn and then also puked a slimy green substance. And at this point, I must have passed out.

Now, I am serious when I say that I feel exploited wronged, betrayed and horrified. I can’t walk into my own backyard without sending someone to inspect the premises before I step out. Can I sue cats? Or sue my neighbour for not keeping his cat under control? Can I be that person who brings about revolution in the legal scene and has new acts created because of them and named after them? Is there a chance that a Scribbler’s Act will be created some day, making it mandatory for cat owners to tie their cats up or restrict them in their house, unless they want to be fined heavily for breach of privacy, disruption of peace, destruction of mental sanity and loss of sleep? Tell me, you legal minds out there....is there any merit in my case?

My Diwali Decor for 2010

2010-11-05T22:46:00.000-07:00

Diwali is about light and love and laughter. And am so happy that we were blessed with all of it, this year.

Over the years, we will grow as a family...meet new people...create new bonds...paint new dreams...and most importantly, grow as individuals. But this Diwali will always be special... because it was the first one we celebrated at our own "home".

So it was all about my home this year.

I started with the window sill...

And then I thought that the blue vase might feel lonely. So I brought in the green vase (actually a beer bottle). And because I did not have flowers to showcase, I picked some weeds/grass flowers from my unkempt backyard (the joys of being a lazy gardener)...

I brought the new cushion covers out...the ones picked from the Bali handicrafts market.

What a riot of colours they are:

And then waited patiently for the sun to set, when I could light my candles.

Some floating candles on a glass bowl that reflects the light from all sides...

And how could I forget the outdoors?

My puja place and a happy Ganesha...

The yellow handcarved showpiece is a gift from a friend after his trip to Rajasthan.

And the corner that everyone loved...

My favorite light feature. Bali again :)

Oh! And did I tell you I made my first Rangoli this year?

This is not the Sydney Opera House, by the way. Was meant to be a lotus. Be nice...don't laugh.

Do you like my little plants?

And though he looks scary, he is a gentle giant...trust me. All set to welcome you at the door.

The relaxing Budhdha...one of the favorite housewarming gifts we got...

And since when was home decor complete without lights from Ikea?

This lantern can just create magic with its colours....

And finally...the Bali inspired corner that we absolutely love! Where drinks and sheesha will be in abundance....and the whiff of ghazals never quite die.

All things Bali and Beautiful...

2010-10-31T23:44:00.000-07:00

Bali is paradise for sure. But what I am not so sure about is what kind of paradise it really is:

A shopper's?
A surfer's?
A foodie's?
A beer-lover's?
A silver-craver's?
A home decor maniac's?
A massage-o-holic's?
I don't have the answer yet. But maybe I will...after a few visits (for surely one is not enough).

But I know what it did to me. It turned me to a bundle of senses.
The five senses that human beings have, I mean. For the grilled lobster tickled my taste buds like nothing else did...the fragrances from the massage oils look me to another land....the massages themselves were a tactile treasure...the art and craft (stone carving, wood work, silver engravings) were a treat to the eyes...the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks seemed straight out of meditation music....

Sometimes, you want to express so much....that words fall short. So I leave you with some pictures...

When the past haunts...

2010-10-19T00:03:00.000-07:00

And the present gives in...

Puja 2010

2010-10-14T20:58:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the year again when you curse the day you left home. “Was it really worth it?” Leaving friends and family behind....for bigger homes, better roads and a so called “work-life balance”. Where is the “life” without friends and family? Where is the life when you eat oats for breakfast and yearn for the luchi-aloo dum that’s being served in the puja mandap back home? Where is the life when you take the same route to work on Ashtami morning, remembering how you pandal-hopped in new shoes that gave you shoe-bites the size of craters?

All you can do is call up friends, who will be kind enough not to ask “So, what are you doing for puja? The kinder ones will not talk at all...will just let you inhale the sound of dhaak and kasha in the background and imagine the whiff of the sandhya arati...that fascinating mix of flowers and dhoop and ghee and prayers.

Or perhaps you can download a dhaak beat as a ringtone. Each time the phone rings, your heart misses a beat. But it’s always the mower or the doctor’s receptionist or a credit card seller. It’s never the people you want to be with....because everyone back home is too busy with festivities. You can call your mother at the usual time...Saturday morning. But the phone rings away. She must be at the puja mandap, cutting fruits with the other kakimas and talking about her favourite article on the Puja Barshiki of Desh. And suddenly, you can see Baba....closely inspecting the caterers at work and instructing that the beguni better be crisp and warm when the afternoon bhog is served.

Confused, disoriented and totally out of place, you take resort in Facebook. Status messages range from “Bolo bolo Durga Ma ki...joy” to “Ya devi sarva bhooteshu”. You smile at the para youngsters chatting about their dance and natak rehearsals. Weren’t you one of them not so long back? Weren’t you awake all night before your performance, practising your lines in your mind and thinking of the make-up man and the costume-designer, who could turn you into Sita, or a tree or a soldier or a princess or a monkey with their magic wand? Weren’t you in the best of behaviour a month before puja, just so that Ma would let you wear her favourite saree for a dance drama?

Nostalgia makes you sick to the core and you are tempted to call in sick. But damn the conference call and damn the official launch of the new website. Vivid before your eyes is the scene of the kakimas in red-bordered white sarees, betel-leaf in hand, smearing Ma Durga with vermilion. But all you can do is munch that cheese-and-lettuce sandwich and talk about the Commonwealth Games with your colleagues at lunch. And when voices saying “Asche bochor abar hobey” float into your ears from distant lands across the seas, you cannot hold back the tears anymore. Blaming it on hay fever, you excuse yourself from the lunch gathering. Because they will never know...they will never know what it is to miss home during durga puja. You tried to explain to some... “It’s like our 5-day long Christmas”. But you knew that wasn’t even close.

And so you walk to the river beside your office. Where there are some flowers that will pass as kash phool...and some waves that remind you of the Ganges on the night of bishorjon.

This or That

2010-10-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

As my social life has blossomed and bloomed lately, I am spending more time pruning, watering, fertilising my priceless social-networking theories.

Warning – Please do not try these at home. There is a high risk of alienating people you like and attracting those you can’t stand. Practice under close supervision of self-proclaimed experts is recommended (and my diary looks pretty full at the moment...so, don’t practise at all).

OK, so here’s my first theory called This or That (my take on “there are two kinds of people in this world”). Basically, this involves categorising people as per a list I have created. It assumes that every person can be either this or that.

Click image to enlarge.

Am sure there are more kinds...I’ll just have to keep updating the list from time to time. If you are 1, 3, 11, 37, 39 or 41....good for you. If you are 5 or 8, you don’t know what you are missing. If you are 14 or 20, shame shame. If you are 25, stay away from me. If you are 34, are you retarded? (and that includes me).

If you think you are 2, 7, 12, 17, 21, 28, 29, 36 and 38... STOP COPYING ME!

But don’t forget to tell me whether you are this or that...and whether you can think of anything else to be added to the list.

In Pursuit of the Idiosyncratic

2010-09-14T19:52:00.000-07:00

So here’s the deal. Idiosyncrasies make a person interesting, or so I’m told. Agreed.

I can’t deny that I love watching my colleague kissing his fountain pen (no puns) every time he starts writing...and refusing to sign anything, even group birthday cards for other colleagues, if he can’t find a fountain pen. The logic being, ball point pens are not pens at all. Fair enough.

But apart from him, I can’t pin down anybody else who has an idiosyncrasy of some sort. And the fountain pen syndrome is far from being a true blue idiosyncrasy.
What about a person who doesn’t shave because he believes that hair is an extension of God’s love? Or the lady who married her dog, adopted his name as her middle name, took him on a honeymoon to Switzerland and left everything to him in her will? Now, these characters may well be fictitious but aren’t movies infested with idiosyncratic people? What about Dr. Evil’s account of his father in Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery?

He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

Or for that matter, the pinky-sucking Dr Evil himself, whose account of his own childhood is:

My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon ... luge lessons ... In the spring, we'd make meat helmets ... When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds — pretty standard, really. At the age of 12, I received my first scribe. At the age of 14, a Zoroastrian named Vilmer ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum — it's breathtaking ... I suggest you try it.

Or closer home, Dr. S. Asthana, played by the brilliant Boman Irani in Munna Bhai MBBS, who laughs when he is really angry and insists on calling himself Dr. S. Dot. Asthana.

Or even more close to home, Gobeshok Gobochondro Gyanotirtho Gyanorotno Gyanambudhi Gyanochuramoni, played by Santosh Dutta in Hirak Rajar Deshey, whose name, gait, profession, appearance and very existence define “idiosyncratic”.

Where are the Dr Evils and S.Dot. Asthanas and Gobeshoks of the real world?

Not sure about you, but I am so typical that I often fear that I may bore myself to death. I was better off when I was small. As a baby, I liked twisting one end of my mother's saree to make a pointed tip, and rolling it on my face. That’s how I went to sleep every day. I did not need my mother to sit beside me and sing me lullabies or read me stories, as most other children did. I just needed that ONE particular saree. This continued to an age when it was no longer cute or funny. One day, my mother hid the saree and told me that she had thrown it away. My child psyche couldn’t handle the shock and I developed a peculiar reaction. I started fluttering my eyelids constantly...all day...for many days. Concerned, my teachers in school reported it to my parents, who took me to a doctor. On careful investigation it was found that it linked back to the shock of being forcibly detached from that saree. Helpless, my mother returned it to me and the fluttering stopped magically. Eventually I outgrew that habit, thank god.

As an adolescent, I insisted that my two ponytails aligned perfectly and were of equal shape, size, height etc. So much so, that I had a ruler beside the mirror and when Ma was done with my hair, I would measure the alignment. At the cost of missing my school bus, I made her open and re-tie my hair in that perfect straight line that I wanted.

I was such a fine idiosyncratic baby and adolescent; so what suddenly happened when I reached adulthood? True, I like my toast burnt and my nails clipped so short that you would think I have some sort of a disease. But nothing close to a peculiarity that “only the genius possess”.

That makes me sad. Real sad, believe you me.
So KG, Manikarn, Debanjana, Madmax tell me about your idiosyncrasies (or the lack of it). Surely you are doing better than me in that field.

Dil to Bachcha Hai Jee

2010-09-06T23:46:00.000-07:00

After years, even a decade perhaps, found a song that feels like sunshine on a naughty river. It’s like that warm sunlight that makes me happy no matter where and how I meet it. Whether I am sitting on the terrace of my grandmother’s 18th-century house, amidst poppadums and pickles....or on a beach looking at happy lovers holding hands and sharing candy floss, sunlight always makes me happy.
So does this song.

When the rest of the world seems to be gushing about the latest in sound technology, digitally morphed voice tones that sound almost robotic, this song uses the most archaic of musical instruments...flutes and even a harmonium I think. Its utterly hummable melody reminds me of an abandoned tree trunk...untouched, raw, unpolished, yet majestic in its sheer strength of character.

It woos me with the innocence of a black and white Bollywood movie:
...when heroines were still coy and heroes were content writing pages of poetry on their beloved’s eyelash...
...when “sweet” was more attractive than “sexy” and “melody” reigned over “beat”...
...when songs were songs and not item numbers...
...and music was happy being just the “food of love”...not a political statement or a voice of the materialistic world...
It takes me to such a time....

But today, when the sky was dark and sunshine was on a holiday, the song did something that it hadn’t done the numerous other times I listened to it. It made me think...it made me sad.

Old age doesn’t scare me. But what if I am too young to understand it? What if I am naive in not being scared? As if aching joints and coughing all night weren’t bad enough...life in old age is like living in a courtroom. You wear red...the world will call you garish and unsophisticated. You enjoy food...the word will call you gluttonous. You fall in love...the world will prosecute you with the meanest of comments.
What if this isn’t a happy song at all?
Can someone please listen to it and tell me if it's supposed to be sad or happy?

Koi to rokey, koi to tokey
Is umra mein ab khao ge dhokey
Dar lagta hai ishq karne me jee
Dil to bachcha hai jee

Snail in our Mail

2010-07-08T02:11:00.000-07:00

If you thought that that our family was 11 of us only, you were wrong.

Our mailbox is home to a family of snails. They think our mails are their meals. I think their favourite dish is important bank documents. Our pin numbers and bank statements are digested and excreted overnight. All that is left of those is the ANZ Bank logo. They don’t seem to like the junk mail at all. The fliers from cheap Chinese restaurants in the neighbourhood....or the price list of the local grocery shop are left untouched. It’s just the mails with our names on it that they like. This makes me sure that it’s a conspiracy. They do it deliberately. If paper was food, surely they wouldn’t let go of the colourful brochures, which look (and maybe even taste?) much better than the bland looking bank documents. But no. They want to chew our financials. True, our savings account balance is $0.00 (after buying this house). But come on. Some respect? At least leave the “minimum balance due” and the “due date” intact?

We have to call up the banks and redirect our mails to our office addresses. But the softy that I am, I don’t want to starve them. So I have decided that after I pay the bills, I will put them back in the mailbox for the snails.

If Sister Anne Mary (of Loreto convent) was reading this, she would know that I may never have memorised the Christmas carols, but I was paying attention to “All things bright and beautiful...all creatures great and small”.

But most importantly, I hope the snails realise what a kind lady I am and leave my “End of season VIP shoe sale discount vouchers” alone, which I was told by the shoe shop had already been dispatched and cannot be redirected. I have spent thousands of dollars all year to win these (and that explains our savings balance too). If anything happens to them, the “creatures great and small” better have their tombstone ready.

Graphic - Courtesy Google.

Our family is growing...

2010-07-06T18:09:00.000-07:00

And suddenly, we are a family of 11. Some of us...2 to be more precise, prefer to stay indoors. While the other 9, prefer the pond outside. Yes, we have a new house now....with our very own fish pond too!

Introducing 9 new characters in the Sen family. I apologise to them for not coming up with gender-based names; but I thought they would hate me even more if I held them out of water to inspect their bottoms to determine their gender (not sure if that’s where lies the secret):

Anarkali, Kathakali, Peyajkali - They are coy, Japanese coy (Koi)...and their names are part of an aquatic experiment to see if fish can get an identity crisis if they are named after legendary humans, dance forms and vegetables.

Katrina – The prettiest gold fish named after the Bollywood actress. No prizes for guessing who named her. If you know why I am forced to watch trash Hindi movies starring Katrina Kaif, you will pretty much know why we have one in our pond. She exercises all day (swims every second, while the others often float lazily, enjoying the sun and the moss). And really watches her diet (eats the least) to maintain that figure of hers. She may have won quite a few pond enemies and I am praying there are no cat fights in there. (Can fish have cat fights anyway? But I do have catfish in the pond too!)

Gupi and Bagha – The 2 catfish, rather shy. My tribute to the legend that Ray was....and hopes for some good song and drums for the pond mates. Again, not sure if fish enjoy song and drums. Maybe their version of it involves sending out bubbles of different shapes and sizes and creating ripples of varying lengths. Will need to watch them for a while to know.

Utpal Dutt – Another Japanese Coy (JC). Need some good quality sense of humour in the house, considering that Amit’s and mine are pretty rotten.

Dilip Kumar – JC, again. What’s a home without some drama?

Arjun Rampal – Another JC. I thought I needed some macho presence in the pond... to keep Katrina motivated and to stop fights and maintain pond peace.

So that's that. I have christened them now...and I already worry if they don't eat their food. True, I don't need to change nappies. But I still deserve a belated Mother's Day gift. Anybody listening?

Survival of the Fattest - Fat Fact 3

2010-06-16T20:34:00.000-07:00

Always envied that dream dimple? Well, wait no longer. You can now have 10 dimples…not on your face, obviously.

But on the back of your hands (nails facing upwards). If you can gather enough fat so that the bones that join your fingers to the main bones of the hands are carefully hidden inside spongy fatty skin tissue, you can flaunt ten cute dimples!Yahoo!

For fat fact 2, visit:
http://scribblingawaytoglory.blogspot.com/2010/04/survival-of-fattest-fat-fact-2.html

My First Live Footy Game: A Not-So-Brief History

2010-05-17T00:54:00.000-07:00

It would be fun to watch a game I did not understand and had no interest in, I thought. I could concentrate on the crowd and the food and could wear my Eskimo jacket that I can’t wear anywhere else unless I want to look retarded. In a stadium full of mad fans, no one would notice me...and even if they did, it’s an open stadium on a winter night; not totally different from the Arctic anyway.

Thanks to the new “Win tickets to AFL” initiative at work, we would finally get to watch a live match in the Subiaco Oval...something we always wanted to do, just for the experience (and also because Subiaco has the best restaurants).What? You seriously must be kidding if you thought I would actually carry homemade “dabba” with roti, dal and chicken curry to the stadium...or even homemade chicken sandwiches for that matter. And surely you don’t suppose that the burger and chips available inside the stadium at half time could fill me up for dinner. There you go...every finger was pointing towards a restaurant in Subiaco. What joy!

I had witnessed the AFL madness for the last 2 years... having shared my office cubicle with two Dockers fans who could sell their wives if they had to in order to see a game. There were at least a dozen others at work who chatted in the office kitchen every day, sharing notes, renewing their loyalty pledge for the purple team, showing off statistics like school kids at a quiz.

This bubble of excitement was punctured right when it was at its peak, by our Office Manager who thought she brought me good news. “By the way Deblina”, she said “hope you know that you have premium seats in the stadium and both Jack (MD) and Jill (CEO) will be there with their families to watch the game”.

And before you think that I work for Nickelodeon, where the MD and CEO are called Jack and Jill...let me assure you that those are pseudo-names for the purpose of this post.

WHAT! Both Jack and Jill would catch me at my dumbest best? I don’t even know who’s playing who....had been planning my dress and dinner instead! What the hell am I going to talk to them about? My Eskimo jacket? Shit. Shit. Shit.
I was covered in shit.

So I did what I do when am in trouble. I Googled. And there it was... “12,500,000 results”. That could keep me busy for the rest of my life! But with my post-graduation in “Skim Reading: 100 ways to read a little and know a lot”, I was sure I could do it. I could fool the University of Calcutta...I believed I could repeat that with Jack and Jill.

So after an afternoon of frantic research...brief history, rules, teams, players...I wasn’t looking too bad.

We took the train to Subi, as chances of getting a parking on a footy night was as strong as me playing for the AFL. The Peth station looked like Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. And am not exaggerating like I usually do. Only difference was that it was painted purple. The Dockers fans in their purple jumpers, socks, scarves, t-shirts, caps, bags, wallets…even lipstick (trust me on this), were quite a sight. Amit and me were the only “plain clothed” passengers on the train. And now I stand corrected…Perth does not have a population of 400. It has at least a little more than 41,283 (the stadium attendance on the night). Little more than that I say, because I know 2 friends who have flu and could not go to the Oval that night.

With my head crammed with footy facts, I reached our seats. There there…I could already see Jolly, a company shareholder (again, not real name) from a distance…so Jack and Jill wouldn’t be far away. But Jolly did not know me, thank god for that.
In a few minutes, neither Jolly, nor the constant fear of seeing Jack and Jill mattered anymore. The game got addictive…the excitement, contagious. Beers were passed around like water bottles…Aussie swearing, and flags and whistles and cheering and all that it takes to make a spectator sport fun. And I ended up loving the game that I did not understand and had no interest in…

P.S. Turned out that Jack was out of station and Jill couldn’t make it either. So much for my cramming.

When the days are short and the nights are cold...

2010-05-12T18:39:00.000-07:00

We know it's winter. But this year, May though it is, we were not convinced.

It's been like that for the last few weeks. The winter wardrobe was out already...washed and dusted and sun-dried almost. The leggings and scarves brought a dash of colour to my otherwise drab closet. The cute little hand knitted caps flaunted those flawless patterns we often see on knit-books. The black leather boots...the one I picked up from the Myer sale...the one that had the pretty laces near the calves...stood up straight, promising to keep me warm and comfortable...and also secretly assuring me that I need not shave my legs all that often.

