C'est la Vie!

The Maharaja is a Monkey

2007-03-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

The cop car was at our mailbox and he was walking up to our door. All Shiny cap and Shiny shoes (And so clean. What scrub do they use? My St.Ives so doesn’t measure up). "What speed were you at?" My G almost yells at me. Little explanation note here: My husband didn’t always suspect my driving. A few little episodes in Chicago which involved some car totals, some appearances in court and those horrid 8 hour classes and some money (not much) have left my reputation scarred for life. My husband cares not for scars but he does care for my life, so I have since been under strict supervision. He forgets my recent misdemeanor. A misdemeanor that has changed me for life. I am now as law-abiding as a congressman running for presidency 2 weeks from now. The misdemeanor involved money and money really speaks to me. It speaks more loudly when you have a baby, a mortgage and a healthy passion for clothes. (I still contend that if I was doing 80 at an exit with that curvature, I would be flying off the road. It’s all simple physics but they don’t teach physics in the judge degrees obviously)

OK see now I’m all up in the air and a hundred miles from the point I was trying to make. The cops, they were at our door. Well, it turns out the little monster can’t wipe his own ass but he can use his little fingers to dial 911 in the half second that he had the phone before we pulled it away. And so MrG had to prove his innocence by displaying his infant son and happy wife and wholesome loving family. The neighbors might still think he is a wife-beater or something and the wife's sneaky call was this cry for help and that is so killing him. You need to know MrG to understand the extent of his misery here. As fate would have it three of our neighbors were out and about at that very instant that Shiny walked up to us. They were close but not close enough to have heard our funny story. So now MrG will lurk longer and longer at the mailbox waiting for a chance to explain that we are a respectable family. He waits for spring like none of us do as then he is sure to catch them outdoors. I asked him to just call all the neighbors and explain it all, as it was about time he had a full night’s rest. But he thinks that will make him look desperate. And that he is not. LOL!

Traces

2007-03-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

As I did the rock and the pat tonight
The rhythm broke away in the middle
And instead my forefinger tapped away swiftly
Just like yours used to, when I was little

And then later in the semi-darkness
He was clipping his toenails, bent over the rails
He muttered softly almost to himself
"How can a baby have such thick nails?"

Still at the table after a meal at home
A meal that ended in curd and pickle
As the hour ticks and the conversation flows
My brother’s hand dries out, little by little

With each day more comes to light
Some imperfections seem perfectly right
Because it means there’s still a bit of you to see
In them, in him, and in me.

Mushy Moment

2007-01-11T19:52:00.000-08:00

You know you can never really have the old life back when....
....you're feeling hot lounging in a cool martini-bar on NYE, but you do the run-fingers-through-hair move and you suddenly feel dried baby food in a strand.

You know you really don't want the old life back when...
....you tuck said strand behind ear, and recall that the food got there when he reached up with those grubby hands and stroked your hair. In the middle of the feed, in the middle of the screaming and grabbing. Making perfect eye contact, no pulling, just a stroke. And it's warm inside, warmer than any appletini could ever make it.

These things happen?

2007-01-11T19:30:00.000-08:00

Middle of the week, middle of this crazy work week, I vent on gtalk...

Me: guess what, MrG was at a sports bar last night. till midnight. some game.
P: yeah?! you were ok? nanny stayed over kya?
Me: no she left. but i managed. bawling baby on hip and all.
P: good re.
Me: thanks re.
P: should have kept her tho. these things happen sometimes.
Me: these things? mrG ka bada side le rahi hai
P: no i'm just saying
......
Me: MrP was logged in till late yesterday
P: oh yeah, he was cooking and chatting it seems
Me: it seems?
P: i was playing poker with my office people. he went home, cooked dinner and then came to pick me up

It’s Come Home

2006-12-22T08:13:00.000-08:00

Scene I – Happened some months ago. I’m nursing the baby. The living daylights are knocked out of me as my neck snaps up in pain, my face contorts and I have a sudden impulse to fling the baby into the center of the room. But instead? I ease him off gently, run downstairs yelling "MrG! Guess what? He’s teething!!!" And then we go out and buy half a dozen teething toys and rings for him to chew on. I carry the bite marks like an emblem, showing them off in private to MrG, till they fade away.

Scene II – He grabs my hair in his little fist and tugs away till I can feel the tears in my eyes. I open his tight fist and immediately proceed to remove all the hair from his hand lest he put it in his mouth. Much later, I rub the area near my temple, where it still hurts. Only a little.

Scene III – I’m putting the monster to sleep. It’s quiet and the lullaby CD promises to put me out before it does him. He kicks around and tosses and turns on the bed like a madcap (usual practice). It reaches a pinnacle which means anytime now, we’re done. My eyes begin to close. He flings himself toward me like a cannonball and his coconut-like hard little head knocks me on the mouth, my right incisor clamps down on my lip. I can taste the blood. I don’t move a centimeter. No point getting him excited, we are almost there. 5 mins later, when he is still and breathing steady I get up and check in the mirror. The lower lip is swollen like a plum. MrG walks in. I say "He’s out and it’s only 10:15. Good day, na?"

Wikipedia says "The Stockholm syndrome is a psychological response in which the hostage exhibits loyalty to the hostage-taker, in spite of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed."

Yes, that’s it. Stockholm has come home.

A Baiter? Me? No Way.

2006-12-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

We play a game with the Maharaja. It began when we were trying to get him to move. See, he doesn’t understand that lifting his ass will assist the whole crawling thing. So currently, we are stuck at the GI Joe type-of-crawl, where he uses his elbows and palms and sort of drags himself here and there. He is very adept at it now, but a month ago, he would stress and strain and then just get lazy, roll over and coo to the ceiling. So well anyway, I would wave, from a yard away, a remote control, shiny steel spoon, cell phone or sometimes a knife (no, that was just to make you sit up and take notice. And yes, we do buy toys for him. Tons of them in fact but he doesn’t give a s**t. Mommy-Daddy’s precious money dude! That is so coming out of your first pay-check) He would somehow reach the point of prize only to find out that I’ve moved it further out. Now that he has mastered this weird method, we just do this to get him really tired before bedtime.

So last weekend we had friends over. They watched in dismay at what I was doing, at one point the woman was going to get up and call Child Services but refrained (politeness or fear (she knows of catfight), I don’t know). But 15 mins later when the Maharaja was fast asleep in my lap and I rose to go and put him in his crib, she followed me upstairs. "Is that OK?" she asked. "Oh yes" I said, going on to tell her how another friend of ours gets her toddler to climb the stairs till he falls asleep. Very effective. But I would refrain when his eyes are half closed and he is leaning on the banister. Making him do it one last time then? That’s just heartless. My guest swallowed hard.

So we were in the nursery and the King was down. I tucked him in and looked up to see my friend staring at the wall behind the changing table. "You like?" I asked. "I used oil, so the colors are bright." She turned around and said "It’s in your psyche. You’re a baiter. I see the underlying theme now."

Whaat?

Later that night, I told MrG. "I’m not a baiter, am I?" I asked all sweet and gentle. "No, of course not. They don’t have kids, they don’t get it. You’re a good mom." he assured me, equally gently. "Awww" I go. We switch off the bedside lamp.

"Baiter."

"But I’m really tired"

"Baiter."

Refusing to let it be

2006-12-18T10:07:00.000-08:00

'Child-woman' and 'woman-child' all sound good. But there are some things you really wish you've grown out of. Catfights, for example. They are not at all what they are made out to be. I was in one recently and though the event has "left the building", the bad taste in my mouth is yet to leave. MrG drew my attention to a Dilbert panel yesterday which has Ted (the generic guy) going "Can I bail out of this project before it becomes a blight on my resume?" I wish I had the sense to get out of the catfight before it became one, before it became a "blight" on my life. Sometimes, the warning bells are all ringing, the signs are all flashing, yet you don’t get out while you still can, gracefully. Why, oh, why?

Maybe I just like the taste of blood  :)

Guilty Pleasures

2006-12-15T10:53:00.000-08:00

I’m in love with working-out these days.
I watch the O.C. I also watch E! News, Gilmore Girls and America’s Next Top Model. Wait it gets better, I even watch One Tree Hill (*Sigh* The things I admit here). MrG’s old grad school TV was retrieved and placed in front of the treadmill in the basement. And you begin to see.

So in a world of crazed bosses, aspiring yet clumsy crawlers and hubbies who have sudden bursts of work-related travel (Yes, very fishy. He takes business trips every month since the baby came. Even a chimp can do the math), lying on the couch watching TV all evening while Mom watches the baby is not an option. But working-out? Now that’s an admirable thing to do. Keeping fit and all that good stuff, such a positive air about it.

Now, next to the treadmill room in the basement is a dump-room. That does not mean we take dumps in there (east-lingo never really meets west-lingo!), it just means anything and everything that you can’t find a place for in our house, goes there. Or stuff that we don’t want visitors to see. Or stuff visitors gave us on earlier visits, which we promptly pull out when they come visiting again. (Cross-stitch-paintings, soap-cases...I love you visitors but what were you thinking?) MrG keeps his tools there (temporary home, a beautiful new mansion will be built for the babies when they come of age or something he assures me) and he spends several perfectly useful afternoons doing perfectly useless things in there.

So as my work-out sessions grow longer and longer I see MrG spending more and more time in the dump-room. Yesterday, after my time sauntering on the treadmill was over, I worked over to the dump-room to see what he was up to.

Did I mention...the beer has been displaced from the kitchen as well while Mom’s visiting?

Confessions of a Daughter-In-Law

2006-08-11T09:47:00.000-07:00

I’m dying to

1) Prance around in shorts and a tank-top in this hot, hot weather without a care in the world

2) Dance my crazy dance in the living room with my son in my arms – in the said outfit. Look crazy while doing it.

3) Hug my husband whenever I feel like it and maybe even slap his bum and get slapped right back.

4) Sit on the couch after work with nothing in my brain. No small talk, absolutely nothing. Just let the day’s events wash over me in a calming summation.

5) Wake up at noon on a Saturday. Or even better, spend an entire day in bed with my son wedged in between me and my hubby. Watch TV in bed and eat in bed too. Shower and go right back to bed.

6) Maybe roll out at dinner time and cook a very, very, very simple meal (which will contain NO Indian spices). Very slowly.

7) Sip a nicely chilled Smirnoff Ice while chopping the vegetables. Chop, chop, chop...sip, sip, sip.

8) Have dinner in complete silence. Beautiful, comfortable silence.

9) Run the dishwasher when I feel like it. Maybe day-after-tomorrow.

10) Just be a small little family.

I'm such a wuss. My friend wanted to poison her mother-in-law's meal. Either that, or it ain't that bad.
.

Huh! Really?

2006-07-28T06:35:00.000-07:00

Your Blogging Type Is the Private Performer

Your blog is your stage - with your visitors your adoring fans.
At least, that's how you write with your witty one liners.
And while you like attention, you value your privacy.
You're likely to have an anonymous blog - or turn off comments.

What's Your Blogging Personality?

Not off the mark completely...The last point was accurate enough!

Their Grass is Greener. Really.

2006-07-25T21:37:00.000-07:00

We don’t live in Wisteria lane exactly, but we could easily pass for the adjacent one. The underlying suburban traits are so obvious, and the competition is maddening. The landscaping is our lane’s favorite summer thing, and I’m fast discovering, my favorite summer peeve. We usually take solace from the fact that our front door neighbors are not in the mad race either. Our lawn and existing landscaping was quickly achieving a very Wild Garden look (that is a type of garden – a certain William Robinson declared it. My kinda guy). I helped Mr.G name the look we were going for and went right back to choosing rugs for the living room...not the hubby, he was losing serious sleep over this. But it’s been a busy year, to put it lightly.

The arrival of his mother brought a couple of things to light. For him, it was the fact that maybe there was one solution; his mother could water the lawn! And for me, I figured our where the passive-aggressive streak of competition in him comes from. It began slowly. She wondered aloud the first week about when the neighbors water their lawns as she doesn’t see anybody do it. I explained automatic sprinklers, reiterating the fact that it has been a busy year for us. Her face fell at first but quickly changed to fierce determination. A couple of weeks ago, she asked about beautiful boulders in other people’s front yards and the topic of professional landscapers came around. This time, the determination was mingled with anxiety.

Last weekend we were at the Boston Commons enjoying Shakespeare in the open...this was my first time watching “Taming of the Shrew”. As we spread our blankets and I settled down to an evening minus baby, I caught MrG staring at the grass. “It’s just Bluegrass Rough...not even Kentucky! But still pretty green, huh?” I sighed.

The next morning, I wake up to see MrG and his mom at the windows. I make my coffee and go to stand next to them to see what is keeping them there. Our front door buddies, our comrades in crime, have crossed over! They have hired professional landscapers who have driven up in a huge truck. Some 6 men jump out and roll out yards and yards of Rye carpet grass. In the course of the next few hours, voices are high strung and there is undeniable jitteriness in our home. Our neighbor waved to my husband, grinning. And needless to say, the landscapers drove away leaving behind the nicest lawn on our neighbor’s side of the street, and two very pissed off people on this side of it.

Its 11 PM as I write this and the mother and the son are in the yard, turning off our manual hose sprinkler. There has been much discussion on professional yard maintenance and landscaping. Our neighbor had apparently waved again, grinning. MrG gets on Local Google.

I take my opening line back – we could pass for Wisteria lane itself. Though the housewives are a tad laidback here, the desperate husbands are aplenty.

Feeling...

2006-07-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

The weeks after the Maharaja was born were some of the most confusing of my life. The expected feelings of excitement, fatigue and exhilaration were all there and I was prepared for it. But what was somewhat disconcerting was the fact that I missed him. I missed having him inside me. When it used to be really and truly, the two of us. When the kicks and rolls were exclusively mine. As the weeks turned to months, I learned to share. He would gurgle to others, he would smile at everyone (Yes, literally, everyone – much to the amusement of the cashier at BabiesRUs or any random stranger on the street for that matter) and its okay. I can deal with that, I think.

This weekend my baby was introduced to solids. The way he has been watching us eat has made it quite evident that he is interested. With eager excitement, I spooned in the tiniest portion of rice cereal into his open, fish-like mouth, but he shoved it out using both his tongue and his arms, with Lilliputian-Herculean strength. Then he proceeded to spit out what little had made it in, with deliberation and patience. I felt a small, vaguely familiar, sense of relief.

You will invariably, lose your dependence on me, step by step...But let’s stretch this out as far as we can little fella! To live is to be slowly born, and you make me feel like I’ve only just begun.

Binding fear!

2006-07-04T20:45:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago...

My mom has called in to check on the status of her grandchild besides other things. Mr.G is dutifully filling her in with the details on the poo and pee stories.

Mr.G: Gabby is coming aunty, she just came back from the mall and...

Pause.

I run up the stairs taking two at a time..shaking my head and flailing arms wildly though I know that there is no way I can get there in time.

Mr.G: No, no aunty...she helps my mother a lot. She made dinner in fact.

“Thank you, thank you” I mouth. These moments of timely white lies are when my love for Mr.G doubles up.

....................................................................................

This weekend...

Mr.G is on his weekly call with his grandmother. This is the mother-in-law’s mom we are talking about. The topic is the great-grandson of course. Conversation is in tamil here, but the gist is fairly easy to understand.

Mr.G: Yes, yes he does. Yes, yes we do. No, no everyday. Oil bath.

Pause.

Mr.G: No, Gabby gives him his bath.

The m-i-l has rushed out of the kitchen...shaking head and flailing arms wildly.

Mr.G: Actually amma gives him his oil-massage and everything…Gabby only does the final part.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you” m-i-l mouths, wrings hands and retreats into the kitchen.

.................................................................................

The decades that separate us notwithstanding, I think I just might get along with my m-i-l....as I find we have some basic things in common :)

Sweet Surrender (of a whole new kind!)

2006-06-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

After dinner you are mine. No TV, no music, no chatting in the background. Just you, me and the peace and quiet of the upstairs. You are fed, cleaned, you look the picture of contentment…a toothless sleepy grin is my prize. I know the best way to get you to sleep is to leave you in your crib when you are drowsy so you can drift off. And you have shown us you can do that easily. But I take you on my shoulder and we walk from room to room, so you can continue to form your pictures. Pictures, which will one day, form your earliest memories. You look around, alert and bird-like, with your head bobbing ever so little, cooing at random. Slowly, you nuzzle and nudge your way into that favorite spot of yours where I can feel your breath on my neck. Your arm finds the comfortable perch of my forearm to hang off from (Something that you learned to do in your second month. When you were a newborn you slept like a koala with your hands curled tight underneath you). You are tucked into the crevice of my shoulder forming a perfect semi-globe, your little butt supported by my arm. There is a dull ache in my shoulder, one that keeps growing with your growing weight. One, which I have long ceased to pay heed to. As I arch my neck to make more room for you, I can feel that slightest shift of your weight. You are asleep, I can tell before I do my customary walk to the mirror to check if you are indeed, asleep. There is something infinitely trusting, infinitely innocent in that final give to sleep. I lay you down in your crib.

This has done me more good than it has done you, baby! Sleep tight. The pleasure, as they say, was all mine.

Now, if only ever night were this idyllic.

Electronic Babysitting

2006-06-09T16:31:00.000-07:00

Mr.G: “Is it OK for him to be swinging for so long?”

Mrs.G: “I didn’t find anything against it online”

Mr.G: “Tell me you didn’t look at just the Fisher-Price website”

OK so I didn't look too hard. But we all grew up in those jhulas ourselves didn’t we? They are omnipresent in a household with babies, every once a while spilling over to non-house locations too (Recall Indian Railways, any class, as long as you have parallel sturdy berths, there’s a sari/dhoti make-shift jhula quickly knotted up and in no time, a blissful baby can be found fast asleep inside)

Five years from now, for the Maharaja’s sake, I hope and pray some random study doesn’t end up with this in-situ result showing a close relationship between slower kids and the ones that spent an unmentionable number of hours in the Fisher-Price Nature’s Touch™ Baby Papasan™ Cradle Swing. Because this swing rocks. Not just in the way swings are supposed to but as in “It ROCKS my world”. It allows me to shower, eat, watch TV, talk on the phone and need-I-say, blog! It allows Gabby to catch up with her whole other non-mommy life and doesn’t make her feel like a bad mommy one bit. The baby is napping, and that’s good for him, isn’t it? He smiled in his sleep too, there you go.

I suspect my thoughts on this approach to buying oneself some time would have been very different 3 months ago. Let this be a lesson to me and to the person who grimaces at short-cuts in parenting, at crying babies in crowded flights (you feel cramped, bored and impatient yourself don’t ya?), the person who raises one eyebrow at pacifier-happy babies, who wonders about the need for security blankets in a disapproving tone or who wishes family-friendly restaurants mean you can bring your child but check him/her in with your coat at the door. You really need to be on the other side of the fence for this one.

Now when I pass mini-vans with purple dinosaurs dancing in the darkness, I don’t cluck my tongue or shake my head. Instead I wonder if these can be coupled with vibrating car-seats. You know, to cover the transitional stage.

Losing Ground

2006-05-04T16:46:00.000-07:00

Six weeks after a baby is born, a lot of things change. With respect to the baby, we have gaze-holding, smoother arm movements and cooing. Stuff is on somewhat of a schedule (though the schedule might change every day). With respect to the Mom and Dad, well, the Mom can start exercising, Mom can go back to work and Mom and Dad can err...get started up again.

Usually, baby is better with meeting these milestones than Mom and Dad are. Mom is hoping going downstairs counts as exercise. Work...well she has a whole month of maternity leave left (yoo hoo). As for point 3, a lot is usually said about the mood, the energy, and an opportune time...but one of the main reasons I can best depict with this sketch. Yes, we have space issues.

In a New Light

2006-05-03T19:10:00.000-07:00

" I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much. " - Mother Teresa

How uncool am I?!!

2006-04-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

## I can stare at the Maharaj's face for 2 hours unblinkingly, while he is sleeping no less.

## I can easily manage 10 photos a day. I can photoshop them into sepia or whatever and send them out to family and friends, almost on a daily basis. And yes, family and friends don't request them any more. But I still send them anyway. We are talking rock bottom of uncoolness barrel here.

## When asked how I'm doing, I have to fight the urge to go into great detail on how he is doing.

## The red tee would go better with my skirt, but I bought the blue. Now we have matching outfits.

O my God. I am going to asphyxiate him with love.

"Few misfortunes can befall a boy which bring worse consequences than to have a really affectionate mother." - W. Somerset Maugham

Make way! The Maharaja is here!

2006-04-25T20:47:00.000-07:00

“Got milk?” his huge eyes ask greedily. “Yes Sire, I do” I mumble softly as I pick him up for the 306th time that day. No, this will not be a 101 on breast feeding, though the topic is a riveting one actually (Example: “Isn’t it orgasmic?” Asks my pal who is also in the throes of it. I look at her agape as there are 2000 things wrong with addressing that question. But yes, the endorphins that are released in the process are good guys...we like them, we do. They are God’s consolation prize for the soreness and what-not. In general the breasts do play a big role in life nowadays and they tend to look down on all the non-working ones...all that preening and perking and nowhere to go, if you know what I mean) But again, we shall not talk about all that just yet. Let me tell you instead how the Maharaja arrived, how he tore to shreds Gabby’s old life and how what remains of it is beyond recognition and how I could not be more thankful for all the damage done.

We had Plan A and Plan B. We also had E thru Z but we didn’t share that with public in case they thought we were over-prepared or something. We would take the freeway all the way to the hospital if I went into labor at 3 AM… but any other time of the day and Mr.G would execute one of the above mentioned plans and get us to the hospital deftly avoiding traffic. We practiced Plan D on an ultrasound trip in mid-March, arriving at the hospital beautifully in time avoiding the crazy lunchtime traffic of Boston. At the end of the session where we looked at the little bugger in black and white, the radiologist went to chat with my Gynac and came back singing “It’s time to get the fellow out!”. Yes, labor was going to be induced the next morning, the reasons aren’t as important as was the fact that she was doing the right thing.

