It's A Sushi Plate - for Heaven's Sake!

I painted this Sushi plate a few months ago and since then there have been only a handful of visitors to our place who have GOT IT. The rest will ask me why I'm painting sad pictures nowadays and yet others look puzzled and polite.

The fish's kith and kin, it's brothers and sisters, are lying all cut and rolled up right on top of it! THAT IS WHY IT IS SAD.

*Sigh* Maybe I should have just painted a blurb with the whole story. Or maybe have the fishy muttering curse words. Ah, now that's an idea!

Would you know me Daddy?

If you saw me today
At work or at play
If you passed me in the street
And our eyes happened to meet
Would you know me Daddy?

If I were
In a heated debate,
Or maybe in a huff
It would come
Easy enough...
Or in a tantrum
Or a fit
No surprises there
No need to pause
To stop, to think
Or even bat an eyelid.

But when I am
my better self
One that strives
To still imbibe
All you said...
To make sense
of lessons passed
Some direct
Some winded
Of control
Calmness
Of patience,
Silence.

That side does show
Now more than before
That side you had
No time to savor
One that was rarer
Than a nightingale’s song
The one I kept hidden
For so long… too long
I fear those lessons
Came with this cost
That the hardest chapters
You taught as you lost
That it took your departure
To make me ready
So would you know me now
Would you know me Daddy?

Homeward Bound!

“Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me...”

Nobody but that genius could’ve put it so well huh?

A Hunters update – We close on the 14th of October! I’m so excited about the new home that my recent dreams are all set in those rooms! New carpets to be chosen, curtains to be picked, kitchen gadgets to buy, in short all that money to be spent! Now there are so many things wrong with the last bit of that last sentence, I can’t even begin. But anyway, we bid goodbye to the city and head to the suburbs next month. It’s exciting and daunting. As we sign our names on the 100 dotted lines, I recall that I know this feeling, in fact it’s bigger and scarier cousin had stricken a long time ago. At that time, I fought it successfully, and ended up a “Missus”. The fear of commitment never really leaves us, does it? We just have to fight it each time based on the premise of what lies ahead. And this time it’s more bedrooms, more trees, more space, more light. More light in our lives. Figuratively too.

Oh by the way, we are still not on subject B.

I Come Clean

Have you ever tried to write about something when your mind is preoccupied with something else? “Why?” you ask. Say it’s because you have to. It’s akin to having an exam or a presentation the next day on subject A and your mind is filled with this unquenchable thirst for knowledge on subject B. Know how that happens? Back in high school, the need to study that subject B and maybe excel in it and follow that up with a doctoral degree on the finer nuances of B can be overpowering. In college, especially in grad school, I knew I wouldn’t do the follow-up-with-a-doctoral-degree part but still, B would beat A hollow in general appeal. Yet, we have to pass subject A too right, so we trudge on....the results will usually yield a very half-baked A-casserole, but we pass. At least we hope to pass.

Recently I have been whipping up a lot of those half-baked casseroles. Some haven’t made it to the blog because I learnt my lesson earlier on. Too many half-baked casseroles and eventually the appetites are lost forever. Some definitely have, like my responses to telemarketers! So I will beat around the bush no longer and tell you right now that there’s so much to write about, which I haven’t gotten round to. Soon I will, and it’s very likely I won’t stop, and then you will thank me for at least putting it off for a while. You will scream for a break, I most definitely will myself, but we might well not have one for a long, long time.

So please hang in there while I take my time with the sautéing and simmering. A slow cooked dish at least speaks of the cook’s passion, if not anything more!

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Thanks for the emails people. There's nothing to be concerned about. We are alive and kicking, albeit a little aimlessly.

Feeling Good About Being Bad

I’m usually not a smartass about stuff. The only time I feel like being one is when telemarketers harass my very existence. I have a couple of my replies here, please feel free to use and abuse…and add to my list!

TM: Is Mr.Gabby at home?
Me: No
TM: Is this Mrs.Gabby I’m talking to?
Me: No. I’m the mistress. Mrs.Gabby is out of town on work and I’m the filler.

There’s never been an answer to that one.

TM: Are you the decision-maker of the house?
Me: No, I..I’ll never be. It’s a problem. But my therapist says we first need to work on my manic suicidal tendencies....but talking about it helps....

They hang up pretty fast after that.

TM: Hi! I’m so-and-so and I’m calling from Dish Network. How are you today?
Me: Not so good. I have no friends. Will you be my friend?

That usually yields the fastest results.

Some people lost some sleep last night....

1:15 AM, Thursday Sept 8th

A car pulls up outside our building and loud voices are heard.
“How could you?” she yelled.
“Oh yeah?" And (lots of stuff I couldn’t catch) later, “What was THAT about huh? HUH?” he yelled.

I grinned into the darkness. Couple of fighting cats they were. I waited for the voices to fade as they walked away from their car. But some 20 minutes later they were still at it. His voice was louder and hers was getting incomprehensible due to the accompanied sobbing. It went on and on. Car doors slammed, one of them was leaving. But the car engine did not start up. I heard the woman yell and then silence.

I crept out of bed and walked to the window. Mr.Gabby sat up bolt upright with a look suggestive of somebody who has just been dropped on this planet with none of the necessary chips installed in his head.
“I just want to check to see nobody is hurt” I say.
“What happened? What happened?”
“Nothing, go back to sleep” I say.
And he promptly flops back. Gentle snores in precisely 10 seconds.