The personalised twin thermos flasks that we kiss every morning, all through winter, all through our drive to work, till the last drop of coffee is licked from the lid...lay on the kitchen bench top....spotless and unsipped since last winter.

The electric blankets were fitted but not connected to the power sockets yet. The ugly stand-fans were replaced with the cosy room heaters that had not been brought to life either. They stood there waiting to show off their radiance and light.
The stage had been set. Yet there was something missing.

So while we were all asleep last night, the Heavens sprinkled some dressing on Earth. Magic fingers hovering over the masterfully cooked dish that lacked just a bit.

Yes, that’s what the first rains felt like.
Welcome winter.

Survival of the Fattest - Fat Fact 2

2010-04-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

If your bum size is not big enough to be scary, you can never enjoy a Lazyboy leather recliner to its fullest potential.

If you can fill up the recliner with your body mass, every part of your body is in contact with that superbly smooth leather that feels like silk. For the lankier mortals, what do you plan to do with all that space between you and those luscious hand-rests? Grow weeds? Or build the next Pentagon?

For Fat Fact 1, visit:

http://scribblingawaytoglory.blogspot.com/2009/11/survival-of-fattest-grand-opening.html

Poyla Boishakh (Bengali New Year)

2010-04-14T23:57:00.000-07:00

I never thought of Poyla Boishakh as a “date” really. It was always like the name of a festival like Bhai Phota or Holi. It was my favourite festival for long (as long as I was the youngest member of the extended family, to be more precise). And that was because our family, quite a run-of-the mill family otherwise, had a fantastic nobo borsho ritual which we called “thol-khoroch”.

How it worked:

Step 1 - Wear new clothes and reach Mejo Jethu’s place as early in the morning as possible (that was the only day of the year when didi or me did not need an alarm clock or an angry mother to get up from bed).

Step 2 – Keep a bag, preferably with many pockets and at least a zipper, ready at hand.

Step 3 - Bend down to touch the feet of anyone who is older (even if by a day).

Step 4 – Smile and stretch your hand to collect the “thol khoroch”, which could range from anything between Rs 5 (some miserly pishis) to Rs 50 (generous uncles or aunts with cataract who mistook the 50 rupee note for a 10).

Step 5 – Put it in your bag and add up (for the zillionth time) how much money you have made so far.

Step 6 – Close the bag and keep it with you at all times.

Step 7 – Scan the room/house for anyone who you might have missed…or anyone who you can approach the second time for the same purpose (old dadus with failing memories and a heart of gold were the best targets for this approach).

Step 8 – Stay away from cousins who are a few days/months younger. You never know, they might just drop at your feet for that crazy thing called money.

Step 9 – Call the relatives who haven’t yet arrived at the central venue and ask them to make it fast as you are already “missing them” too much.

Step 10 – Force your father to take you to the houses of those relatives who are sick (or just pretending to be sick).

Step11 – Come back to Jethu’s house and add the money for the final time in the evening.

Step 12 – Decide on a menu with your cousins and order home delivery. Tell the adults that you’ll would pay it with the money collected but quietly sneak away when the delivery boy arrives with the food and the bill.

Step 13 – Eat to your heart’s content while still holding on to your bag (the wicked cousins know that this is the best time to catch you off guard).

Step 14 – Form a committee of “We Have Been So Good All Year; So We Deserve A Raise And Will Not Accept Anything Less Than Rs 10 Next Year” and let the adults know about it.

Step 15 – Go back home and hit the bed, making sure that the bag is under your pillow (own siblings too cannot be trusted on matters such as these).

Years have passed since then and today Poyla Boishakh is about:

Step 1- Set a reminder to call people in India.

Step 2- Exchange wishes and “virtual” thol khoroch over the phone.

Step 3 – Go out to eat (if not too lazy or tired) and sound like your dadu who always said “those were the days…”

Cleaning Bras

2010-02-01T21:32:00.000-08:00

It’s so annoying to know that school days are fun. Annoying, because my 1GB human memory hasn’t archived experiences from so long back. I try to tell myself that it’s good to travel light. But having forgotten your camera, and toothbrush, and medicines and slippers is not really “travelling light”. It’s like taking off in your thongs!

If it wasn’t for those school photographs that my mother preserved…where the whole class sat with the class teacher, in neat rows (in ascending order of height) I would have thought that I was born married. But apparently not.

These days, I get some more proof. I get flashes of those ancient days (surprisingly, they are not in black and white). Suddenly, on a lonely afternoon, I laugh out loud. I stumble upon a funny tale from those apparently fun days of pigtails and acne and heartaches and calculus and rolled-down socks and Maggie in lunch boxes and, God bless us, Home Science classes.

I am not sure why I took Home Science as my additional subject (I think Accounts was the only other option and I never really liked anyone or anything that asked me “where the money was spent”). Anyway, before making this life-changing decision (NOT) of selecting my additional subject, I spoke to a few seniors who had been there and done that. Just to get a view of what I was getting myself into.

Me: So what is it that you do in Home Science?
Senior: Oh, nothing much. We knit tea-cosies, lay dinner tables, bake muffins and clean bras.
Me (shocked): Clean bras!! Yuck. Whose bras?
Senior: Mostly Ms Sabarwal’s bras. But sometimes other teachers lend theirs too, if they are exceptionally dirty.
Me: Yuck Yuck! How can someone make you clean their bras? It’s so…yuck!
Senior: Well, I know. But we have no choice really. If we refuse, they will fail us.
Me: Am shocked and insulted! Knitting tea-cosies is stupid and archaic (who uses tea-cosies these days, anyway?)…but cleaning bras is outright degrading.
Senior: Yeah, but we are at their mercy.
Me: So you clean them with …err…your hands, and detergent?
Senior: Oh no no! That’s the first thing they will teach you. Detergent is not good for brass at all. We use Brasso.

(That’s when I first learned the importance of every “s” … and that detergent was indeed very bad for any metallic object at home, including those made of brass).

The Good Samaritan

2010-01-28T18:26:00.000-08:00

There was a buzz in my ears and my head went light. There were strange creatures in my stomach…and my heart skipped a beat.
(No, I wasn’t about to experience the Mills-and-Boonsy first kiss. Have been married for 3 yrs…what were you thinking?)

It is just that being “good” sometimes makes you sick (especially if you are out of practice). This time, literally.

I had bravely volunteered to donate blood in response to an email at work, urging employees to be noble. Am sure the sudden popularity of vampires (thanks to Twilight and True Blood) has made blood donation pretty fashionable. But my reasons were different (am too old to buy vampire stories or santa clauses). I volunteered just for the experience…and of course, to feel good about doing something good.

It was pretty amusing in the start, especially answering questions like:

Have you had male-to-male sex? (which was a compulsory question irrespective of your gender!)
Have you ever been paid for having sex i.e. received gifts, cash etc? (Amit does give me flowers occasionally…does that count?)
Have you had un-protected sex with multiple partners? (with my luck, NO!!)

Anyway, our group entered the Australian Red Cross office at 10.30am. We would be done by 11.30am at the most, we were told. We all had meetings to go back to. So we were donating two things really…our blood and our time. Having worked for some blood-sucking companies in India, this would be cake-walk.
Or so I thought!

After a formal round of interview with a handsome and kind Red Cross officer (I was beginning to reap the harvest of my noble work already), I had my blood pressure, blood iron content and body weight measured. What I lacked in the first two, I sufficiently made up in the last.

And then I lay in a reclining chair, watching Australian Open on a Plasma screen in front of me. There were at least 50 other people lying on similar chairs, elbows resting on colourful cushions and holding spongy balls to squeeze on to ensure a rhythmic flow of blood. You could make out between first timers like me, who clinched their fists and put in more effort than needed to look relaxed. And then there was the “been-here-done-this” category who chatted and laughed with the nurses.

I was doing pretty well, I was told. Except one time that my blood flow wasn’t enough and the nurse told me to change the rhythm at which I squeezed the ball (sounds pretty gross…but that’s exactly what he told me). So I changed the rhythm…and the happy corpuscles oozed out in joy, as if liberated from a body they didn’t fancy much.

When the 500ml pouch was filled to capacity, the needle was removed. I felt a funny buzz in my ears…and the cells on my face seemed to dance a little. But in 5 minutes, I was fine and I headed to the cafeteria for some refreshments.

I asked for a cold coffee…and the next minute, someone was telling me to quickly lie on the floor with my legs up on the chair. This rocks, I thought. Not only free refreshments, but a free body massage as well!! But before I realised, people started fussing over me. Someone fanned me…a colleague made sure my skirt wasn’t on top of my head in the incorrigible position (thank god I was wearing my tights underneath!)…someone said “Call a nurse”, while the one who was fanning me, snapped back “I AM a nurse”. I hadn't a clue what the chaos was about…but I couldn’t stop laughing either. A wheelchair arrived from somewhere and I sat on it, feeling happily dizzy. By this time, my colleagues had caught my contagious laughter…and I caught one of them holding her stomach while she laughed. At this, another nurse asked her “Are you feeling sick too?” And she couldn’t stop laughing to muster a decent reply.

Anyway, I left that chaotic scene on a wheelchair. I was taken to a small corner with curtains all around (guess that was because they didn’t want to scare off the other donors). They took my blood pressure, and it was considerably low. I had managed to stop laughing by now and stared at the blood pressure measuring machine, praying for some decent score. No luck, still. Seconds turned into minutes. I was forced to eat two chocolates (They said “It’s good for you”…wow, no one has ever said that before. I was falling in love with the place). After about 20 minutes, the monitor looked happy and I was allowed to go.

How my colleagues blackmailed me (with posting pictures on facebook, or at least the intranet, of me lying on the floor with my skirt up, laughing like one possessed) is another story. But they also said that just before I …errr…”took the floor” my face went white as paper and I did not respond to a question someone was asking me. How could I? I was concentrating on the buzz in my ears. That’s when they realised I was crankier than I usually am.

Only last week I was telling a friend that I haven’t been blogging for a while because nothing “interesting” seems to happen around me anymore. As they say, be careful what you ask for!

Since you left...

2009-12-14T22:02:00.000-08:00

I could feel that glitter in your eyes…
When we changed continents to start afresh.
I know you are full of wonder…
At the new places we see…the new lives we live.

I know you watched me misty-eyed…
When I tied the knot and said my vows.
I know you blessed us heartily…
When we bowed before you that day.

I could sense your eyes widen with joy…
When Rai was born…and then Rio.
I can feel you stealing a smile…
When Rai recites a poem…and Rio breaks a toy.

I know your heart beamed with pride…
The first day I went to work.
Was it a different kind of pride?

When you saw me at my college awards?

I know you are amazed…
That didi is no longer skinny.
I know you are happy…
That your child is now a mommy.

I know you look after Ma…
As you said you would in your wedding vows.
She misses you for sure...
But you have made sure she is fine.

A lot has happened since you left…
Though it seems like just the other day.
But I know you have been watching over us all…
Then…before then…and always since then.

For Baba, who isn’t there in these happy photographs but has never really left our side.

Date:14.12.09 (8 years since you left)

All's not-well when it ends not-well.

2009-11-22T17:31:00.000-08:00

The drive to work every morning follows the usual pattern of: cursing weekdays, yawns, coffee in my thermos, mints after the coffee, lipstick after the mints and the radio all through. Since I am not much of a newspaper person these days (never was, actually), my only dose of world affairs is the morning radio. Most often it is about another shark bite or skin cancer, but occasionally there is word about wardrobe malfunctions or celebrity separations. I never really take the news to heart…and my heart doesn’t wake up that early anyway.

But it did, last week.

After the familiar voice narrated all the familiar things, it mentioned something that jerked me out of my morning fuzzes. Apparently, there were 60 dead bodies in the Royal Perth Hospital that hadn’t been claimed over the last 8 weeks. There was growing concern among the hospital authorities on the cost, time and effort that would be necessary for the burial of these bodies, if none of the families came forward to take responsibility of the last rites. Authorities also reported that each year the number of unclaimed dead bodies was on the rise. There was reason to believe that families often abandoned the bodies of their relatives/friends as the cost of a funeral was far beyond what an average Australian family could afford. The Global Financial Crisis and unemployment had found yet another manifestation.

Shocked, angry, confused and mostly sad, I couldn’t help but think that in spite of all the progress and development that our generation takes credit for, the human race was getting farther away from being “humane”. Researchers have found burial grounds of Neanderthal man dating to 60,000 BC with animal antlers on the body and flower fragments next to the corpse indicating some type of ritual and gifts of remembrance. And here we are in the 21st century, abandoning our loved ones because “they wouldn’t know, anyway”.

And suddenly those annoying advertisements that urged everyone to get a funeral cover made so much sense: Naturally you don’t want to burden your family and loved ones with outstanding bills and funeral expenses if you were to pass away. With Funeral Expenses Insurance you can help make life easier for your family and loved ones should the worst happen to you.

The worst has happened I think. Not so much the death…but the life that is so helpless or selfish.

Survival of the Fattest – Grand Opening

2009-11-12T19:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,
Today is a special day. I introduce to you, my very own blog-serial called Survival of the Fattest. Through it I will share with you, on a regular basis, the joys of being on the wrong side of the weighing scale. Enough has been written on how good it feels to be slim and trim. Time for a different perspective.
Love,
Scribbler

Today's fat fact -
Fat fact 1: A big tummy won't let you paint your own toe nails.
But it doesn't let you see your own toe nails either, when you are standing straight. One less thing to think about. Imagine all the great things you could do with the extra time. Save the planet, perhaps?

December better hurry up!

2009-11-10T20:31:00.000-08:00

I am so impressed with myself that you can safely avoid me for a while (I am basking in self-glory and my mind is filled with the two letter word that starts with M and ends with E).
Why?

Because I have done the unimaginable…the unthinkable…the unconceivable…the wondrous… the miraculous…the supremocious…the marvellonious…the astoundisauraus…the amazingopottanus…the incredibleccious….the astonishormous…(Yes, I have been interacting with my dinosaur-loving, human-attacking, 2.5 yr old nephew a lot these days).

I have made patishapta. You got it right. The “pithey” that heralds winter.

It’s another story that it is the beginning of summer in Australia…and it’s getting harder every day to eat anything at all, leave aside “pithey”.
Anyway, I wouldn’t let that take away any bit of my glory. I made patishapta…and it is a superb achievement from a kitchen-phobic like me.

I have been desperately waiting for December (that’s when my family comes to visit me…and I can take a long break), right from January this year. Now that it is almost here, I could wait no longer. I thought about all things that I associate with December…the woolens, the monkey cap, the school holidays, the socks and stockings, the bare trees, the cracked feet, the Nivea cold cream, the Christmas lights at Park Street and of course…pithey. Since it would be almost suicidal to wear a monkey cap during peak summer in Australia…or cover myself in cold cream, I reckoned that the only thing I could do to make December hurry up was to make “pithey”.

So I did.

The raw materials:

The process:

The outcome:

Now, December better hurry up.

P.S. If you are wondering that some chef has hacked my blog account and is posting cooking-related posts one after the other, let me assure you that my blog account hasn’t been compromised. I am just in a rare form. And no, I don’t have multiple personality disorder either. I still hate cooking.

Alarm-ed!

2009-11-03T20:48:00.000-08:00

The other day, my mobile started beeping in an unfamiliar way. I hopped off the lounge to answer it. It wasn’t a call though; it was apparently an alarm I had set. Intrigued, I checked the details of the alarm and this is exactly what it said:

“Cut nails”

Amused, puzzled (as I could swear I never set an alarm on my mobile…leave alone such a weird one), a little scared, and slightly drunk (was after a couple of vodkas), I showed it to Amit.

With a robot-face, he said “What is so confusing in this? You just picked up the wrong mobile. This is my mobile and that is my reminder.”

What kind of person sets mobile alerts for “cutting nails”!!! What’s next?
A mobile reminder for “Kiss wife”?

Who am I married to? Should I be scared?

P.S. Apparently, he had set the reminder the day before his cricket practice because longish nails tend to hurt when he is fielding. I still haven’t recovered from the shock.

Condolences, assurances and words of hope are welcome.

The way to a man’s heart is through Amritsar…

2009-10-30T22:49:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon. Working from home. Yawn after yawn. Bored. A noisy insect buzzing in the living room and singing me a lullaby.

But I can’t afford to fall asleep. Have work to finish. And a hungry, tired husband to feed dinner.

Crawl to the freezer. A packet of frozen chillies, quarter packet of frozen corn, half a tub of cookie cream ice-cream, some frozen grated coconut, and half a packet of frozen Basa fillets. Great! Unless the husband eats some ice-cream with corn, chillies and grated coconut…there is nothing for the non-fisheaterian man.

Or is there?

Remember reading somewhere that even the fish-haters can’t say no to “Fish Amritsari”. Crawl back to the laptop. Go to the agony aunt called Google. Browse though a few recipes. And woo-hoo….I am back in business!

I have all the ingredients I need to make Fish Amritsari (how very strange!).

So I marinate the fish:

And fry them:

And this is what the happy husband looks like:

P.S. Considering how much I dislike cooking, I never thought I would ever have a kitchen post on my blog. But I underestimated the power of boredom.

Once upon a bus ride...

2009-10-21T01:52:00.000-07:00

If you have ever taken a public transport on a week day, around afternoon or late morning, am sure you were struck by a lightening of some sort. Here is the story of my (en)lightening.

I had a doctor’s appointment today and had to head straight back to office after that. I was to take a bus to the bus port…from where I had to take another bus to my office (not the best use of my time…but can’t complain…it was ME who had been putting off driving lessons for so long).
By the way, those of you have been asking me how my driving is going:
• I have taken 8 classes as of today and I haven’t killed anyone…injured a car or two, including ours.
• I have decided that I will keep taking classes till I successfully pay off my instructor’s mortgage.
• I have also realised that when I finally get a licence, am not going to need it that much. Retirement homes usually have their own transport.

Anyway, coming back to my public transport story, I must say that the simple exercise of taking a bus filled me with the strangest thoughts. At that time of the day on a week day, the busses are filled with people who are either too old to work….or too young. I happened to sit beside an old lady wearing a hearing aid, clutching her walking stick and her shopping bags, casting furtive and even suspicious glances at me, as if I would snatch her bags or her hearing aid and run away. She looked scared, insecure, and uncomfortable to say the least. Does old age do that to every one?

Her life floated in front of my eyes…
Living alone in an old house, with a little dog perhaps, a little garden, a refrigerator full of easy to chew and easy to digest food, a variety of medicines on the bedside table, a reading glass on her coffee table, a glass jar in the window sill that holds her dentures at night. Grocery shopping is a weekly affair, mainly vegetables and soup, as the doctor had prescribed. The young boy at the pharmacy is friendly and helpful…delivers her weekly medicines for diabetes and blood pressure, and enjoys a nice cup of tea and two biscuits in return. The children don’t visit that often now. The elder son is a truck driver and drives to faraway lands…the younger son visits only when he needs to borrow a little money…who else will a son go to? The daughter visits once in three months and brings the grandchildren too. Jeez! How fast they are growing up. If their grandfather was around, he would have taken them for picnics and fishing…but it’s better that he left. The kidney failure was too much to bear.

The driver braked suddenly, and my thoughts jumped back into the bus. The old lady was as uncomfortable as before. I wanted to hold her hand and say “It’s alright…I have seen your house, your dog, your children…even met the pharmacy boy. I know you. Relax, don’t be scared.” But that would scare her even more. So I pressed mute on my vocal cords.

Opposite to me was a young girl with her nails painted fluorescent pink. From the speed at which her fingers moved on the cell phone to type out a text message or perhaps play a game, I guessed she was in her teens (that would explain the nail colour as well). Her hair was a mess and I am sure she would have taken it as a compliment if I told her so. It was probably the reaction she expected and wanted from a fat, old-fashioned, on-the-wrong-side-of-her-twenties woman like me. It would be pretty uncool for her to have a hairstyle that I found cool. She chewed a gum with the aggression of an Australian fast-bowler. Her fluorescent pink iPod played some noise that was loud enough for me to hear, despite the earphones. Again, she would be happy to know that what was music for her, was noise for me.