I shampooed and blow-dried, feeling weirdly like I was going to a party...getting pretty for the Maharaja’s arrival. So much for Plan A-Z, we arrived well in time. No romantic dash to the hospital, nothing. Induction was followed by an epidural which I begged for in record-time. Let me pause here and tell you about this great, great thing. It will change your life one day. I proclaimed eternal love to Larry my anesthesiologist and he was very reciprocating. Larry then went to the next room and was very receptive of the undying love proclaimed to him by the next girl he put out of misery. That’s his life – he just gives. At the pearly gates, he will be like No.1 I tell you. Labor continued...I was only 5 hours into the game, the first couple of hours I was still smiling into the video camera so they don’t count, my nurse said.

What changed everything was when our little fellow’s heart rate fell at 8:20 PM. It came back up but the doctor warned us that if it fell again we were heading to the OR. It did at 8:40 PM and in that instant of time, I have felt fear like never before. It was a gripping, desperate fear, mirrored in Mr.G’s eyes. I was undergoing the C-Section by 9 PM. What was lovely about the process was that I was awake throughout the procedure and Mr.G was right by my side (He has a way of describing the color of my insides that I find quite disturbing!) The doctors chatted about India, babies and what-not while they pulled and tugged at my abdomen (pressure is all you feel with an epidural). It was all overridden by the cry that every cell of my being was straining to hear. You wait for that cry like your life depended on it. And the room filled with it at 9:06 PM. The image that I relive again and again is that of Mr.G coming toward me with a swaddled bundle which had just the profile of the Maharaja popping out. I was looking at a mini Mr.G. We had made him. Created life. That too, so perfectly.

With every passing day, every feed, every teeny super-tight grasp of my finger, every gaze that just manages to focus and lock in with mine, every vague search towards my voice, every smile, every coo, I learn so much. Not just about my darling milk monster but about myself too. I am not completely self-centered, and as a mother I am invaluable. I don’t know about maternal instincts and I don’t know about falling in love with your baby in the very first ultrasound. I know though that the first time you are alone with your baby and he cries and you fumble with the diaper to check and then take him to your breast and he fusses and refuses to latch on and you try this and that in a crazy haste because you cannot bear to hear him cry for a second longer…and after he does latch on and is comfortable you break down in a flood of tears because you realize that this is so much stronger than love. It’s like the foundation of all feelings, beyond description.

So the Maharaja has arrived and I’ve found out that the very useful excuse “He’s waking up!” that I use when on phone conversations that run too long is somehow understood by him. He keeps us occupied, to put it lightly. I’ve realized how ridiculous I must have sounded when I used to use phrases like “Too busy” or “No time” while talking to people with kids. I’ve realized I used to have so much free space in my head and in my life it was insane. Being on maternity leave and a mother to only one baby I guess I still don’t the true definition of busy. The woman down the hall from me in the hospital that had had triplets the night before I had delivered, she could surely through some light on this subject. It had been a full moon night so the place was very happening. The maternity ward tends to be. They keep themselves busy doling out so much advice, it’s funny. More on that later, “He’s waking up!”

Oh! I’ll just say it like it is...

2006-02-02T13:24:00.000-08:00

I’m not a native of these parts
But my kind and your kind,
Go back a long, long time
So in a way, it was a reunion
Creating perfect music, flawless rhyme.

I am an acquired taste they say
But you took to me like a fish to water
Soaking your soul in my sweetness
For you, it was love from the beginning
Your eyes and waiting lips,
Have time and over, confessed.

Like making love while still half asleep
Morning rays flooding the boards
Things enjoyed first thing in the morning
Are special enough for their very own odes
To some I am bitter, to some a vice
I come hand-picked and roasted nice
I’m Peet’s Sierra Dorada, a signature blend
Displaced once a while by whatever’s the trend
But for Gabby I will simply remain
A brew invented to keep her man sane
Screwing with Mr.G’s coffee, to simply state
Is like playing with fire or tempting fate!!!

Those Days...These Days

2006-01-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

Cranberry or Apple
Shaken or stirred
Luncheon here, cocktails there
"What to wear! What to wear!"
Work, work, work
Got to go, got to go
Do this, do that
Get here, get there
The timetable of life
Beat, fair and square.

..........................

Counting the days,
The weeks and the chores
Feeling a kick, feeling a roll
A stirring within
Inside at the core
Not like anything
Ever felt before
Anticipation gnawing
Excitement mounting
If it’s going to be like this
I want more, more

“Really, what use of living in this country??”

2006-01-26T11:11:00.000-08:00

The Mom has arrived. And till the baby arrives, she shall be my favorite bait. So I might wander off to different topics but there will be frequent stopovers. This is definitely not the first time my Mom has been to this side of the world but wonder and awe and disgust are usually expressed anew – just because. The things we are missing most sorely are:

1.The maids
2.The gossip sessions with the building-wale.
3.The maids
4.The sunny Hyderabad in general
5.And the other maids – not the daily ones, the weekly ones.

The kitchen is her domain. She loves to cook but at the same time is hopping mad that the dishwasher actually needs to be loaded before the dishes are done, the veggies actually need to be fetched from the stores before the cooking can be done, the laundry has to be taken downstairs and dumped into the washer before it can be transferred to the dryer (a whole extra step, which can throw your life into quite a frenzy apparently). And what’s more, the daughter and son-in-law actually need to work to fetch the bread home before it can be baked. All very unacceptable! While I hum and dance-about talking about how easy my life has become since she has arrived, she is still flabbergasted at how we can enjoy these miserable lives we lead. Last night after work, she saw me walking around watering some plants and mumbled

“What life I don’t know” (Heavy desi English here, but the Queen’s version does hardly any justice at all to the emotions to be conveyed).
So I giggle and say “I’m just watering the plants Amma!!!”
“Why all this when there’s no maali, no maid, nothing!”
“It’s three plants!”
“Put them in one place at least. Why in three different floors?”
“That’s ok”
“No lift (elevator), nothing”

At this point I laugh out loud. An elevator for inside the house!!! Before people assume that I live in a house with an East wing and a West wing and a North tower, let me clarify that it’s a regular suburban home...not very different from the home my Mom lives in Hyderabad but hey, definitely not the same it seems. First of all it’s the same physical and mental temperature in Hyderabad. Now that sentence is actually loaded. See my Mom is freezing mentally. In her very own words - “Physically I’m warm only but mentally somehow I’m feeling cold”. Now that just means that when she looks out of the windows she sees the white blanket Boston is under right now and it’s effecting her in unimaginable ways! :) We are yet to venture to the deck or even the garage so the physical warmth is being protected well, the mental part I just don’t know how to tackle. Permanently board the windows maybe? Suggestions are welcome!

On her daily phone conversations with my Aunt I hear her say “Never! Boston in winter, never!” Pause. “Yes, somehow bad timing for Gabby”. I frown and start grinning at the same time. Is she really talking about when Junior was conceived? Confirming my thoughts the conversation continued...”Yes, what to do? If the delivery was in August it would have been best. Now no other way!” she concluded.

I’ve heard about people planning babies so a school year is not missed or a tax year is covered. We should really factor in best visiting time weathers too now. Definitely time for a TurboTax kinda program that takes into account all of the above along with of course your “time of the month” and tells you when to excuse yourselves and go do it. Otherwise “Really, what use of living in this country??”. Really Amma, what use?! :D

Of Mothers and Daughters...& the hundreds of layers of palpable tension in-between.

2005-12-22T11:04:00.000-08:00

I need a tee that says the following

“Yes, I’m pregnant.
Yes, we know what it is. It’s a boy.
I’m due in March
NO, it’s not OK to rub my belly."

So people who have more to add can jump directly to other questions and those who don’t can please slink away. The questions that follow mostly revolve around how nervous or excited I am and if I’ll have some help around the time. The first one is easy to answer. Yes, I’m aware there will be pain, and blood and goriness, and pain. But a situation where half a dozen doctors stand around my bedside and throw their hands up in unison and go “Boy I’ve never seen this before” and walk away leaving the bun in the oven for eternity is unlikely. So when we’re ready, we’ll be ready and hook or crook, we’ll have the baby out. The more sedated and drugged I am during the process, the better. But either way, we’ll deal. This one is not really giving me sleepless nights.

So what is? The help I’ll have during the time of course. The Mom arrives soon. Now all the Moms who read this blog will go “Oh perfect! You’re so lucky” and the daughters in ya’ll might well say the same thing but with a sardonic grin accompanying it. Because we know don’t we? I firmly believe my Mom is unique in her mixture of fierce independence, high, oh-so-high expectations of me, general exactness, demand for things to be just-so and this and that. But I’m aware this is just me being all-about-me. The universe demands of Moms to be a bit of a pain. It helps balance the unquestioning love and unconditional patience that they are made up of. Along with the deftness of the hand that knows just how to fix that sambar as well as that bruised knee.

Over the years, we have agreed on one thing - that we are different. The acceptance of the difference is a whole other challenge and each fancies that we are letting the other go easy. After all, she’s blood :) I think we would have ample bonding opportunity if I had a sibling or two who I-don’t-know...did drugs and ruined his/her life? Or maybe gambled away the family fortune..? Or in the least broke a rule or two bigger than choosing his/her own spouse. But nah, that wasn’t to happen now, was it? So here I am stuck with 80 % of the total shock-factor that we as a family can muster, thereby limiting discussions where I can click my tongue, sigh and shake my head while Mother and Daughter stir soups and break bread together as we concoct ways to improve the poor guinea pig’s life.

It’s anyways hardest for the youngest. Because you were the one with the easiest life. The one who grew up in the lap of luxury compared to the older ones...they who used to take the bus, who didn’t get to eat foreign chocolates and who in general walked uphill to school both ways are a difficult crowd to live up to. Now add a sibling of the same sex who has never broken a rule in the book except maybe the one about dicing the potatoes in the unorthodox way (boiling them first) and you have no room for wiggle whatsoever. All things considered, it’s best to find cousins who are indulging in scandalous behavior and recap their lives, install DISH so we have the Sun/Gemini/Teja areas covered and of course, have a baby. These should do it. She'll be soon on her way here, my Mom, bless her! And I’m thinking we’re gonna have a wonderful time, my Mom and I.

And if, by some weird chance, there is some unpleasantness, perspective will soon take care of that. Did I tell you who visits soon after her? The in-laws of course. :)

New Worries

2005-12-05T10:59:00.000-08:00

We have an attic in this house. It’s a cute one. Perfect for crawling onto and exploring. I guess little kids can walk upright in there as well. As I settled into bed the other night, I gestured towards the attic and said “Our grandkids won’t find anything interesting up there”. Mr.Gabby looked up from behind his monitor from his little niche in the corner of the bedroom and went “What?”

About 5 or 6 years ago, when Mr.Gabby (or then boyfriend-Gabby) and I had just become something of an item, I was moving apartments. He and his friends were busy loading the truck downstairs and I was cramming in the last few odds and ends into boxes. I reached up to the top of my closet and the huge yellow plastic zipped-up envelope I retrieved stared at me, silently challenging me to make a decision. It bulged with every old love-letter I had ever received along with all-things-romantic that had transpired in Gabby’s life so far. Yes, even those cute Valentine Day’s cards that one finds stuffed in school bags and cycle-carriers, slipped in when you’re not looking. It was filled with some things that would make you go “Aww” and some others that were not so aww-worthy but definitely stirring to me. Those kinds of things that make you pause and stop what you’re doing and just wonder. If only for a short while, you wonder how these people are, how they’re doing and what they're doing and then you shut that little mental envelope and go on with your business. I unzipped the bag slowly and as I did so one not-so-pleasant memory surfaced and I instinctively figured out the best thing to do. I walked over to the corner of the kitchen that housed the growing garbage pile and tossed it in. “Fresh beginnings” I murmured to myself as I taped up the last box.

“There won’t be any pile of letters tied up with a silk ribbon smelling of lilac or lemon verbena..” (Or in my case, now that I think about it, a curious mixture of Estee Lauder’s Pleasures and Indian spices)
“Not even a shoe-box with some mementoes!”...“I threw them all away!”
I had Mr.Gabby’s undivided attention by now as I continued to crib.
“A little kid won’t clamber down the stairs red-faced and breathless clutching handwritten love letters!!!”....
“And you won’t get to chuckle and say “Ah, your Granny was quite a firecracker in her day” or something cute like that!!!”
“NOTHING!!!”

Mr.Gabby stared at me, disbelief wrought on his face. I knew this wasn’t a big deal to him but I was hoping he would understand my frustration a tad bit at least. He walked over and in some corner of my head I wondered about the commonsense of lamenting old-boyfriend keepsakes to my present love-interest, however honest the current relationship! He sat down on the edge of the bed and said “You threw it all out?” “Yes” I said. “Were there addresses on the envelopes?” I suddenly saw where this was going. “You guys had already taken the shredder to the new place!” I cried out, hoping he wouldn’t ask me why I hadn’t torn the address portions by hand.

A helpful note: Mr.Gabby takes Identity theft Very Seriously. As it is a matter that needs to be Taken Very Seriously. We have an industrial size shredder and several smaller ones too. The industrial size one can even gobble up a CD and crunch it up into several small pieces in 2 seconds flat. It makes a resounding racket while doing so that can quite grate your nerves. In general, all shredding makes a din but we should just grin and bear it, as Identity Theft needs to be Taken Very Seriously.

“Oh well” he said walking back to his desk. I could see that the emotional weight of the issue might have made my action excusable but disappointment was still at large. He resumed typing and I resumed reading. Suddenly he asked “Were there photographs too?” I nodded glumly. “Of you as well?” More glum nodding. “Not quite the lilac-smelling experience but our grandkid might still turn red-faced and breathless, if those pictures some day make it to the internet” he said. I looked up to see him grinning helplessly. As I threw a pillow in protest and screamed that they definitely weren’t those kinds of photographs, I also thought of how the internet might well be the most interesting attic in the future. God knows what shit they’ll dig up about us...all the more reason to keep this blog shit-free. Oops.

Pregnancy Perks

2005-11-08T17:20:00.000-08:00

Scene: A friend’s apartment. The men are missing. They’re doing things pregnant women can’t help them with. Like painting walls and lifting boxes. What were you thinking?

....................................................................................

“I’m huge”

The rest of us in chorus - “No you’re not!”

“Yes I am. Look at you. You’re hardly showing”

*Some reaching over and feeling of belly happens*

“I am showing more than her!”

“But she’s not even at 14 weeks!”

*Pause*
*We all look down at our own bellies*

“Remember when we sucked it in all the time?”

In chorus – “Ooo yeah!!”

“I was usually exhausted by the time I went home”

*Everyone nods understandingly*

“It’s nice to let it all hang out”

“Proudly.”

“In fact, I don’t think this is the baby at all. This is all that was sucked in before”

*Pause*
*We look at her. Admiration mingled with horror*

“Ummm…Maybe not”

You can’t let everything hang out.

....................................................................................

Our Conversations

2005-11-04T22:53:00.000-08:00

“You called them
They laughed, cried
You called them too
They smiled and sighed
You called your friends
And heard the “Girl or Boy?”
But you haven’t heard me
My guffaw of joy!
And now you simply
Have to grow up some more
All kinds of lessons
Some done. Some in store
Some broke you as they made you…
But some like this,
Are so good, so pure.
I am a part of this
Tomorrow, today
If you could be told
In some way, some way...”

………………………………………………………………….

“The thunder and the lightning...
Was it you celebrating?
The drops on my sill
Spoke out to me
Like nothing had
Like nothing will.
You knew. I knew then.
So watch your baby
Stumble and learn
But look out too Sir
As you chuckle and hover
I will sneak up to you
And make you a Grandpa
Third time over...!”

Subtly Does It

2005-11-01T14:52:00.000-08:00

Waking up in the middle of the night to make the third trip to the restroom is not really worth a mention even. But waking up ravenous is still new to me, so of course I will have to tell you about it.

My apartment neighbors don’t know I’m pregnant. I’m showing alright but an early winter in the NE area means baggy sweats and turtlenecks can do the great cover-up job they do. In the building next to ours stay a musician couple. Boston being what it is, their windows are extremely close to ours. They possess and play every imaginable music instrument and it’s quite a treat to wake on a Saturday morning and hear music wafting in. Sometimes it’s Vivaldi on the violen, sometimes it’s the trumpet and sometimes it's Beethoven on the piano. It’s like having your own broken juke box which will play what it likes. Lovely ain’t it? In a world of predictability (no Shuffle doesn’t count. You loaded those songs in yourself didn’t you?) these delights are akin to taking a detour and finding out it’s faster than your usual route.

So last night at 3:30 AM I woke up with these pangs of hunger. Pangs like I’ve never felt before. I needed food. Now. I shook the hubby (Poor man, let him sleep! Poor man! I can hear you all-you-MrG-supporters! Who is carrying a baby here? Who?) and told him. He said something about plantain chips and yogurt smoothies that didn’t sound quite right. Wide awake now, I let him be and padded to the kitchen. Cereal with strawberries soaked in the milk sounded right. And maybe a cheesemelt? I proceeded to fix myself a proper meal. I changed my mind about sitting by the computer and eating and proceeded to set up my meal on the dining table. I even took a napkin and a glass of water. The smell of the melting cheese turned me off a bit and after a couple of bites I leaned over and lit one of the mint-y aromatherapy candles we keep at the center of the table.

As I chewed I stared out of the window that overlooks the musician’s apartment. A light came on in their music room. I saw the man scramble through towards the restroom I think. He came back in a minute and peered at the clock. He was just about to switch off the light and leave the room and my line of sight when he turned towards my window, I guess noticing a light.

Now let me pause here and tell you about the relationship we share with these neighbors. As they don’t live in our building we haven’t ever had those elevator or mailbox run-ins. So we’ve never said “Hi”. But we know their lives in and out almost. And they know ours. Any eye-contact we have shared across the windows has been very brief with one of us quickly turning away to avoid any awkwardness. After all they are in their home, their own private haven and we in ours. I bet he knows Mr.G and I prefer shorts to pyjamas and we know his wife snaps and pretends to pull his track-bots down when he corrects her on the piano. Which he does, all the time. Very annoyingly. Then the same line is repeated again and again. Did I already call it a broken juke box? O well. But these things make a formal introduction seem very out-of-place.

So he turned around and saw me sitting at the table. Our eyes met. I could see he thought this very creepy. The Indian girl is sitting all by herself at the dining table with a meal layed out (candle et al) and eating, at 3:30 AM. Instead of turning away as I usually do, I held his gaze as I chewed slowly. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe because I wanted to see his reaction, or maybe because we are moving anyway or maybe because it was Halloween night. He stood there somewhat spooked. Then I smiled, slowly. If it had happened at 9 PM, he would have smiled back and maybe even waved. But I think he found this unsettling as he quickly left the room. He forgot to switch off the light, so I knew he would be back. Surprisingly, it was the wife who came into the room and she tried to peek at me without being too obvious but I kept very still and watched. She hurriedly switched off the light after giving me one last look.

I finished my meal, blew out the candle and crept back into bed. “Are you OK?” he mumbled. “Yes, but our neighbors aren’t” I said. He knows better than to ask me why at that hour. He just rubbed my belly as if it was his. As we drifted off I thought of how “The Shining” was so much scarier than “Evil Dead”....Blood and gore are okay but a disturbed human mind is what can really rattle.

Days of Our Lives

2005-10-26T15:40:00.000-07:00

Every few months we have a “cut-over” at work. This is when we move new models and code into production. You get the idea, I can see 90% of my readers sagely nodding their heads. This is life as we know it since school. This might be life as we know it forever...but no, no point depressing you first thing in the morning.

During every cut-over I think, after this one, I’m gonna chill for sometime. Just chill, take it easy, goof off at work. But soon enough along comes another. I should be fair and say that a long stretch without the familiar throb also makes me uneasy, makes me wonder, is this getting stale....what’s my life about, where am I going? Stuff that when I don’t have too much time in my hands seem like a jobless donkey’s thoughts.

So yesterday was one such day and the hubby found me logged on back to the servers at work even though he returned pretty late himself. I was typing furiously.

He: Dinner?
Me: *Blank look*
He: Okiee. *Heading towards take-out menu drawer* Thai?

Now, the man tries to disguise his joy when I haven’t whipped up something for dinner but every once in a while the glow speaks for itself. Take-out means chicken, catfish, shrimp, or other lovely, delectable, innocent creatures, followed by no dish washing. It’s a good day. An open-your-beer-and-swing-your-legs-onto-the-coffee-table day.

Ambling over, he says

After this cut-over, you want to take a small vacation?

Me: *Looking up greedily* YES!
He: Thanksgiving then. Small one.
Me: *Excited now* I’ll have more vacation time next year!
He: Me too!

Pause.

Me: Oh.
He: Yeah.
He: Thanksgiving then.
I nod.

Every once a while, when one is submerged in the usual grind, one may forget. That’s OK, the kid will have a lot of stuff to get even with us for. It can just add this to the list.

Me: We won’t be able to celebrate after every cut-over is over next year...
He: *Leans in at a very third-degree-style* Hon, next year’s cut-over is never going to be over.

I swing back to my monitor. This one’s a lark.

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Gut Speak?