They were standing at opposite ends of the car, leaning, backs to each other. Ah, a break. Rehashing strategies and gathering energy.
“And what about that time....(sobbing)...It HURT!”
She had stomped over and was flinging her arms at him like a mad woman. Do we all look like that, when we’re mid-match? Gosh, have to do something about the cry face. Why can’t we cry like they do in the movies? All silent tears and quivering lips? This was ugly man!
“You did the same thing last week!” It was his turn.
As they were both shouting now, I gave up on the dialogue. Not a good idea guys, stick to today’s problem, I silently sent forth a suggestion. This will never end otherwise.

I could hear our neighbor pacing upstairs. I’m sure everyone in the vicinity was just wishing they would take it indoors. Our apartment Superindent is a little rough around the edges and I was afraid he would lose it very soon. And just as the thought left my head, I heard his window opening and a resounding "I'M GONNA CALL THE COPS ON YA!" reverberating through the building.

The couple did not even notice. She kicked at his legs with her pointy shoes and he was trying to hold her arms away from him.
“I’m leaving” he said
“GO! GO! GO!”
But he didn’t and they did some more yelling.

A cop car came by. He didn’t have his lights on, so maybe he was just doing his rounds and the Supt. hadn’t actually followed through with his threat. But the cop stepped out.

The guy walked over to the girl’s side. There were many softly spoken words. She clutched his shirt. He put his arm around her. They talked some more and the cop gestured to the building. They shook their heads and then nodded in unison. They locked their car and began walking away. The cop drove off. The guy returned to the car. He’s gonna leave her now I thought, a little breathlessly. He fished out her metallic clutch from the passenger seat and took it back with him. They walked to their door silently holding hands.

WHAT? All they needed was a good scolding?

I looked at the clock, 2:25 AM. Mr. Gabby tosses.
I whispered “They’re OK”.
“Oh God, I have to get up early” he groans, making sympathetic noises that were meant for himself.
He had lost maybe 25 seconds of sleep!
So I shook him gently and asked “Do I look like a mad woman when I cry and yell at the same time?”
“No, very nice...you look..” “Oh God, I have to get up early” he repeats.

They did put some of the necessary chips in! LOL!

Bless This Home...!?

Ganesh Chaturthi
Yet another memory
Agarbati and laddus
Lined up textbooks
Leaves and fruits
Gathered in bunches
The haze is back
And the past, re-launches...

Yellowed books of shlokas
Peering over glasses
Very tip of your nose!
Pausing only for instruction
Over flames and flowers
Your prayers rose...

Maybe you forgot
To include the obvious
As you were wont to do...
Or did He need reminding
Albeit a mere technicality
That home, was you.


I'm sorry comments have been turned off. Especially to a couple of you who beat me to this change. Thanks for leaving your thoughts.

Friends With Fewer Obligations?

My hair stylist Sharon is a sweetheart. She used to give me these nice razor-edged layers that nobody else could. She would finish off with a few stray bangs in the front that I loved. I would always tell her how happy I was that I had discovered her and abashedly tell how she was one of the best things Boston had to offer. The nice fat tip would follow. Off late I have moved to a longer more natural looking mane. No straightening, no curling. Just the natural waves with the occasional trim. She is usually done in 10 minutes but as I gather my stuff to leave, she will wait with an expression on her face that tells me I need to add something to my “Thank you”. The tip I leave behind has remained the same, so it’s obviously not about the money. She expects the gushing. Or at least a “Nice job Sharon!”“It’s only a trim!” I feel like yelling sometimes but I realize this is my own doing. She is now a friend who shares with me stories about her son and her daughter and her marble-cake recipe, I am supposed to leave some comment.

We post and wait eagerly. Reload, reload. What would she say to this? What would he? The comment section keeps a blog alive, long after you publish your thoughts. The names and the no-names all become real to you. Even the Anons have a face. I can sometimes swear I recognize an Anon, the style and the type of comment they leave behind is almost always a giveaway. And sooner or later, the question will arise, “Should I meet him/her?” Though I have an email account that I use just for communicating with my readers, I have voluntarily come out to only one person so far. Though I did it enthusiastically enough, I think I regretted it at some level later. And I will not deny that I was more than a little annoyed when I heard that one person who knows who I am had let slip to another blogger my real name, resulting in one gleeful email from the little scamp, complete with references to where I work and what I have for breakfast. And though the scamp in question is one of my favorite pains in the neck, I was left feeling more than a little uneasy. More recently, a blogger I admire much suggested meeting up and I enthusiastically agreed. As I started to think about it, I recognized the old reluctance creeping back. I began to dig deeper. Why do I hold back from meeting and getting to know people I really admire and have so much in common with? I know of blogger friends who have met and befriended hundreds of other bloggers and are the happier for it, and yet, I can never see myself do that.

I think it all stems from the reason you blog. I used to write quite a bit before I began blogging and the stuff I wrote always elicited comments from friends and relatives that were nice to read. But they were my friends and relatives. The blog on the other hand lets people say what they like and every so often I will get an honest “Your prose is any day better than your poetry” or a “You have lost your marbles”. We are all already bound by the thoughts and comments we leave on each other’s blogs, do we need the personal relationships that meetings bring around too? Maybe the person who left that comment on my blog could say that because I am not really a friend he/she will exchange an email with tomorrow. Maybe it would have been a just a wee bit sugarcoated if we had actually met for coffee the previous weekend? And I think that this hits the core of my problem. I am afraid I might end up pulling a “Sharon” on you. You will be forced to come by, to leave some comment, any decent comment, if not a fat tip. And it will no longer matter if I gave you edgy razor layers or a plain trim.