What was life like for her?
She must have hated school, and hated homework even more. The only saving grace was that she hung out with the hippest girl gang in school…the group that every girl aspired to be in…the group that was mean and smart and ruthless and sexy and adventurous and not afraid of the teachers or the parents. The group that was chased by the coolest boys…the group that always knew what to do, say, wear, eat, chew, paint, colour, pierce, listen to, in order to keep the rest of the school gawking. Mom and Dad were too busy to notice the secret stash of vodka and cigarettes in her room. When the girl gang had one of the wild pajama parties at her place, she would make them the most intoxicating drink…the one that her ex-boyfriend who was a bartender at a night club for backpackers, had taught her. Presently, she is single…though Rob and Dennis both text her 45 times a day, so it’s almost like being with two boys at the same time. Studying wouldn’t do her any good she decided…she was to become a rock star some day and the old guitar in her room believed in her, if no one else did. Life was kinda fun…school camps were great, and the weekends were great too, when Mom and Dad were away. The little sister is a pain in the butt…knocking her room every minute and totally destroying her privacy. She doesn’t read much, though she really did enjoy the Twilight series a lot. Edward Cullen was just the right guy for her, she thought.

As if it was the intermission of an interesting movie, my mind floated back to the present. I was perplexed and even annoyed at myself…that I had done what I always championed against…that is, I had stereo typed people from their appearances. But this was not the time for self-criticism. I was struck by a lightening…one that was a strange mix of gratitude and haste. I realized that I may be living the best years of my life. I wouldn’t swap places with either of the two ladies I had observed in the bus. I ought to be grateful for the life I had NOW…for my present…which may be boring, and often lonely and unadventurous…maybe slightly typical even…and definitely a lot overweight. But this was indeed the best years of my life! I wouldn’t rewind to teenage (can’t bear the thought of acne and the confusion over my body “growing up” all over again)…and would definitely not look forward to a life with my dog and dentures.

That was it! That was such a great feeling…almost like a rebirth. I had suddenly arrived in life and couldn’t help smiling my broadest smile (I noticed the old lady held her bags even more tightly…the obese smiling-to-herself lunatic must be up to something, she must have thought).

Thanking both the ladies profusely for enlightening me such (in my mind of course), I got down at the bus port. Life couldn’t get better, I realized (touch wood) and I hurried up to make the most of it.

Peyaj Koli

2009-10-06T01:37:00.000-07:00

My first post in Bengali. Those of you thought that nothing could get worse than my English, time for a rain-check.

Inspired by the only vegetable that a carnivore like me doesn't mind eating...once in a while.

Peyaj koli ami tarei boli,
Khete jare lage na mondo.
Halka shobuj boron jar,
Ar peyaj peyaj gondho.

Shobji rajjey “tuchcho” jey,
Alu raja…ar proja shey.
Phoolkopir moto roop oshi shey noy,
Gooney begun-o koreche tar joy.

Peyaj tar pishtuto bhai,
Jodio tader khub meel nai.
Kheyeche shobai, tobu gaye ni keu tar goon,
Jodio radhte lage shudhu kalo jeera ar noon.

Peyaj koli ami tarei boli,
Amar fridge e ekaki shobuj jey.
Radhte shohoj, khete khasha,
Amar priyo shobji shey.

Fat-so?

2009-10-01T18:31:00.000-07:00

Many many kilos ago, there lived a little girl, in the little land of Bongs.
It was Me.

[Though, for those who have had the misfortune of seeing me lately, I understand that it’s difficult to think of me as ever being “little”. My heartfelt apologies for anybody who went back home and dieted/exercised on my behalf. I sincerely hope you have overcome the trauma.]

Anyway, going back many many years when I hadn't taken up the challenge of outdoing the weighing scale, I don’t really see a different “Me”. I mean, I am essentially the same person…just hiding behind layers of adipose…and smiling above the third chin I am blessed with (Oh! What generosity from the God of Adipose).

Though I “see” myself as the same, it’s interesting to note how people’s comments to/on me have changed with the years (kilos).
Sample this:
Earlier
People – Why are you decked up so much? Who are you trying to impress?
Me – Umm…haven’t made the list yet.
Now
People – You look so sweet and cuddly.
Me – Thanks, you said the same thing when you saw my neighbour’s overfed dog.
Earlier
People – You look taller. Are you wearing heels?
Me – Yes I am. It’s quite warm today, so I thought it would be cooler up here.
Now
People – Why are you hugging your saree pallu in every snap? Are you pregnant?
Me – No, just my tummy. Thanks for asking.

When I hear about my friends being on diets (friends who are half my weight) or my fit-and-frisky colleagues going for a run at lunch time, I wonder:
Is there more wrong with me than my weight?

Why don’t my hands fumble when I generously butter my toasts in the morning?
Why don’t I ever stop at the salad or fresh fruits section at the supermarket?
Why do I confidently ask for two sugars in my cappuccino, where all my friends go for a skinny flat white?
Why do I wait for Amit to pick me up when the shopping centre is just a km away from home? (I even complain if he doesn't manage to get the nearest parking)
Why don’t I ever read the calorie information of the food (junk )I buy ?
Why can’t I ever think of a salad as a proper meal? Or a tasty option?
Why don’t I feel ashamed to ask for a size XL when I am out shopping for Tees?
Why do I change the TV channel when they say “1 out of every 2 Australian is obese. Obesity increases your risk of many heart diseases ” ?
Why do I eat the fourth scoop of ice cream without a jitter?
Why does the mirror never make me think of suicide? Or at least a gym?
Why do I love telling my sister that my picture files are too “heavy” to be sent to her?
Why don't the pictures of my slim-and-sexy friends on orkut/facebook intimidate/inspire me?

Is this "I-know-exercise-is-not-for-me" excuse good enough?
Is this “I-don’t-care-how-I-look” attitude normal?
Is this “I-know-diets-don’t-help” perspective a kind of escapism?

There is more wrong with me than my weight.
[sigh]
I think I need therapy.

But for now, a brownie would do.

"Me" - time

2009-09-29T00:55:00.000-07:00

Socialising is the greatest form of masochism. You put time, effort and money into meeting new people or catching up with old acquaintances…and then let these very people steal your peace of mind, increase your stress level and leave you disgusted.

The one thing that I really want to be is:
“Self-motivated to be happy” (as one of my wisest friends, Sus di puts it)

As each day goes by, I realise how badly I need to master, or at least acquire this skill. At the moment, I am far from it…depending on “external factors” for my daily dose of happiness.

Friendless, in a far-away land that has offered very few like-minded people, I absolutely MUST learn to be happy alone.

Wish I could be happy in my own company (which is hard…because I am quite boring unless drunk)

Wish I did not need "people" to talk to(I could talk to the trees or insects in my garden and am sure they would reciprocate better)

Wish I had as much fun reading a book or watching a movie as I do when I am with friends (which would also help build that dream library I want so badly)

Wish I did not need to call a hundred people in India to feel good (which would save a lot of money too)

Wish I wouldn’t let random comments from random people affect my peace of mind (which would let me concentrate on other more important things like cloud-watching or cleaning the toilet)

If only I could start enjoying the “me” time, I would be so much closer to the person I want to be.

Aroma therapy

2009-09-09T02:30:00.000-07:00

If I could have perfumes specially made for me, I would order these:

Pujo-pujo smell

Ma-ma smell

Bari-bari smell

Kolkata-kolkata smell

Hill station- hill station smell

Brishti-brishti smell

Lazy Sunday afternoon smell

Summer holiday smell

Shiraz Biriyani smell

Bikel-bela-tele-bhaja-and-cha smell

Holi’r abir smell

Bedwin mutton roll smell

Sea-side smell (not the stinking fish types…but the fresh cool breeze types)

P.S. I wouldn’t really “wear” these (I don’t have too many friends here, anyway…and I have to keep my job too). Would just smell them occasionally, according to my mood. I am particularly missing the first one now :(

Home is where the familiar “smell” is.

2009-09-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

I never quite understood the romanticism/obsession about a “house”, though it has been the bricks of some great literature. It could be a menacing backdrop, as in Pinter’s The Room or a symbol of “purpose in life” as in Naipaul’s A house for Mr Biswas. Whatever it was, I never quite connected with it, till I visited my “home” two years back…after ages.

Opening the rusty lock, I entered a house full of dusty memories. Having been deserted for quite a few years, the smell of “dust” was beginning to overpower the smell of “home” that I so longed for. Fighting the cobwebs that hung from the ceiling, I tried to concentrate. The sofa that was also a clever little spare bed for cousins who stayed back the night had been specially designed by Baba. I removed the batik-printed bed cover from it (covered by Ma, to protect it from dust), to see if the colour was still what I remembered it to be. It was…only slightly faded.

The pegs on the wall smiled a strange naked smile. The paintings and photographs of friends and family had been dismounted when Ma went away to stay with Didi. They are kept somewhere safe in the cupboards, I think…but the walls look bruised without them.

The book-shelves in my room had also been wrapped up in a floral printed bed cover that I remember on the beds where I sat to do homework. The books were still there…neither Didi nor I could carry them all to our new cities. I picked up the Byomkesh Bakshi : Collection that Mama had given me when I did well in college. The second page had that beautiful handwriting, almost like calligraphy:
Dear Tuli,
May you enjoy the “search” as much as you enjoy the “find”.
Blessings,
Mama

The pujo place, which was actually a shelf converted to a place of worship, was empty. Ma had carried the Gods that she could…and the rest were sent to Mamabari, for regular “jol, batasha and dhoop kathi”. What remained was an old brass dhoop-kathi stand, which didn’t seem to find a new home and lay there all alone. I tried hard again to remember the smell of the incense sticks that Ma used…a chandan one, I think. But the cobwebs distracted me again.

Desperate for some fresh air, I went to the balcony. There were a few pots still, but no plants. Ma had given away most of her potted plants to neighbours and family. She could have left at least the old cactus behind, which always reminded me to a toothless, hairless old man. Cacti don’t need water or care, so am sure it would have survived. But no. She left all her loved ones, with some other loved ones.

I plugged in the old tape recorder that Didi and me had bought with our saved money (years later, we came to know that Baba had to pool in 90%, as our savings could buy us a few cassettes, not a whole cassette player. But we always thought it was “our” hard-saved money…and when Baba asked us to lower the volume, we sometimes told him that we won’t because it was OURS and we could do what we wanted with it.). Luckily, there was a cassette in it “Cliff Richards: Young Ones.” Half expecting the player to crash at my touch, I pressed the Play button.

And to my surprise, the magic voice started singing, low but clear. Clearing away the cobwebs from my home and from my memories, the music brought that familiar “smell” back.

Inspired by a recent conversation with a friend who is also visiting her home after ages.

My home on GoogleMaps:
http://wikimapia.org/435296/Aelite-Housing-Soceity-3-Bidhan-Sishu-Sarani-Kol-700-054

Therapy for a bad day...

2009-09-01T23:40:00.000-07:00

It’s one of those days when suicide seems to be the best option…or murder.

And anybody who asks you to “take it easy” or “take a few deep breaths” reserves a place in your serial-killing victims list (an Excel sheet with no colours but grey).

So here’s an exercise for world peace. Am trying to think of all things I want, badly want:

A tree house where I can vanish…and simply disappear

A hammock in my backyard that overlooks the sea

A massage that just goes on and on …and on…and on

A sunny window sill where I can read, day dream and doze off

Is it too much to ask for?

Images - Gracias, Google
Acknowledgements - Gracias, Debanjana. I remember one of your posts on these lines.

The Mythical Land of "Maike"...

2009-09-01T02:23:00.000-07:00

I have no doubt that most women today are more privileged than their counterparts from the black-and-white days. No getting married when you would rather go for school camps….no being thrown into the fire when a granddad of a husband takes off for the other world….no being mistaken for firewood by a dowry-greedy mother-in-law…no becoming mothers when you would rather be a kid yourself.

Having said that, I think the women today are deprived of a rather cool privilege. That of rushing off to the “maike” (parents’ place) when they got angry with the husband. It must have been so liberating! One had so many options to choose from:

Light anger – Don’t talk till forgiveness is asked for.

Medium anger – Have a war of words…cry a little…and threaten to go away to your “maike” till the opponent is moved to the golden words of “I am sorry.”

Heavy anger – Cry a lot…pack your clothes (don’t forget the novel you have been planning to read for a while) …walk out of the young man’s house…to walk into the old man’s house (who is always happy to see you, no matter what).

And then, life would be such a party! Eat and sleep and chat and read…and do what you want to do, while closely monitoring the number of times the husband calls in a day (of course you have given out strict instructions that the phone should not be passed to you, no matter what). And when you are sure that he has suffered/felt guilty enough…give him the chance to say “Sorry” or “Please come back home” or “I miss you”. Cry a tear or two to prove once again that “You were really hurt”, but say “yes” when he asks you if he should come to pick you up.

Then go back to a home where the pleasantest surprises are awaiting you. Dinner is cooked (for a change)…maybe a bunch of flowers somewhere to welcome you back home. What bliss!

There was something romantic about the whole episode, don’t you think? The parents are aware that it is only “one of those fights”, and don’t really force you to go back. The neighborhood friends pour in to ask “What exactly happened?” and you spice up the story, where obviously “he” is always at fault. And all this happens under the quiet, reassuring feeling that you will make up with him in a day or two and the two of you will live happily ever after… till the next fight.

Alas! “Maike” these days is as much a mythical place as “Kailash” or “Brindavan”.

We can fight and scream and cry and go into the “I-am-not-talking-till-you-say-sorry” mode. But we can’t rush off to the “maike”. Unless we are ready to apply for a visa, take annual leaves, buy last-moment expensive train/air tickets and travel a few thousand miles or nautical miles.

There is just no fun in marital fights anymore.

Jhooth bole - Bobby (Hindi song)- Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

Driving FAQs

2009-08-26T20:15:00.000-07:00

Why is “driving someone crazy” so easy while “driving a car” so difficult?

The grocer’s shop from the petrol station is 2.5 kms. Why does it feel like 0.5 kms when Amit is driving, and 250 kms when I am trying to drive? Is distance inversely proportional to driving expertise? Why didn’t they say so in our Physics books, then?

Why is it important to “indicate” even when you are practicing steering control in an empty parking bay at midnight? Why is it that nothing makes your husband angrier than when you fail to indicate (even if you have taken a good stable turn)?

Why do I act like I am colour blind at a traffic signal? I surely can tell between a red, green and yellow when I am anywhere in the car apart from the driver’s seat. Again, if colour blindness was related to your position inside the car, why didn’t they say so in the Biology books?

Why is it that I can turn “left” when I tell myself “turn left” but will always turn “right” when someone else asks me to take “left”?

Why is it that my "brain" wants to obey my driving instructor but my "hands and feet" will take instructions from nobody but me?

How many times will I have to tell myself that to indicate “left” I need to turn that thing “up”? Don’t know what it’s called…but am referring to an elongated, protruding, rounded-at-the-tip part that can move up and down and also sideways and even a gentle touch can make it move. (Now will you dirty minds stop giggling and tell me what it's called?)

Why did it take me so much time to understand that while reversing a car, the “back” of the car moves to the direction to which the steering is turned? For god’s sake, when you are “reversing”, you want the car to move “backwards” and what the “front” of your car does is none of your concern! Why couldn’t I get such a simple thing?

And most importantly…

Why don’t they have something in between the accelerator and the brakes? Am I the only one confusing the two and speeding up head-on towards incoming traffic?

Of Faux Pas and Morals - Part 2

2009-08-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

If you haven't read part 1, here it is.

It came to me like an epiphany...
That the greatest morals...
Are born...
Out of the greatest Faux pas…

At this year’s performance appraisal, I really couldn’t think of anything that I wasn’t happy with. I liked my job, I had awesome flexibility, the pay wasn’t bad, I could work from home when I wanted to, my teammates were competent and friendly and my manager was understanding and appreciative. So I spend hours on the “What you would like to change in your role” field on the self-appraisal form. But it seemed to be quite boring to leave that field empty. So I just forced myself to put this in:

“Would like to be involved in other creative work like advertising and promotional material”

(As if I didn’t already have my plate full with technical writing!)

Anyway, my manager was delighted at the proposition and asked me to prepare this year’s advertisement for our annual conference, which is a BIG event. My brief was to promote the Training team and to get more clients to come to us for training. I was excited.

The world was getting stingy and most companies preferred to train their employees in-house rather than sending them to the expensive professional training departments. So, I decided to make use of a good statistic that I found somewhere. “In-house training costs X% more than outsourced training “(though we tend to believe just the opposite). The idea was to make companies aware that sending their employees to us for training will not only ensure better performance but would also turn out cheaper.

Toying with this idea, I thought of an analogy, which was something around these lines:

“You wouldn’t school your children at home.
Then why train your employees in-house?”

And this would be followed by the cool statistic that I had found.

I also thought of a picture of a bored kid being schooled at home by his mother, with a blackboard hung in the kitchen and the chair next to him being occupied by their pet dog.

Quite happy with the concept, I called a meeting with the key stakeholders i.e. managers of the different departments, the Business Development team and my manager, of course.
When the clock struck 10am (actually there is no clock in my office really that “strikes” with that much drama…but there is something mysterious in saying so, instead of saying “At 10 am…” Don’t you think?)…

…the meeting room looked busy. The seats were taken, the projector switched on, the first slide of my presentation up.

And I decided I would share “how” I arrived at the idea before proceeding with the idea itself.
So I said “We all have memories of our school days. Good, bad, ugly…but memories nonetheless. We may have bunked school, hated exams, faked absent notes, copied homework from friends, waited eagerly for the lunch break, wrote silly rhymes on teachers we hated, bullied the “bulliable” kid and pretended to fall sick just before a test we hadn’t studied for. But we all remember school. And no one can deny that it is a BIG influence on who we are today.”

Saying this, I presented the main slide…with the picture of the bored kid, and the text accompanying it.

After a brief silence, my manager spoke (god bless him). He said “Good work, Deblina. But there are many parents who really don’t send their children to school.”

Annoyed that such a superb concept was so casually rejected, I said “But that’s quite stupid. Why on earth would parents want to deprive their child of an experience that every child deserves? I know that some of the greatest people have never been to school…but that’s different. We don’t do that anymore. Not going to school is not an option for any of us, petty mortals.”

“Actually, I was home-schooled myself. None of my siblings went to school. And you wouldn’t say we did badly for ourselves, would you?” my manager said.

I gaped.

Moral:

Never ask for more work when you already have sufficient.

Keep your opinions to yourself. Better still, don’t have opinions

I have sinned

2009-08-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

A recent visit to a little church in Fremantle sparked the religious cells of my body. And I realised I was a sinner. That too of the “deadly” variety.

Gluttony
"Gluttony is an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be force-fed rats, toads, and snakes."
This one’s going to take me to Hell for sure. Biriyani from Shiraz, momos from Tibetian Delight, fried rice from Lords, mutton rolls from Bedwin, gulab jamun from Haldiram’s…gosh, I have sinned. I have gulped and swallowed and eaten till I almost puked. And I don’t intend to repent or change. So Hell, keep the juiciest rats and the fattest toads ready for me.

Lust
"Lust or lechery, is usually thought of as excessive thoughts or desires of a sexual nature. Giving in to lusts can lead to sexual or sociological compulsions and/or transgressions including (but not limited to) sexual addiction, fornication, adultery, bestiality, rape, perversion, and incest.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be smothered in fire and brimstone. Not kisses."
On one of my farm vacations as a child, I once pulled a cow’s tits really hard. That was when an old man (caretaker of the farm I think) had taken us (cousins and me) to the shed to show us the big cows and how they were milked. So that was really bad of me and I hope that cow can forgive me for the torture. But since I did not really rape the cow or want to have sex with it, I think I will not have to walk within the flames. Not sure, though.