2005-10-19T13:40:00.000-07:00

The music was perfect. The flowers looked correct. Her bridesmaids were glowing, luminous even. She began her slow march down the aisle in step with her father. Smiles. Small waves. The rustle of silk and brocade as everyone rose. She could see him waiting patiently. Yes everything was looking precise. She looked at him and he looked at her. It was as she expected. Had been expecting, for a long time. No surprises, no shocks, no flutter, and no...zest. The idea of this day had entrenched itself in her mind and taken root so long ago, she couldn’t remember its derivation. Like a thriving sapling nourished by drain water. Like a habit, that at first she formed and which had then slowly, formed her. The images ran through her head and her mind raced. His life, but without her. And hers, without him, and both, beautiful. Was there someone else? No. But wasn’t almost-indifference almost-infidelity, in the least? It was later than she thought. She turned on her heel and stumbled out. “What am I going to do?” she thought frantically as the humdrum and panic around her closed in. She turned to meet her father’s eyes across the growing distance between them and she was shocked to register no shock in his. A small nod. “I’ll be okay” she thought, as she lifted her train and ran down the stairs, taking two at a time.
---

Each day brings more strangers smiling at me - Is it because I'm fatter than they are?

2005-10-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

*Eyes lowered and all*
Voice over - Gabby Ma banne wali hai!
*Gabby hurries away (To the restroom actually. Yet again.)*
Voice over –Sharma gayi!

LOL! I’m PREGNANT! And I have been dying to tell you all about it. Pregnant women really, truly believe that the world is centered round their pregnancy and so the sooner they enlighten people about that, the sooner they can all understand their roles – they are but satellites to this planet called MY PREGNANCY, and then we can all talk about it. All the time. How cool no? I held back for four months because I figured that once we start talking about this great, great phenomenon, nobody (you can read that as I) will want to talk about anything else...and maybe 5 months of non-stop pregnancy talk might just be easier of my hapless readers that the full 40 weeks of it. You can all thank me later.

Gross things have been happening to my body and horror of horrors I am no longer noticing it. When one gross thing is over, another one starts. See if you were lying in a spotless pristine spa table draped in spotless white towels and a mosquito bites you in the centre of your back you would be horrified and complain but do you think prisoners chained in rat-infested underground dungeons stir when a roach runs up their leg? Same difference. There’s no longer the oh-my-god factor, it’s just a mild stirring of the conscious. You nod and move on. And now that you are all so interested in MY PREGNANCY, I might just tell all you about every roach, either in passing, or in great detail. So you can either gag or grin, depending on your respective tolerance levels. Sit back, it will be great :)

I bid goodbye to predictability a long time ago. I don’t know what I will feel in the next 5 minutes, I don’t know what I will want to eat, I don’t know WHEN I will fall asleep. I don’t know when I will laugh and more importantly when I will cry. Granted “Notebook” was a bad choice for this hormone plagued body but Mr.Gabby lost it when he caught me crying while watching the Apollo mission on the History channel. My explanation between ribcage-shattering sobs of how “They had all worked so hard! Too hard!” didn’t quite cut it. But he played his comforting part to the T. After all, I am but a vessel for his procreation here, and we do not let him forget that. So I bid goodbye to self-control. I am also bidding good bye to all my ultra low waist fashions and the teeny little tees and those sexy bitches called high heels...comfort is paramount now. And no, I’m not giving all my clothes away, so stop forming that line ladies! I aim to get back into them. Laugh all you want people, I will do this. I can do this. I hope to do this. I will do this? God, please let me do this. Pulllleeeaze let me do this GOD!

When I first found out, I talked to friends who have recently acquired the Mommy tags, hoping that they would dish on all the crazy stuff. But horror of horrors that Mom-amnesia is not a fable! They REALLY forget all the scary parts. They gush and tell you it will all pass and it’s all so worth it and “Think of it, you’ll have a cute little Gabby at the end of this!” Pretty nice to hear and all...but these babies, they do not drop from the sky you know, and EVERYTHING is going to change. FOREVER. How can all that be cute and warm and sunny? Floral maternity frocks, glowing skin and hubbies tying your shoe laces on sunny park benches is for the ads...what happens in REAL life? Give me THAT!

Very, very luckily for me, I have 4 friends who are going though this with me.(Yes, 4. It's like we have taken it upon ourselves to boost the desi population of the New England area.) They are all about a month or two ahead or behind me in this and they all extremely vocal with their complaints. So we all get together and complain. It’s beautiful, all that free flow of knowledge, makes for many, many interesting discussions. Interesting how “horrifying” turns “interesting” when it happens in the collective. All that letting out feels so good. Well I can’t really discuss how my belly button is starting to look slightly distended with people at work now, can I?

As we head towards that much awaited 40th week, we rush though doing this and that. Preparing the nursery, and the guest rooms, for all the different relatives who will be visiting. Yes the in-laws will be here too. More on that later. Much more on that later! :) The delivery itself is a much discussed topic. Mr.Gabby doesn’t do so well in hospitals. He assures me he will be the best birthing partner ever (like I have any data points to compare him with!) but this image of Mr.Gabby fanning himself in a corner of the labor room with an IV drip on his arm is just not leaving my head! We can’t have him hogging all the attention, can we? After the baby arrives, it will anyway be about the baby. Let me make a scene while I can at least! My Mom worries “You, you, you! How will you make a hole in all that selfishness for the baby?” How will I, I wonder!!!! :)

So in case you did not get the drift yet there will be a lot of pregnancy talk on this blog. But people remind us that these are the last few months of Mr.Gabby-and-I kind of stories and we are trying to make the most of that. So there will be other stuff too. Don’t run away guys!! I haven’t even told you about my yoga classes and all the hot and verrry flexible chicks there yet!

Fall Thoughts....

2005-10-05T17:50:00.000-07:00

Smiley’s rant on women and the stuff they keep in their handbags had me lashing back on the usefulness of the odds and ends I stash away in mine: moisturizers, Tylenol and all the other essentials that I’m sure my smarter readers are well aware of. It also had me smiling at a recollection. Mr.Gabby has extremely dry skin. Skin that had maybe imagined it would remain in humid old India has never done too well in Boston and these harsh winters. Also, hot showers followed by hurried shaves are supposed to be followed up with liberal moisturizing, something a man who takes 40 minutes to down a single cup of coffee and then 40 mins again to revisit the loo and think on the throne has, funnily enough, no time for.

So two winters ago, the dryness had reached some intense heights. His hands were so rough, I cringed at contact. He was my lint-remover. If my coat or sweater was covered in lint, I would ask him to run his palms all over me and LO-no lint! Convenient but weird, passer-bys admired how we had found some use for the predicament, but at the same time I’m sure, made a mental note never to shake hands with that tall and lanky Indian man.

I don’t know what or who I had to thank for (maybe the dwindling number of handshakes or an “Ouch” from some pretty female colleague) but the man did come to me for help, finally. You can only lead a horse to the river and my pleas had always gone unnoticed till then. Afterwards the nightly treatments began in earnest. We would soap those hands in the richest of lathers and then follow up with inches of cocoa butter cream enriched with hemp (from the rainforests, of course, no less) and follow that up with pulling on these breathable moisturizing gloves! Yes gloves. So he slept with these skin-tight, very Mime-like white gloves on throughout winter and believe you me, the way those hands healed and the resulting smoothness was well worth the creepiness of a white gloved hand reaching out in the middle of the night. It was startling at first especially considering the dark hairiness of the remainder of the arm but I quickly got used to it.

It’s fall here and already I felt a distinct roughness yesterday, so as we pull out the sweaters, jackets, scarves and boots this weekend, the white gloves will be retrieved and left on his nightstand – a gentle reminder of rougher times to come.

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

2005-09-30T15:37:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-29T16:05:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-09-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

“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

2005-09-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

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....

2005-09-08T08:38:00.000-07:00

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...!?

2005-09-07T17:05:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-01T18:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Our Kinda Day

2005-08-31T18:38:00.000-07:00

So today has been set aside for blogs. And Megha, I think you rock. No, people, I did not just say that because she mentioned my blog. At least, not just because of that. But seriously, have you read the stuff she writes? You will not even question my rock statement if you did.

So I'm supposed to go ahead and name 5 blogs that I have "discovered", I read daily, and I would love to recommend. Here goes:

Ek Cup Chai - A fresh look at all things Boston.

A Cerebral Outpost - She can have you rolling on the floor holding your sides in literal pain. And yet you will quickly straighten up and eagerly read on.

Travels With A Centipede - Please get over the creepy crawly centipedy feeling and read his stuff. I did, and now I'm a regular.

Malignant Humour in My Head - A penchant for creepy stories with lots of dead people and murders and a ghost or two thrown in. I miss the spooky stuff sorely when he actually talks about normal stuff.

A Twilight Fairy - She blows me away with the stuff she suddenly pulls out. Cycle ki Sawari and Pushp ki Abhilashas are some of them. She also has a blog about all her fun/finn times. Check it out.

I also go and pay my daily respects to the Kings and Queens (Patrix, Megha, Alpha, Anti, Shub, Ash, Sanguine,..) who have reigned over desi blogland for a long, long, time. And also my favorite not-so-desi ones like Dooce, who in my opinion, is talented beyond comparison.
So well er..Happy Blog Day everybody!

Definition Dilemma

2005-08-30T17:01:00.000-07:00

Listless. This is changing, that is changing. Have you ever felt unsure about how you should feel? It’s all new to me.
And then, thanks to random play (or shuffle as the latest version calls it), Amit Kumar croons to me

“Kaisa lagta hai?”
As I try to push away the image of Salman Khan’s questioning, trying-to-be-soulful eyes that immediately spring to mind, the answer comes along in Anuradha Paudwal’s lilt
“Acchhaa lagta hai..”

And surprisingly that sums it up quite well. And as Nagma's face and body seem to have faded from memory, I let the song play to completion.

So sometimes it only takes one corny Hindi song to put things in perspective? Or am I plain losing my marbles?

Hunters

2005-08-26T01:20:00.000-07:00

Isn’t it great that a hunter doesn’t have to negotiate with the prey? Imagine proposals going between hunter and prey, offers being rejected, and counter-offers being made.

“An arm and a leg”
“An arm and a leg and your meaty behind”
“There’s no other prey around, I’m the meatiest in your range, take it or leave it”.

Instead, you corner the prey and it’s yours. No mind games, just winning or losing. Now imagine two hunters. Easier to spot a prey and quicker results! Assuming of course both hunters prefer the same kind of meat. And that brings me to the beginning of today’s rant.

We are house-hunting. And that is a great word for it, because the stalking, spotting, chasing and pinning down which is the natural process of procuring a house is akin to actually hunting for prey. And the hunters here prefer very different kinds of meat. In fact, one is a vegetarian and gets preoccupied with fruit picking every time they are hot on a chase, much to the annoyance of the other. One had been raised in a city, and is hence crazy for wide spaces with big trees, while the other actually grew up surrounded in acres of tree-filled gardens and in some senses might have had enough of it. One hunts for project-potential. His eyes glint at the prospect of tearing down the kill and preparing a dish that is all his, very noble thought but time-taking and slightly risky. His fingers itch to line up all his tools and toys and get to work on every part of the prey, an endeavor that might well take more than a couple of years, that will require unrelenting dedication and patience. The vegetarian looks for a quick, nicely prepared green salad with the parmesan already sprinkled on top and a silver spoon on a napkin on the side. She will be able to have her salad right after buying it. All crisp and fresh it will be! In all fairness, she is not very concerned about where the greens came from, whether it will be a good crop every year, whether future crops will get the support they need, whether it will be a well watered field and least of all whether the drainage is public or private. She accepts that these are important, but they don’t govern her every waking moment.

But they set out hunting together every weekend and sometimes during the week too. Sniffing around. They have a referee with them, who gets a portion of the kill when we are done with this chase. But the referee is not my friend - as I am reminded every so often by my fellow hunter. Along with a warning to never fall in love with the prey. All is lost if that happens he says, we don’t want the prey strutting around knowing your heart beats for it. But I am afraid he did not pay heed to his own warning. And I think the man is in love, though he protests and denies. So I am just glad that he usually falls for something only for the good reasons. We will hopefully get lucky and have some great meat, with the salad as a side too. Ah, that would make a good meal and I sure have built up an appetite for it. But for now, we continue to cross our fingers and sniff the air.

B(P)eachy Memories...

2005-08-12T03:30:00.000-07:00

We were at a beach house over the weekend. In the company of three other couples and another couple of people who are not a couple (Though they might get there, that guy is fighting a losing battle and we watch, amused). It was a rusty old house but it had this spanking new pool table in the basement and a grill in the back yard and the women found out that sending only the men to “check out” a place is maybe not the smartest idea. But still, we gabbed, waded, grilled, played, ate, drank and made merry. The best part was the sea of course and we spent hours on the beach and I’m still peeling, but it was so worth it.

Watching the sunset standing hip-deep in water, I went into that expressively vulnerable mood that one can go into while standing on a sea shore watching the sun set. I turned and yelled to the hubby standing in the water with just the tips of his toes in water “It’s gorgeous, na?”. You might have imagined me leaning on Mr.Gabby’s shoulder or something like that, sorry to send that image down the shredder. The group was packed and ready to go. As I waded back to the others, my thoughts sped back to my very first beach trip. It was in Vishakapatnam, a coastal town in Andhra Pradesh. I was there with my cousins and zero adult supervision. What a trip that was! Sliced mangoes with salt and red pepper smeared on them, (sold for a mere Rupee) clutched in our sticky hands, running in and out of the water, dunking and pushing crossing all safe limits, chasing each other and the girls yelling so loud I think only the stray dogs could actually hear us. As I lead my second-cousin, a guy known for his gray eyes and thick brown locks, a very rare and treasured commodity in the land of chocolate skin and ebony hair, deeper and deeper into the water I stopped short and squealed out in pain. The pain in my right foot was excruciating and 15 minutes later, I was sitting on a stone baby dinosaur in that park called Voda that borders this beach with my second cousin gently pulling a 4 cm splinter out of my foot. Once done, he proceeded to give me a foot rub, checking to see if it was all okay. My other cousins, bored by now with this typical Gabby-drama and no longer having the satisfaction of seeing me wince in pain, started to move away. And this suited us just fine. And there, sitting primly on a baby dinosaur with the backdrop of a golden sunset, with her foot and not her hand in second-cousin’s hands, Gabby received her first ever romantic proposal. Very nice, I remember thinking. This is what the 2nd-last chapter of every Mills & Boons describes! And at this point ladies, let us pause and note the power of the wet tee-shirt/shorts combination. Yes, even on a lanky 14 year old who had yet to possess anything worth writing home about, it can turn an average guy’s head, like little else can. Or at least push him over the edge if it was a little screwed in the first place.

I laughed. Not a yes or a no. Not even the “Will you wait for me?” that I had actually rehearsed in my mind. Because suddenly, it wasn’t so much fun anymore. The excitement had been replaced with fear...I had this sudden urge to talk to my Mom... or maybe it was a shallower reason, the high of the chase was over. I don’t know. I do remember him writing me long letters after that vacation. And then he decided to visit us. Panic clouded my thoughts for days, till I told my parents about it. They laughed their heads off. I am guilty of hiding the part where I led him up the garden path of course, but hey I was 14 then, and I am telling you all the right version now, aren’t I?

“He waded in after me, however deep I went, you know” I tell Mr.Gabby as we pile into the car.
“I’m sure” he says, gesturing to dust my sandy feet before getting inside.
“He wrote me a poem” I added. “It was very good”.
Adjustment of radio station.
“Don’t publish it as your own.” A delayed response. And not the right one.
“He told me he wanted me to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with him” I say.
“Too nice. You would have clobbered him.”

Ah, second-cousin, seems like you are better off this way. My husband, he thinks you’re too nice for me. He on the other hand, is just right, which doesn't make him very nice, does it?

Thinking.....

2005-08-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

Summer of 2000 was one of the “fun-est” periods of my life. I was in-between Grad school and work, waiting for the elusive OPT card (that would permit me to work in the United States) to be mailed to me, I had little to do except wander around shopping for work-clothes (read: clothes I never wore to work) and attending farewell parties for numerous people I had grown to know so well, some friends for this lifetime and more and some of who I wish I never got to know at all. The afternoons would be spent reading novels and gossiping and doing my nails. Little did I realize that that summer was the last vacation of my life that would be longer than 2.5 weeks. During which I would not need to take 19 hour trips to India or think/organize/arrange my life to painstaking detail for 2 months before the vacation so I could chill for 2.5 weeks. Ah, I was naive and I thought life after getting that thesis to the Grad school after the 100th “suggestion” by my advisor was incorporated, was going to be a ball. I would have more money, more freedom and I would finally be that independent career woman. I soon found out that working full-time does not mean you have more money, it just means you have more expenses. And freedom, that’s a very relative term. But that summer was good. It was also the first time I saw an Oprah show. Now, these are not so bad actually and sometimes you get to see these really smartly dressed celebrities gushing to Oprah while she gushes to them. But sooner or later, along came Dr.Phil and that is when my migraines would start. Now I hear that his own exclusive show named Dr.Phil(!) has been renewed for the next decade or 1000 years or something of that order. WOW, I think. If a man can talk about “tough love” and make that kind of money, what is my Mom doing? She has been a proclaimer for tough-love for as far back as I can remember. “Toughen up” summarized all her standard rules for doing well in life and it was closely followed by “No self-sympathy please.” Whiners were not tolerated and some days when I hear somebody whining and complaining about the situation they are in, or myself for that matter, I wish my Mom could be there just to give this person a good shake. Nobody could do it as she could. I lack that touch. Yes, she would make a great Dr.Phil. Problem is, she hates to interfere in peoples’ lives, unlike me. Now if only we could get my slightly pokey-nature to go along with her, we would have that wonderful, love-to-listen-to-your-problems-and-help, smiling-yet-frowning-in-concentration Dr.Phil. We would be great, I tell you. My curiosity would ebb them on and my Mom would deliver that grand intervention-sermon in the end, when everyone sees the light. We would tour America and make billions. Ah, but that ship has sailed. She is the wonderful homemaker that she is and I just do what I do, accompanied by occasional muses like this. Maybe I will just live vicariously through my children one day. That can be quite a bit of fun. For me. For them, not so much. But they can maybe just “help” themselves. It always pays to have a shrink in the house.

It’s a Good Day

2005-08-03T12:54:00.000-07:00

She was wandering around looking a little lost and a little neglected. She looked pretty in her muted sky-blue printed pinafore, which wasn’t a CoCo or a Ralph Lauren, more like Target’s home brand for kids. It would have been difficult to spot her among the crowds on her appearance alone but like any other child she had her own brand of freshness. A cheery smile lit up her face most of the time. I stopped to check on her. She looked up and I was surprised to see even pensive frown lines on that young forehead - a telltale sign of ups and downs and frowns and tempers. She definitely had her moods this one.
“Where’s your Mommy? Or, your Daddy maybe?” I asked.
“She is somewhere around. I don’t see her much these days” she said.
“What!?” I thought...surprised and perplexed by this response.
“Really? Doesn’t she take care of you?”
“Most of the time, but sometimes she wanders off and returns only when she remembers me.”
“Oh, how responsible!?!” I thought...shaking my head in disapproval.
And deciding that she needed more than a little help, I reached out for her hand. Suddenly I realized how young she was. They don’t even talk at that age - I used to think.
“What’s your name baby? How old are you?”
“I’m called C'est la Vie! And today, I turn 6 months old.”
She raised questioning and hopeful eyes at me.
“Could you ask her to take better care of me?”

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It’s been 6 months folks and though I’m not as regular with the posts as I want to be, I know this is here to stay. Thanks for making me feel so welcome!

Plans

2005-07-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

So many thoughts
In so many colors
Lists and lists
Follow the Order
Sometimes a road block
Or an altered view
But it’s all okay
And it’s all not new

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And then the tide turns
And along comes a bout
And all the old worries
They cancel each other out
And I merrily go with the flow
To see what’s in store
Knowing there’s change
And that there will be more
‘Cos it’s a very bad plan
That isn’t written to accommodate
The twists and the turns
Of fantastic fate!

Can it get any cuter?

2005-07-18T15:00:00.000-07:00

We picked up this beautiful miniature working model of an old fashioned cycle (as we call them) from an Indonesian antique store. Complete with a chain guard that can be raised and the old-fashioned stand. All it needs is some grease on that adorable chain and some mud on those perfect tires! Many a ride I was given by the siblings on that front bar! It's a good thing it did not continue for long; else it would have resulted in some serious malformations of the behind. Well, it now graces our side table. Now if only I could get one of a Bajaj Chetak scooter too... so I can show visitors the exact spot I used to be squeezed into (on top of the fuel tank cap)! But that was the second stage...so we'll get there when we get there...

Checkmate

2005-07-15T18:35:00.000-07:00

She straightened her skirt and flattened it out with her palms. “Silk crushes so easily” she thought. But she was glad she had been dressed to kill. Her suspicions of a year had not been unfounded, Dev was having an affair. His furtive glance at her whenever he approached the Bitch was just added confirmation that she wasn’t even looking for. The way they shot glances at each other throughout the evening, so casual yet consuming, had made her look away each time, hurriedly, hungrily seeking some solace. But nobody had noticed. Her midnight blue full-length ensemble, with her hair piled high made her look like the elegant, contented wife of a senior partner of the firm, not like the jilted one in a broken home of love that had long curdled. And that had been necessary.

She looked around the house from the chaise longue she was on. A long, hard, last look. It was time to leave. She would miss this beautiful house and the happy stories it's walls had once told, of earlier days and cleaner slates. But this crazy game had gone on for too long. It had been the time to leave a year ago when she had caught him in one of his contemptible bluffs for the first time. The confrontation had blown into a full throttled fight just as she had expected. Bristling with frustration, she had thrown her shoe at him. The coarseness of that act baffled her to date. She was not like that. She always acted composedly and competently and handled intense situations so well. Like, now. Memories of that first fight made her think of her shoes, and whether she had packed them all. She had. And the comfortable yet dainty ones she had on now would be perfect for the long trip ahead. She looked down at them and then quickly drew her feet in. The pool of blood around his cracked skull had grown at an alarming rate, almost half way to the chaise. She had been so careful and it would all be ruined if she was stupid enough to get blood stains on her shoes. She got up, carefully stepping around the Persian rug. Yes, it was time to leave.

