Livin' la vida sofa

Once upon a time in the summer...

2012-01-28T09:34:00.005Z

... of 2011, V and I went up and down the English roads to catch the beauty of the countryside. The experience has been chronicled in a travel article that I wrote for the Sunday magazine of the New Indian Express. If you'd like to read the piece online, head here.

Ciao for now.

To granny with all my love

2012-01-13T11:09:00.002Z

January 4^th 2012

It was three years back that you stepped out on this day- the day your Peru got married; I remember you sang at the sangeeth.

And today you left home for the last time.

Do I miss you?

No. Because you will always be in my heart-corny as it sounds. You will always be a part of me, the life you lived guiding mine.

I do miss the old times though- the “sun-bathing”, the Q&A sessions, the run-ins, the weekly treats and countless weddings, funerals and gurpurabs we three went to, the hugs and the kisses; not so much the four whacks I received whilst growing up. We really were the three-musketeers weren’t we- you, daddy and I. You ~~were~~ Are and will always remain my ma- it’s just daddy and me now of the trio but we are pulling along fine, as are mom, dad, buas, uncles and the rest of your punj piyares.

It was always about us first, wasn’t it, as you left us bit-by-bit over the last three years? You withdrew slowly so that when the time to say goodbye came, the blow won’t be hard. Expected (and sometimes hoped) we did, hoping you didn’t have to suffer the way you did. But when the time came, it was still very difficult to bid you adieu. Thank you for the invaluable love and wisdom you left us with. I know you will be watching over your family and loved ones.

Something tells me through the distance and years, you will be guiding me to do the right thing- silently bidding me to hold my tongue whenever I am ready to give in to my anger or to practice compassion when the easiest thing to do is walk away from the hurt, but above all trusting me to love and to give- just as you did. Yes you taught me well.

There is new life blossoming around me and I know some time, you will be back- till then, know that I hold you very very close. Love you always.

P Peun.

Wishing, well

2011-11-18T21:09:00.003Z

Every once in a while you wish you didn’t have to be strong

Every once in a while you wish you could be a child again, free of care and heart-ache

Every once in a while you wish you could be vulnerable

Every once in a while you wish people wouldn't disappoint

Every once in a while you wish there was someone to kiss your tears away

Every once in a while you wish the one you loved didn’t make you cry

Every time I hope that I will be understood, and then I have to start all over again.

Days of our lives

2011-09-21T11:12:00.006Z

I spent the last one hour going over my posts over the last three years.

Wow. Three years. Three brand new years in a foreign land, which V & I call home; 3 years (almost) with a husband, who I still think of as boyfriend, three years spent in introspection, a scant three year into married life which still feels brand new, in spite of my 3 decade old existence.

How things have changed yet are the same. The dishes are still dirty but V can finally find his socks by himself. Fights still rage on but hurt less. Love remains but has matured. I still don't have an office to go to, but I now work from home. People still seem to only want to know “What's Cookin' “but I am happy to regale them about my culinary ventures.

Some circumstances/issues and certain folks still irk but I have moved on from ranting to patience and mirth in the face of irritation. Deep breaths help, I find. Some people divert their attention from the cause, I sit and dissect it- till nothing is left to ponder upon. I love these mysteries, the ones that dissolve into nothing because they were nothing to begin with. Why? Because they seldom reappear. And if they do sometime, you know to shrug them away.

At the face of it, circumstances haven't changed much but my perspective has. Made new friends, lost some excess baggage, reconnected with happy people from the past. I am still me but better. Being kind, helped. Laughing too.

Hear ye, hear ye

2011-07-14T15:46:00.005+01:00

It has been a while since I posted any thing here, but it was for a good reason. I have been busy overhauling my food blog. After two years on the old address, I decided to move things up a notch for GastroGnome and add a couple of new exciting features.I invite you to sample the new offering@ www.foodoodle.wordpress.com. Looking forward to your feedback.

Which is not to say that this space will be left vacant. Posts will resume here very very soon.

Till then, catch me at my other adda.

That's not my name!

2011-06-17T22:35:00.010+01:00

It’s been two years in Shakespeare’s country and I find myself mulling over his famous question- What’s in a name?

Plenty, as I will now proceed to tell you.