Greed
"Greed is the desire for material wealth or gain, ignoring the realm of the spiritual. It is also called Avarice or Covetousness.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be boiled alive in oil."
I exaggerated in my self- appraisal form and wrote the longest list of “Employee’s Achievements in the Financial Year 2006-2007” in order to convince my Manager that I deserved a raise. How very materialistic of me! Can I have olive oil in Hell to boil in, please? I seem to have a cholesterol problem and olive oil is all I am allowed to use. Thank you.

Sloth
"Sloth is the avoidance of physical or spiritual work.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be thrown into snake pits."
If Gluttony takes me to Hell, Sloth’s going to keep me there. Well, I am prepared for the snake pits …I have had my share of cooks and cleaners and gardeners and dishwashers and washing-machines and frozen meals.

Wrath

"Wrath is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be dismembered alive."
I don’t break flower vases or expensive pieces of china when I am angry (what a waste). But I must confess that I almost bit a piece of flesh off Amit’s palm when I got angry once (can’t remember why). I also tore a handful of my sister’s hair when she refused to share a piece of cake (that too, after I had finished my share). Can I at least nominate which part of my body should be dismembered first in Hell? I’d like my stomach to go first, please. I always wanted to see myself without a tummy.

Envy
"Envy is the desire for others' traits, status, abilities, or situation.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be put in freezing water."
I have sinned. I have envied Julia Robert’s smile, Ambani’s wealth, Bill Gates’ brains, J. Lo’s ass, Sushmita Sen’s height, Dawn French’s sense of humor, Cliff Richard’s voice, Bill Bryson’s writing style, Oprah’s influence on people and Angelina Jolie’s luck with husbands.
I don’t mind snake pits and being burnt in oil. But freezing water!!! O how cruel!! I usually go without a bath if I cannot have warm water in winter (and sometimes even in summer. I hate taking baths anyway!). Please. Pleeeeaaase. Can I get lukewarm water, if I don’t envy anyone from this moment on?

Pride
"Pride is excessive belief in one's own abilities that interferes with the individual's recognition of the grace of God.
Your punishment in Hell will be: You'll be broken on the wheel."
Usually, in most matters, I have absolutely “no belief in my own abilities”. But somehow, I thought that I can eat as much as I want…and not exercise at all, and can still remain non-obese. Now that I AM obese, this belief is shattered. So perhaps my putting on weight has some benefits after all…they won’t find a wheel big enough to crush me in Hell [Evil grin :)].

They say that in confession lies redemption. I hope the keepers of Hell are reading this. But if they were advanced enough to read blogs, surely they would have come up with more techno tortures like “data-entry for a 1000 years” or “write formal emails to a zillion people” or “read technical manual (perhaps the ones I wrote) for eternity” or “test buggy software non-stop till you die and are born again in Hell” etc .

Dunno. Any clue?

Sin research: http://www.deadlysins.com/sins/

Image: Google

Honeymoon

2009-07-29T01:03:00.000-07:00

No am not going on my nth honeymoon…in fact am not even going on a vacation before December. But lately I have had many friends (who are hoping , fearing or simply going to get married soon) ask me “So give me some honeymoon tips.” As if people have taken me on their honeymoon since I was born!!!

On googling “honeymoon”, you get 22,400,000 results. Just shows how much “collective” information there is out there. But no “one” person can be considered an authority, as a person can technically go on a honeymoon only a few times (depending on the number of failed marriages). Of course there are a zillion “honeymoon experts” in the form of travel agents and package dealers…who will do everything that is to be done (except perhaps sleep with your partner).

So here’s my two cents worth, if none of the 22,400,000 results have quite helped you:

Do not postpone your honeymoon for a “more suitable” time. Go for one immediately after the wedding, while the mehndi is still fresh and the mind is in its “spending best”. If you decide to do it later, trust me, it will either never happen….or even if it does, will never be the same. Money will be short, holidays not long enough, destinations never decided, moods never right, and the most horrible “we-have-been-married-3-months-what-do-we-need-a-honeymoon-for” feeling or the "let's-ask-Guddu-and-Mampi-to-join-us-it-will-be-more-fun" feeling. DON’T let that happen. Set off from the reception venue, if you must.

Choose a place that both of you haven’t visited earlier. If one of you has, it will be like watching a thriller with someone next to you narrating the next scene…or worse still someone being very helpful by telling you what’s going to happen at the end. You don’t want your partner to show off his/her geographical/navigational/cultural/lingual expertise when you are on a honeymoon. Go to a new place and see it for the first time…together.

A honeymoon is NOT a usual vacation. So don’t make plans and checklists and places-to-visit lists. Even if you are the adventurous explorer, trust me, you will get plenty of opportunities to visit places in your life. You don’t HAVE TO see all the places that are to be seen…or do all the things that are to be done. Relax by the beach/mountain/forest…or in the spa, drink exotic fluids the names of which you can’t pronounce after a drink, eat the most extravagant meals, and chat chat chat. Get to know each other rather than getting to know the place (I know most marriages happen after a lifetime of “seeing-each-other”. Nevertheless, don’t give up on trying to “know” each other as that’s an exercise you will have to do all your life. Better start it when the weddings rings are still sparkling).

Choose a remote place that doesn’t have internet or mobile connections. You don’t want to check your work mails…or get phone calls from over-enthusiastic friends and family asking you “how is it going?”

Make sure that the indoors are as good as the outdoors (you might not want to go out at all :)). So the hotel/chalet/resort or whatever other cool things they have these days, should be one that makes you say “wow”.

Meditate for 5 seconds everyday in the morning. It might be too much to tolerate your partner 24/7 for 5-7 days at a stretch, with no one else to talk to.

Carry more clothes/shoes/accessories than you need or can possibly wear during your stay. Remember, these days the whole idea of going on an exotic honeymoon is to be able to impress friends and friends’ friends on orkut and facebook!! So you must look as cool as you possibly can.

Last but the MOST important, carry a tripod. Otherwise you will end up with dozens of solo pictures…or distorted and bloated faces of the two of you trying to look at the camera that you are holding as far away as you possibly can (doesn’t really help unless you have long hands like the “petnis” we read about as children ). Worse still, having one or two pictures of the two of you together that a kind passerby had volunteered to click. Remember, kind people are mostly bad photographers…and you cannot ask them to keep clicking till you look your slimmest best. A tripod will help solve all your photographic dilemmas.

So that’s that. Happy honeymooning!

Horrid Horror

2009-07-19T20:38:00.000-07:00

I am a wannabe. Someday I want to watch a horror movie all by myself…in an empty house, at night. At the moment, here is what the situation is like:

I need a room full of people (preferably the brave types). These people need to act normal i.e. eat pop corn, cough or sneeze regularly, leave their cell phones in Loud mode, talk to one another once in a while. In short, I need constant proof that they are alive and normal….and have not frozen into mummies or evaporated in the air (as I sometimes feel may happen, during a scary movie).

I need two men on either side of me (men, not women…as most ghosts are women in white, with their long hair on their face). These days Amit usually obliges by being on one side (god bless him). To fill up the other side, I look for other people’s husbands (not a good thing for my character certificate). I end up with the feeling of being watched, all through the movie…double-watched in fact (one by the spirit in the movie, and one by the wife of the husband who has kindly volunteered to sit by my side). That, I’m afraid, is not a particularly reassuring feeling.

I need these two men on my two sides, to not leave their seats for a single second. No, they are not allowed a bathroom break while the movie is on. So Amit usually empties his bladder before taking his seat, and advises the ‘other man’ to do the same. Needless to say, I do so too…and I don’t drink anything after that, lest my kidneys call.

I need all the lights and heater to be on (spirits, I hear, do not prefer light or heat).

I need a blanket to cover myself and my eyes when camera angles and music suggest that something horrid is about to happen. It springs from the ‘if-I-can’t-see-them-they can’t-see-me-either’ feeling. This however, does not work on exceptionally well-directed movies, where the most horrid scenes appear when least expected.

After the movie, I need an escort everywhere I go, including the bathroom. The distance between the escort and me is directly proportional to the passage of time after the movie (as more time elapses, the distance can increase) and inversely proportional to the degree of fear (the more scared I am, the closer I need the escort to be). At the moment it works somewhat like the following:

Day 1 (immediately after the movie) - Escort needs to be inside the bathroom, with his/her back turned to me. He or she is allowed to sing in order to distract themselves from the sounds that my digestive tract or an over-eager flow of pee can make.
Day 2 – Escort can stand outside the bathroom door, which will be left open. Again, singing is allowed.
Day 2 – Escort can stand outside the bathroom door, which can now be shut, but not locked (so that he/she can rush inside in case I get any sudden attack of fear).
Day 3 – Escort can stand outside the bathroom door, which can now be locked. However, he/she needs to keep singing so that I know that they haven’t left their posts.
Day 4 onwards – I am pretty much independent again. Escort should however be ready for providing service in an emergency (a nightmare or a scary scene on television).

Acknowledgements: Ma was my most loyal escort all the years I was at home. Amit has reluctantly taken up her position, after our marriage. God bless you both!

Inspired by a recent viewing of The Ring, at a friend’s place.

My Drawing-Book Fantasy Land of Yesteryears…

2009-07-08T18:41:00.000-07:00

A neat mountain range…
The bright yellow sun peeping from a valley…
A winding red-soil road leading nowhere…
Dark green meadows…
Clear blue sky without a trace of cloud or fear…
Some pink wild flowers that bloom all year round…
Three birds flying in formation…

Has anyone been there?
Will I ever be there?

Brick Lane

2009-07-02T23:29:00.000-07:00

I had promised myself that if I managed to read any book that was over 500 pages, I would write about it. The lazy reader that I am, I can barely ever finish a book that fat.
Brick Lane by Monica Ali was 491 pages, close to my 500-page criterion. Not only did I finish it, I wanted more.

Trimming your husband’s nasal hair, or scraping the corn on his feet, may not be your idea of marital bliss. But for many women, it is! At least when they are not beaten, bathed in acid, or abused in return. For Nazneen, it was the only life she had known…the only life she tried to be grateful for.

The story in a sentence is:
Nazneen, a simple girl from a village in Bangladesh, settles down in the UK with her husband Chanu.
I am going to take up parts of that sentence to give you a perspective.

‘Simple girl from a village’ – Nazneen grew up with her mother’s teachings, one of which was ‘never to question fate because if God wanted them to ask questions, He would have made them men’. Her childhood in her village serves as a repository of stories…stories that she tells herself when she is alone…stories that she tells her two daughters when they want to peep into her world.

Bangladesh – The spirit of Bangladesh breathes through Nazneen’s small UK apartment…and her life. She gets a taste of her motherland, in the letters from her sister Hasina…in the gossips of her neighbours…in her sewing machine…in the food she cooks…in the Dhakai saree she wears…in the Brick Lane where many more Bangladeshi immigrants have build their new homes.

‘Settles down in the UK’ – UK, or UK as seen by Muslim immigrants, is where most part of the story unfolds. The cultural confusion faced by the second generation kids, the effect of 9/11 on the world and on the Muslim community of the world, the drug abuse and ‘gang’ formation in the dingy dark alleys, the hard work that mostly pays but often doesn’t…and yet the promise of a better life. In short, it was her life in UK that introduced Nazneen to that part of herself that she would have never known.

‘with her husband Chanu’ – In spite of the nasal hair, corned feet, yellowish nails, a humongous belly, a tongue that never stops talking and a mind that never stops weaving impossible dreams, you cannot help but like Chanu (played by Satish Kaushik in the movie…so now you can visualize him). In his eternal battle against the ‘ignorant types’ and the ‘peasant types’, Chanu wishes to carve an identity for himself. An identity that he thinks would make him more acceptable in the society that he is so desperate to be a part of. When all his ‘battles’ fail, he rejects the society that wasn’t generous enough to accommodate his dreams…and plans a flight back home.

The Brick Lane is about the life that they end up living in between their efforts to settle down…and their efforts to go back to their homeland.

I wonder...

2009-06-30T01:48:00.000-07:00

Statistics show that one in every 481 forwarded chain mails, is actually good reading, and won’t threaten you if you break the chain (OK. I just made that up. But I believe that it could be true). Having grown old to mushy ‘Friendship means’ and ‘Jay Tirupathi’ mails, I have mastered the art of spotting these miscreants and clicking Shift+Del instantly. However, lately I was too bored, and happened to read one. And I think it was one in the 481.

A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars. Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats average $100.00 each. This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be:If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing....?

These questions led to some more (I think a scan of my brain at the moment would look like the image above).

Have we really forgotten to stop and wonder at the beauty that surrounds us?
I pass a river on my way to work everyday. When was the last time I stopped to look at the waves? Or the swans? Or the mossy green river bank that has some strangely pretty shrubs? Did anyone plant them there? Did a bird drop a seed? Where did the swans come from? Where do they go at sunset? Are these questions too irrelevant or insignificant? True, answers to none of these will help me earn my next pay check or help me with my deadline, or solve my issues with my teammate, or pave my way for a promotion, or a hike. But am I so busy trying to make a living that I have stopped living?

Have we been programmed to ‘like’ things only when we are expected to ‘like’ them? Has appreciating the beauty of art, music, literature, food or nature become a ‘social status’ thing? Do we ‘like’ in order to be accepted? Do we ‘like’ in order to be perceived as intellectuals? Have we stopped ‘liking’ for our own pleasure? Do we like to ‘like’ things only when we are paying a big price for it?

Q: Food at a plush restaurant that is the latest talk of the town?
A: Like
Q: A little ‘kasundi’ with the good old spinach cooked the Bengali way?
A: Kasundi? What’s that? I like oregano on my pasta, basil in my rice and thyme in my soup.

Q: An exotic cocktail that has a tongue twister of a name, at an award-winning pub?
A: Like
Q: Nimbu paani at home?
A: Who has the time for squeezing lemons? (I thought if you could make it to the pub, you could squeeze a lemon once in a while)

Q: A Bryan Adams concert?
A: Like
Q: Bryan Adams from an old cassette (that you had complied while at school, and written down the names of the songs yourself, in childish handwriting, on the cassette cover) at home?
A: Don’t you at least have a CD? Or a CD Player? Are you stingy? Are you the boring ‘stay-at-home’ kinds?

In fact, are we ashamed to admit that we ‘like’ certain things in a certain way because we are afraid that we will be judged? Is it so difficult to own up to our little ‘favourites’? Why do we then talk about ‘accepting others for who they are…and not what they can become’? I have come across that line a zillion times…in Self-Help books on the shelves of bookstores, in philosophical chain emails that are supposed to make me feel good in the morning. If we can’t accept ourselves for who we are and what we like, who are we kidding by talking about ‘accepting others’?

How much has society…or our upbringing contributed to this strangely depressing phenomenon? Does it sprout from our same obsession with taking the traditionally safe paths? If you are not a Doctor or an Engineer, or at least a Lawyer or a Chartered Accountant, you can invest in some good quality cyanide. If you haven’t listened to Bach or can’t quote from Tagore, you can tattoo ‘I am an idiot’ on your forehead.

What if I have read enough ‘Chacha Chowdhury’ to win gold at the ‘Annual Pran Quiz’ organised by the boys of the local club during Ganesh Chaturthi? Am I not chic enough for you? What if I have never held a golf stick…but could beat you any day at kabaddi? Won’t you smile at me at the shopping centre any more?
What if I have never heard of Dostoyevsky but can name all the Govinda movies that were released or got shelved halfway through (because of the producer’s connections with some underworld don)? Am I a social shame? Most importantly, am I a shame to myself?

I wonder…

My Firsts

2009-06-26T00:20:00.000-07:00

We all remember our firsts…some embarrass us now…some make us smile…or cry.

Here are some of mine:

First day in school/preschool – I don’t remember this. But Ma tells me I wore a red dress with matching red hair clips. At the end of the day, I had so much fun painting, building shapes and playing in sand that I lost one of my hair clips (I had two). When I realized it was gone, I threw such a tantrum that the teachers who thought I was ‘such an angel’ all day…changed their minds and thought I was possessed.
First wristwatch (my love for them shall never die) – Was a blue one with Mickey Mouse. It was just a toy, and did not tick. But I loved it nevertheless.
First pocket money – I think I bought ice cream and ‘jhal chips’ in school. When the money was gone (I think it was 10 rupees), I felt my first pang of jealousy because the elder sibling/neighbour's kid got more.
First poster bought for my room – A ‘Funny Quotes’ type…which started with ‘Farting is liberating.’ My parents signed me off as having bad taste.
First swearing – At my dentist who pulled out a particularly strong tooth that defied alignment. I think I said ‘Faal’ …a combination of the F word and the B word (in Bengali), because his damn hands were still in my mouth!
First time I came home after midnight – No, not because I was partying hard (never such luck). But because my friend had an emotional breakdown after a very bad haircut…and I had to stay by her side till she slept!!! (talk about ‘issues’ in life)
First salary – Six neat 100 rupee notes, placed in an envelope. That was my fee as an English tutor of a 10 yr old brat, who I met once a week.
First crush (blush) – Believe it or not…it was in class 5. And it was our ‘jamadar’s’ (sweeper’s) son. He came with his daddy everyday to collect garbage…and he also collected my shy smiles and a piece of my stupid school-girl heart (blush again). Ma still doesn’t know why I was always so keen to take the garbage bin out for the sweeper, when I showed no interest in any other housework.
First cigarette – With school friends…at one of the pajama parties (sleepovers) at my best friend’s place (very typical).
First date (proper) – Don’t ask me about it. It led to my marriage!!! Damn, I don’t believe that was my first…and ‘probably’ my last.

The day I felt HUGE!

2009-06-24T19:49:00.000-07:00

There are bigger things in life…health, job, house, salary, bills, duties, global warming, global financial crisis… (can’t think of anything bigger at the moment!). But your birthday seems to be that day in the calendar when nothing is bigger than YOU. I mean…literally! Crossing the road, I felt like a Hulk…or a Dinosaur straight out of the sets of Jurassic Park (my nephew’s favorite movie at the moment, and hence the simile.) It seemed to me as if I ruled the world…I was HUGE (now, don’t spoil my moment by reminding me that I anyway am…all days of the year!).

As I climbed up the stairs to my office, wearing my new top, new earrings and new shoes (of courses I wore other pieces of attire that are necessary to cover oneself...just that they don't deserve a mention here, as they were old), I beamed. It seemed that I was on stage, and all eyes were on me (though I don’t remember seeing anybody on the stairs). That’s what birthdays do (or should do) to you. You smile all day…at others and by yourself. You feel alive, awake and energetic (even at midnight when on other days you are like a sleepy worm curled up on bed under the blanket).

This feeling, would be a material for a dark comedy or Mr. Bean-like tragedy, if others don’t encourage it. I mean, if I was to smile by myself all day, without anybody to tell me that it was OK to do so because it was my birthday….that would be quite tragic. That’s when all you special people walk into the stage (OK, not the stage, as it was all mine that day….let’s say you’ll walked in as my very special crew, without whom I would look quite like a fool on stage).

So here goes…a big THANK U to all those who visited, called, e-mailed, posted cards (how I loved them!) messaged, scrapped, sent me lovely songs (thanks R!), sent me musical e-cards (that even made my colleagues smile when I played them again and again at work), wrote on facebook. I had made it a point to change my settings on Orkut, so that my birthday did not come up as an alert (am not sure if that worked). That was to test how many of you REALLY remembered my birthday, and not relied on automated alerts! I was so happy at how many of you passed with flying colours in this test.

There were so many calls that my mobile ran out of battery (either there are too many people who love me…or my mobile needs replacement). I spoke in Bengali over the phone all day…even at work…and my lovely colleagues did not mind. In fact, I think they picked up a few Bengali words themselves. One said ‘hyan hyan’ (meaning ‘yes yes’), each time I said ‘hyan hyan’ over the phone.