Dosa Nirvana

2005-07-14T01:48:00.000-07:00

My brother* is a South Indian Brahmin (SIB). And everyone knows what SIs in general are known for, besides speaking excellent English in bad accents and seeking curd-rice with an ache akin to that men stranded in desserts for weeks feel for water, we are also known for our love for dosas. (By the way, we as a family have the accent problem alright but it’s a Bengali one we are plagued with! Yes, we are a family with many problems). Now my brother, he is a man of discerning taste (Yes sister-in-law, you can take that bow now), and he will NOT settle for the passable, restuarant-dosa that his sister would happily devour. He will not settle for dosa batter made in a Sumeet mixie. He will not even settle for dosa batter made the authentic way by the local mami who will sell it to him at a great price. “Not sour enough!” he will say. Or at other times “Not quite airy enough”... His nose pointed skywards..almost. “It’s the ratio that’s a little off...” I’ve heard him explain at times, nose scrunched up and eyes squinting in concentration...”That is why it’ll not yield dosas that golden crispy!”

I would listen in bewilderment and some mild irritation, as he continued to explain the reasons they have a wet grinder at home. I once did the mistake of mentioning my Gits discovery in my early naïve days, when I was just finding my way around the kitchen in Chicago. And the appall that I had registered on his face continues to wake me up in a sweat even now some nights. As I shake my head and gulp down some water wondering what I had done to have let my family down so bad, to have had that look return to my consciousness, it dawns on me that some secrets are never meant to be shared with family members, however close they might be. No, blood thicker than water and all that is fine but live with caution girl!

Well anyway, earlier this year, while we were visiting them and enjoying the California sun that the inhabitants of that shorts-clad state take so much for granted, he whipped up these Amazing dosas. Yes they are Different. I had forgotten the taste of the asli-wet-grinder-wale dosas, jotting it down under Magic-that-only-Mom-weaves, I had moved on with life. A little deprived, the taste-buds a little less tingled and the heart a little more fond. But here it was again! The work involved though overwhelmed me. And I was only feigning polite interest when I remarked casually “We should get one of these.”

Now the hubby is also a SIB. In fact, he is that potent mix of Tam-ness and Brahm-ness, that I never thought I would voluntarily invite into my life. Again, though a non-resident of Tamil Nadu, his palate is predominantly SI and he is known to scoop and lap up a plateful of butter milk and rice with speed that Bruno, his German Shepard (Alsatian), used to envy. Along with being a SIB, he is also a Seizer Of Opportunities (SOO). As you will see. When we were in different cities catching up with family during our vacation in India, he casually mentioned to me on the phone that he had picked up the 110V wet grinder that “You had wanted so badly.””What?” I went. We say these things in people’s houses, but later we discuss stuff we really want...that’s normal practice, right!! And the fact that it had never again been mentioned by me after that one time, apparently did not count to this dosa-loving SIB. The true SOO does not believe in letting a single O pass by "unseized" you see.

So he lugged it back and set it up in a corner of our kitchen here in Boston. Silently. And it in turn sat there silently, slowly guilting me into making the dosas, and the idlis. And the uttapams. I am afraid I am very close to succumbing to the vadas soon. This weekend maybe. Have to soak the dal tomorrow.

So the domestication of Gabby continues. Successfully. The hubby can tell you all about it. Later. At the moment his mouth is full of chutney. But he does pause to tell me to check the vada recipe. “Ask your Mom” he says. “Or your brother.”

* The same one who made a short appearance a long while ago and then politely left. But that does not mean he is nowhere in our vicinity, he can be quite the lurker, when he wants to!

Baby Talk

2005-07-12T20:28:00.000-07:00

Our friends are pregnant. The reason I say friends is because that’s how couples talk about expecting a child here in the US of A. We are pregnant. Like in we did it and we will be supporting this baby together. If they were a lesbian couple and were both truly simultaneously pregnant, I would have rested my case and looked for another topic for my rants. But that has rarely, (what am I saying? Never) been the case in the 20 or so instances I have heard the phrase and I am forced to start typing. Please, men have their own roles to play, but they cannot bear children so lets not all scamper into the pregnant wagon. They will not have to deal with all kinds of weird (yet beautiful) things happening to their bodies, they will not actually give birth to the child. So they should stick to the "We are expecting" phrase in my opinion. The phrase in question makes it sound like they are trying to assure us that the husband is indeed the father-to-be and there are no doubts whatsoever. We sure hope so! Ah, I would smile when my parents’ generation used the term "family way" to say a woman was pregnant, and I laugh when I here this modern equivalent to the pronouncement. Hypocrisy can swing so many ways.

Over the last year I have rarely been told this kind of news without it being followed by annoyance and anger about how this came to be. It surprised me at first but I rarely raise an eyebrow now. “I just don’t know HOW!” says one. Another gushes “Omigod, we’re so young! Who would have thought!!!” Apparently nobody is really trying. Methods that quote a 99% effectiveness rate have not been very effective at all it seems. “Why do we even bother with it!” – I began to wonder. Or have we been hanging with nice albeit stupid couples who are having trouble reading those instructions that are printed neatly behind boxes? Until. I. Caught. On. This now is the fashion ladies and gentlemen! Just like the lingerie-inspired camisoles, tiered skirts and round-toe flats, this too is the "cool" thing to do. Pretend your baby is the result of a wild, wild night when you threw caution to the winds. When you were young and carefree and boogieing away the night, along came the baby and really you weren’t even expecting a third at the party.

Why? Oh why? Why pretend you never wanted a little one of your own?! I have heard of older generations pretending "mistakes" never happened and this here is exactly the opposite. But again it’s being insincere, albeit in a newfound way. Ever wonder what will happen when your little one chances on that information? Ever stop to listen to how your words belittle the wonderful gift of procreation? I do not write this to the 17 year olds who can’t wait and then bear the burden of their ways. Nor is this meant for the couples who are really surprised and are being honest with us. This is singularly for the couples out there who think it’s cool to lie about their attempts to have a child. You know who you are. You’re making life! Tarnish not it’s honesty - that too, in so trifling a way!

Well, despite the way these announcements are being made, I am incredulously happy for our friends. I jumped for joy. The hubby suspects my delight has something to do with having somebody in my age group lead the way, so we can all ease into it later knowing that the nanny-procuring techniques, car-seat research and all possible hand-me-downs are being covered as I write this. Well, I do not-so-secretly hope we will only have to drive by and pick up a neatly organized folder in the years to come.
*Something tells me it won’t be so easy but I remain the incurable dreamer*

Edu Kondalu Vada, GOVINDA!!*

2005-07-07T11:18:00.000-07:00

As we pulled into the beautiful Tirupati foothills, my husband asked “Will you able to walk in those?” I was in my highheeled sandals, chudidaar kurta, bindi and mangalsutra get-up, looking very delicate and bahu-like. I grinned, “Of course not, the DocMartens are in the boot”. His turn to grin. Just the image of me in DocMartens and a dupatta did it. “I don’t care how I look, it’s 3590 steps! Spaced out!” “Sure. I brought the camera” he said.

So we were setting out to climb the hills to Tirumala, something I’ve done before, minus hubby. So I had to tell him all about it, a hundred times. We were accompanied by the newly-weds and we let a younger college-going kid tag along, hoping we could strand him with the water-bottles and stuff. We set off promising to catch the rest of the party in 4 hours or so...after they had driven up in AC-ed comfort, showered, dined, burped, yawned and snapped their fingers, they would drive to the arches at the top of the hill where they could find us in a sweaty, collapsing, grumpy heap.

It happened much like we planned, though we did make it in 3 hours, the walk drew our attention to just how out-of-shape we were. The first hour was the most grueling and surprisingly the college-going kid was the worst off. The oodles of puppy-fat still on his cheeks glowed red and we thought he might have to be air-lifted off the hills. But he made it after much grunting, swearing and the uttering of many ungodly words under his breath. The hubby and the newly-wed boy discussed electronics and gadgets. The newly-wed girl had "bedroom" questions and I spared very little in fear of embarrassment while imparting gyan of all orders. I think, as a bunch, we broke a whole lot of rules while making our way to Govinda, but I’m sure He understands, He made us this way and we are pure of heart, He must know that.

Climbing up, commercialization hits you between the eyes every 30 steps or so. There are cafés with movie videos running non-stop almost everywhere. You can choose a Tamil, Telugu or Hindi café and watch Prabhu-Deva, Nagarjuna, or Abhishek, depending on your group, mood or inclination. The navels and heaving bosoms though looked very similar in all the movies, so I guess the Trishas and Shilpas act in ‘em all. Our little group would have had to split up into different cafés if we chose to really watch something. But we thought better than to lose complete focus and trudged past these diversions stolidly. The “neembu-soda” we did stop for was divine and we guzzled it down only to regret it when we resumed walking. “Travel light” was our motto henceforth and we saved the eating and drinking for later.

Despite the “Kalyanam” puja we all did, the actual darshan lasted precisely 1.5 seconds before I felt a female usher give me a hard shove and push me ahead. Last time around, they did not have them female shovers, so I could hang around taking sloooow steps till a male who had been shoved, shoved me by reflex and I moved away. So they’ve smartened up. But, with a high of 100,000 visitors per day (averaging about 30,000 per day), they are left with few choices, I know. It’s OK for us and more so for the affluent to make this trip and drop thousands of rupees in the Hundi**, if they want to. Do it, it ain't a bad practice. But when I hear about this poor man who can barely make ends meet, using up all his life’s savings and trudging here with his family, standing in that free-darshan queue for 30 hours and then dropping his remaining savings in the Hundi, I can’t help but think “Come on Govinda, wouldn’t you have wanted him to put that money to better use?”

There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread. ~Mahatma Gandhi

* A cry often uttered while pilgrims make their way to see the Tirumala-Tirupati diety of Balaji or Lord Venkateswara. It means "Oh One of the Seven Hills, Govinda!". Govinda being yet another name for the same God.

** Offerings made in the name of God. It's the main source of income for this temple, donations last year were in the region of Rs.800 crores which is $186 million!!

Bujji

2005-07-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Like a summer breeze you came
To make it bearable
Before we knew that we would need you so bad
Before we would lay all our cards on the table...
That you would soon do what I should have done
And in a way so much better...

With a grin and a giggle
You brought short moments of cheer
To a home that had lost it’s fight
Long, long before
There ceased to be
any real light.
You appeared from nowhere
And took your place
In this play of ours
Like a fairy godmother
Sent down, just for us.

Who sent you?
A debt long forgotten
Karma in play?
You make me want to believe
That there is indeed some God
But then again,
If there are debts and karma and reincarnation
Then this God of yours must believe in fair play
And knowing enough to have sent you
Yet making you necessary
Makes me think
This job being God
Mustn’t be easy
And maybe He was someplace else
Looking at another point of view
That I just cannot see
While we stood aside
Hands tied
Watching it all slip away
For good.

And then you disappeared too
Your work done
You seemed incomplete and
you felt incomplete.
At some level
You had played out your piece
And it was time to move on
Make another life
Another home.

An Arranged Chaos

2005-07-06T08:12:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, Mr.Gabby and I attended his friend David’s marriage. It was a beautiful Southern wedding held in Florida. The bride Jen looked radiant and the wedding went off without a hitch. At least it seemed like that to us and that speaks for itself. The ceremony brought tears to my eyes and the dancing and reverie at the reception left us all quite breathless. When David and Jen did the rounds later, stopping at each table to say hi and thank us for coming, David made as if to reach out to hug me. Maybe I took a second longer than natural to respond and he paused and whispered “Gabby, want to hug now?” Well I’ve never been asked that question, and I found it a wee bit odd but said yes and we hugged. Later, I understood that if he had reached out and I had not responded, the part of the wedding video that showed Mr.Gabby and me greeting them would have had to be removed and he did not want that. WOW. If that isn’t an orchestrated wedding, what is?

Now I’m back from attending an Arranged Marriage. Maybe they should make that term an “Arranged Match” and leave it at that because Indian weddings are as un-arranged as they can get. I’m sure my own must have been crazier being an unarranged match to begin with, but the bride at the time was blissfully ignorant as was the bride this time around. Mostly. Except for the one time the bride and her beautician had a yelling match an hour before the wedding which I refereed and might I add that I have a high-pitched voice myself. Then the keys went missing (The keys. I will have to devote an entire post to just the Keys and their Mysterious Wanderings. The senior members of Mr.Gabby’s family *I love them and all* have an obsession with the hiding of the keys. Godrej1’s * keys will be in the locker of Godrej2, Godrej2’s keys will be under the lining of the 2nd shelf of Godrej3 and so on....till you hit the Safe room key. Once you’re inside the Safe room you need a GPS to find what you came looking for. But it’s best to holler for help. Might I also add that this sequence of Godrej1 > Godrej2 > Godrej3.... is a non-repeating one. It will keep changing so you have to be in the loop and figure out the latest pattern. Which is tiring when you are told that as well as “Gabby here is very responsible and will be in charge of the keys” in a language you barely understand!)

It has been a long while since I attended an arranged marriage and for the uninformed about this kind, I have to tell you the one thing that really stands out about such a wedding. Everyone is very happy, except for the bride and the groom who tend to get into these pensive moods. Obviously. The families have bonded and gelled. Now what remains is the bonding and gelling of the people getting wedded. But of course they will grow to love, that’s what happens, doesn’t it. For the record, despite the undertones you might be sensing, I don’t have much against the concept of an arranged marriage. If you haven’t met that right person for you yet and you’ll like to get married - here’s some help, is what it is. The concept is gaining popularity in all parts of the world and I was amazed to see many instances among my Asian and American friends. The period of interaction between the boy and the girl is significantly longer though and they say they “met through their parents” instead of saying “Arranged. Not Love” as we Indians often put it. Let’s not do that, let’s not rule out love right away!

Well in these weddings, the barriers that different religions, castes, social-status and mother-tongues usually pose are non-existent and people in general have less to worry about and for that matter comment about. So they can concentrate on how everyone is looking and the giving and the taking and the transactions of wealth in general. Jewelry is a hot topic and so is the amount of zari on sarees. Pure zari. God forbid if somebody has some ‘spun’ or ‘tested’ zari on their sarees! (I will not go into what those terms mean, suffice to know that they are inferior to the real thing). My husband’s community loves their diamonds too so ears and necks adorned with our best friends shone with a brilliance that threatened to overpower the video camera lights. I dryly commented on a lady of the newer family appearing in a different saree for almost every ceremony several days before the actual wedding (An Indian wedding usually runs for 3 to 6 days, composed of several ceremonies of increasing significance) and was told in no uncertain terms that my “American” style wouldn’t work and I better do the same. So I joined the herd and left no stone unturned, fishing out my 3 year old wedding trousseau and loading on the jewelry much to the satisfaction of all parties involved.

Confusion abounds in all our weddings and in this one I saw a new thing or two. Bangalore traffic contributed in more ways than one, stranding the artist who had to perform in the reception for hours. The "boy's side" continues to cluck under their breath about it and the "girl's side" will continue to pretend we din't hear them. We all tend to be forgetful when we have so much on our minds and I won’t be surprised if I miss a hair-brush or a garment while I’m unpacking now but there were instances when people forgot entire suitcases in this wedding! When I heard about it, I tried to show the appropriate level of dismay on my face but I failed miserably and burst out laughing and luckily for me a lot of people also saw the hilarity of the situation. When I thought I had seen it all, I was told about a story that does the rounds in my hubby’s family. Apparently after our own wedding, Mr.Gabby forgot to wake up his sleeping grandfather in his hotel room while his family was leaving. So the party set off and remembered midway to the airport that they were missing the senior-most member of their family. The suitcase story slid from its number 1 position and this one with my own Mr.Gabby starring in it quickly took it’s place.

There were so many more and I’m sure they will all find their way to this blog someday. Someday soon, when I’m not so jet-lagged and there’s plenty of coffee and milk in my house. I’m so tempted to reveal this blog to the bride and groom. They will be able to add so much and they can laugh about their wedding for ages. The gossip, the food, the nakhres of the boy’s side, that fat socialite lady who talked about her own daughter’s GRAND wedding for so long we had to gently remind her after a bit that it was years ago and please snap out of it already. I wonder what David and Jen laugh about, I guess they have their own stories and a lot must have lingered for way after the wedding, much of the evidence though must have long vanished, been edited out with appropriate questions that were whispered at just that right instant before a hug.

* Godrej is a well known company in India that makes steel almirahs among several other things. Almost every household will have a couple of these almirahs that usually hold the family's clothes and valuables.

2005-06-14T14:19:00.000-07:00

Hyderabad, Bangalore, Poona, Tirupati.
Kanchipuram saris and gold jewelry.
Sweat, sweat. Mehndi and makeup.
Piping hot coffee in a double steel cup.
Relatives and friends, faces and smiles.
Pats on the back for crossing the miles.
Good smells from the kitchen
Before getting out of bed
"Burgundy in your hair
And none on your forehead!!!"
Shopping, shopping, shopping
Talking, talking, talking
Eating, eating, eating
and then some more.
An Indian summer wedding
Has come knocking on my door.

Off to the Mothership. Will be back in a couple of weeks!

Unequal Substitutions

2005-06-07T14:46:00.000-07:00

And Book Tags

Kashinath’s store was a favorite haunt of mine. He had scores and scores of metal tins lined up at the back of his store and when you asked for GoodDay Cashew or Britannia Bourbon he would know exactly which opaque metal tin to go to, and sometimes he would take a detour and fish out a Salty Krackjack just to startle me. I would giggle and discover that I did have a sudden craving for that too and he would then throw in a couple of free ones among the lot, a pleasant surprise for later on. Going to his store was the ritual that kept me accompanying my Mom to the market and holding heavy grocery bags laden with greens and cooking oil and the most unappealing stuff for many, many years. The familiar old man behind the old counter welcomed me always with a twinkle in his eye and if not with a surprise up his sleeve every time, at least with the confidence of knowing his customers and anticipating their needs. “Go get something from Kashinath” while handing out a 50 Rupee note was a familiar phrase at home and it meant goodies from the old opaque tins. Until Kashinath disappeared suddenly one day and the guys who took over his store changed pretty much everything except its location. It was bigger, glitzier and so damn new....and the metal tins were replaced by shiny glass cases and there was no time for surprises and extras. It was ‘Business, Business and Move Along Now!’ They kept a whole range of stuff and there were shiny posters of young girls and boys eating Ruffles Lays everywhere, the aisles were lined with hundreds of imported products and there were customers aplenty! But the customers were all new too...the familiar faces of Kashinath’s patrons were no longer to be seen. Loyalty couldn't be blueprinted, of course.

When I heard about WordsWorth Books in Cambridge closing it's doors for the last time late last year, I flinched, but in all honesty it didn’t bother me for long as I’ve not spent too much time there. But on Saturday morning when I stopped at my favorite Rodney’s to browse till Mr.Gabby got done with his haircut, I stopped at the door suddenly and wondered if this would disappear too someday. Rodney’s was one of our earliest finds and if you ever want to find out more about the face behind this handle called Gratisgab, just hang around there often enough and chances are we will meet very soon. Though the guy who looks after the store at this location seems too unbothered to talk to anybody, prod him a bit and you will find out the most delightful tidbits about Boston, about authors from this area, and book signing events that did not quite go as they were supposed to. After one particular visit there Mr.Gabby felt an intense need to hang out at “The Last Drop” – a bar in the neighborhood, every chance he got. Apparently the “Mystic River” author Dennis Lehane bartends there some Fridays just to relax and tell some stories. You never know which Friday will be your lucky day! Now the Barnes and Noble across the street or your tycoon online bookstore will never give you a scoop like that, will it? Rodney’s is also a great place to find books that are no longer in publication or even stuff that’s not quite on the shelves of a regular store. This time I got the uncorrected proof version of the same author’s work “Shutter Island” for the hubby. Somebody is now eating out of somebody’s hand and somebody is making full use of that :)

It’s a downward spiraling battle for the Rodneys and Kashinaths of the world. The glitzy-cased guys are swooping in and swallowing them whole and I’m terrified that our sons and daughters will never know the joy of discovering an old classic in a wonderful condition that has been out of print for decades or of being surprised with a Krackjack between GoodDays. And most importantly, they won’t have the stories that are the priceless upgrade to the shopping experience, that make the customer-merchant interaction a relationship, way more than a mere transaction of commodities. I wish I could do more than just blog about this....I will go pick up some more books after work today and if you’re ever in Boston please do the same. It's so neat and so beautifully organized, it’ll always be a pleasure. Meanwhile please patronize your local stores, if you can, and while we still can. I wonder where Kashinath’s loyals went...and how long before they succumbed to the glitzy place. And I wonder how long before we cross the street to Barnes and Noble if something happens to dear Rodney’s....but let’s at least fight it for as long as we can...

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While on the topic of books, Ashwin, Patrix and Suhail have tagged me with these book questions and I will oblige them now. And later on, in my yet-to-come sequel about griping on friends, they will all be given lead roles.

Total books I own: Hmmm...maybe 400 or 500. I notice people are counting the first Tinkle they bought too...so maybe even more actually.

Last book I bought: The Pearl Diver. Written in a refreshing style and very moving. It’s about a young girl diagnosed with leprosy in Japan in the 1940s. The diver is exiled to Nagashima, an island leprosarium that hosted all known patients and is instructed to forget her past. And though the disease never progresses beyond the very, very early stages, she lives her entire life in exile and can no longer fit in the real world even after she is free to go.

Last book I read: The Ha-Ha Not bad.

