The Good Samaritan

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...

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.

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

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!

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!

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…

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...

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

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?

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.