For my friends overseas…thanks for remembering and calling (I know it’s a real effort to work out the time differences, especially those of you in the U.S.). I miss all of you…and remember how we spent our birthdays together when we were not so far away.
For those in Perth, thanks for all the cards, and cakes (planned and the surprise one), and gifts and most of all…for your company!

For those in Sydney...what can I say! Rai (3.5 yrs) wore lipstick to kiss on my birthday card and leave her 'mark'. Rio (2.5 yrs), scribbled on my card to leave some very bold pen strokes :) Ma and Didi sent me the most touching bookmarks (am hoping the books are on the way!) and Parthada chose such a beautiful card for me (these are apart from the other gifts they gave me...which I will not mention here, as I need a whole new post for all the gifts I got.)

A special thanks to Amit. For making me feel special on my red-letter day…and all days of the year.

I woke up today with a horrible Birthday hangover (no, not the alcohol). It is the hangover that you have after every special day/days/event/events/vacation…I have Durga Puja hangover, Christmas hangover, New Year hangover, Wedding Anniversary hangover, Vacation hangover, even Sick Leave hangover…you get the drift. In short, it is the feeling of going back to routine, having left behind something very special. I blinked at the cards and the left over cakes (I had 4 this year!! Yippee!)…and wished that all my future birthdays turn out to be as special as this one…and all those I love, have equally special birthdays!

My Favourite Childhood Memories - Part 1

2009-06-17T23:43:00.000-07:00

This is a very long post. Not recommended for people with a low amount of patience or a high amount of 'better things to do'.

Am not sure what 'age' is doing to you. To me, it is doing all that it is ‘supposed’ to do. The very predictable strand of grey hair ‘peek-a-booing’ occasionally…the skin on the neck, hands and feet are not as wrinkle-free as it used to be…the heart confesses its age when I climb the stairs…the limbs pray for a bench/seat/pedicure when I am out there shopping for hours…the ears can’t stand loud pub music anymore…the body hates hangovers and gives warning signs when I have drank too much already….the memory gives me ‘you-have-exhausted-your-allocated-memory space-please-delete-old-ones-to-make-space-for-more’ alerts.

In short, I am getting old. I don’t mind the gray hair or wrinkles, but I can’t stand the thought of letting go of my most prized possessions…my memories. So I thought I will have a memory backup on my very own blog (just like I have backups for my photos and home videos in external hard drives, CDs and online galleries). They are presently crowded up in my recycle bin, waiting to be deleted forever. This is my last chance to retrieve them.

I have already documented some of my favorite memories on Rai&Rio’s blog, here. Following are the detailed descriptions:

In the past, I was immensely ashamed of having pooped in my pants in class 1. I returned home terribly smelly with my pants full of poop. Am amazed that Ma didn’t flush me with my pants. Now I see it as a funny memory. That’s another thing age is doing...biting away pieces from my ‘Shame Bar’ every day.

As for performing the jingle ‘Washing Powder Nirma’ on stage…in front of a hundred people who were expecting me to recite ‘Baburam Shapure’ (as that was what I had been taught, told to recite, and the announcer had announced that I was going to recite)…I am so proud of myself! I felt like singing ‘Washing Powder Nirma’, and so I did. Wish I still had that confidence, spontaneity and innocence. Worth mentioning, that it stood out among the ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ , ‘Hattima Tim Tim’, ‘Humpty Dumpty’ and I was an instant hit, basking in my celebrity status for months after that performance.

I also remember hanging by the gate waiting for Baba to return from the fish market. I was such a cat then, that people said I could almost eat raw fish (though I don’t remember if I ever did). The first thing that Parul di did, when Baba returned, was to fry me the biggest piece. And I would sit in one corner of the kitchen, happily munching the bones and licking my fingers. I wonder why I am not so fond of fish anymore. I know ‘curiosity’ kills the cat. Does ‘too much fish’ also kill the cat? Does anyone know?

My fascination with diaries and stationary has come a long way. I played with bits of paper, diaries from past years that still had empty pages in them, pens of all shapes and sizes. I pretended that I was a senior bank executive (as I looked up to Mama, who indeed held such a role, and also had many diaries). I had a red plastic phone that I used to call up all my ‘customers’ and I frantically scribbled on my diary as I spoke to them on the phone (as I had seen people doing in banks). When I got bored, I became a bus conductor and tore pages from my diary to make bus tickets that I sold to the ‘passengers’. Baba never quite overcame the heartache caused by the thought that other children were doctors and teachers in their childhood games, while I was a bus conductor (he seemed to have totally forgotten that I was a very senior bank executive too!).

My acting skills got critically acclaimed when I performed the role of Cinderella (my first time on a stage). I was so small then, that I couldn’t speak. So someone who could, spoke from the background…narrating the plight of Cinderella. I was just supposed to make some minor hand movements and smile and cry on cue. When the curtains went up, and the flash lights fell on my face…and I saw those faces in the audience (Baba with his camera in front…and Ma beaming proudly amongst her friends)…I started crying. Since that was really my ‘crying’ scene, the audience was amazed at what a natural I was! Somebody patted Ma on the back and said ‘She’ll make you proud. So small, yet none of the adult actors can cry like her.’ Only minutes later they realized that I was actually crying…because I was scared. The voice at the back had moved to happier days…and I was still crying. As the last and the only resort, the curtains dropped before time, and I was dragged out of the stage by the director. With a pained face and wounded pride, Ma took me in her arms. I wasn’t such a natural after all.

When I took my first baby steps, Ma got me a red pair of ‘paek paek’ shoes. No, that’s not the name of the shoe. I refer to them as ‘paek paek’ as that was the sound they made if someone walked in them. Wearing a red dress and the shiny new shoes, I went to the playground with Ma. I think Ma wanted to ‘show-off’ to her friends that I had started walking. Again, I failed her (and proved that ‘showing-off’ never pays). As the first step was taken, the ‘paek’ was heard…a heartbeat was missed… a screech was emitted…and a jump was taken to Ma’s arms. I was so terrified of the sound that I refused to walk for a long time after that. So, while my other friends walked and ran, I crawled and squatted.

These are some of my favorite memories. Some I vaguely remember. Some I remember quite well because I have heard people talking about it a million times (especially the ‘poop’ one, as it was a family joke). My obsession with preserving memories has manifested itself in a variety of ways…photo albums, scrap books and keep sake boxes. Read this to know more.

Like my ‘I like’ list, this post made me very happy. So I urge the ‘regulars’ (you know if you are one) to write about their Favourite Childhood Memories. Even if you are one of those rare people whose memory has been blessed with lots of space (like Google …’Over 7338.647885 megabytes (and counting) of free storage so you'll never need to delete another message.’), you will never regret writing this one.

I like

2009-06-14T20:24:00.000-07:00

On realizing that I am horribly pessimistic and depressed for most part of my waking hours, I decided to list the little things in life that make me happy but don’t cost as much. They are priceless.

I like sitting on a window sill and reading a book, while the afternoon sun shines down on its pages.
I like dipping a biscuit in tea (especially the ‘toast’ biscuits that the roadside tea stalls sold for 20 paisa) and biting off its soggy head.
I like licking off Masala Maggi gravy from the plate.
I like sitting on the bathroom pot and day dreaming about the cruise to Great Barrier Reef.
I like colorful new pillow cases and crisp bed spreads that are free of dust mites.
I like listening to Amit singing a happy song (totally off the tune, sometimes) in his shower.
I like opening a juicy ‘paan’ and nibbling at the colorful sweet stuffing inside.
I like the sound of the door bell and cheerful guests pouring in for the evening.
I like watching people opening gift wraps and squeaking in surprise and delight.
I like the waves taking away the sand beneath my feet and giving me some white foam in return.
I like the smell of incense sticks that Ma lights every day after her bath.
I like a sudden call from a friend who is so far away...yet so close.
I like to hear Rio speaking gibberish over the phone…or Rai telling me of her birthday wish list.
I like steaming ginger tea when my throat feels funny and my nose feels runny.
I like waking up to the smell of fried bacon and scrambled eggs on Sundays.
I like going through the family album with my sister and laughing about good old days.
I like going for drives to 24-hour coffee shops in the middle of the night.
I like my trips to the DVD parlors and coming back ‘loaded’.
I like going through my box of ‘keep sakes’ and let the past sweep me off.
I like the sound of my computer shutting down at the end of a day’s work.

This was such a gratifying exercise that I request my blog friends to do the same. Debanjana, KG, Spiderman, Shoma (and any other reader who would like to join in)…could you all come up with a similar list in your own blogs? Bigger or smaller…doesn’t matter.

Manual

2009-06-09T02:29:00.000-07:00

One of my habits that I am immensely proud of is that I store purchase receipts till the print vaporizes from the paper and save user manuals till the product is dead and ready for its grave.

Receipts come in handy when we want to exchange something (which is one in every two purchases). As for user manuals, Amit thinks I don’t have the heart to throw them away because I am a Technical Writer, and I occasionally copy their style and format. I have tried to explain to him that all Technical Writers do not write user manuals, and I for one, have nothing to copy from them.

I actually save them so that I can check facts and procedures from time to time. For example, when I accidentally switch off the microwave main power, I lose the clock settings on it. So I go back to my carefully saved manual and set the time again. Though it seems like it would be an easier option to ask Amit to do it…trust me, it’s not. On an exceptionally rare day, he may oblige me after my 171st ‘Can you pleeeeeeeeeeaaasss set the clock on the microwave?’ But I don’t take chances.

It’s a pity that marriages don’t come with receipts or manuals. And I must admit that I would definitely have referenced them if they existed. I often think that life would have been so much simpler if there was a manual with these troubleshooting procedures:

‘How to switch off your partner’s snoring’

‘What to do when your partner fumes’

‘How to make your partner love others channels apart from Sports’

‘5 ways to make your partner perform better in household chores’

‘3 emergency steps to cool off an angry partner’

‘How to avoid overheating in a conversation relating to in-laws or savings’

‘How to recover a lost connection’

’10 easy ways to keep your partner happy and ticking’

‘5 ways to make your partner stop smoking and discarding the ash on a favorite piece of china’

‘How to make your partner share the remote control’

‘What to do when your partner does not talk for hours’

‘How to program some regular tasks (like taking the bin out and cleaning the garage) into your partner’s memory’

‘How to make your partner choose sensible gifts’

‘When to call for professional help’

Considering that there is a huge market for such a manual, I am quite keen to take up this project. However, I am aware that my resume is not very promising for the job (2.5 years of marriage, 1 husband, no boyfriends (past or present), no affairs or flings, few childhood crushes that led to nothing but a few diary entries). But I am confident that I can create a very talented resource pool if my friends are willing to join me in this venture and contribute to this mammoth task.

So here is my job ad for the venture...click to enlarge.

Shortcuts

2009-06-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

In the rush and frenzy of daily life, we have embraced all the time-saving, hassle-free, low-maintenance options that are available in the marketplace.

We have substituted a traditional three-course breakfast consisting of puri, bhaji and laddu OR idli, dosa, sambhar (and the different kinds of chuntneys that go with them) with muesli bars…or worse still, supplementary capsules that promise that you will live healthily ever after even if you don’t eat a single morsel of food all through the day.

We no longer need to remember phone numbers and dial them. We just need to find a name from the mobile phonebook and press the Call button. Worse still, we send texts with vowels missing and consonants replaced to make words shorter.

We don’t go outdoors for a game of tennis anymore. We have Wii!

We have long forgotten the use of a pen and paper.

We never exercise that part of the brain that could handle numbers. We got the calculator instead.

We ‘type’ emails…never ‘write’ letters. I so loved KG’s post on this.

We cut our hair short. Saves time, shampoo, conditioner and money spent on hair accessories.

We have given up trying to sleep or shit, if we face difficulty in either. We take a sleeping pill or a laxative, respectively.

We don't travel that much. We have National Geographic.

We call friends over for a pizza party. Never for a four-course meal party (at least I don’t).

We ignore calls if the mobile flashes ‘Mummy calling..’. We have Mother’s Day instead, to make up for it.

We don't read novels anymore. We read and write blogs...crisp, short, and a stress-relieving exercise at lunch time (as is this one).

We have tutors to help our toddlers finish their day-care homework (maybe coloring a duck yellow). We return home too late to see the toddler or the duck awake.

We have mixers and grinders, and toasters, and sandwich makers, and rice cookers, and egg beaters, and cake whippers, and vegetable steamers, and coffee makers. But we still don’t have time to cook, eat or entertain.

We have wrinkle-free shirts that don’t need ironing.

We ‘catch up’ over coffee, because we lose touch with people who matter.

We use a deo when we don’t have time for a bath…and a chewing gum when we forget to brush (it amazes me that people have stuck to the time-consuming, effort-needing act of chewing a gum…it should have been wiped out from the planet long time back, considering how we don’t like doing other long-drawn things).

These shortcuts are a life savior. What I can’t figure out is….where are they taking us?

One thing still works...

2009-05-18T02:54:00.000-07:00

When paracetamols fail...
And smoky cappuccino does not bring the cheer…
When the day seems too long…
And the night does not bring much sleep…
When life feels like puke, and friends don’t call…
There is one thing that still works…
Sunny Deol in Damini…

When he says ‘Yeh dhai kilo ka haath jab uthta hai na…aadmi uthta nahin…uth jata hai’
OR
‘Chaddha, is case mein tujhe bijli ka aisa jhatka lagega, ke tu jhatakna bhool jayega’ (and makes the head movement to imitate Chadhdha)
OR
Wipes the blood on his hands on a villain’s shirt (while Sunny is still slightly disoriented with alcohol)
OR
Says ‘Kanoon ki dalali se izzat ki nilami pe utar aya hai, Chaddha? Is peshey ko bhadwagiri kehtey hai.’
OR
Simply aims a puff of cigarette smoke on Chaddha’s face…
The world seems to be in good hands again…
And there is that sudden filmy sense of security…that travels straight from the TV screen to a feverish mind.

(I have never been a crazy fan of Sunny Deol…or masala flicks…or action…or thundering dialogues…or heroes with terrific stunts...or machine guns and melodramatic courtroom scenes. But watched Damini again today, after years...while sofa-ridden with mild fever. And must admit, I am thrilled…all over again.)

Being a Mother...

2009-05-13T18:56:00.000-07:00

It’s true I’ve never changed diapers
But I have wiped the tears off my child’s face…

It’s true that I’ve never fed her with my own hands
But I have shopped for her supplies and cooked an occasional meal…

It’s true that I’ve never had to sing a lullaby
But I stayed awake by her side all night when she couldn’t sleep…

It’s true that I’ve never helped her with her homework
But I have done the additions, subtractions and accounting that she found difficult to manage…

It’s true I’ve never punished her for not following instructions
But I have scolded her often for not eating her meal…

It’s true I’ve never made a doll’s house for her
But I have kept the house tidy when she couldn't care less…

It’s true that I’ve been selfish and not spent enough time with her…
But she has never complained, cried or thrown a tantrum…

It’s true I’ve never played with her or taught her rhymes
But I played her favorite songs when she was low…

It’s true that she never really said that she needed me
But I knew she did…and I needed her more…

It’s true that I’ve not been able to teach her anything
But I have learned everything from being with her…

It’s true that I’ve never been pregnant
But I became a mother when I bore the news of Baba’s death to Ma…

(For my mother…who let me be her child…and her mother.)

A Sphinx of a Time!

2009-05-08T01:05:00.000-07:00

What happens when four fat frustrated females (wow that's like an alliterative hat-trick plus one) get together at lunch?

They belly dance.

Yes that’s what my colleagues and I did…to give our bellies (and ourselves) a change.
We’ve had our share of running, jogging, walking, cycling, ‘bringing-a-plate’, or simply eating in silence and boredom. We have had enough (I mean literally...what else explains our size and weight?). So we decided to do it the Egyptian way.

If you have given your belly a serious thought…there is no reason why you should smirk, laugh, scorn, or get shocked at belly dancing. It's real good exercise.

True, we were at least a Libyan Desert away from being sexy, seductive enchantresses…conjuring up romantic images of the Nile, the Sahara, the Sphinx, the Valley of Kings, oriental hookahs decked with precious stones, grand velvet-wrapped halls with riches, and intoxication being poured from a jeweled long-necked pot.

We were hippos…turned into kangaroos…by a magic wand.

When our trainer (our common friend actually… who is a database manager by profession and a belly dancer by passion) agreed to join us one day at lunch and show us some belly dancing moves, we jumped like a baby kangaroo excited by the sight of young green shoots.

And when she did turn up, and opened her bag full of dazzling costumes and headgears, crowns, swords, veils, masks, and other such exotic props….we jumped like an adult kangaroo excited by the sight of an eligible mate at mating season.

Shocked at the enthusiasm of her new students, she said ‘There is no jumping in belly dancing. Do you all get that?’
‘Yes, maam’, we chorused like school girls.
And what followed was a lunch hour never better spent.

Suppressing our giggles and breathing in to pull our bellies inwards… we must have been a Pharaoh’s nightmare. But we couldn’t care less.

We walked down the conference room as gracefully as if we were on a ramp…or a bride on her wedding aisle (it’s a different story that we pushed one another, sat down on the way, made hooting calls to those who continued walking seriously)…
We took a step, paused, crossed our leg to the other side, and took a side step (it’s a different story that we stamped one another, fell down, rolled with laughter, and laughed till we cried)…
We balanced heavy ornamental swords on our heads and walked again (it’s a different story that the swords fell off in 2 micro seconds)…
We did ‘snake-arms’ to melodious Egyptian tune (it’s a different story that our wobbly arms looked like overfed snakes from a comic strip)…
We made circles and drew the number 8 in the air with our hips (it’s a different story that ours must have been ‘8’ in an unknown language)…
We let our chiffon veils fly in the air, as we raised our eyebrows suggestively (it’s a different story that beneath those veils we wore sports shoes and sweatshirts)…

As one of our work laptops played traditional Egyptian tunes that could make the soul leap and yearn… the four fat frustrated females had a Sphinx of a time.

Damn blog!

2009-04-30T01:51:00.000-07:00

Trying to describe a blog to my 'not-so-tech-savvy’ mother-in-law (Mil) was a real challenge. I started with the usual ‘A blog is a web log…an online diary of sorts…’

Mil: So what are other people doing in your diary? Or you in other people’s?
Me: Well, it’s not like a personal diary you know. Just a place where I write, and let others come and read what I have written. Got it?
Mil: Got it.
Mil: But why would a person have so many diaries? Isn’t one enough?

That’s when it struck me that an analogy from her familiar world could help.

Me: Forget what I told you about a diary.
Mil: Oh! So it’s not a diary after all?
Me: Uff! Forget it for the time being…am trying a different analogy.
Mil: Analogy?
Me: Forget analogy…I am just giving you a different example. OK?
Mil: OK.
Me: It’s like buying houses.
Mil: Ah!
Me: Just like a person can have houses, land, property in the real world…a person can have blogs in the virtual world…I mean, the world of web…I mean the world of computers (knowing that she would understand ‘computers’…but not ‘virtual’ and ‘web’ etc)
Mil: Oh! So they must be expensive? How much money did you waste on yours?
Me: Mine was free. There are some that are charged.
Mil: Why was yours free? Is it in a slum in the world of computers?
(Me frowning)
Me: No it’s not really a slum. It’s just free because mine is owned by Google. And Google makes money in other ways…and not by actually charging for the blog.
Mil: How?
Me: From advertising revenue. Companies place their ads on the Google search engine, and Google takes money from these companies for their ads.
Mil: Oh!
Me: And just like houses, one can make money from one’s blog too.
Mil: How?
Me: Just like you give your house out on rent, you can give your blog out for advertising. Google and a few other companies can analyze what your page is about so they can serve ads on that topic. This increases the chances of your readers clicking the ad which increases the chances that you’ll earn something from them.
Mil: Oh! So, it’s like you have let them use your boundary wall for posters.
Me: Exactly! (relieved that she is finally getting something)
Mil: Doesn’t that destroy the beauty of your house? I mean blog?
Me: Yes, to a certain extent it does. But people don’t mind it, I guess.
Mil: So how much do you make in a month?
Me: Nothing, because I haven’t selected that option for advertising on my blog.
Mil: Said ‘no’ to potential money? God knows what you kids are up to these days! Anyway, so these people who come to your blog are like visitors to your house.
Me: Right. And they see how I have decorated it, what I have kept in it. And then they comment on it.
Mil: You mean bitch behind your back?
Me: Maybe some do. Others bitch (or sometimes praise) on my face. That’s when they leave comments on my blog.