Books that mean a lot to me (five at least):
• The Asterix Series, the Enid Blytons (especially the ones with the Faraway Tree) and Raggity and the Cloud – Nothing like magic potions, lands that arrived at the top of the tree in a magical forest and a runaway cloud to keep a child’s imagination alive I say!
• Lust for Life – Made me realize how safe I play...but also how 'average' is not such a bad thing.
• Anna Karenina – Loved it, loved it, loved it.
• God of Small Things – Of course
• Roots – Wow
• The Good Earth – My first serious author was Pearl S. Buck. And she remains a favorite.
• Love Story – When I have to pause from my reading because I can’t see though my tears any more, I know the sentimental sucker inside of me has been fed, very well.
• The Fountainhead – Causes me trouble, constantly.
• The Golden Gate – How Did He Do It??!
• Pigs Have Wings – My first Wodehouse, suggested to me by a very special person. Pigs, aunts and butlers lost their blandness forever.

A book that's on its way out of your house as you write this: There are definitely some I’ve regretted picking up...but they’ll never leave the house. Just not in me to orphan a book. I’m a total wuss that way.

Update - I've just realized that I'm supposed to tag another 5 people. The first 5 commentors on this piece can please do the honours. I know some of you don't have blogs yourself so you can spread the love right here on my comment box. I've also realized that Ashwin had tagged me with a movie thing and not a book thing. Maaaan! So the tag mutated while passing through my blog, Ashwin!

Too Much

2005-05-31T18:35:00.000-07:00

One of my friends is in the very, very early stages of a relationship. She can talk about the boy for hours at end. She is in that stage when every nod, every gesture, every line of his every email, is scanned, analyzed and filed-away-for-further-discussion-later. Watching her can be amusing but tiring. But we are all giving her time and being patient. It’s her time and we will wait. “Soon this will end” we think. Not in a mean way but in a knowing way. Soon she will calm down and we will then cease to be just subscribers to her love-life daily. She is giving so much that it’s scary. An impatient kind of common friend tells her “Fast-forward to the kiss and then to 3rd base and leave all those emails out” and as I laugh and nod I also think “Boy, did I read every line of every email 50 times too?” and then of course Mr.Gabby never wrote too much. I would write pages and pages and I usually got 5 lines back. Sometimes, it would be broken into 2 paragraphs to make it look like he had actually switched topics. I would skim the lines, realize he was in literal pain while having to write those 5 lines and then sadly note how that pain had all been for nothing. But I would analyze the early phone calls, my friends would pass judgment-calls and opinions and I would never really listen. Because girls rarely share for input, they share because they can’t hold it in. They love the saying-it-out-loud part. Every time you say it, it gets bigger in your head. But I digress; let me go back to the fresh-crush girlfriend. She is reading a lot into his every action. Old problem, nothing new. Women are thinking of kids and the mixing-of-the-laundry while men are thinking about Saturday night and sometimes Sunday morning too if they’re feeling particularly foresighted. My piece is not so much about the difference in the way we think but in the effect that can have. As I listen and nod and absorb with growing alarm how my friend is rearranging her life to allow for circumstances when the boy can get down on that bent knee with ease, I think of Tanya.

Tanya was of a small-town mentality. Though she hailed from Mumbai, India’s fashion capital, I’m guessing it was her upbringing….or maybe she lived in a suburb which she never quite got out of. I don’t know the actual reason behind her nature but it was nevertheless appealingly sweet and a little bit naïve. She had moved to my town for her undergraduate studies and seemed well settled in her mauve painted room in the newer of the 2 girls’ hostels. We were never the closest of friends but we had a decent rapport…and her very dry sense of humor was something I admired, and she thought me to be cool or something because she sometimes copied what I said and maybe it’s my overactive imagination but she often even dressed like me. It was flattering, I should admit, but disconcerting. We were a little too old for the ape-ing business. But anyway, this is not about me and her, though it serves its purpose of giving you an idea of her nature. There was a boy of course. And the boy would chat with us during Engineering Drawing II. It was mostly because he was very bad at it and while chatting he could stare at our ED sheets and rush back as fast as he could and put down what he memorized. I once offered him my back-of-the-envelope-sketch so this process could be made more time-efficient and we would all not have to bother with the small talk. He gratefully nodded and offered his fully completed Physics assignment after removing the staple (copier-ready, in case you were wondering) and those were the beginnings of a solid friendship right there. Tanya did not seem to mind his dwindling chat sessions too. I remember seeing her approach him in a couple of hall-days (socials) and mention his name a few times in conversations, but that was it, I thought.

Many semesters later Tanya went home for an extended period of time because she was chronically depressed. Therapy did not help and after she returned she missed classes and exams and did her own thing. There was then this one attempt at hurting herself physically. The boy’s name was mentioned again and though I will never know for sure, many suspected that this indeed was a case of unrequited love. She apparently felt so much for him and he could not help that he did not reciprocate. For 3 years she had built her world around him. Her father came down and took her back to Bombay. I have no idea where she is now and whether she ever completed college. She left suddenly leaving no trace of her whereabouts. The school I went to for my undergraduate studies is one of considerable acclaim in India and securing an admission to the place and then leaving without completing your course is almost unheard of. There are very few and sparse cases and this is one of the two I know of personally. I wonder if paying closer attention might have helped her. I don’t know; college does weird things to people and though some lives get connected in permanent bonds, it’s mostly like knots here and there at uneven spots, and if one of you doesn’t stop and tie another knot soon enough, the lives will go their own ways, too busy to reconnect. And that’s what happened to us. College definitely turned out unexpectedly for her, doing more damage than good. Going to college and meeting people isn't supposed to do harm. What does real harm is giving too much, too soon.

Les outils de Survie...

2005-05-26T19:31:00.000-07:00

(Tools of Survival...)

I hope I will use:

Il fait beau!
- It's nice! (weather)
Je voudrais un morceau de gâteau
- I would like another piece of that delicious pastry
Je regarde seulement. Est-ce que je peux l'essayer?
- I'm not just looking. Can I try it on?
Je le prends!
- I'll take it!

I hope I will not use:

Est-ce que j'ai raté le dernier autobus?
- Have I missed the last bus?
Il y avait un appareil-photo dedans!
- There was a camera inside!
Est-ce qu'il y a un commissariat de police près d'ici?
- Is there a police station near here?
Ce n'était pas de ma faute! Ce n'était pas de ma faute !
- It wasn't my fault! It wasn't my fault!

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I promise to make up for my lax,lax blogging on my return!! With stories and visits and lots and lots of comments (they don't have to be intelligent or insightful, do they?)

The Actions that Follow Reactions

2005-05-23T12:55:00.000-07:00

“Why did it have to turn out THIS way?” she cried out on the phone. I held the receiver in silence not knowing what to say. My friend is going though a break up, a bad one. But whoever heard of a good one? Well, she found out something about him and it’s made her change her mind about the 4 year relationship and she wants out. If things had been different, they would be getting married next month. No, neither of them has been unfaithful. Neither of them lied to the other. And there is no abuse of any kind involved. It is not about falling “out” of love either. I know that makes it seem like a drastic move on her part. But wait, before all the Aunties and Moms go “4 years of the best years of her life! How will she find someone now? She isn’t getting any younger!” I’ll like to say I very much support her decision and the whiners will not be tolerated. A particular situation which involves her more so than him, had him reacting in a way she did not expect. Now, most people and more so men and women, think so unlike one another that often, a decision made by one can be questioned by the other unendingly. One will fail to see the logic of the other and that’s when we have the full-blown yelling matches or the freezing-out episodes. But then at some point, one will try to unravel how important is that decision to you, and how important is this to the other. EVERYTHING cannot be EQUALLY important to the both of you. And that is when one will step back. If that evaluation does not happen, the fight will never end.

Come back, my sermon is over. So now, in the case of my friend, this event was definitely HERS. The situation involved her family and her, but she needed his support. His simple understanding of the matter and maybe a little bit of his involvement. But the guy did not agree with her stance. He did not do the 1 minute evaluation – “How important is this to me? And how important is this to her?” So the fight never ended, though the event is long over. Obviously, this has left a permanent scar and months later, it still bothers her. Finally she realized that she could not live with this. But it’s still left her miserable and the natural self-doubts and “What ifs” and “Should haves” are being dragged out and pondered on and analyzed to death. I am only the sounding board she needs at the moment. She is way too intelligent to expect me to actually give her a solution. But she knows I trust her to get over this. She is one of the smartest and strongest people I know.

Still holding the receiver, in my natural “Knowledge is power” approach to matters I say “Aren’t you glad though you saw this side of him NOW? If you saw this after you guys got married, it would have been worse, na?” Between her sobs she said something that had me pondering all night. “But if I never knew about this side of him, I would be okay! And we would have been married by now...We would have been okay” she repeated. “Why do these things have to happen?!” was her lament. She is obviously crying for the lost feeling of being happy with him, not the realization that he might not be the person for her. But her lament had me wondering, just like it might take a high-risk activity for one to realize what kind of person you are, it takes a “high-risk” situation to find out more about your relationship. Simple enough. But what happens if there’s never any high-risk situation? Will you be left wondering all your life? But I guess it’s worse if you know the answer and it’s the wrong one. If the guy failed to see her though one of the first bridges she needed to cross, there will be bigger ones in the future and they will never be defined as “their” bridges anymore. So I am glad she found the courage to do what she did. If you’re faced with a high-risk situation, try to “pass” for your as well as for your partner’s sake. Because afterwards, whether or not your loved-one makes it to the other side or even remembers later whether he/she made it or not, your stance will never be forgotten.

Then, Now, and a While Later....

2005-05-21T12:48:00.000-07:00

(If public embarrassment isn’t grounds for divorce)

The husband and I (I’m speaking for the hubby here as this is MY blog, HA! So he can only give that grunt of approval or disapproving “Hmm..” I am honored with, after each post. This, after dancing around him going “What do you think? What do you think?” while he reads it), we like to be that couple who go running early on Saturday and then relax at Peet’s sipping coffee and reading the Boston Phoenix or the Globe or whatever. Well we haven’t got the running bit down but we do a fair bit of the coffee drinking on Saturday mornings. There’s this game we play there which I guess almost everyone has played at some level. We watch people who go by or come into the café and try to guess what they do for a living or anything about them. There’s obviously no way of winning this game, but it’s funny and we get to polish our Hindi trying to say “Investment Banker who wants the brunette barista with a navel ring” while the other adds “One time only” after that.

This Saturday brought a cheery girl with long dark hair bouncing in to the counter. She needed directions to MoS and listened to the complicated instructions being given to her with a helpless “Can’t you just take me there?” look. A pleasant looking chap with curly hair and a paperback stuffed in the pocket of his jeans slides up to help her, much to the relief of the barista who moved on to the elderly couple behind her. There was a pause as the barista and the elderly couple looked at the energy with which the guy began to help the girl. Now the elderly couple were a sweet, wrinkly pair. The lady had on these loose, flowered capris and she carried a HUGE purse and he wore a Red Sox cap and carried a cane. They took their time staring at the lists and lists of cappuccinos and frappacinos wondering no doubt why they didn’t just have “Coffee - Large” listed and maybe in a bigger font size. It’s time they did that. They settled for tea though. “Could you add some honey to that?” the man asked. “Yes, he likes his honey” said the wife. To which the man looked at her and went “I like my honey alright” And the wife rolled her eyes and he chuckled. So cute. The stuff they can get away with at that age!! The barista waited patiently for this mild flirtation to subside before she directed them to the sugar and honey. They shuffled off, both of them still smiling. The barista then saw me looking at her and smiled. The hubby who was till then glaring at my unabashed staring smiled too.

Meanwhile pleasant guy with paperback in hip pocket and cheery long-haired girl had moved on to exclaims on discovering how close they actually lived to each-other and all. She laughed, showing shiny teeth, and tossed the shiny hair. He grinned. They were all fresh and available and so very good at the whole song and dance of coquetry, I could see. Yes, I was doing a lot of seeing. I am told I can be very rude at times with all my staring. But I just can’t help it. I continued to watch with impervious fascination and wondered how this was going to end.

The elderly couple were leaving the café. The old gentleman suddenly stopped and addressed pleasant-guy-with-paperback. To my astonishment he was pointing at me. “The nice lady is wondering when you’ll ask for the chick’s number” he said. I jumped, startled, shaking my head apologetically at the pleasant guy. “No,no...sorry”. Paperback laughed. Cheery girl blushed. Old man laughed at my red face. “It’s OK. We were watching too. He needs to get her number if he ever wants to have what you two have got!” he said. I laughed, embarrassed. We know we look like the much-married pair we are. The limited, need-based conversation and laid-back comfort, a sure giveaway, any day. “I hope we get to have what you two have got someday” I said softly to the elderly couple before burying my head in my paper and promising myself I’ll work on the staring problem. I looked up when I felt calm enough and the laughter had subsided, the hubby’s told-you-so-look had to be dealt with anyway, at some point. Better get it over with in a public place! He looked reasonably amused though. But the next time I will be kicked in the shin below the table. I have it coming, I know.

Of Lessons Learnt and Memories Made

2005-05-17T02:13:00.000-07:00

The mere mention of Iraq brings to mind all kinds of things to us. Bush and his stance, troops abroad, talk of taxes and heated discussions about WMD. But to me, it brings to mind some of my sweetest and earliest childhood memories. Memories of each member of my family, of shared meals made with substitute ingredients, of masoon the best tasting bread in the whole world and of shopping trips to the local bazaar with ice-cream treats at the end, to be eaten later while watching Tom & Jerry or the 100th telecast of Robinson Crusoe. Each little event filled with shared emotions that have stayed put with surprising alacrity in my mind. Over there, in the city of Basra, my mother and father had common friends. They did not dash off on their own commitments, my brother did not disappear as often as he used to in India, to hang with his friends, my sister did not exclude me from her little crowd and when we made new friends, it was this whole other family we ALL made friends with. A new place and that too a foreign country can be instrumental in bringing a family closer than it has ever been before, when looking out for fellow members becomes more pronounced. Iraq also brings to mind memories of the kind of confidence only the very young can have. I had that at the time, in abundance. A confidence that was compounded by the fact that I went to a very small international school where it was very easy to be among the smartest in the class. I had that strut, and it wasn’t just in school but back at home too. See, we lived in a building that housed another 5 Indian families. Two of these families had little girls of their own who went where I went. And though they were my closest friends there, I remember being quite a pushy leader of that pack. It went without saying that I would decide all the important stuff as I was way better at Math and Science anyway, right? They were sweet and very compliant girls and I was a little bitch. *Pallavi if you are reading this, I hope that bullying did not scar you for life, I really think you a darling to have taken all that. Let’s just let bygones be bygones huh?*. Our neighbor was a Kashmiri spinster doctor who I adored. I would sit on her knee which was always covered in colored, polyester burkhas and play with her fine muslin dupatta lace late into the evenings, while my Mom caught up with her about this and that. She would tell us about her work and the people she had operated on and who was getting better and who was ready to go home. It was lovely, I loved the stories and the way they all ended with health and healing. She was like a real Aunt, more Auntie-like than any of my own sari-clad ones. She adored my Mom’s South Indian pickles and I adored her fresh smelling perfumes in their exotic bottles and her foul smelling refrigerator stocked with meat. So different from ours, but yet, so like ours it could be opened as and when we pleased to pick up a can of Pepsi or juice. And she was by far the most generous of all in that building; especially with the sweets she got from Kuwait every time she went visiting her folks.

Things would have been perfect if it weren’t for that smart new kid in my school. He was my classmate and he had these gray eyes and he knew ALL the answers to ALL the questions. And of course the mid-yearly exams that he was in time for (but which people predicted he could have NO WAY been fully prepared for), he aced without any apparent effort. I had my claws out for this guy. Bulbul my friend who was the only other one to get a 100 in Math besides me even asked to sit next to him during lunch, signifying impending loyalty-shifts. My wonderful sunny days started to get a little cloudy. How I hoped fate would kick in and set things right again! We couldn’t let the whole world and its gray-eyed brother join the 100-in-Math club at any rate. My energies were concentrated more on him not making that 100, than on me making it again. I clung on to Bulbul hoping she would realize that gray-eyes was a passing phase....

My Mom and Doctor Aunty were talking in unusually low voices and I scampered up to them to listen in. She let me climb on to her knee but I could sense things were not right with the world. And that they were not talking about what they had been talking about. “Do you know Naveen in your class?” asked Doctor Aunty. “Yes” I said with a scrunching of the nose. What...gray-eyes now was turning into Doctor Auntie’s favorite too? What else would be invaded of my world? “He won’t be coming to school any more sweetie” my Mom explained. It took me a long while, even after our teacher in school explained it in painstaking slowness, to grasp what had happened. My sister explained it with much needed conciseness. “His parents drank too much in a party. His Dad tried to jump a ditch, Naveen was thrown out of the van window, and he died on the spot.” My first brush with death. Fate had kicked in alright but not as I had imagined, I missed gray-eyes more than I expected. I felt guilty for weeks. I thought of him a lot and Bulbul and I held his Math book and kissed it too.

With Iraq in the news so much, I often think about those days. I think of Bulbul and Pallavi and Doctor Aunty. But never are those memories unaccompanied by those of Naveen and I wonder how his father ever lived with himself after that loss. How that 100-scoring gray-eyed boy would have made a fine young man now in his twenties and how that drunk driver taught himself the lesson of his lifetime by the loss of another....Dying seems less sad than having lived too little. Naveen, he did not even make it to the finals of his 2nd standard. If that’s not too little, then what is?

So, yes, Iraq brings a lot to mind, parts of which are common to many, as Rhyncus very correctly pointed out. Nestled in my childhood memories, are thoughts of death. Unnecessary and untimely deaths.

Let’s start this right

2005-05-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

“Which side of the bed did you wake up on!?” A phrase that’s often thrown at me always has me yelling back “The usual one! What’s that got to do with it?” In my calmer moments though I often wonder why we sometimes wake up fresh and dewy, ready to face the world and beat the blues, whereas on other days, literally wishing we were dead. Where from does the grouchiness come? I think we can safely eliminate lack of sufficient sleep, constipation and uncomfortable sleep posture as reasons. I usually manage my 8 hours and more, my digestive system is made of iron according to many and if bad posture was the reason, the hubby should be grouchy every morning (See I am a diagonal sleeper and the man needs to either occupy one of the resulting triangles or sleep underneath me. Poor bloke. I will have to make it up to him after writing this. I will let him change the OS of my computer, again, just for kicks. Yet again. Once more. *I do hope the undercurrents are coming though here* While talking about sleep posture, I have to tell you that we did try to sleep like normal people, you know, side by side, arms draped lovingly over each-other and all that. And it seemed to be working. Till I was woken up in the middle of the night by a hard bony elbow making high-speed contact with my soft dreaming eye. I woke up to stars though we were of course indoors. He was stretching in his sleep. Who stretches in their sleep? Well I think I have seen babies do it, and cats too, but I was only just informed that it’s prevalent among adults. What a way to find out! I think I am the only person to have got a black eye while sleeping. I choked back the tears while he started crying out if I was OK. Yes that’s another problem, HE cries out when I’m supposed to be doing it. Sometimes, when he catches me waxing, I have to deal with him going “Owwww” every time I pull that strip. Hey, this is my moment to yelp, not yours! O well, needless to say we abandoned the side-by-side sleeping method and went right back to however-you-wish, watch-out-for-your-own-delicates, any-which-way random heaped structure. Now it's really time to get back to the outside of this parenthesis).

So what can it be that decides our mood even before we are fully awake? There are obvious ones like when in those 5 minutes after the alarm goes off and you’re shutting your eyes tight and willing time reverse itself, you recall it is Monday and the week stretches out like a never-ending escalator in your mind’s eye. But sometimes it’s not so obvious. Is it the dreams we see? They say we don’t remember all our dreams so maybe some nights we have these really bad ones which leave us all grouchy but we don’t remember them. Is it the nature of those 8 hours of sleep? My best friend Google told me that the REM phase should not last more than a certain number of hours too. Several cycles of short REM phases are supposed to be the most refreshing. Or is it the way we are woken up? I remember when we were visiting our grandparents in their villages growing up, the children were all banished to the terrace to sleep and the alarm clock there would be the relentless BRIGHT sunlight and house flies hovering all around our faces. See that can set you in a bad mood right away! Maybe, it is the very last thought in your mind before you fall asleep that dictates the mood you wake up in. In any case, think happy thoughts, hopefully that will decide the nature of your dreams and subsequently take care of the morning smiles. Good Morning Everybody!! Let’s Have Us a Great Weekend!

Shaadi* Woes

2005-05-12T11:38:00.000-07:00

Shaadi.com does some great business no doubt. Just look at all those happy faces on their website. They all met via Shaadi and they’re thanking it and urging you to try it and all. But let us not forget that Shaadi is a tool. A tool that might well work for you, but only if used right. Which means there isn’t much of a point lying on your profile, because that would be like lying to your partner even before you have met him or her. A very shaky start to any alliance that is to last a lifetime, wouldn’t you agree?

Our friends had a house guest for the weekend. She came along to hang with us all after dinner and was she was in one foul mood or what! See, she had come all the way from Florida to meet this man she had got in touch with through Shaadi. She was a smart, pretty girl, 5’10” in height. The guy was 5’10” too, ON SHAADI. She swore he couldn't have been an inch over 5’6” when she saw him in person though. Obviously, she was hopping mad. Now, what I don’t get is why lie about height? That too, up it by 4 inches? Come on. What was he thinking? The she would just gaze into his soulful eyes and forget all about her height requirements, the ones she had clearly stated in her profile? A little difficult huh, considering he would have to stand on his tippy toes for the gazing to even begin? And it’s not like lying about the dimensions of entities South of the Border...your HEIGHT is something she will notice right away you mutt! And that will piss her off, making it difficult for her to trust you on any of the other counts, the important ones. I realise this is not a new problem. Parents eager to not let a ‘good match’ slip away have knocked an inch or two off their too-tall daughter’s height since eons...maybe I’m sitting up and writing about it only now because now the guys are doing it to the girls. Or maybe it's a little more pathetic when it comes straight from the horse's mouth, and not from an over-zealous or anxious parent...

