Mahalaya 2011

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 into the radio station. And as soon as he could get the magical voice of Birendra Krishna 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 the 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 Krishna'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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 spelling and spell-checker deactivated) and ends with someone with good spelling/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

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...

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