Mil: I see. But do you really like too many people visiting your blog? Isn’t there too much cooking and dish-washing involved?
Me: In a way, yes. I need to maintain it well…and be a good host.
Mil: And do others treat you well, when you visit theirs?
Me: Oh yes! Everyone wants their blog to be the best…and most-visited. So everyone treats everyone well.
Mil: So you must be visiting those who give you the best cookies and cake?
Me: Yeah right. I have a few favorite blogs that I visit again and again.
Mil: I see.

Me: Anyway, so just like people have different houses for different purposes (beach house for weekends, a house in the city for easy commutation, an investment property to make money)….people can have different blogs for different kinds of writing (personal, political, business, hobby-based, dream-based, etc). And each has its own address, which in the computer world is called an URL.
Mil: I get it.
Me: Really? You do?

Mil: Of course. People who can’t afford houses in the real world, console themselves by having these blogs in the computer world.
Me: That’s not what it is…
Mil: Of course that’s what it is. If you two had listened to me and not gone for those expensive vacations and eaten outside every second day, you could have owned a house in the real world…and not played with these stupid blogs that have no value, and that require so much work.
Me: We can afford a house…just that…

(She is not interested any more…and I hear her telling my father-in-law)

Mil: Soon they will have a baby in the computer world too….Ah! How I hate computers!

An Affair to Forget...

2009-04-20T20:10:00.000-07:00

It was never meant to work out. But I lacked the foresight to realize that, till it was over. I was too young and naïve.

Like all affairs, it was all mushy at the beginning. All day at school we held hands and shyly smiled at each other. Apart from a few girl-talks and giggles with my girlfriends, we were inseparable. Most of my classmates were jealous, considering we were doing so well together. At lunch break alone, we parted…only to be together again.

I returned home from school…to catch a glimpse of him again. He visited me every day. My parents were quite supportive of the relationship. Though sometimes they told me I was too small, and should also engage in singing, swimming, watching T.V, playing with my friends etc. I did all that…but none with the passion with which I spent time with him.

It was an obsession. As I grew older, the obsession grew worse. And I knew it would take every bit of my waking hours to keep the fire alive. I tried. I did have a life beyond him as well…my friends, relatives, music, college fests etc. But he was the possessive, jealous kinds. If I spent too much time away from him, he would punish me…and the results were never good. On such days, I cried till my eyes were swollen, pillows drenched. Sometimes I would hate him so much that I felt like breaking up. But he wouldn’t let me do that. And I, for some reason, couldn’t do it either. I kept on with him just to prove to my jealous friends that we were destined to be together. And I knew they said behind my back ‘What does he see in her?’

Before every ‘date’, I would panic…as if it was our first date. ‘How will it go?’, ‘Would I make a good impression?’, ‘Would I be good enough for him?’, ‘What if I make a mistake?’, ‘Will he leave me for someone else?’ Questions…and more questions.

I kept on…as if it was a habit hard to get rid of…like a drug addiction. My relatives knew about him too. Some aunts loved him so much that I would think they liked him more than they liked me. Everyone thought we had a bright future together. They held parties to celebrate our relationship, toasting for us to be happy and together always.

But my parents had had enough. They had supported me all through this relationship, right from the very start. But knowing how much he tortured me, they wished I would give him up. They said ‘There’s more to life than him. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.’ But deep within, I knew it was not ‘others’ I was concerned about…it was ME. I couldn’t bear the thought of giving up…having done so well all these years…having made ‘news’, and ‘gossip’…having carved this ‘image’ of two of us happy together. The world still thought we were happy lovers. Even in their wildest dreams, no one imagined that it was such a torture ‘within’…such a storm.

Sleepless nights…headaches…early mornings…pain killers …and sometimes even sedatives. It was a vicious loop I had got into. I got so sick of him after certain special ‘dates’, that I could have almost killed myself. The only way out…was to move away. But we continued posing to be happy lovers…for the world’s sake.

It was as if we had been together all our lives. On our 19th anniversary…one of those special ‘dates’, I finally had the courage to look him in the eye, and say ‘Darling, let’s call it quits.’

In memory of my torturous relationship with Academics. I quit after my Masters. That made it 19 years, if I am to count ‘nursery’, where I learned to identify numbers and colours.

Of Faux Pas and Morals - Part 1

2009-04-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

It came to me like an epiphany...
That the greatest morals...
Are born...
Out of the greatest Faux pas…

A shiny board outside the office main entrance 'ATP welcomes Jennifer Whelan and Jeff Spooner from U.K'

The garden watered, pruned and cleaned.
The office spotless...dustless...and chat-less.

The largest conference room bustling with last-minute action...
Microphones tested, projectors adjusted, chairs aligned...
Bisleri bottles placed on milky-white, crispy-starched table cloths.
Two men posted to serve tea or coffee from shiny jugs.
IT department on their toes...configuring usernames and domains.
Men in their best ties...women on their highest heels.

Enter Jennifer and Jeff in white Toyota Corollas...
With the promise of a few million...

Jobs need to be saved...and some more created.

Handshakes...garlands and camera clicks..

Chairs pulled...people seated
Throats cleared...
Introductions and words of praise and hope...
Silence...and the sound of laptops booting...

Presentations made...

More laptops booting...more presentations
And more...

Till the final and the most important one...
Figures shared...statistics unraveled...
Some promises...
Claps and sophisticated cheer...

Jennifer at the head of the long conference table...
Jeff walking past petty mortals...sparing a kind smile at some...

Jeff stops...
By me...
Looks at the notepad I have been taking notes on...
Smiles...
Walks away...

I look at the notepad...
Amidst smiley’s and some vague figures...
A message that I wrote for a colleague beside me…
Because we couldn’t speak…
While the presentations were on...
It said…
'These guys must be crazy to pay us so much for this project'
Friend’s reply...
'I don't care what these morons pay...I haven't been more bored in my life...these presentations suck!'.

Moral: Never keep a notepad with you in a conference, unless you are making a presentation yourself.

Crime or Not a Crime?

2009-04-01T20:21:00.000-07:00

So piracy is a crime.
May I ask, why?

Haven't we all bought fake Gucci bags when we were young (with our pocket money)...from New Market, Commercial Street, Connaught Place, Fashion Street or the like, depending on the city we grew up in?

In fact most often, I have seen exact replicas of branded products (bags, shoes, belts, clothes, watches), right outside the respective brand showrooms...on the street opposite. In Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber... (a horrible movie that I once happened to watch...on one of those days when in the DVD parlor, I was suddenly possessed by some spirit with bad taste in movies. These spirits lurk in different corners of the DVD parlors...some are posted in the Comedy section...some loiter around the World Movies section...the worst ones around the Thriller and Horror section...always waiting to possess innocent movie buffs like me. They must have either died watching crappy movies…or died before they could watch a movie that they had waited for long to release. Hence they want us to suffer as much. Tell me...hasn't it happened to you? It's true...if there are spirits anywhere on this planet...they are in DVD parlors...)

Anyway, where was I?

Ah! In Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber, Jennifer Love Hewitt (imagine if that middle name someday becomes fashionable in India...we will be left with Jaswinder Love Singh, Rudraprasad Love Bondopadhyay, Ponnamma Love Iyer, etc!!...what a shame!)

(Sorry readers, I won't digress anymore...promise!)

So, in Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber, Jennifer Love Hewitt is this hot babe in the advertising industry…a shameless socialite…a maniac of a party-goer…and a desperate social climber. She is all about looks and clothes and shoes and make-up and hair and bags and nails and …you get the drift. Spending all she earns on such frivolity, she reaches a stage where she can’t stop wanting more…and probably can’t afford more (what a profound tragedy!). Anyway, at one point in this movie, she falls in love…with a Louis Vuitton bag, strategically placed in the window display of a showroom. On finding out the much-expected and much-dreaded mortifying price, she walks out of the shop…and then, as Luck (or Piracy) would have it, she notices a street peddler selling that exact bag (exact in looks .. obviously not quality) in less than what the zipper of the original bag might have cost. She takes it.

Now, her’s is an obsession…a madness (so is the movie). But we have all done something like this. I have possessed and used (without shame) fake Nike caps, pseudo Prada bags…and yes, once I also had a Tag that cost me 35 rupees from Esplanade (was such an amazing imitation…even Jennifer Love Hewitt wouldn’t have guessed). It’s another story that it did not work for more than 35 minutes…but we are not into that today.

The point I am trying to make is…we have lived and loved in this world where ‘fakes’ are sometimes such feel-good factors. You can’t afford a real one…either accept it and live your life feeling like a deprived, wronged, jealous, selfish hag…or…give your greedy soul some balm…go to those streets…and pick up those stuff. In fact, am not only talking about branded stuff....every nice-looking thing on the shelf will have an equally nice-looking cheaper variety equivalent somewhere on the earth. Isn't shopping all about finding what you like...and paying less...knowing that you have made a compromise somewhere for paying less?

Now, I haven’t ever heard of campaigns against such imitations. I mean I have never seen advertisements and rallies and propaganda and awareness programs on ‘Buying fake stuff from the street is a crime!’ OR ‘Feel the pangs of guilt when you pick up a Prada from the street vendor…you are hurting Mario Prada’s soul…or his family’s bank balance’.

So why is piracy a crime when it comes to movies?

I tried to rationalize. Well, one reason why people are so sensitive in this matter could be that movies, art, literature are all about our ‘culture’. These are prized possessions that a country is proud of and they also generate revenue that a country cannot do without. I completely respect and understand if that is the sentiment. However, I still fail to realize why it is a crime.

Plagiarism surely is a crime. You are stealing someone’s work…his talent…his skill…his knowledge…his experience…his wisdom…and calling it your own. It’s WRONG. You miss out on quotation marks…you are a CRIMINAL. You haven’t spent sleepless nights acquiring that kind of knowledge…you haven’t read under street lights…or fought for a nation’s pride…or discovered gravity…or fed the poor and ailing…or written verses that inspired generations. So, how dare you miss quotation marks and pose as if those golden words just came out of your mind? I understand and respect this.

But those street vendors of pirated DVDs…for God’s sake…they are not photo shopping the DVD cover and inserting their names under the movie title…in place of the Johars and Chopras and Varmas. They are not claiming to have directed, produced, acted or even spot-boyed for those movies. They are simply making copies…and selling those for cheaper prices. They are NOT claiming them to be the original prints.

You want a better quality print…or want to enjoy the theatre AC, comfy leather recliners…with a Combo pack of Coke and Popcorn (that will cost you more than the movie itself)…go ahead. Who is stopping you? But if you are satisfied picking up a pirated DVD after work…knowing quite well that there may be some scenes missing….or some audio gone corrupt…or may have the climax scene with the camera pointing at a blank wall of the theatre …If you don’t mind sitting on your drab, threadbare sofa….with your children crying in the background (when your favorite song from the movie is playing)…and your phone ringing every 15 minutes (when the white-clad, blood-thirsty female spirit is just about to wring someone’s neck)…and your neighbor visiting to borrow some sugar (when the prime suspect is about to be confronted)…or your local club celebrating some puja with loudspeakers (when the aged father is proclaiming his last wish on his death bed) …or your wife pestering you to go grocery shopping (when the heroine is running her fingers through the balding hero’s hair)….or your mother chanting prayers in the next room (while you watch passionate lovemaking)….Piracy is for you.

Like all other things…if you pay more, you will enjoy more (probably). But if you are satisfied with the less-than-the-best experience, why should it be a crime? You are only paying less because you have opted for less. You are not stealing the original from a shop…or paying less than the market price for the original if you were to buy one….or paying less than the normal ticket rates if you were to go to the theatre. THOSE WOULD BE CRIMES.

True, you are depriving the Johars and Chopras and Varmas of their cents in royalty. But the point is…they did not make the copy for you. You are paying whoever had the guts/resources/inclination to make the copies and sell it in the marketplace. You are paying for the copier’s efforts. And the copier admits that he is a copier. So what’s the big deal?

Maybe I am missing something here….perhaps I haven’t thought about it from all angles. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
But from my present state of awareness/ignorance/sensitivity, I can see no reason why there is such hype about piracy being a crime. Fails me.

Days

2009-03-31T00:42:00.000-07:00

Some days are shorter than the others
Some longer
Some days make you feel chirpy and light
Others stamp you down with soiled boots
Some days you wake up humming a happy tune…
On others, it seems you did not sleep at all
Some days remind you of sunlight on a paddy field
Or bees around a golden beehive…sweet, light, and bright
Others take you through dingy dark alleys
Stopping by smelly drains and rotten garbage

I wonder if each day would be the same
Would it be better or worse?
Is monotony better than the risks of variety?
Is each day really a gift? Each morning a Christmas?
Probably!
As you open the invisible gift wrap every morning, you frown or you smile
Just like Christmas gifts that you like or hate
Life does not take you Christmas shopping…like your friends do
So you don’t have a say
Take it or leave it
Or cry all you may
Life won’t take your shopping every day.
**********************************************************************************

My latest fancy...

2009-03-30T06:29:00.000-07:00

After years of loving the music of Umrao Jaan, Ijaazat and Masoom, I never thought I would drift this far. Guess, it's age...or boredom.

How to find the right Dream?

2009-03-24T21:41:00.000-07:00

Most people live their lives trying to find the means to fulfill a dream...
And here I am...living my life trying to find a suitable dream for myself...
Now, where does that place me on the Dream Ladder?? I am not on it...I am not even close to it.

The wise ones who started watering their dream sapling quite early in their lives...are the ones that are now gazing at a fully-grown tree ready to flower and fruit. The even wiser ones (who started even earlier) have probably already eaten a fruit or two...

And here I am...shopping for a seed...in fact window-shopping for that illusive seed that will one day grow into a tree (in case you have already lost me in this greenhouse of imagery...I am still talking about dreams).

Assuming I start late (really late)...is there a chance that I will at least have a dream some day? I mean, I understand that 'fulfilling' a dream needs a lifetime...and considering that I have lost almost half of my lifetime, I would be happy if I can manage to at least ‘have’ a dream (if not fulfill it).

So that's what this is about....trying to find a dream...that may not be achievable...but is fun just 'having'. This is what consumerism has done to me...I like to 'have' things...whether I need it or use it...or ever open the packaging… does not matter.

Before getting further pulled into yet another web of boring imagery (This time 'shopping'...can you believe it? How cheap can I get?)...let me stop for a glass of water.

OK, had a glass…and am back at the dream chase.

So where was I? Ah! Finding the right dream...

If a dream hasn’t chosen you…and you can’t choose a dream spontaneously….this is probably the way to do it:

1. Make a list of things you are good at. (That's an empty list for me...if I do not consider cleaning my home slippers with a used, discarded toothbrush.)

2. Make a list of things that you enjoy doing. (That's a long list for me....but I am afraid, none of them can be a raw material for a useful, meaningful dream...I mean...I can't obviously dream of opening a club where people meet every evening after work...and talk while they clean their ears with ear buds! That's sick....but that's what I enjoy doing most apart from picking my teeth with a toothpick.)

3. Compare the two lists and make a list of common items. (No common items for me…I am not very good at doing things I enjoy doing…but I assume most people have at least a few in common).

4. Consider what’s doable, sustainable, interesting, acceptable, fits into your lifestyle smoothly , useful etc. (These are important because you must be able to pursue the dream and not give up either because it is boring, time consuming, not feasible, needs too many adjustments in your life style or is totally inappropriate or unacceptable [like most of mine are].)

5. Choose a dream.(This shouldn’t be too difficult if you have done steps 1 to 4 sincerely)

6. Do some research on how you can pursue your chosen dream. (For example, if you want to open a silver boutique (I know someone who has this beautiful dream)…invest some time in market research, talk to people who have been there and done that, get your facts and figures right…think about profit and loss and how that affects your life…think about your USP (unique selling point), think about how you can innovate etc.

7. Find some time every day to work towards your dream. (Every day is key here…because if you really want it…you need to work for it on a regular basis…and I can’t think of anything more regular than every day! Every hour or every minute would be too much…if you find yourself thinking about your dream every hour or every minute…wait for my next blog post on ‘How to find the right Obsession?’)

8. Live your dream. (Either on a part-time basis if it is something like writing a book…or on a full-time basis if it is something like opening a restaurant. Both my examples are not quite right…as you can be a full-time writer or a part-time restaurateur).

It is important to ‘have’ a dream…and sometimes just ‘having’ a dream justifies its existence. If you have thought about it….worked towards it…or simply visualized yourself in that picture-perfect moment of dream-turned-reality….I would say…you are doing quite well compared to your peers (like me).

But if you really want to achieve anything in life…(or just want to keep your job)….you must start with the very basics….that is…stop wasting time reading crappy blogs like mine…and get going!

P.S. I am not sure what impression I have conveyed about the ‘seriousness’ of my dream-search, but I would like to reiterate that I have been feeling pretty strongly about it and have been quite upset for not having a dream/hobby/passion. Those who understand my frustration…cry on my shoulder…. those who don’t…GO WATER YOUR SEED/PLANT/TREE (depending on which stage your dream is in.)

Life on Weekdays!

2009-01-30T00:50:00.000-08:00

Click to enlarge...(or don't bother, you are not missing anything!)

The Dog

2009-01-20T22:42:00.000-08:00

Walking through the sunny streets of Freemantle, I tried my best to ignore the American Bulldog that has been following me for a while. How weird I thought! Where is its owner? How could they let such a dangerous and expensive thing out on the street to stray by itself?

Thankfully, the Bubble Tea shop caught my attention. Bubble tea is the love of my life…though my friends find it hard to believe, saying that I discovered it only last week! ‘So what?’ I screamed out to them over dinner at Sam’s place. I have visited Freemantle three times since last week…and every time for Bubble Tea. I love the way it invites me for the first sip…the colorful bubbles battling for my attention, each wanting to travel up my straw before the other. Honestly, I connected with Bubble Tea, the way I never connected with anyone else. Now, why did they laugh at me when I said this? People are strange!

As the first group of bubbles cheered their way into my thirsty mouth, I saw it again from the corner of my eye. Panting, salivating, and still staring at me, was the American Bulldog. ‘Go away!’ I mumbled. It took two steps towards me…I backed off.

Strolling through the Freemantle market, I remembered that I had to pick up gifts for Rio. It was his birthday next week. Now what could excite a 2-yr old kid? I tried to think about my own likes and dislikes when I was two. Oh God! Was I ever two? Why can’t I remember it then? Damn, I should have kept a diary? What? A diary when I was two? At least Ma could have kept a log of some sort. That would make life so easy…especially buying gifts, or figuring out why Rio loves sucking his index finger, while other kids prefer their thumbs more. C’mon, there must be some reason. Never mind…that’s too long back…

I stopped at a shop selling hand-painted wooden wall pieces…especially the kinds that you hang outside the main door. You know what I mean? I picked up one that said ‘A cricketer and his catch live here.’ How wonderful! Amit was a cricketer long time back…maybe I should buy it for our home after all. Or maybe, I am a catch that he would rather have missed! Never mind, I will buy it anyway, I thought.

As I opened my wallet to bring out a 20 dollar bill, there it was….AT MY FEET…that American Bulldog….breathing heavily on my shoes! Christ! Do I move…do I pretend to be a statue? I froze. My ears steamed. I closed my eyes. After what appeared like a thousand years, I opened my eyes…it was gone! Hurrah! Feeling relieved, I ran away from the shop, not bothering to buy that stupid wall piece.