When people conceal important information, or lie about their ‘single’ status on these matrimonial sites, it’s a whole other issue. These are the dangerous lies. Some of these players are obviously downright cruel psychos whereas some might have their own sad, desperate reasons. I am not going there, I am mostly just wondering idly why one would want to make this already tedious process of scanning, picking, choosing, meeting the person-behind-the-profile process even more wrought with disappointment and tension than it has to be? Why go through the chore of first lying about trivial stuff like your height or weight, then fearing being found out and then finally being subjected to rejection? Don’t they all want the search to end sooner rather than later? Why not be forthright from the beginning, it might reduce your sample size, but that might just mean you could meet The One before you tire of the whole process and give up altogether...before you run out of all your advantage miles and vacation time and most importantly, your patience visiting the 5’10” girls....

* Shaadi.com is an Indian matrimonial website, hugely successful with the younger generations.

Winding through Life

2005-05-09T11:58:00.000-07:00

We were on a scenic highway in California. It was one of those beautiful, long, winding paid highways that takes you to US 101, through the Redwoods, with trees that meet overhead. The morning sunlight filtered through the leaves casting crazy patterns on the road, giving everything a fresh and ethereal quality. Yes, this had the makings of a perfect first date alright. My mind kept dwelling on food though. The coffee we had stopped for at Starbucks before we got onto this long winding part of the trip sloshed around in my empty stomach. I needed food but had been a little embarrassed to ask for it as we had not hit that level of comfort yet....Yes, I am a girl who loves her breakfast but I can be annoyingly girlie at times. I also hadn’t a clue that the long and winding was this long, or this winding. And as the morning progressed, my food thoughts intensified to shrieking heights. Till we hit the REALLY winding part at which point the immense love for food I was experiencing was replaced by a loathing. The kind of loathing that can happen only just before you HURL! I pointed at the first clearing I could see, my date brought the car to a screeching halt, and I leaped out of the rental car and puked my guts out. I can only guess at what his thoughts were as he stood at a distance with a box of napkins, wringing his hands. No doubt wondering how this carefully planned day was off to such a ‘hurling’ start. Mine were abundantly clear though. “I need food; he seems to run on coffee. This is a sign. This will NEVER work.” Yes, I threw up on our first ‘official’ date, 6 times to be accurate.

Saturday morning I stood in the kitchen. I opened and reopened the refrigerator door. The eggs were there, so was the bread. I just needed to put it together. I even eyed the dosa pan, thinking of the process. My faculties weren’t so readily accessible to me. So I just stood there. The hubby walked into the kitchen, looked at me and went “You need food.” 10 minutes later we were on our way to Chennai Woodlands. Needless to say we had partied long and strong the previous night and warm food that had been prepared by someone else, brought to me and served, was in order. I munched on the plain dosa (crepe-like wafer-thin pancakes) while my idlis (fermented rice cakes) soaked in gorgeous sambhar (spicy lentil soup kinda thing). Till they hit that saturated, crumbling point when they were scooped up and sent for a quick dip in the chutney pool. I even had the stomach for a masala dosa after this. The hubby sat there nursing his coffee, nibbling on something quite halfheartedly. I think he was experiencing the now familiar feeling of being grossed out at how much I was putting away mingled with immense satisfaction that he had got this one full and square, that he knew the wife.

I know that since I have started blogging, it seems like I do not let a Horlicks or dishes episode pass, ‘unseized’. I know I have whined about the romance that seems to have been married off and sent away. I also know that quite a few of my handful of readers are single. So let me take this chance to set the record straight on my views on the subject. To not have to force yourself to think when you are not up to it, to know that decisions made on your behalf will only have your welfare in mind, to be able to completely trust that even though you might not be the expert on a particular subject and be completely unaware of the intricacies behind it, you do have this covered as you are with a person who will take the time to cover it for you, is unbeatable. I am obviously not talking about just idlis here. And this is just a small fraction of the whole picture.

Am I glad I stuck around after the hurling to figure out that he needs his food too, large quantities of it, but just a little later in the day? YES. Do we do winding roads anymore? NO. It’s all in the prenup, just after the section on no-translation-of-Tamil-movies and before the one on foot-massages. It’s the prenup all couples have, the one that isn’t about money, the one you don’t need your lawyer to help write up, and the one that keeps changing. You can add to it and remove, as you wish, as long as you both get to be editors.

To my readers - I realize I had promised a dishy scoop on the party and have instead written on this. Sorry, can’t help it! The party was a blast and I came away loving life and the living. The sambhar and the spring did not help either. But please don’t walk away in a huff, the bitch is on a hiatus but she will soon resurface. I promise!

YES, it's here alright!

2005-05-06T15:45:00.000-07:00

No winter lasts forever...

No spring skips its turn!

The street in front of our apartment...'tis Nature's law to change!

Gripes Galore

2005-05-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

Off late I have been too sparing in the griping. Mr.Gabby does not think so, but my friends? Oh, they have been almost all spared. They are all still my friends, minus the stingy ones. But that does not mean that things have been purrfect and the irking has not been happening. Today, I will devote my energies to The Griping On The Friends.

Boston has been kind, and we have been hanging out with some interesting people since we have moved here. They come in all shapes and sizes though and we are yet learning to embrace the new, which proves to be quite tricky at times.

The couple who is too Couply. Hello, we are here, sitting in front of you, do talk to us. It’s just the 4 of us here so if we are not that interesting to you tonight, you should have STAYED HOME IN BED. We are here to mingle, so pray stop mingling with the straps of your girlfriend’s sexy strappy dress and MINGLE WITH US. Look at Mr.Gabby and me, now, come on, you can do it. She will not disappear during the 2 seconds you make eye contact with us, I promise. (Or maybe she will? Suddenly there’s some light!)

The Seeking Singles. Don’t get me wrong, I understand, you are on the look-out for that Mr or Miss Eligible and we married people are merely the network through which you hope to meet that person. But please, do us the courtesy of pretending you want to talk to us too. Or should we just be happy you put makeup on, for us. Also try to pause between the following three sentences “Oh, Mr.Gabby’s friend who came here to interview, did he get that job? Is he single? How old is he?”, or maybe you can even wait for us to tell you he is single and all that. I’ll love to hook you all up, so then maybe we can all have a REAL conversation.

The Well Educated who tell you they are Well Educated. I love a good school as much as the next guy, maybe even more actually. But there must be something wrong with that Ivy League education of yours if it’s not really coming through and making itself obvious. Do you have to tell me the name of your school in your second sentence to me? If you’re hoping that that name will do your work for you and impress everyone at the table, you’re a little mistaken. It’s still just a school, and you might have got all those A’s too but show me you are not flunking life and then I’m your friend. The whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows, and when I hear that opening line of yours, I can see you’re still stuck at the mirror.

The Nearly Famous. In Their Minds. These are the famous name droppers. “Do you know Mr. & Mrs ***? You don’t?” There’s a little pause there when you register the dismay, disappointment and surprise in their eyes that you have not rubbed shoulders with the rich-n-famous Indians of the New England area. And it’s almost 2 WHOLE YEARS since we have moved here! Oh Lord! No, sometimes, I don’t even know OF these people, let alone know them. “O well, we were at their party last Saturday, they auctioned off some of their paintings you know, for charity” “Verrry nice people, you should meet them” they sing. Their purpose met after those names have been mentioned, they usually drift off after a few of these lines. They have told this table they are famous. They need to enlighten the next one now.

The Used To Be Nearly Famous. Now this is a sad breed. As they live in the past and then they expect you to live it with them when they tell you ALL ABOUT IT. It’s very depressing to watch. These are the ones who knew the Tatas and the Birlas or worse, the Abhisheks and the Kareenas or the Madhavans and the Trishas. Their sisters and brothers and cousins were all classmates of the Stars. And they would all come home, the Stars, that is. Yes, all the time. In fact they still party with them when they’re home in Andheri or wherever, and like crazy! "O Madhavan is a real flirt when he’s drunk!" It’s all very buddy-buddy. It’s all very OVER. We are not 19 here, lets save the gushing for meaningful things, like the food.

I could go on but I think I’ll stop. I’ll like to keep the remaining ones. There's a party on Friday and there's no point messing up the weekend plans. Well, till this greedy child of mine, namely this blog, asks for more, more, more. Eventually I know I will relent.

It's About Time

2005-05-02T23:09:00.000-07:00

This was going to be his last trip to his parents’ ancestral village, he was going back to finalize the sale of their house there. He hoped he would be able to make the outbound train the next day, that would still give him a couple of days more to spend in the city before he flew back home. 3 weeks of vacation had zipped past at breakneck-speed, a familiar sensation that crept in at the end of each visit, was now nudging it’s way back in. But he needed to get back, there was way too much to do. His world was beckoning, his wife was waiting and his Manager was hysteric as usual. But most of all, he had promised his son. The apple of his eye had made him promise he would be back before his birthday. And if he was a well behaved boy for the 3 weeks and his Mom vouched for it, the Disneyland trip would follow the next weekend, the promised reward. The little fellow had waved like a maniac and when he had turned back one last time before heading to his gate, he saw him nudge his Mom and they both waved one last time.

It had stopped raining and he struggled to open the 3 different shutters which had all proved useless in stopping that trickle of water that still made it through to the sill and then down to the edge of his narrow berth, flowing down to settle in the little pool below. He looked out of the window at the passing countryside, at the fields and fields of green paddy and the occasional splash of a plot of bright yellow mustard and sometimes the taller, paler patches of sugarcane. The rotation and variety of the crops keeping the soil fertile and the bellies of the farmers’ families full, a safety catch for the times when markets were as unpredictable as the monsoons themselves. The dull brick-red of the window framed the scene, which was like an ever-changing canvas. The horizontal iron bars were too close to mar the picture, and it was breathtakingly beautiful. The scenery was at just the right distance, like an artist would have planned it. The dark frame, the right rain-washed medium and the positioning close enough to catch the true colors and yet far enough to mask the hard lines on the faces of the people working it. They stood knee deep in water in the paddy fields, barefoot and mostly bare-backed. The women stood behind the men, bending down with their hands deep in the water, occasionally walking the proportional, narrow dividers that marked the boundaries of their fields, balancing baskets on their heads, their dark brown skin glistening with sweat or rain or both. Children worked the land too, though they would inevitably stop what they were doing and would stand and wave at the passing train. But then the train slowed down at the signal, and a few of them clustered around the train. He could see their faces now, grubby and brown, teeth bright, matching the whites of their eyes. They waved and he waved back, and they nudged each other and pointed at him, delighted at his response. Their delight at being a part of his world for that fleeting moment was mirrored in their shy smiles. There were no promises here, no rewards, yet their eyes shone with hope. How? What kept them going? When would their Disneyland happen?

Deal of a Lifetime

2005-04-28T18:28:00.000-07:00

Scene: Year 2002, in the kitchen of my Chicago apartment.

I’m doing the dishes. The boyfriend is leaning on the counter top, sipping wine, and talking about this and that. I’m working hard.

He: I love the back of your neck
Me: (heart racing) *blush* *Replacing scrubbed pan and picking up cooker lid*
He: Come and have some wine. I’ll do the dishes later.
Me: No it’s almost done. *Replacing cooker lid, moving fast*
He: No, come. Don’t bother with them.
Me: It’s okay…I’m quick.

*He swoops me up and deposits me on the couch*
*I’m congratulating myself for meeting and roping-in spontaneous-lover-boy*
He brings me back a glass of wine, folding my fingers around the stem.
He: These hands are meant for this, not scrubbing, he says. Never scrubbing.

I believe I have attained domestic nirvana.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scene: Year 2005, in the kitchen of our Boston apartment.

Hubby is doing the dishes. I’m leaning on the counter sipping wine. He is scrubbing the dishes twice before depositing them in the dishwasher. (Yes he is very thorough, yes he buys lots of cleaning products, 5 different types of scrubs and detergents for the dishes alone. No, don’t get me started on the rest of the stuff. Yes, we are aware it’s bizarre. No, we did not thinking of getting some help. Good therapy costs way more than good cleaning products)

Me: Remember? You really never let me do the dishes since then.
He: Hmmmm.
Me: I think it was very romantic.
He: Hmm.
Me: Do you really feel these hands are not meant for hard work?
*I lean on counter interestingly*
He: Hmm.
Me: Whaaat?
He: I cannot STAND the way you do the dishes. You never did the back of the pan. And you did not even remove the rubber-ring around the cooker lid and you had finished scrubbing and rinsing it.
Me: *Flabbergasted* You’re talking about that day? You remember the dishes I was doing???
He: Yes. And if you did the dishes in this place, we would be dead by now. You are the cook, sweetie and a great one at that.
(‘Sweetie’ part added to cushion blow of course, NOBODY fell for that)
Me: *Walking out of kitchen* I’m watching TV, have fun.

So much for the romance! But I have attained domestic nirvana. I don’t do any dishes around here.

2005-04-27T16:34:00.000-07:00

You are a monster. One terrifying monster. How can you be so cruel? How can you steal so much? How can you take away something so dear? As if the taking was a given, you needed to do it step by step, in agonizing slowness and painstaking technique. As if, the taking away was just part of the fun for you, as if watching lives adjust to the loss of each cherished gift was the sequel to each episode of act of brutality, all components of the same master plan. Watching them adjust to this new low and then striking again. So they broke down again, each time a little-less-sure, a little more scared. But still they bent down and picked up the pieces. They formed a new picture with the shattered fragments. They still maintained that it was their picture. And it was. A gnawingly sad version of the same picture. But one that shone with resilience, hope, faith and at the same time, despair. Till the blows came down harder and more often, till there was very little time between mourning losses and bracing for the attacks. Till the picture was no longer recognizable. It was like a movie had ended, not because the scripted ending had been reached but because the actors had grown weary. Of your attacks. Because you are relentless. Because you are so evil, it makes you alive. And we are still picking up the pieces.

All Grown Up!

2005-04-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

Last month my oldest friend had a baby. We had met in kindergarten where she was the one with a drippiest nose and a HUGE handkerchief pinned to her pinafore that she had no clue what to do with. She was the one who climbed a Jamoon tree on the first day of summer, fell from the topmost branch, broke a leg and spent her entire summer vacation in a cast. She was the one whose sage advice to the silent, listening class on how the best way to handle the tight slaps of the Hindi teacher was to move your head side-to-side yourself, that way the slaps would never really hurt. If you offered resistance, you are the one who will end up hurt she said. Very sound advice that. She was the one who climbed the basketball pole in school with her skirt hanging over her head, just to show us that it could be done, it was not necessarily a guy thing. She was the Vice President of the one and only club I have founded, the one that was so secret we can’t tell you the name even now. In the 10th grade she stood on the stage in an important role in a serious Hindi play. She was in a sari, very dignified and all. She began her dialogue and the pallu started slipping. Any Indian can tell you what a no-no that is. By the end of the play it was on the floor. The hisses from the front row, the side wings, fellow actors, and soon the entire auditorium failed to get her attention. She was that serious about her dialogue. She was paired as my girl (being among the tall ones I was often assigned the boy role) in a folk dance. We had to turn round and round swirling these sticks in the grand finale. The fake braided hair extension that had been pinned to her short style left her head, did its own little dance, and traveled the entire breadth of the stage to hit the Chief-Guest in the knee. SHE is now a MOTHER. And a great one at that from what I can tell. The baby is an angel and my friend is up and about, planning her life and getting on with her own career. She regaled me with her daughter’s antics today, telling me how fast she’s growing up. But WOW, when did that happen? When did my friend grow up?

Move over Sam Adams, Horlicks is here.

2005-04-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

Alpha accuses me of writing about my hubby way too much in my blogs (The fact that her's is a blog mostly dedicated to Pi-bashing is conveniently forgotten). I tell her that until I have a dog or a cat as a pet or maybe a baby of my own or my life takes an interesting turn and I give up my desk-job and turn into some adventure-monkey, the hubby will be my primary victim.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I catch a cold. 7 days later, I’m good as new. Then hubby catches it. We’re on day 3.
He: It’s really bad. I think I need to see a doctor.
Me: It’s a cold. It’ll go away.
He: No, it’s really bad. It just doesn’t seem to go.
Me: You’re on day 3.
He: But it’s just not getting any better. I better see someone.
Me: Please?
He: A doctor.
Me: Please.
……………………………….
He: She said it could be a sinus infection.
Me: Your sinuses are infected. You have a cold.
He: No, a Sinus Infection. She gave me something for it.
Me: It’s Tylenol.
He: “Tylenol Sinus.”
Me: No shit!
He: 'If you can keep your head, when all around are losing theirs..'
Me: blah blah blah

I humored him...but it did go away by the end of the week.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hubby has taken to drinking Horlicks at night. Yes, Horlicks (The Great Family Nourisher of India that usually kids below the age of 10 drink). And I make it for him. People who know me know I am NOT the kind who mixes health drinks for family members who are not sick however much they might mean to me. But the practice sneaked up to me when I wanted to rinse out a bottle with just 3 spoons of Horlicks in it, so I could paint on it (Don't ask, I'll save that one for another rainy day on the blog when there's nothing happening). So I mixed it in milk and got him to drink it. (He can drink a LOT). Unfortunately a full bottle replaced this the following week and I confess I did make it again as I longed to try a cuppa myself, but it din't really take. So I hoped this chore would transition to the rightful hands soon enough. Last night:

He: (walking into kitchen and standing around vaguely) This Horlicks at night is really good.
Me: *Furiously rearranging photos on Picasa and emailing people* Yes? Making a cup?
He: Hmmm. *taking a sip of water*. I could make it myself if you are busy.
Me: *Blow a kiss* (Come on, that's universal language for "Thank you Sweetie, you're the best, please go ahead)
He: *Poised with water glass in mid-air, waiting*
Me: *Blow another kiss* (Universal language for "Go on now. Why are we waiting?")
He: It's cool. Finish your emailing. Actually I think later is better.

Is this his second childhood or had he never passed out of the first one?!! Should I be worrying about the fact that he drinks Horlicks or the fact that I see many years of Horlicks-making in front of me?

First Impressions

2005-04-15T21:42:00.000-07:00

“Honey I’ll be home soon” “No, don’t bother. No. I’ll take a cab... I love you!” He literally sang into the cell phone. All the while, he was fishing frantically inside his bag (which seemed to house pretty much every perceivable gadget in the market) for his Blackberry. Upon finding it, I thought he would switch to answering emails and shut off that cell. But no, it was just to compare some numbers and he was jabbering away in a second. “So I’ll be in Philly next week and maybe we can meet for drinks?” Pause. “Uh huh, Uh huh” Pause. “No, I understand! I’ll be there next month too, maybe then?” “Uh, huh” “Sure” “Yes, Yes” “Yes we should. Miss talking to you Kathy, love you!”

At that point I discreetly switched off the little switch on the right ear of my headset. Noise cancellation was the last thing I required at the moment. That was the second woman he had said that to!! Of course it could have been his mother, daughter, sister, whoever, but the curious will remain curious and the book I was holding slumped just a bit. The attentive observer could have correctly predicted that I wouldn’t be turning too many pages for the rest of the time before our plane took off. I (meaninglessly!) felt satisfied that this Kathy had turned down his invitation for drinks. “Good for you” I rooted silently. He was on yet another call now and he kept the caller waiting while he switched to an incoming one. “Yes. John! So you do have a 4 PM slot open? Great!”
“Ah, this one is just business” I thought. We were after all in Business Class and he had invested in all these gadgets and it was still 5 PM Thursday. So if he had to work, I would be obliging, though everybody in the small cabin had already begun giving him the looks. “Good to hear your voice John, Miss you!” Eww. Well, he was just a very affectionate person I guessed. Till I heard him end the next call with an “I love you” again, this time a mumbled one. Maybe because he saw me motionless, head cocked or maybe he suddenly became aware of how he was “spreading the love” with the entire cabin within earshot. It was all odd indeed.

After take off, he settled down with laptop and Blackberry, shooting off emails and doing typical managerial stuff. He asked me the perfunctory questions and though I usually tell people a little bit about my work in such conversations (I’ve met some really nice and interesting people in my fortnightly visits to Chicago), I just wasn’t in the mood this time. It had been one of those days when you end up feeling exhausted but nothing significant has really been accomplished. I needed to unwind, to stare blankly at the most detailed birthing description in “Midwives” (my current read, I swear I did not know it was an Oprah Book Club recommendation. This copy did NOT have the seal) and then let my mind wander. These 2 hour plane rides home are very useful for being with the Self so-to-say. On arrival in Boston, project designs seem much clearer, code seems more debug-able and personal life seems altogether beautiful! He was a very persistent fellow though and I ended up mumbling more than a Yes and a No to his questions. He laughed at my jokes and he told me about his business. He drank his wine and ate his dinner, urging me to eat up too. He seemed nice enough and we became quite friendly. First impressions can be misleading and though I had initially sensed that he had thought me very lax to be wasting all this time reading a novel for somebody not on vacation and actually traveling on work, he completely dug my “de-compressing” theory when I explained its results to him. He decided he needed to take that up too and promptly shut down his laptop. I told him that when I had flown in the previous day, I had gotten some work done in-flight. (On hindsight that was such an un-cool thing to do - as if I needed to convince him of my professionalism! But I guess I was impressed with his work and successful entrepreneurs are interesting people and my own vanity and need-to-impress inevitably struck). Favorable tail winds (I love them!) took us to Boston in less than 1 hr 35 minutes. We walked out together, chatting amicably.