Feeling like I got a new life, I wandered through the green parks. Children playing, mothers reading parenting books, fathers dozing off…how amazing life was! I watched the river and the boats…the ones on sail…and the ones on sale too.

$350,000 – Call Jimmy at 0499447618

A boat for $350,000! I could get a decent house at that price. But what if I live in a boat? They were spacious enough for two. I could eat in it, sleep in it, fish from it, cook the fish in it…and also go to work in it! I could stop at the river bank by my office! What a wonderful idea! I must call Jimmy. As I dug through my bag to find my mobile, there it was again! The American Bulldog…looking violent…this time with its canines out…gnarling at me!

‘I haven’t harmed you! Go away! What do you want?’
It barked.
I fainted.

I woke up.
Amit staring at me…
‘Did I just have a weird dream?’…
‘Yes you did’, he said. ‘And you have been barking, crying, sipping and smiling all night!’

Later that day, when I tried to think what my dream could mean, I remembered that the last thing I talked about the night before, was recession!
Ah! The ownerless American Bulldog set free…

Diwali

2008-10-26T22:24:00.000-07:00

Then...
The red ghagra-choli that Ma bought for me from 'Gariahat'
Baba and me with firecrackers
Ma lighting diyas in the balcony
Didi laughing with her friends in her room…
Relatives at home
Laddus from Haldiram’s
The small yellow lights on the ‘krishnachura’ tree…
‘Para’ friends calling out my name
‘Tubri’ show in the playground opposite our house
Friendly neighbors bringing in sweets and cheer…
Pouring ghee in the diyas in the middle of the night...

Now...
Sitting in office in my grey blazer…
Maybe Baba is watching from somewhere…
Is Ma lighting a diya today? Does she remember it’s Diwali?
Didi in office too…probably in her grey blazer
Relatives far away and distant…some dead
Boiled veggies for lunch…some packaged food for dinner
Some strange trees…the names unknown
Few friends…some acquaintances…many strangers around
I will light a lavender-scented candle tonight…
And wait for some magic….
Perhaps a whiff of ghee…from somewhere…

I caught a disease...

2008-10-23T01:36:00.000-07:00

No, not the kind that would:

Be the subject matter of a contemporary movie making a ‘statement’

Interest NGO workers

Promote the use of rubber

Make people talk

Give my husband a shock

Sorry to disappoint you all….I caught hay fever.

(Allergic rhinitis, known as hay fever, is caused by pollens of specific seasonal plants, airborne chemicals and dust particles in people who are allergic to these substances.)

It renewed my interest in pollination, something that I last thought of in my Biology class in school. Well…not really. I had also given it a thought when I took to gardening one summer vacation. There was this horrible looking rose plant that refused to flower. I had given two suggestions to my mother, who, on hearing them, gave up her deepest wish of seeing me become a doctor someday. I had asked her if we could buy some butterflies and leave them on the plant…or better still, train my pet parrot to fly out of the cage, get some damn pollen from somewhere…and make the damn plant flower!

So that’s how close I got to pollination in my life…and that’s how close my mother got to being called the mother of a doctor. My mother had given up on my sister long before this incident, when she opted out of Biology as her sixth subject and took up Home Science instead. Later my sister complained that there was a lot of Biology in Home Science as well, as she had to remember the names of indoor and outdoor plants.

(I sometimes fear that if life comes full circle, I will be punished with two equally hopeless daughters…That reminds me, I need to ask how my husband was in Biology.)

Anyway, hay fever has made a Niagara out of my nose. I shed more water than I drank in my life (or hope to drink in the remaining days of my life). I walk around with a natural clown-nose, a box of tissues, and a nasal spray. I have lost three of my fully working senses…taste, hearing and smell (my vision having deserted me long back, when I turned myopic). Of the only remaining sense,’ touch’…well, with all the other senses gone or diminished, I don’t see much use of it. (Moreover, most people are avoiding any kind of ‘touch’ with me, thinking I am contagious, though I am not. Even if I was, trust me dear reader, you won’t catch it from my blog. I have a firewall installed!)

This poor-sensory existence wasn’t all that bad if my friends hadn’t decided to cook biriyani, eat out at KFC, go perfume shopping and visit the tulip garden all while I was unwell. Tulip garden! For god’s sake…that would be a pretty polinical party where I would probably hear one pollen grain saying to another “Let’s check out the new chicks that landed on the yellow tulips today.” OR “Hey, nice powder you are wearing!”

Friends are for tough times…yeah sure, to make it tougher!! Urrrggghhh!!

Hay fever taught me more than just the most decent way of blowing my nose in public. It opened my eyes to the five friends I have in this country…and the five senses I never stopped to think about.

Ode to My T-Zone

2008-10-15T23:18:00.000-07:00

After quite a bit of contemplation, I decided that the T-zone is the most important part of my body.
If you haven’ t wasted enough time reading the Beauty Sections of Women’s Magazines, which 'zonify' the body as if you were a corpse in an anatomy class, you may not be familiar with the term T-zone.
For the convenience of such mortals, here is the meaning of T-zone:
‘If you were to draw a line through your forehead, nose, and chin, it would look like the letter "T" — hence, the commonly used beauty term, the T-Zone’.

If you ask me, I do not support such ‘zonification’. If I drew a T-shaped line through any other part of my body (for example, a line from one shoulder to the other, and a middle line stretching to the belly), even that would look like a ‘T’, wouldn’t it? So why follow such logic? Moreover, this whole concept of likening body parts to the characters in the alphabet system is quite obscene (characters like V and O are not things we want to talk about much).
Anyway, such ancient concepts cannot be changed by ludicrous bloggers. So I will not challenge it. Now that we are all in the same boat (sorry, zone), let me explain why I glorify my T-zone.

Well, firstly, I believe in glorifying the enemy. My migraines are my greatest enemies. They originate in my forehead and spread through the other zones of my head, my neck, my shoulder, my mood and consequently my husband’s head and mood.

The T-zone provides support to my spectacles. Now, my spectacles are the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me. Best because, I could still see if my sister was keeping the bigger piece of chocolate for herself. Worst because I could also see what the mad Physics teacher wrote on the blackboard, which I was supposed to copy on my notebook. So I give credit to my T-zone for turning me to a visionary (Oh! Can’t I use the word ‘visionary’ for one who has vision? Can’t I? Who says so?).

My T-zone is also a very seasonal in nature. It oils in summer and flakes in winter. Isn’t that helpful? I have never watched the weather forecast since I discovered this.

The T-zone also hosts the nose. My nose isn’t quite pretty. But I don’t mind it. It bears the scar of a wound that I picked up when I fell down on a terrace in Puri, while trying to chase a cousin who stole my chewing gum (un-chewed one). I still hate that cousin and the scar reminds me of my heroic chase… my ONLY attempt at heroism.

My mouth also falls in the T-zone. Needless to say, my mouth helps me a lot. It talks, tastes and breathes for me when my nose is blocked. In short, it does all that I need to survive…talk, taste and breathe.

As for my chin, people say, my granny gave it to me. That’s a feature I inherited from her (I wouldn’t have, if I had a choice). It’s longer than necessary, making me a victim of chin-pulling aunts and uncles all my childhood. Nevertheless, it reminds me of my granny, who was the last sane person in my family.

So there you go…my T-zone reigns as the undisputed monarch of a very large kingdom (yes, I am quite a fat woman). Till I find anything against it, I have decided to give it the respect it deserves. So here’s a blog post dedicated to my T-zone (and the T-zones of all others who agree with me on this).

My first NRI pujo...(Part 1)

2008-10-08T21:48:00.001-07:00

October 2008: If there was a traffic police in the land of clocks and watches, ‘time’ would have had to pay a huge fine for speeding last weekend.

Skipping Ponchomi , pujo started with Shoshti on Saturday. Unfortunately it did not last for a day….as it had to make space for Shaptami…which squeezed in and lived its life through Saturday evening. Sunday was a 3-in-one day. It started as Ashtami….changed its mind by late morning and posed as Nabami…..and then it suddenly changed colors and pretended to be Dashami!

As we made our way into Karidinya Community Centre, Perth, my radar beeped out loud. A techno voice hummed in my ear, saying ‘Bongs detected….bongs detected. Please turn right at the gate, adjust the pallu of your not-so-well-clad saree and put on a 5cm smile’. I obeyed. Not quite so. Sometimes I smiled 6.5 cm as well. And one time I remember yawning for 10 seconds. Will I be disqualified for that?

Anyway, the goddess was pretty and gorgeous as ever. Resplendent in her golden attire, blessing all those who paused to pray…and even those who didn’t. The lion too seemed to be feeling quite at home in the land of koalas and kangaroos. No matter what…Bengalis live up to their roots and culture. How you ask? Well, the anjali that was to start at 9:30am, started at 11:00 am. Weren’t we always known for our punctuality?

As I held the red and green kangaroo paw during anjali, I felt funny. No, there are no red and green kangaroos in Australia. It’s the name of a popular flower in Western Australia. I missed the marigolds and ‘bel pata’ back home…the flowers and leaves I used from my first anjali till my 26th (ooops did I just give out my age?) But I told myself, flowers are flowers….just like pujo is pujo. Back home, my ears had got familiar with certain words that the purohit chanted during anjali. My friends and I played our secret game during anjali…of letting our tongues twist in our mouths as we tried to copy the purohit’s Sanskrit accent. This time the chant was unfamiliar, as the purohit was a South Indian…and no amount of twisting tongues in my mouth could help me get his crisp Sanskrit accent.

So I kept mute and prayed. At the end of it, the red and green kangaroo paws were collected in baskets from Ikea and the ‘shanti-jol’ sprinkled in abundance. As I let my eyes scan the ‘mandap’, I rejoiced at the sight and smell of chandan flavoured incense sticks, the fruit-filled trays of ‘prasad’, the coconut in one corner adorned with ‘sindoor’, the grains of basmati rice on a plate. In the midst of these familiar things, my eyes stopped at something that I had never seen back home…a Brownes milk packet flaunting the picture of a fat Australian black and white cow.

Shifting my attention from bos taurus to homo sapiens, I looked at the people in the hall. Colourful sarees, bright jewelry, fab-india kurtas, the sound of laughter, the whiff of Cool-Water perfume. My heart heaved a sigh of relief at the sight. How different would these people look on Monday on their way to office? I remembered my first day I went for work in Perth. I looked at the office-goers and had spent a moment or two imagining what the city looked like from a bird’s eye view. A land where black dots moved around in a great rush! Most of them wore black! Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!

Making my way through the colourful crowd, I found a familiar face. That’s when I smiled that 6.5 cm smile I mentioned earlier. I spoke to Sonali, a friend of a friend, and now my friend. She and her husband Anirban introduced me to many others. I answered the same questions 14.5 times ‘How long have you been in Perth?’ and ‘Are you here on a work visa or a permanent residence?’ (The last .5 time was when someone went away without stopping to hear my answers).

Anyway, not a bad start I thought, thanks to Sonali. At least now I know a few names…and faces (though I struggled to remember the relationship between the names and the faces). In the food queue, I overheard some people talking of home loans and rising mortgages, investment properties and the mines that they have been to lately for work. I have had to familiarise myself with geology and mines since I moved to Perth. So I quickly remembered something I read a while ago about the relationship between mines and mortgages, which I had interpreted in my amateur mind to be something like ‘More mines, would mean more mortgage rates’. The excerpt from the actual piece I read is: ‘Perth, Darwin and regional Queensland towns are the new boom areas thanks to the resources explosion. The biggest single influence on Australian real estate right now is the resources boom. The only property markets really firing are those affected by overseas demand for commodities. While markets such as Sydney and Melbourne struggle, prices soar in Western Australia, the Northern Territory and regional Queensland.’

With a plate full of ‘khichudi’, ‘labda’, ‘chatni’, ‘papad’ and ‘pantua’ I made my way to the open space outside the hall, where people were fewer, and empty chairs more. As I put a lump of khichudi in my mouth, my ears smoked, my face turned red, and my tongue burnt. It was too hot! I cursed myself for not waiting till it got colder. I made a circle with my mouth to emit the warm air trapped inside. As my eyes followed the faint line of smoke that I emitted, they met another pair of eyes staring down at me. These eyes belonged to, (what I believe) a footy player. There was a footy party at the hall adjacent to ours. There were these young blonde guys in green jerseys sipping cold beer at the entrance of that hall. They looked at me with great amusement and curiosity, taking turns to wonder at my attire, the sindoor on my forehead, the food on my plate, my red face and my smoky mouth. Caught unguarded, I took 20 seconds to decide what my reaction to them should be. I had decided to pretend that I was following a new stylish way of eating hot Indian food, by emitting smoke from my mouth instead of letting the food cool down on the plate itself. I tried to put up that pretence. They smiled at me politely and said ‘Hi’. I managed to gather the remnants of my shattered self-image and greeted them back. After this mini tragedy, I decided to walk back into the hall where there would be no green jerseys… perhaps a few green kanjivarams.

To be continued…

My first NRI pujo...(Part 2)

2008-10-08T21:41:00.000-07:00

Back in the hall, I felt strangely secure. Amit wanted another ‘jilipi’, so he trotted to the food queue again. Sanjana, Sonali’s 5 yr old daughter, was most helpful. She got us chairs to sit on, which is a luxury in the crowd. But the problem was, we couldn’t stop her till she got all the chairs she could lay her hands on. So there we were…four-and-a-half people and 14 chairs, smiling embarrassed at those who wondered at our compulsive-chair-collection syndrome.

With a belly full of ‘khichudi’ and eyes full of ‘bheto-bangalir-dupurer-ghum’ (the afternoon naps that Bengalis are particularly fond of), we decided to head home, only to come back a few hours later.

In the evening, it was time for some serious ‘bhakti’ with ‘dhunurchi naach’ (a particular kind of dance in front of the deity in which it is assumed that the deity isn’t watching…as most of those dance steps these days are neither pious nor decent…at least most of the times). So we watched people dance to the beat of the ‘dhaak’. The smoke-filled hall reminded me of my ‘para pujo’, where year after year, Nitai da won the first prize for ‘dhunurchi naach’, as he could balance three dhunurchis at once: two in his hands and one on his chin. I missed my friends back home and all the fun we had on Dashami…the truck full of enthusiastic people dancing their way for the ‘bhashan’ (immersion of the goddess).

But I couldn’t complain. I had already made some cool new friends. Sonali, Anirban and their daughter Sanjana were a great company to have (especially when I found out that Anirban makes amazing kebabs and Sonali cooks awesome fish curry). As the evening ended with the community dinner consisting of ‘luchi’, ‘begun bhaja’, ‘alu dum’, ‘pulao’, ‘chatni’, ‘mishti’, we planned to meet for breakfast the next morning at our place.
After a continental breakfast of cheese burger, bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms, we headed for the pujo hall again. On our way, we stopped at Anirban’s place, wondered at his beautiful house, rejected his offer of beer, and took a ride on Sanjana’s swing in the lawn.

Back in the hall…more people…and more colours, as it was time for sindoor-khela (a tradition in which married women spill sindoor on other people’s wives…including Lord Shiva’s wife, Durga). Obviously, this tradition makes a good photo-session event…as husbands click pictures of their wives…and other people’s wives as well!

Anyway, for me, the sindoor khela reminded me of the Holi excitement (except that there were no water-filled balloons, which I generally love shooting at others). I screamed at Amit for not carrying his handkerchief with which I could wipe my red face (I need to admit that generally there is no space in his pockets to carry even a toothpick, as I usually use his pockets as my handbag…and stuff it up with stuff you would typically find in a lady’s handbag (well…not all of it, of course).

A kind lady took pity and offered me some tissues. And that was the start of yet another great friendship! Enter Priyanka, Suprotim, and their 8-month old daughter Rheanna. It seemed as if we were long lost sisters…sharing common surnames, ancestral roots, house locations in Kolkata, dislike for cooking, love for watching movies ‘back-to-back’ all night, among many other things!
So our new gang…Sonali & family, Priyanka & family and Amit & wife …enjoyed the rest of the pujo. We watched Antakshari in the evening and danced to popular Bollywood music. Amit even did the unthinkable…served food at the community dinner! What a performance that was!

Back home, today (October 9, 2008) is Dashami. But we were in a time machine last weekend and have already been there…done that. In fact, we did a lot more since then. Our gang met each day this week at Priyanka’s house after work…and celebrated pujo and our new found friendship….with booze, ‘adda’, KFC, ‘luchi’ and ‘pathar mangsho’ (not all on the same day, of course).

We still haven’t overcome our pujo hangover…and I doze in front of my computer at work these days…waiting for it to be 5 pm, when I can rush for Priyanka’s house for yet another great evening. Anyway, another weekend is almost here…and this Saturday, it’s time for the official Bijoya Sanmelani organized by BAWA (Bengali Association of Western Australia). Bijoya or no bijoya…we are sure to have many more ‘sanmelanis’. So we have slightly modified the popular ‘asche bochor abar hobe’ to ‘asche weekend abar hobe’…as that’s what life is all about away from our homelands…living our weekends as if there is no Monday!

One of those evenings in Mumbai...

2008-10-06T01:43:00.000-07:00

February 2005: The lights are dim….the curtains drawn. A half filled bottle of Sprite lies on the glass centre table. Bryan sings aloud…and it does feel like Cloud Number 9. The smell of “besan”…not from the kitchen but from Mita’s face pack….dances with the music. She has been cooking all evening…ever since she returned from the “bazaar”… “puris” stuffed with peas and “alu dum”.

Her friends had been pestering her since last week to treat them to some authentic Bengali food. Away from home they sometimes feel homesick…but they never miss their mother tongue…they sing, fight, chat, conspire and plan in that language. They sing “Bhalobasha” and “Sujon”, they plan their little trips to the “Land of chikis”, they conspire against the weird neighbours, and they chat about everything under the sun…from “ear rings to Abol Tabol”.

Basuri has gone out with Broto on a date….so they decided to have the “puris” for dinner. Rajasri has been trying to be helpful…but she has already burned 2 puris. So Shila takes control of the kitchen as the main assistant to Mita. Rajasri is great with salads not with puris….but atleast she tries, unlike Leena who never budges from the couch. There is still some egg curry left in the refrigerator….Ditya had cooked it with such great care…and her culinary skills had been much appreciated. Shekhar had missed out on the curry…so he would have it with the puris today.

Shekhar being the best judge of food, his opinion really makes a difference. He is the one who organises trips. They still remember how they landed up in a temple which seemed to be situated on the other side of the globe. But the drive had been fun…especially when they came up with strange dance movements. Vir is there as usual…playing the fool. Today he told them about the bees that entered his room when the bee hive hanging from his window had been broken. He gave a performance that will be difficult for them to forget….he played both roles…that of the bee and his harassed roommate.

Raj will return from office quite late …as usual. He will be having his dinner in office but he wants his share of the puris as well. Ranjan and Tan have gone out to get the beer…

Ma

2008-10-06T01:31:00.000-07:00

Once again I can sleep till late....the curtains are neatly drawn so that sunlight does not scorch the sweet early morning dreams...I no longer need to worry about breakfast or lunch.....knowing that ma will take care of all that. Yes....ma is back! For the last one month i hated entering the dark and deserted house.....locking the doors every time i left home...as if i was checking in and out of a hotel! The beds were not as cosy as they used to be...the bed sheets seldom washed...the pillows never beaten with a broom in the balcony to make them fluffier.

Meals were matter-of-fact....mere consumption of food....for survival. The refrigerator lay loaded...but no one served my favourite "kasundi" as i reluctantly swallowed the boiled bitter gourd .One day I ran out of drinking water......carelessly forgetting to fill the water filter! What a night that was....thirst...and some salty tears of self pity!

Power cuts were so alarming....the empty candle stands with traces of molten wax....smiled at me mockingly.....as if to say....."learn to be independent". It was a dark, warm, evening....with mosquitoes to play with.....and no phone call...not a single one.