My husband waits at the exact same spot at the curb at Logan, each and every time I fly out. He comes directly from work and though there used to be days when he would try to cook and keep a warm dinner ready, those days are long gone. We usually head to 1 of 3 favorite restaurants right down our street, a short ride from the airport. I like that, not having to think or look for him or figure out stuff. There’s a short call when my plane lands and then I walk directly over and jump into the car. I left Mr. Entrepreneur at the curb and as I slid into the front seat I was almost afraid I would be subject to his standard parting-line too! It was a joke in my head now, one I would share with my husband, he being a man never generous with his 'I love yous' in public, I knew it would make a funny story. As my husband inched his way to the outermost lane through the long line of waiting cars, I twisted around to reach for the seat belt that tends to slide all the way back in a most irritating manner. I saw a woman step out of the Mercury that had been parked in front of my husband’s spot and stand on tiptoe in her 2.5-inch heels to kiss Mr. Entrepreneur. Something was odd but I couldn’t put my finger on it. As they stood there in a passionate embrace and we drove away, the words “No, don’t bother. No. I’ll take a cab… I love you!” rung out in my head, almost audibly. I recalled the mumbled version too. Maybe I’ve jumped to conclusions but the bad taste has yet to leave my mouth.

Life's To-Do list - Latin Dance - Check!

2005-04-08T22:36:00.000-07:00

This Sunday we will be going for our final dance class. The class is called “Nightclub Survival” and it's funny we registered for it in the first place. With our clubbing days dwindling fast and our friends being gobbled up by suburbia or discussions of suburbia, homes, and thus impending poverty, (which is best done over dinner in a reasonably priced restaurant or in one of our apartments – no cover fee), classes for nightclub dancing seem to be so out of place. But let me tell you why I thought this was the best class for us. It promised an introduction to various types of dances – Salsa, Swing, Cha-Cha, Slow 2 step, 4-count Hustle....and most of all, it promised to help students find their sense of rhythm. Big promises. “They obviously haven't had my hubby as a student before” I thought as we walked into the really beautiful studio on our first day.
“But he loves me and so he's doing this for me.” I thought.
“Let's get this started and done with, evil blackmailer” he said.
Reality sometimes sucks.

See I love dancing and some real love for dancing is required when you sign up for classes and end up being paired with oafs who step on your toes all the time or guys way shorter than you or even being made to dance with girls. Tried slow dancing with another woman? It's creepy (surprisingly dancing freestyle with another woman is great fun). So I thought being able to do this with my man would be this great experience and after much coaxing and unabashed blackmailing, we registered for this 7 week course. The nice big lady (Why are all dance instructors so fat? All that dancing is supposed to do good things for your body, non? But the grace with which she carried all those pounds, sweet Jesus) was the most patient of teachers and she tried all kinds of methods to get my hubby into it. In all fairness, there wasn't a single step my man did not get down but something was awry..It was the much promised Sense of Rhythm that was oh-so-missing. We ploughed through Salsa, Swing, Cha-Cha...the basics were all under our belts; though the whole time it felt like an army drill. He counted under his breath and it did not really matter if there was music playing or not. Nice-lady and I were resigned to this fact and her sweet sympathetic smiles towards me multiplied with each class. UNTIL WE CAME TO THE 4-COUNT HUSTLE!!!! Lo and behold, we were doing the outward turn with a hand-change pass and suddenly I feel my man getting into it. We did the turn and followed up the rock-apart-recover with yet another impromptu one. He even added a little push with the right hand as he swung me out while drawing me in with his left. All done with a flourish which had Mrs. Galahad and me beaming non-stop. She bustled around him telling him this and that and it was like we had all seen the light. We moved on to a disco wheel and things were pretty crazy after that! We practiced it last night and as the music playing was the opening score of 'The Shield' it was slightly different but we were definitely there. It all felt very cool. One day we will dance in our kid’s wedding and my hubby will bow, kiss the hem of my skirt, thank me and tell me I was wonderful to have shown him the light. Be still my heart...

As everything comes with a price I have been persuaded to be his “Assistant” in his latest project – Stained Glass work. We had parted ways in a little antique store in the Outer Banks to do our own scouting. When we walked out a couple of hours later with a beautiful old stained glass lamp (my find) and 4 Spiderman comics from the 1970s (his find, obviously) he had that contented look of having fared better than I had. But since our return, the man has grown increasingly fascinated with stained glass and our dinner table conversations have circled around glass-cutters and glass grinders for weeks now. So we are going tool shopping this weekend and he will be setting up shop on our deck soon. If we make it beyond the preliminary stages without cutting our wrists (which need not happen only by accident you know), I will let you all know.

Choices

2005-04-06T12:49:00.000-07:00

The baby was just a month old. She felt exhausted all the time. It seemed to get busier with each passing day but she had recovered well from surgery and was more comfortable going about things now. A C-section from incision to delivery takes about 2 minutes but recovering from it is a whole different ball game altogether. She had already started to worry about the scar but “I have bigger problems than that with my body” she thought grimly as she lay her darling down for the 4th diaper change of the day “And it’s only just noon” she thought. Sujay would be back in an hour and they would then have to get ready for the long drive to the Doctor’s office. “You’re going to get your first set of shots, sweetie” she murmured as she kissed the soft head of curls. “Be brave”.

Nayana turning 1/12 of a year also marked the beginning of the end of her maternity leave. In a week she would be back to work. She wondered how things were at the office, there had been cut-backs in every department and her girlfriends told her things were crazy and they had all been putting in extra-hours every day and almost every weekend. “Good timing or very bad timing?” she wondered…but not as often as she used to do, before the baby. Timing had seemed all important at that time. The right time to get married, the right time to apply for that promotion, the right time to buy the house, the right time to have a baby. Everything had dissolved when they had found out she was pregnant. Knowing she was responsible for a whole new life was overwhelming to say the least. Her work as a Data Analyst had deliciously yet alarmingly lost its place in her mental priority list over the last month. It all seemed to belong to a remote world she had inhabited a long, long time ago when most things were made out to be a bigger deal then they actually were. Now day-care was her biggest deal. “Please let Nanu adjust” she thought as she watched her drifting off to her dreams, fed and changed and looking the picture of contentment, fists clenched as usual. It tore her heart that she would be able to catch these nap times and the hundred other events in Nanu’s day only after 6 PM soon. She kissed the tiny feet and stood up to start on some vacuuming. Maybe she could even get some washing done before Sujay came.

“Trrrrrrrng”

She picked up the phone hoping it would be a telemarketer so she wouldn’t be thrown of her schedule for long. It was her sister from India. “It’s okay yaar, it’s just 5 rupees per minute, thanks to all this wonderful outsourcing” She laughed and continued. “We can call too you know….but tell me, are you busy? I better ask you right away because take this as a warning, I am in a chatty mood” They talked like they were chatting after a year, it was always like that. Reema sounded cheerful. Her son had been sent off to school and the younger one was playing with Dadi. Dadu was off for a walk and promised to pick up her dry cleaning while returning. So Reema thought of her little sister and decided it was just the time to catch up. “So Sujay took the half-day off for Nanu’s shots?” she asked incredulously. “Yes, I find it difficult to drive for long after the surgery”. “O well you people do everything so differently” she dismissed and moved on.

Later, as she kneeled by the crib and looked at a sleeping Nanu she wondered about the opportunities Nanu would have. They had saved and skimped so they could live in the best school district of Atlanta. They could even easily afford private school for her when the time came. They would do everything to prepare her for her life ahead but they couldn’t do that and prepare her for her daily afternoon naps too. It had been an easy decision to come here looking for a good future but their future had involved only them at that time. “What would Nanu prefer?” she thought. “She is like me and she will surely thrive in this fast paced world. She'll be a strong little fighter” she concluded happily. Nanu woke up and instantly reached out. Taking her in her arms she felt the tiny fist gather her collar in that determined grip and suddenly she wasn’t so sure any more.

Our "Unmentionables"

2005-03-30T13:59:00.000-08:00

Have you ever bought a bra in a small town in India while you were a teenager? If not, you might not be interested in reading on. I realize of course that the segment of my handful of readers that have not bought a bra ever at all will most likely be the ones who will read on. But that's okay.

So it was always a male salesperson at the store. He would be in this little shower stall kind of cube with everything hidden away in little cardboard boxes either over his head or below in some secret compartments. Only a couple of bras would be on display. These would usually be in locked glass cases and they almost always had little pink roses placed at strategic positions. The matching undies would be there too; hoisted at all sorts of angles. "Feelings", “New Look”, "Peter Pan" and names like that would be splattered all over the walls with close-up shots of women's faces and eyes. Well, the general set-up would be such that you could not try out anything you wanted, you could not walk up and pick up something you wanted, and no, you could not even point it out. So you had to tell this cheesy looking guy what you wanted and horror-of-horrors in what size you wanted it!!!! Luckily you almost always went with your Mom and she would start off the conversation with "Andar ka dekhao bhayya" (Loosely translates to - Show us the inside stuff brother) and then move on to make and size. So you almost always were spared the agony of topping your existing adolescent pains by size specifications. There was always the chance that the guy disagreed with what you said. Yes, you read that right - they have suggestions for you too. My friend (we'll call her Arima) was built small in general. She stood 4'9" in her stockinged feet and was always considered the kid, which meant she could get away with a whole lot of things by acting the baby. The disadvantage was, as she was petite and almost always in a loose tee and jeans; people thought she was err...small; while in reality, she wasn't. So imagine her plight when cheesy-guy-behind-counter refused to give her the chosen size. He giggled while telling her so too; which just got her even angrier. He should have just given her what she asked for...I will consent to the fact that as a salesman he might be allowed to give advise and maybe he had built some expertise in this area with years of disappearing behind counters fishing out hundreds of samples for women of all sizes and shapes.... but he couldn't really have passed a sound judgment here, the counter was just not the right height to allow for such a sound judgment. O well, Arima took to getting her Mom to buy her stuff for her too. Cheesy guy thought the Mom was shopping for her own needs and never argued the case again.

So welcome to the United States and its wonderful mall culture. Stroll around, figure it all out, take your time...nobody is watching or waiting. Try it out, try it all out, buy it and you still have some time to change your mind. Relief, joy and sheer thankfulness....I remember muttering “I love you America” the first time I strolled around between those rows of hundreds of hangers. Of course, things have changed dramatically in India now and even the small town malls are pretty nice, while the bigger cities have amazing places to shop at - as I find out with each visit back home. The situation has it’s own set of problems though as most salespeople work on commission at these shopping centers, so once the escalator hits the bra-floor there will be 6 women walking as fast as possible towards you and you still have some announcements to make and some watching and waiting you are subjected to; but hey, we have come a long way so I reckon we’ll end up in a good place, it'll just take some time. I love doing my shopping in India for most things but you have to understand why the unmentionables are still bought only here in the US; the small-town girl hasn’t quite recovered from the pre-feminist-bra-salesman-burning-revolution times when buying a bra wasn’t an eagerly awaited experience...unlike trying on the new Ipex now (2 years of research and development, 10 designers and 1 patent pending!!! LOL!).

Getting there

2005-03-29T20:41:00.000-08:00

You will learn to make your peace
You will learn to go on
You will learn to tell the happy stories
Without choking on memories
of the recent ones.

I am learning to make my peace
I have learnt to go on
And I am getting to the stories.

But I have failed
To deal with the big wide hole
And the crushing pain
That may never well go
and that never
seems to pale.

A point of view..slightly altered by a birds-eye view...

2005-03-28T08:51:00.000-08:00

“And there’s a camera on the right wing, to which I have a switch here, see? So I’ll call out and then let’s wave to the camera and get some great shots OK?” That was the last instruction from my Hang Gliding instructor, a cheerful, grinny, I-will-not-stop-talking-even-if-the-glider-fails-and-the-parachute-fails-and-we-come-
crashing-down-from-2000-ft typa guy. As it happens I thank my luck that he was the talkative type as once we left ground, I needed to hear a human being speak continuously, ask me questions so I would have to answer them and that in turn would force me to breathe. As we rose up I saw the cars getting smaller and smaller and then the planes in the nearby county airport got smaller and the Atlantic Ocean began to look like the biggest, vastest blue bed I’ve ever seen. It’s very different from what you see from a regular airplane; firstly because you can get a 360 degree view and most importantly you don’t have anything covering you. So that means you hear the wind all the time and it’s loud and howling and you have to shout to be heard by your instructor. It’s cold up there and the gloves and sweatshirt the guy recommended came in very handy, especially as I was holding the rope handles in a death grip and if it weren’t for the gloves, my hands would have well been bleeding. I asked him to point out the island we were staying on as we had driven to another island for this class. He pointed it out and gestured in the other direction to tell me where my home was. “And that way is Boston, your home, Ann” (he took to calling me Ann. I did not think of correcting him as I had bigger things in mind at that time and height!).

I suddenly thought of India, my real home I thought. I thought of what the birds can see, what angels and celestial beings can see, I thought of family and the dear, dear departed. I thought of love and death and God; which was all very, very weird because I do not consider myself to be a believer in the first place. I thought of my hubby standing by a golf cart waiting his turn and hoping for my safe return. It was like my heart was overflowing with love and happiness. “Come on Ann; give the camera a smile and a wave”. I said no, no, I’ll just smile, please do I have to let go??? Come on, you can do it, don’t you wanna show friends how brave you were? He had somehow tapped my inner recesses and figured out my weaknesses and strengths in the first 10 minutes of flight already! I waved and he called that the shortest wave in history and laughed. The glider bumped a bit, I shrieked and he laughed some more and assured me for the hundredth time that he will not let anything happen to me. I almost fell in love with him at that point. “Look, Drew is waving to us.”

Drew was the pilot of a little Ultralite that had chugged us up the 2000 feet. Gliders can only come down you see. So you either jump off hills or dunes like the Wright brothers did or you use a plane when you have one, which is what we did. Wilbur and Orville Wright succeeded in getting the first ever glider to lift off the ground on this very island. We had stopped at their memorial built on the very same hill they had used - “Kill Devil Hill”, on our way. The 60-foot monument constructed of gray granite honors the Wright brothers and marks the site of the hundreds of glider flights that preceded the first powered flight. The isolation, strong winds, high dunes and soft sand (and hence forgiving landings) of the Outer Banks islands were what brought the Wright brothers there. As we trudged up that hill I thought of all that they had had made possible for us. As we embark on commercial airplanes breaking the sound barrier and talk of even faster ones; as we haggle and scour the internet for the most affordable plane tickets we very often forget what made it all possible. A simple glider aided by the natural elements and skill and knowledge; aeronautics at its most simple and elegant form. In Wilbur’s words, “It is possible to fly without motors, but not without knowledge and skill”. So true, so true…as I was going to find out for myself now.

That's me!

So Drew was waving. “He’s telling us he’ll be on his way now”...” What..?” was all that my mind was telling me. “PPPPHHHAT” The rope that connected us to him snapped off and my instructor knew a fresh load of assurances were in order here. Drew took off with one final wave. With the comforting presence of Drew’s head and the noise of an engine gone, it was suddenly just wind, glider, instructor and me; all alone, no engine, no nothing. My heart was in my mouth and my knees were shaking. “Ann your knees are shaking sweetheart!” Yes they are. I’m at 2000 feet, I’m scared and my knees shake like wooden spoons when I’m scared. “Be still, sweetheart, it’ll be fine”. An instruction that was given to us on the ground flashed threw my brain “We control these gliders with just our body weights. We move to the right by shifting our weight to the right. So everything is controlled by the movement of our bodies. That is all” That was enough to stop the knee shaking right there. I din’t want any surprises. I din’t want my instructor sounding surprised. But to my relief he had already proceeded to ask me about Tampa and whether I loved the Busch Gardens there. I started to tell him that though I was considered the chicken of the crowd (mostly by my hubby and the Alpha kind) I do manage a fair bit, when I suddenly realized this wasn’t a part of the talk-therapy. “You will love it Ann. It’ll be like a roller coaster in the air!” I shrieked and shrieked. I told him my childhood flashes in front of my eyes even on a roller coaster on firm ground, tested and engineered by experts. Please, please, no, no. He was thrown off by my plaintive cries and went right back to assurances. “Not even a small hot-dog roll?” Fresh shrieks. More talk-therapy. It was better after that. I even played pilot and controlled the glider for a bit. As we were drifting down (apparently at 100 ft/hr; but you can hardly feel it); I could see cars and the airfield and my husband slowly coming back into sight. The instructor made me do a hundred more waves and at one point even made me pretend to be a bird! Yes I let go off both handles. ‘Look Mom no hands’ took on a whole new meaning.

It was the smoothest landing. I found out that my eyes and (horror-of-horrors!) my nose was watering. How embarrassing. And how quickly priorities shift; I was back to wondering how to fix this, when I saw people running towards me and helping me get out of my harness. I saw hubby all excited asking me a hundred questions. But so quickly, before I could tell him about angels and love and God; he was on his way and I was now the photographer and I was clicking away with his manual and my digital (which I trust way more by the way). I saw them do a hot-dog roll after 10 minutes and I braced myself for the stories and teasing ahead. They landed and as I ran to meet him; the instructor called “Your husband thinks too much!!! He din’t want to do the roller coaster thing either!” Imagine my surprise when I saw my man QUITE rattled. He was worried that they did not do some kind of quality check between sessions and that the instructor just unloaded me and took off with him. He had been worried that the back-pack kind of thing we are on is after all just a back pack kind of thing. He pictured the handles tearing. A small tear that had gone unnoticed would break apart with a ripping noise. He thought of how there was only one parachute and how the instructor had it and though he was connected to the instructor; there are only 5 points of connection and the instructor could free himself of the student at any point. When the instructor twisted out of his line of sight so my husband could get an unobstructed view; he apparently did some shrieking too. He thought of how much more was still left to do on planet earth. He thought of what would happen if the winds played down. While I had been imagining angels watching over us; he had been picturing himself ripping through air and “I would just be a splattered road-kill on I-158 which cars would just swerve to avoid” –in his own words. He thought of ropes and tensions and stresses and strains. He thought of me too he said and he had chided himself for this whole hang-gliding idea. He had been treated to the hot-dog roll; it had not been approved by him at all! I could not help smiling; for the first time, I had emerged as the “cooler” one; scared though I had been I had actually ended up enjoying this much more than he had! My lack of practicality which I have been accused of by many had finally played off! My heart went out to him and his worries but I filed away all this info for the next time I’m subjected to all the teasing and for this blog too of course.

So do we all need to go through some high-risk activity to figure out who we are? Does this mean that that a skeptic like me is actually a trusting believer? While my husband who himself (though he is not a practicing believer in the traditional sense) does not deny the existence of God or a supernatural force; is actually the practical, questioning pessimist himself? Or does this just mean that I am a romantic at heart and this activity just reinforced that fact while it brought out the Mechanical Engineer in my husband? He can after all imagine the forces acting on a body in a state of unstable equilibrium - after devoting some 9 year of his life after high school to just that field - better than I can! For I remember clearly that Mechanics I/II was a nightmare to me in my first year of college where somehow all the forces seemed to balance each other out in whatever problem I was trying in that book by Shames. The pulleys and bridges and blocks of wedges on inclined planes would just remain where they were according to my diagrams; it left me nothing to do but think of angels and beauty and love. I guess that’s it.

P.S: The Kitty Hawk Gliding school is the World's largest Hang Gliding school. Since 1974 they have taught over 300,000 people. The instructor is of course a USHGA certified one and gliders are three times safer than most small airplanes. In fact the glider I was on was way safer than the tow plane that was used. And think of it this way, if that plane caught fire or something, that very towline I was so sorry to see go would be snapped and I and my instructor would glide down slowly in absolute safety. So if you ever get a chance to try this sport, please please do; chances are you will never regret it.

2005-03-23T10:18:00.000-08:00

Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting "...holy f*...what a ride!"

Amen to that.

I can stop whenever I want, really.

2005-03-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

Last year I underwent surgery. It was a really small procedure and some of my friends even had the audacity of calling it plastic surgery. I have problems with that statement as firstly, it was not even cosmetic surgery and secondly it makes me out to be one of those Nip-Tuck wannabes...maybe I will be one someday but I like to think that that day is still very, very far away and I'll like to think that when the time comes I will have the good sense to steer away from that option...Well anyway, it was on my arm and I was sent home with a month's supply of Oxycodine. I was told to take two a day and more if it hurt. Now I'm known to pop a Tylenol in when I have a headache and a looming deadline or I need to play gracious hostess at dinner and I'm actually feeling my brain will split open and a Hannibal-style dinner could follow, but the pill-love ends there. So being told to take something as strong as Oxycodine twice a day was a bit rattling. I decided to taper off the usage as soon as possible. The plan was to stop after three days or maybe even two if things went well. Ten days after my surgery I was sad when I found out that I needed at least one pill a day to help me feel a hundred-percent. I was even sadder when I found myself using phrases like 'feeling a hundred percent'. When even the 1.5 inch scar began to fade and I still felt a need to dull the pain, my husband woke me up and stuck my head in the beans till I smelt the coffee. I'm proud to say I did not need him to lock away my meds or check me into Oxycodine-Anonymous. I just went cold turkey and a few days later went right back to hating the pill-popping types.

But this episode woke me up to how easy it all was. It is not just something that happens on TV and movies and Hollywood. It can happen to any of us, to the best of us. It can happen to people with brains and commonsense and principles. It can creep in while you're sleeping it off in a recovery room after surgery or in a slightly wilder-than-usual after-party-party or even when perfectly normal people are subjected to more than they can handle... it can happen to friends and family and even people who seem so strong.

Last month I started blogging and it's a whole new addiction now! This month I no longer check blogsites and comment boxes like a maniac...but I go down my list of favorite blogs first thing in the morning. At least it doesn't muck with any biochemical reaction going on inside me. I still need my dose, it's just a healthier high.

So now I'm the niptuck female who almost-went-to-rehab to my childhood pals on one particular email-list. According to one of them I should move to LA. I'm working on an Excel sheet that lists each of their deep-dark-deeds in descending order of the embarrassment it will cause. It will be sent out very soon. :-)

2005-03-09T13:19:00.000-08:00

"I love you more today than yesterday..
Yesterday you really got on my nerves!"

Sigh.

The Gift of Introduction

2005-03-07T13:36:00.000-08:00

Ashi's blog on Mark Knopfler sent me spiraling down memory lane over the weekend. I was transported back to my teens when my room was the "music room" of the house. A time when people automatically talked in very loud voices when they came close to my room, assuming that the stereo was blasting in there. I'm a girl who worships her Beatles and will die worshipping her Beatles. And there will never be a Simon and Garfunkal song that will not make my heart sing in pure joy. I loved Dire Straits because their songs made me think. But most others I would play over and over again because they got my imagination working overtime, whether it was Billy Joel telling us about his lousy luck with the Uptown Girls or afternoons lounging around picturing a day when my prince would sing "Lady in Red" to me or nights brushing my hair imagining Eric Clapton was singing to nobody other than me, cooing to me that I looked Wonderful Tonight. So come saturday I happily zipped up all my old CDs on the hubby's I-Pod and carried it religiously around the whole weekend.

But things weren't that easy back then in the early 90s and late 80s. One had only heard of CDs and no way would such expensive hobbies be encouraged at home! But I was one of the early sporters of the "Brother in the US" tag. And shipments of cassettes covered with the neatest handwriting (a man of thoroughness - artists, albums, song names and all the basic stuff were always covered) along with printouts of the lyrics arrived at a regular basis, much to my parents chagrin (a long letter describing his thesis topic and his eating/sleeping habits would have sufficed in their opinion! ) and my utter glee. And that is how I got hooked to "Western" music. My sister was the one who helped me find my way around the world of ghazals and the Jagjits and the Latas and Mukeshs but I will leave that for another day. Today is about my brother and the world of music he opened up for me. May the music never end in your world Big Bro!!!

Last Night

2005-03-04T23:48:00.000-08:00

Me: "Do you think I should look for a new job?"
Hubby: "Are you unhappy with the current one?"
Me: " No, but do you think maybe there's something great out there?"
Hubby: "Look out if you want"
Me: "But that's a lot of work you know...Do you think I should look for one?"

See this is a conversation that has been repeated with slight variations several times. I'm one of those people who likes her current job alright but I don't feel that "connection" with it. I never dreamt of doing modelling/programming/whatever-it-is-that-I-do, I did not as a 10 yr-old dream that I would one day be the greatest OR person on the planet (I would not have known of the existence of OR of course but you get the general idea), I do not when I wake up in the morning go "Yippee, can't wait to code that cool idea!!!” ...it's just a job to me. And THAT is the problem. I am a firm believer that I MUST have some true calling. I just don't know what it is yet. In this very pursuit of a true calling I have wandered into painting classes, interior design classes, pottery classes, salsa classes, jewelry-making classes...and I should say that most of these have transformed into wonderful hobbies and the painting has stuck somewhat.. but that dream of walking around in a brand new gallery with a glass of wine in hand going "I was inspired to paint that when I was passing through a small village Eretria in the outskirts of Greece..." still seems far, far, far out. So I can safely say that I have not yet bumped into that calling that will have my heart racing, that will give me sleepless nights and the most satisfying slumber at the same time.

So every once in a while I worry that I'm wasting away my most productive years being moderately good in a moderately okay profession in a moderate company. We're taught to reach for the stars and I'll have no problem doing that when I find my elusive true calling. Or maybe it's time I realized that as far as careers go, I am a moderate achiever and moderate is not so bad...

We're in bed now, and
Me: "...So this project is not so bad but tell me how you feel.. Do you think I'm just being lazy, do you think I should start looking out?"
Hubby: "Maybe it'll not be a bad idea if"
I turn around to see the half-opened 'Iliad' on his chest, mouth slightly open. Gentle snoring. Mid-sentence!!! How can men do that??? I cannot fathom how they do that. Or don't they? I'll like to think this problem my man has is not a rare disease....but you can't be too sure in these matters.

Rantings on a Kind

2005-02-28T15:16:00.000-08:00

John G. Wendel and his sisters were some of the most miserly people of all time. Although they had received a huge inheritance from their parents, they spent very little of it and did all they could to keep their wealth for themselves. John was able to influence five of his six sisters never to marry, and they lived in the same house in New York City for 50 years. When the last sister died in 1931, her estate was valued at more than $100 million. Her only dress was one that she had made herself, and she had worn it for 25 years."

When you type "The most miserly people" in Google, this is what comes up. What drove me to this point you will wonder. Was I expecting a list to show up as the answer?..Maybe I was. I am not into hoarding this kind of information. And I wouldn't want to stereotype. I really don't care to do that sort of a thing till I have a valid statistical sample size. And even after years of running into some perfectly well-off people penny-pinching in the most weird and imaginative ways, I refused to categorize them or criticize them. But then everything has its limits.

I thought I had seen the worst when I bumped into this girl in Grad school who pinched packets of ketchup from the school food court, till I ran into this other specimen who just downed packets of half-and-half while the rest of us stuffed our faces with eggs and waffles and pancakes during breakfast. She NEVER ordered anything. I swear she lived on half-and-half for breakfast for at least 2 months...till I thankfully found better people to hang out with. I figured maybe it was just Grad school and the general lack of money that seems to accompany that stage of life. Till I started work and found out that this particular disease spares no section of the population. When it strikes, it really strikes. My neighbor would tear his kitchen-towel squares into quarters, to limit usage. It really worked because the pieces were so small nobody found them useful any more. And it's not as easy to reach for a stack of neatly squared 4-by-4's as it is to reach for the usual Bounty-roll that your eyes frantically seek after a spill. This guy was beat hollow by a friend's friend who actually (I discovered this by accident) reused his garbage bags. Yes, he actually walked over to the huge disposal shoot, emptied his bag and then took it back!!!!

So my sample size was increasing...

We have these friends we do dinner with all the time...the husband is always in Johnston&Murphy shoes and a Burberry shirt, unless it's a fancy place we are meeting up at, in which case he really dresses up. The wife loves Wal-Mart clothes, but only once in a while, as a treat. Needless to say they maintain separate accounts. Picking a place for dinner might be difficult under normal circumstances, but as was recently revealed, it's really easy. The husband gets to choose as he pays (the separation of thy accounts is not altogether fair you see)...and if there's an argument it's quickly settled as the wife uses the surefire comeback "Then I'm not coming!!!” ... The husband eager to have a social life of some sorts has learned not to go there. The amazing thing is misers are not just hoarders of their own money; it breaks their heart when others spend theirs too. But anyways, I'm steering off the chosen bitching-path, let me focus. Here's a snippet of a conversation:

J's husband: "....And then I'll like some Venerable Very Rare Sherry with my dessert please...”
No really, that's the name of the sherry.
Lots of nudging from J.
J: "I'm not hungry."
J's husband: "Order something J...”
He's always taking good care of her. She's always rolling her eyes.
J: "NO. There was free food at the seminar I was attending. I ate there."
Angry voice.
Me: (Changing topic deftly) So what's the plan for the weekend guys? What are ya'll doing tomorrow?
J: "My husband better not drink. He has to wake up at 7 AM to do laundry"

See now my husband and I have fooled ourselves into believing we can afford to get our laundry done at the local laundromat..(Sweet Chinese woman washes, dries, folds and what-not) as we are after all in the DINK stage. Every Sunday though, my man makes very sorry noises while sitting in front of that Microsoft Money sheet and insists we CANNOT afford all this...but nevertheless the system has been adopted and it seems like it's here to stay as believe me it's a DIFFICULT one to throw off.

My husband (I introduce him to you here, finally): "You should really try sending the laundry out...it frees up all your Saturday.."
He proceeds to gush about the Chinese woman's virtues and how everything smells so great.
J: "She charges WHATTT??? No way! My husband will do it. Never mind."
I try again.
Me: "Nice hair style J, did you go to Dellaria's?"
J: "Please, I got it done in India. As if we can afford to get our hair cut in this country"

They are good friends and will remain so. But I cannot, will not, should not be meeting her if I can help it. My sanity is important to me.

In conclusion I can only take solace in the fact that there are a million shlokas in the Gita about the fate of misers, the Bible condones it and Kabir Das himself poked a lot of fun at them....and the Quran, well the Quran says that a miser will be made to wear a pair of shoes prepared from the fire of Jahannam, which will make his brain boil like a pot on the fire. I would not go so far as to wish this on any of my sample cases, but I'm afraid their spouses just might. So be careful misers.

Haagen Daaz

2005-02-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

Just cream and sugar. With swirls or chunks of chocolate or coffee or cookies or mint or caramel. No doubt the mere mention brings forth pleasant thoughts and intense cravings to many a patron of this cold delectable dessert. The first spoonful that melts on my tongue forever takes me back to a time when life was easy and free and a little aimless until I made it not that easy or free and definitely not aimless! Let me explain. The main piece of furniture in the scene that comes to mind is one very old couch procured by my room-mate from a yard sale down the street (a steal deal by the way) and a really, really crammed coffee table. A day-bed next to it, with a bunch of Indian wall-hangings above. The day bed is covered with copies of my thesis with my advisor's scribbles covering the margins! A Wal-Mart floor lamp, the shade gathering layers of dust, right next to it. The background of the scene is a kitchen counter full of half opened cereal boxes and Oreo cookies. A huge stockpot with the remains of “Vaangibath" - a favorite quick-fix of my roomie's. On the couch sat two individuals with a lot to say but saying absolutely nothing. They were talked out! Literally. Night after night of phone conversations that lasted well into the wee hours of the mornings had quite drained them. It still seemed like there was a lot to be covered though. When sitting right next to each other the flow of conversation was never that fluent or steady. Awkward pauses punctuated even the smallest sentences. But every night they would stare at the TV on which all but four mind-numbing channels were available till one of them said "Feel like some ice-cream?” And the other would readily agree just to have something to do. The bowls would be fished out and they would settle back on the couch.
Eventually the awkward pauses vanished. Conversation was easier as the magic abated while translating itself into love and comfort...the kind that makes wonderful marriages. The kind that rocks your world. The kind that can give you that lump in your throat. And not just because ice cream is cold.

Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady

2005-02-18T07:04:00.000-08:00

"Don't bother Savitri while she's working!!!” These words were uttered at different decibels at different times of the day, throughout my childhood. My Mom laughingly explained to friends and relatives "If my daughter gets mad, she'll be off on her bicycle but only to return in an hour or two...but if Savitri gets mad, where will I find a maid like her??” She would sometimes pose this rhetorical question with genuine concern, in a tone used when expecting an actual answer. People would laugh and agree, confirming in my eight year old mind that I was indeed here to stay while Savitri was the one that had to be won over, to be spoiled but, she would never be one of our world. My Mom was always clear about the 'other' caste system that resides in every nook and cranny of every labor-loving developing nation. They are the working class. They have to be kept in their place. Never let them forget who the feeding hand belongs to. We all followed these simple sounding but extremely complex rules as best as we could. I call them complex because for a eight year old it seemed like the woman who helped my mom in the kitchen all day chopping up vegetables, sieving flour, making me my Bournvita when my Mom wasn't home, making my bed and, to a high degree, controlling my mother's moods (hey, hell hath no fury like my Mom when Savitri did not show on any godforsaken day) should of course be right next to me on the living room sofa when I'm watching TV, correct? Well no, very early on I learned that the maids sat on the floor by your feet...something my 4 year old niece has easily picked up during her visits to India. We were all intimately aware of every member of Savitri's family. Her husband who drank away all his life's earnings, her "Useless Fellow" of a son as my parents used to refer to him, and the daughters who flew the nest as soon as possible only to return with sob-stories of their own. Savitri on the other hand also knew us all well. She referred to my sister as the Good girl (No doubt she picked that up from my Mom) who helped around in the house and who was no doubt, the obedient one. My brother she held in a god-like reverence. He was the one who everyone in the community wanted their sons to be like. He was abroad and doing so well. She was as proud of him as we were (almost!). I was called "Baby"...well, north of Andhra Pradesh pretty much every girl below 15 is referred to as "Baby" so I guess she wasn't in reality calling me a babe...but nevertheless, the name stuck well into my teens and my early twenties. Savitri knew about every family quarrel, every back-biting incident (complaints about siblings were made to my mom in the back end of the kitchen to which Savitri was very privy), every celebration, and every failure. She knew my mom's opinions about my Father's 'side' and my Mom’s views on her own 'side' and she could I think very accurately guess our opinions on all relatives in general. It had to happen as my Mom and she chatted amicably most days and both women loved to talk.

A day came as it does in every story involving a maid when something went missing. I don't recall what it was, try as I might now. It was a watch I think or maybe it was some money. I am not sure but everybody was in a frenzy looking for it. There was some hushed talk between my parents where there was a reference to "Her" which my inquisitive ears picked up. My friend Sumona's maid had made off with her Mom's earrings. I could totally put this together. Off I marched to the back door of the kitchen where Savitri was washing dishes with soap and soot (the mempry of that awful gray mixture rubbing against steel can still send creeps down my back) and I asked her outright if she took it. There was black anger on her face but she said nothing. I reported back that her silence must mean something. I hardly completed my narration when I felt a sharp smack on my head. My Mom was livid. Her number 1 rule had been broken. Not only had I bothered Savitri while she was working but I might have just screwed up the smooth functioning of this household indefinitely. Savitri would leave, how would my Mom get a maid as reliable as her, what would we do! I was aghast at the damage I had just caused. Things were getting very ugly. My sister found the missing item while I was dissolving in tears which brought around a fresh round of ribcage-shattering sobs. I was told to apologize. I had no problems with that. I walked over and stood in silence for a few minutes and returned. It wasn't that I meant to skip the deed completely or dupe my parents...as I walked up there I realized I had no clue how to say I was sorry in Hindi. Being a South Indian no matter where you are raised, you are born with a genetic makeup that makes speaking Hindi (not to mention writing essays and life stories called "Jeevinis") an almost insurmountable task. It's nothing that tutors, "kunji's" and sufficient cramming cannot solve but at 8 I had not yet mastered the basic know-how. So I stood there racking my brain trying to think of the Hindi word for "Sorry". I failed but I did look at her with my tearstained face for about 30 seconds. On my return I was patted on the back by every member in the family for doing the right thing. I never told them that I had not really apologized. I avoided crossing paths with Savitri for the rest of the week.

Many days later I heard my Mom and Savitri talking and Savitri made a reference to how I had paid her the second visit on that fateful day. I held my breath waiting to hear what she said. She said nothing and the moment passed. I walked over to the kitchen to make sure the black anger had left her face and she smiled a toothless smile and peeled an apple for me. We never talked about it again; I was after all a "Baby" and she, a Lady.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall....

2005-02-16T12:46:00.000-08:00

"So how often does the average woman peer at the mirror wondering about what she notices there and what can be improved upon...?"....I wondered as I walked over to my mirror for the 12th time that day...and what did I carry back with me? Doubt, confirmation, relief??? Was I worried about the big pores or the length of my bangs? I noticed them yes, but I did not care. Why I don't care spins off a whole new reel of thought....it's not like I'm one of those oh-so-married-women who don't care how they look any more (as if their entire existence was just one-big-preening session in order to rope-in the best guy the market had to offer) neither was I a woman who took her hubby for granted (you know the kind, all that primping for the other women in the party and lounging in pajamas with curlers in their hair for their own men!!)....I was reasonably interested in my appearance most of the time...(reasonable is a very relative term I am happy to note)...I fancied I portrayed the "healthy beauty" of today ...i.e., no emancipated malnourished frame (hate those bodies...well actually some of them do look good but then those celery-water-cigarettes-diets are SO not for me) but no tires under-thy-belt to talk of either...(OK maybe 1 or two...hey what's the point of an anonymous blogspot if I can't lie at least about that!!!) ...so then why am I not doing anything about the big pores....?

There was a time when I must admit my appearance dominated much of my daily thought process..."Is my skirt the fashionable length of the current moment?”…“Is my hair shiny enough?"..."Does my skin look dull in these unkind fluorescent office lights?"..."What do I wear for the weekly clubbing session?” ....Sadly I was forced to process the hundred million other things that go on in a day in the not-so-active remainder part of my brain....the half that was not coding and decoding the fashion do's and don'ts...it can get pretty stressful you know. You might say I have not performed badly during the span of my 20-something years considering that was only half my brain working. But come on, if things are going well enough as they are why this change now...I worry that I don't worry enough...now three-fourths of my brain is moaning this loss of obsessive ness, pondering this change for the better (?...well people assure me looks are not everything) and even lesser of my otherwise healthy brain is being put to good use.

So I sit down to analyze...is this some sort of a confidence? Am I assured that my life as it is - career, family and what-not are sort of OK so it needn't show in every garment-hairdo-handbag that I and the above mentioned categories are OK? The notion is appealing but not convincing....I have a laundry list of stuff-I-still-so-want-from-life like any other human being walking this planet and the chances of my change in attitude being possibly caused because of contentment did not seem likely at all...so I move on....Is this the famous laziness that people talk of when they talk about the "settled" feeling? Am I just getting plain lazy? Is poking at my pimples, picking out a new dress on a 3 hour shopping trip just sounding like too much work? Sounded more of a suspect. So I jot that down in my plausible-reason list and dig some more. Is it likely that I am after all not that selfish a person and have started developing an interest in others that dominates that I have on myself? I don't know if that's true...but I do seem more of a people person now that I have ever been in my entire life...I do feel drawn to discussing stuff happening in peoples lives...I sometimes feel like taking care of them...Is my newly-discovered lack-of-obsessive ness actually a way to make space for some other instinct?.. Am I seeing a peek of my long-awaited-maternal feelings that so many of my girlfriends have felt since 13?..I have spent years worrying why my heart doesn't do the popular flip-flop when I see babies or when I think of having children...Maybe just maybe things are changing a bit...I don't know for sure but I know I see a trace of a something here and maybe it's best to go with that...Maybe I am ready...

The Many Shades of Infidelity

2005-02-03T09:05:00.000-08:00

He got off his seat and reached for the trusty black Travelpro in the overhead cabin. His wife was busy straightening her ponytail and reapplying lipstick. “She uses far too much of that stuff”, he thought, “She’s beautiful as she is, why bother”. They headed out and he nodded to the pilot on his way out. “They were so nice to us” he said to his wife, and she smiled and agreed. He liked that, he liked when she agreed with him. She calmly pointed out their bags while he hauled them off to the carts at baggage claim and then into his faithful old Camry in the parking lot. “Do you want me to cook for you?” she asked anxiously once they were in with the windows rolled down to get the two day-old stale air out, driving towards the airport exit.. He looked at her and wondered what to say. That little hideaway town had been all it promised to be weather-wise but it had done little to his palate. Being a staunch vegetarian definitely had its pitfalls and they had ended up eating salads and garden burgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was dying for some good old sambhar cooked the way she expertly did, making even the podi from scratch each time. He knew there would be no arguments. But the tired way her eyebrows bunched up made him change his mind and he took a detour so they could go through the Chinese take-out place they did without fail every other week. She waited in the car and fiddled with his new I-Pod. She looked up as he walked towards the car with the identical orders of veggie fried rice and egg rolls in greasy brown bags. She had taken to ordering exactly whatever he ordered and this way, if she couldn’t finish her food, he would happily polish it off. She knew he loved that kind of thoughtfulness about her. “I forgot the hot sauce” he mouthed to her and headed back in again. He was trying to make himself heard above the Chinese cooks barking orders at each other when he heard someone calling his name. “Still can’t do without the pint of Tabasco with each meal hahn?” She looked the same, not a day older, her hair still a little on the wild side, big grin, shiny eyes. There was a time when he thought her hair was the prettiest thing about her, till he found out many, many other pretty things about her. In fact her hair was not the wildest thing about her. He had loved her, worshipped her. He could remember believing that if he could have her he could conquer the world. And had she not loved him too? She had almost said it so many times. Then why had she not ever said it? He had loved her so much and he had hated her as much. “Two pack eenuf?” said the small lady behind the counter. “Give him 5 or 10 maybe?” she laughed before he could answer. Shiny teeth, shiny lips, shiny everything. No makeup, she just shone. Oh why, why couldn’t they have been together, they would have been amazing together. She had blatantly refused, casually dashing his dreams of 5 semesters and more to bits, explaining coldly how different they were, how it wouldn’t have worked, how he needed somebody of a different kind, oh, how she had gone on and on. He remembered her holding a magazine in her hand at that time and questioning irrationally if she had just read those lines from her Cosmopolitan articles and memorized them. He wondered now if she still read that junk. He smiled, of course she did, she read everything on the planet she could lay her hands on, all junk included. “So can I take your smile as a ‘Hello’, and an ‘I’m doing good and how’re you doing yourself?’?” Ouch. Not a time to zone out at all. He smiled again, and did the chit-chat. Nice and smooth. They walked out. “I have cut down on the spice” he said. “I disagree!” she said. “You headed home?” “Nope... Going camping with my boyfriend and his friends, I have to park my car at his place” she said, pausing at the word boyfriend, watching for a reaction. None at all, he had it all in control now. “We just flew in from a weekend trip”, he said “We got good deals”. “But you get good deals all the time now, and don’t you hate the way the airlines suck up to you nowadays?” she rolled her eyes. “They just want your money!” Couldn’t she just agree with him for once? They were close to the parking lot. She walked ahead, tossed her bag over her shoulder and asked “Do I get to meet Lata?” Yes she gets too, because he couldn’t stop it, Lata was stepping out of the car, walking towards them. Lots of smiling and handshaking. “Come visit sometime!” Lata is excited about meeting a graduate school friend of mine. “I would love to!” she promises with raised eyebrows that are a sure-giveaway that she is lying. They are all back in their respective cars. He arched his neck to catch another glimpse of her getting into her Miata while Lata opened the greasy bags to check if the fortune cookies were there. He sighed. He and his faithful wife in the faithful Camry followed the Miata out of the parking lot.