Almost forgot the taste of fish....."do not buy fish all by yourself.....they'll give you the rotten ones...and you'll fall ill"....ma said over the phone one day. So when friends talked about hilsa cooked with mustard...i could only smell it with my imagination!

The flower pots did not cooperate...."we don't need you" they said vainly when i watered them sometimes. They never greeted me with a blossom as they did when ma was around. I sometimes brought home some roses......not because I am particularly fond of roses but because i wanted to win the battle over ma's little garden. But i never found a flower vase....and the roses looked miserable in the Horlicks glass jars....the only replacement for flower vases i could lay my hands on.

Then in a dream one night.....i felt a beautifully scented room....the scent of incense sticks glowing in front of the idols that ma worships. Waking up in the middle of the night....i missed something terribly ...that smell of "chandan". The gods must have been angry with me.....for not lighting a single "diya" or an incence stick. Ma does that every day...the first thing after her bath...as the bathroom smells of a hair oil i never use....and the bedroom smells of chandan and flowers piously laid in front of the gods....with the largest red hibiscus at Ma Kali's feet.

Ma is in all that surrounds me.....in the glass of water that is carefully placed on the table everyday when i return from office....in the lunchbox lovingly packed......in the songs that make me happy. She's in the Holi i celebrated away from home for the first time this year...in the lonely nights when even the third capsule could not relieve me of the headache that torments me sometimes...

When I met her after 5 months and 10 days....she was all the same....reminding me of the protective curtains, the hilsa i craved for, the candle i could not find, the incense sticks i never bothered to light, the fluffy pillow i missed so much and.... the flower that never blossomed without her care.....

Material Girl

2008-10-06T01:12:00.000-07:00

While trying to help ma get rid of a few old and useless things that lay caked in dust for all these years, I realized that all that’s dusty and useless may not be dispensable.

The bag that baba used to carry to the fish market still stinks…..of fish and dust.

Didi’s school diary is filled with complaints from teachers to parents…."talkative"….."did not do her homework"……"was not well prepared for the oral test".

The tiny spoon that ma used to force down unwanted morsels of food down didi’s throat has lost its shape and colour.

The hairpin that ma used as a new bride is dangerous enough to prick one to a wound.

The red gloves that I wore, when I dressed up as Santa Claus in a school function

...have survived in spite of the rat bites and naphthalene balls. Yet we could not throw these dusty, tattered, smelly bundles of memory away…..

Moments become memories…..and objects become tokens…..of love, innocence, pride, sorrow and toil. I had probably realized this years back when I became a collector. Every greeting card I ever received in life (from the time I learnt the value of a greeting) is carefully preserved in a cardboard box that lies on the topmost rack of my bookshelf. The childish writings of friends I have vague memory of, force me to recollect. The little, funny poems added to the cards by those who are now settled on the other side of the globe and have become fathers/mothers of children who are as old as they were when they wrote those poems…..evoke a strange feeling…almost of another life.

The wrap of the candy I won in a lucky dip in a school fete, the pen that my sister bought for me with the money in her piggy bank, the ticket to the first movie I saw with my friends in the theatre with no adult escort, the ‘Leadership Training Service’ (LTS) badge, the flower picked up from a garden in Chandigarh, the ICSE timetable, the newspaper cutting declaring that Aamir Khan is married (Ma said I skipped lunch after that...which is 'something' as I ate 7-8 times a day those days), the earring whose pair I lost, the autograph of a favourite class teacher, the passes to the fest I saw my first crush in, the cartoon of me that my best friend drew on my mathematics notebook, the stamp I pulled out of the envelope that carried the letter from my pen friend from Austria, the envelope in which I got my first fees as an English tutor…..are all pieces of my past…the past that makes me what I am.

I relived five years of my adolescent life in fifty minutes as I read the letters from a dear brother .The praise when I got admission in one of the better colleges in the country, the advice when I thought that everyone could be trusted, the consolation when I didn’t know how to handle my first crush….were like my past speaking to me….summing up my whole adolescent existence.

Hindsight is as important as foresight… as it is the filter that traps our past follies. In fact foresight is often built on hindsight. I am glad that I kept collecting the fragments of my past…..they are the only things that I can call entirely my own. One day when I will be a bundle of trembling hands, shrunken eyes and wrinkled cheeks…. I will open my bagful of goodies… that will be like the zephyr from the past…and then with a scalp full of grey hairs, I will relive those days…and my toothless grins will amuse anyone who would care to notice.

Raisin' Toast

2008-10-06T00:54:00.000-07:00

January 2006: It was more than a perfect holiday. It was the best 6 weeks of my life of 24 years…with the people I loved most…and a brand new continent to explore.

I boarded MH182 at 12:00am on the 25th of Jan 2006. The thrill of my first overseas flight…that would take me to a little wonder named Rai. Even with a not-so-friendly Japanese man as my companion in the first flight, the four hours did not seem quite a waste. I let my eyes feast on the land below…the land of a thousand glow worms. The lights on the unknown lands I crossed…and the darkness of the seas! It seemed as if the window was a painter’s dynamic canvas…where the paintings kept changing every minute. I could feel my eyes shut with happiness…and they woke up to Kuala Lumpur at dawn.

It was not going to be as dreamy as I thought it would. What with the entry of a new character…a mustache less, bearded man from Bangladesh, who seemed to be the brand ambassador of some god-forsaken toothpick company? Well this character had a major role to play during my journey from KL to Sydney. He was one of a kind…kept cleaning his teeth with the toothpicks he carried. He was quite passionate about it I thought….for to do it for 8 hours at a stretch needs passion if not patience. At one point of time I wondered if his passion would force him to volunteer to clean my teeth as well. Thankfully he didn’t. But he did me a great favor. He shattered all my school girls’ dreams of romance on a flight…and reinforced my disrespect for illusive Hindi movies.

Then my eyes got its greatest gift. I saw Rai…in Didi’s arms. It was the best picture I ever saw…because it made me happy like nothing else ever did. I took that bundle of joy in my arms…and knew immediately… it was going to be the best 6 weeks of my life of 24 years.

And the next 6 weeks! All I can do now is to think of those days and smile…and perhaps raise a toast. So here’s raising a toast!

Here’s raising a toast to the raisin toasts in breakfast…and the sausages and the bacon. Here’s to the big house packed with the people I love most. Here’s to the trips to the city on the train, and the amazing conversations we had. Here’s to the food courts…and my exploratory appetite that was keen to try anything from octopus to kangaroo. Here’s to the bags full of goodies that I held after each shopping expedition… clothes that could dress up an entire nation, chocolates that could feed a generation, bags that could carry anything from a coin to a cauldron ...show-pieces that could fill up a museum.

Here’s to the amazing places that Partha da took us…

Melbourne: The city of gardens and trams. It made me realize why poets chose to write about gardens of all things. The Federation Square, the open theatre, the little stalls decorated for Chinese new year, the walk along the Yara river…and the glitz and glamour of Crown Casino.

Puffing Billy: Catching the train was quite an experience. As in Hindi movies, we chased the train and managed to board it at day end. The journey down the green mountains, when the sun and the air played strange games with us has been one of the most refreshing train rides of my life. If the Bombay local trains made you feel like life was a constant struggle against being pick-pocketed...this made you feel like life was an eternal jackpot...that you always won.

Philip Islands: The gallery full of tourists from all corners of the world….waiting in silence as the moon shone down. The chill of the air and the sound of the distant waves proclaimed that we were one with nature. And then they arrived…tiny creatures emerging from the vast ocean. They glistened on the sand as they made their way to the shrubs. The penguins were a sight I’ll never forget in my life.

Ballaret: It took us back in time to the 1850s. This gold mining town has preserved history in the best way possible. Men in garters and women in gowns …horse carriages…the sight of raw gold being solidified into a bar ….the colonial marching soldiers….the candy and candle shops at every bend of the road. This journey back in time filled me up with the strangest of emotions.

Gold Coast: It was beyond my imagination that a tourist spot like this could exist and I could some day make it to that place. We visited the Movie and the Sea Worlds on this land of theme parks. At Movie World we met all the characters that populated Hollywood movies…from Austin Powers to Scooby Doo…from Shrek to Harry Potter…..from Tweety to Batman. I rode roller coasters (on land and in the water) ….caught a 4D animation movie….saw the hilarious Police Academy stunts….and the famous march of the movie characters. We were drenched in rain…and shivered…in cold and in excitement. At the Sea World we touched the star fish, saw the dolphins dance, and watched the sea lions put up a performance and the polar bears having supper!

Brisbane: The walk along Southbank at night. The roads smelled of some exotic flower…and our hearts yearned for the distant boats on the river.

Here’s to the Great Ocean Drive and the Twelve Apostles standing in the sea …watching the tourists for years. They gave me a creepy feeling…as if I had come to the end of the world. The river cruise from Paramatta took us to the city ….where the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge greeted us as they had greeted millions of tourists before us. At the beaches…Palm, Anna, Kiama, Coonjee….I saw all the shades of blue that I thought existed only in paint boxes and imaginations. Here’s to the waves…the shells…the trees…and the sand.

At home we relived old days….our childhood being analyzed in hindsight. That’s what makes siblings so special….they have a repository of memories to talk about for the rest of their lives. Rai was a constant entertainment…gargling away to glory….swinging her million dollar pony tail and smiling to make us all smile.

I discovered that my taste buds danced at the mention of Thai food. The steak at ‘Lonestar’ brought out the carnivore in me. And I never had too much of the good old fish and chips …

Some things change the way you look at life….and some things change your life. I am not sure what this vacation did to me…but it definitely reminded me of my favorite proverb ‘Doing what you like is freedom/Liking what you do is happiness.’ These 6 weeks gave me both freedom and happiness….and here’s raising a toast to it.

Living 'The Namesake'

2008-10-06T00:32:00.000-07:00

June 2005: When I started writing this piece, I wondered what I was aiming at. Was it a book review? A movie review? A journal inspired by a book I loved? Not quite. As my fingers moved frantically on the keyboard, I stopped bothering about the outcome. What I was left with was a narrative of our plight….the plight of numerous Bengalis living outside their homeland.

On an exceptionally warm Saturday afternoon, I started reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake. Even though I was in Calcutta then (and had no idea that I would settle abroad myself), I felt a connection with the theme of non-resident Bengalis as I missed my didi who was settled in Australia. In a few minutes that connection grew stronger and the narrative gripped me.

The book spans more than thirty years in the life of the Ganguli family. Ashoke and Ashima, each born in Calcutta, had immigrated to the United States as young adults. Their children, Gogol and Sonia, grow up in the United States.

As I sipped coffee and read along, I grew more concerned about Ashima than anybody else I knew. I became a part of her family… walking in her house, eating dinner with her, crying when she was sad. Alone in her new apartment, when Ashoke is away at work, she is the picture of loneliness. There is only a glass window between the autumn in her heart and the cold breeze outside. As she remembers her parents and relatives back home, her mind becomes a global canvas, reflecting the plight of numerous individuals away from their homeland. Especially during her pregnancy, she misses the company of her loved ones. So she makes a puffed rice concoction that soothes her appetite and her nerves. ‘Puffed rice concoction’ ….the English translation of jhalmuri…almost takes away all the spice, and the dirt from the roadside peddler’s hands that makes it tastier.

As Ashima cries at the news of her father’s death…seated on her couch in Boston…helpless…desperate for a last glimpse of her dear father in Calcutta…..I cursed the world for being so vast. Ashima’s reaction to her father’s death reminded me of didi receiving the same news in a very similar manner. And I cried, more for didi than for baba. I suddenly had a strange realization - that sorrow of a very intense kind is something to be treasured. One does not realize that when one faces it for the first time but with the passage of time, the memory of that sorrow becomes the only true companion during dark, lonely nights.

Gogol’s embarrassment and initial dissatisfaction with his parents….their ways and habits, the parties they hosted, the food they preferred, their over protectiveness about their children, their constant fear of disaster….evokes both slight anger (for not loving his parents unconditionally) and mild sympathy (for being unable to accept his cultural roots). Their visits to Calcutta reminded me of some of my uncles and aunts who paid seasonal visits to India, never forgetting the Ferrero-Rocher…. the soaps, the sweaters and the watches. The cousins, who always looked either lost in or defeated by the mosquito nets and steel utensils, suddenly became more lovable (not the spoilt, snobbish brats, as we often mistook them to be).

Ashoke names his son after his favorite author, Nicolai Gogol**. Gogol’s books had been Ashoke’s truest companion in hard times. In fact, one of his books was a life savior. So when the question of naming his son arose, Ashoke thought it was the best way to pay tribute to the novelist who inspired his very existence.

Just as no employee is ever happy with their salary, no one I know is completely satisfied with their name. My name was a result of a tussle between two kids……my 10-yr old cousin and my 8-yr old didi. Both wanted to name me after their respective best friends in school. My mother solved the problem by deciding to draw lots. My relatives gathered around and picked up chits with the names written on them. My cousin won…..and I got my name.

Gogol's unusual name serves as a symbol of his own identity crisis. His resentment for his namesake is quite understandable. In the midst of the Johns, Jacks and Jennifers, he stands out because of something he had no control over - his name. His name was like the cross he could not bear….and he decided not to. So he changes his name to Nikhil. However, his new name does not give him a new identity.

Gogol grew up with an American way of thinking and living. But when it came to a family crisis (death of his father) he shows the same loyalty to family as is typical of an Indian. As he walks through the bright highways and dark alleys of life, he realizes that his name was much more than just a name. His name was his father’s pride, his mother’s sense of security, and the essence of his childhood. In learning this, he learns more about himself and….life. The name that had taken the family apart also brings the family together.

The Namesake is a story of identities (lost and found), dreams (nurtured and shattered), tears (shed and unshed), and rainbows (created and envisioned). It is about the life led by millions of Bengalis all over the world…. intertwined by their roots, connected by their souls and living by their dreams.

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**‘Nicolai Gogol was a Russian-language writer of Ukrainian origin. Although his early works were heavily influenced by his Ukrainian heritage and upbringing, he wrote in Russian and his works belonged to the tradition of Russian literature. The novel Dead Souls (1842), the play Revizor (1836, 1842), and the short story The Overcoat (1842) count among his masterpieces. After the triumph of Dead Souls, Gogol came to be regarded by his contemporaries as a great satirist who lampooned the unseemly sides of Imperial Russia. Gogol's work has also had a large impact on Russia's non-literary culture, and his stories have been adapted numerous times into opera and film.’

My first NRI pujo...(Part 1)

2008-10-05T23:03:00.000-07:00

October 2008: If there was a traffic police in the land of clocks and watches, ‘time’ would have had to pay a huge fine for speeding last weekend.

Skipping Ponchomi , pujo started with Shoshti on Saturday. Unfortunately it did not last for a day….as it had to make space for Shaptami…which squeezed in and lived its life through Saturday evening. Sunday was a 3-in-one day. It started as Ashtami….changed its mind by late morning and posed as Nabami…..and then it suddenly changed colors and pretended to be Dashami!

As we made our way into Karidinya Community Centre, Perth, my radar beeped out loud. A techno voice hummed in my ear, saying ‘Bongs detected….bongs detected. Please turn right at the gate, adjust the pallu of your not-so-well-clad saree and put on a 5cm smile’.
I obeyed.
Not quite so. Sometimes I smiled 6.5 cm as well. And one time I remember yawning for 10 seconds. Will I be disqualified for that?

Anyway, the goddess was pretty and gorgeous as ever. Resplendent in her golden attire, blessing all those who paused to pray…and even those who didn’t. The lion too seemed to be feeling quite at home in the land of koalas and kangaroos.
No matter what…Bengalis live up to their roots and culture. How you ask? Well, the anjali that was to start at 9:30am, started at 11:00 am. Weren’t we always known for our punctuality?

As I held the red and green kangaroo paw during anjali, I felt funny. No, there are no red and green kangaroos in Australia. It’s the name of a popular flower in Western Australia. I missed the marigolds and ‘bel pata’ back home…the flowers and leaves I used from my first anjali till my 26th (ooops did I just give out my age?) But I told myself, flowers are flowers….just like pujo is pujo.

Back home, my ears had got familiar with certain words that the purohit chanted during anjali. My friends and I played our secret game during anjali…of letting our tongues twist in our mouths as we tried to copy the purohit’s Sanskrit accent. This time the chant was unfamiliar, as the purohit was a South Indian…and no amount of twisting tongues in my mouth could help me get his crisp Sanskrit accent.

So I kept mute and prayed. At the end of it, the red and green kangaroo paws were collected in baskets from Ikea and the ‘shanti-jol’ sprinkled in abundance.
As I let my eyes scan the ‘mandap’, I rejoiced at the sight and smell of chandan flavoured incense sticks, the fruit-filled trays of ‘prasad’, the coconut in one corner adorned with ‘sindoor’, the grains of basmati rice on a plate. In the midst of these familiar things, my eyes stopped at something that I had never seen back home…a Brownes milk packet flaunting the picture of a fat Australian black and white cow.

Shifting my attention from bos taurus to homo sapiens, I looked at the people in the hall. Colourful sarees, bright jewelry, fab-india kurtas, the sound of laughter, the whiff of Cool-Water perfume. My heart heaved a sigh of relief at the sight. How different would these people look on Monday on their way to office? I remembered my first day I went for work in Perth. I looked at the office-goers and had spent a moment or two imagining what the city looked like from a bird’s eye view. A land where black dots moved around in a great rush! Most of them wore black! Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!

Making my way through the colourful crowd, I found a familiar face. That’s when I smiled that 6.5 cm smile I mentioned earlier. I spoke to Sonali, a friend of a friend, and now my friend. She and her husband Anirban introduced me to many others. I answered the same questions 14.5 times ‘How long have you been in Perth?’ and ‘Are you here on a work visa or a permanent residence?’ (The last .5 time was when someone went away without stopping to hear my answers).
Anyway, not a bad start I thought, thanks to Sonali. At least now I know a few names…and faces (though I struggled to remember the relationship between the names and the faces).

In the food queue, I overheard some people talking of home loans and rising mortgages, investment properties and the mines that they have been to lately for work. I have had to familiarise myself with geology and mines since I moved to Perth. So I quickly remembered something I read a while ago about the relationship between mines and mortgages, which I had interpreted in my amateur mind to be something like ‘More mines, would mean more mortgage rates’. The excerpt from the actual piece I read is: ‘Perth, Darwin and regional Queensland towns are the new boom areas thanks to the resources explosion. The biggest single influence on Australian real estate right now is the resources boom. The only property markets really firing are those affected by overseas demand for commodities. While markets such as Sydney and Melbourne struggle, prices soar in Western Australia, the Northern Territory and regional Queensland.’

With a plate full of ‘khichudi’, ‘labda’, ‘chatni’, ‘papad’ and ‘pantua’ I made my way to the open space outside the hall, where people were fewer, and empty chairs more. As I put a lump of khichudi in my mouth, my ears smoked, my face turned red, and my tongue burnt. It was too hot! I cursed myself for not waiting till it got colder. I made a circle with my mouth to emit the warm air trapped inside. As my eyes followed the faint line of smoke that I emitted, they met another pair of eyes staring down at me. These eyes belonged to, (what I believe) a footy player. There was a footy party at the hall adjacent to ours. There were these young blonde guys in green jerseys sipping cold beer at the entrance of that hall. They looked at me with great amusement and curiosity, taking turns to wonder at my attire, the sindoor on my forehead, the food on my plate, my red face and my smoky mouth. Caught unguarded, I took 20 seconds to decide what my reaction to them should be. I had decided to pretend that I was following a new stylish way of eating hot Indian food, by emitting smoke from my mouth instead of letting the food cool down on the plate itself. I tried to put up that pretence. They smiled at me politely and said ‘Hi’. I managed to gather the remnants of my shattered self-image and greeted them back.
After this mini tragedy, I decided to walk back into the hall where there would be no green jerseys… perhaps a few green kanjivarams.

To be continued…