So the name Prerna means inspiration- all well and good. But did it have to be such a tongue twister. Yes I could have changed, it. I had even toyed with the idea at age 10 when one chick decided to call me Priya because she couln’t manage Prerna. Lazy biatch. And then I changed my mind and stuck to it. Of course, I did not have the guts to face my granny who bore no such nonsense talk in her house. Of course I gloated secretly when two of my cousins changed theirs in a few years time.

Anyhoo… years later in moved to Southern India to study- and was rechristened PrerAna….notice the extra “A”? the two years I was there I fought tooth and nail to restore my name to its northie spellings and just about managed to graduate as Prerna.

Four years later I married a Kallarackal and moved to the UK.

I am sure that had I taken the husband’s name, this name calling would have gone to a whole new level! Imagine their horror when faced with a first name and surname that would have been.

But hey, I am being uncharitable. People here have borne the pain remarkably well. When encountered with the alien nomenclature they try very hard to get it right. Some are apologetic, others amused but most of them are very keen to know if they did well. It’s refreshing to see people here making the effort to get it right, even though I am pretty sure I will be the first and last Prerna they will ever meet.

If nothing else, I taught many a gora (both inside and out) how to pronounce my name. They still can’t manage as well as I would like it. But they are leagues ahead of certain fellow hindi bhaashis who still can’t manage the correct pronunciation. I have lived with Prena, Prema, Preema, Priya for 28 years. Lovely names all, but they ain’t mine.

The name itself emerged after the mater and pater waded through various options thrown at them. Amongst them was Rosy (or was it Ruby). Phew… narrow escape there. The final battle was between Prarthana and Prerna and we know which one won.

So you can see the name has been trying to establish its true identity from a long time ago. And the quest has now entered the digital age. Typed in small letters you can be forgiven for reading my as Prema and not Prerna… yea.. two completely different names... sigh. The battle continues.

As for the question at the beginning about the post- well you could say its much ado about nothing, or in my case - a comedy of errors.

And now I proceed to make a song and dance about it. Or at least the Ting Tings will, on my behalf.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/iframe&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/div&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

Old ball 'n' chain

2011-05-06T22:25:00.005+01:00

Yup. Sometimes this is exactly what life feels like. Just when you think you are about to take flight, someone with more relevant experience takes your seat instead.

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. I am done with my 27 dresses. I am thinking of donning the habit instead.

Sometimes, I feel lazy; staying positive is hard work.

No I don't expect this to make perfect sense to you. A personal rant on a not so personal forum.

Looking for sympathy, am I? Nope. Some mirth and giggles perhaps. Need to develop a more morbid sense of humour- learn to laugh at one's own disappointments. Me not you. You can too if you want, none of my business.

Next stop -carpet cleaners tomorrow morning at 8.

Life's beautiful.

My article

2011-03-19T10:26:00.001Z

Recently, I began writing for a novel & exciting travel website carved out for Europe-bound travelers. Indian Compass, started by two lovely ladies, Chetna and Sakshi, is not our run-of-the-mill travel guide. For starters it is designed to suit the needs of the Indian traveller. The idea for the website was based on an astute observation made by the owners- an Indian’s travel needs are quite different from what the Lonely Planet caters to. And they focused on Europe because both Sakshi and Chetna have travelled the continent extensively and have very very useful tips and suggestions to make. What better advice can there be than one made by the ones who have been there and done that. (For more one the website’s creation, pop over to Chetna’s blog.)

Following is an excerpt from an article I wrote for the Indian compass. I hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Think London, think art and culture. On offer are plays, recitals, exhibitions, musicals and then some. Unfortunately, most of these come with a price tag. But there is one way you can still experience some excellent Western Classical music without paying a dime: attend a church service.

Believe me, I’ve experienced it myself. Last year, a few of us wanted to get together to watch the England-Germany world cup quarter finals in true English style: in a pub. But the day being Sunday, us good Christians had to first pay obeisance to the man upstairs. Fortunately the places of worship and gaiety were in the same neighbourhood. And this brought us to the Westminster Cathedral (mind you, not the Abbey, where Prince Williams is set to marry).

For more click here.

Reflection

2011-03-14T12:35:00.003Z

No, this one is not a hissy fit. For once it is a calm contemplative thought, reflecting on some things I do and he doesn’t and the reasons why things come to be so. Don’t be looking for anything profound here just some thoughts that manifest themselves one morning last week.

While I have penned down many a rant about the husband and our run-ins. They have been in jest but the narratives have in some way or the other helped me keep sane too. Not because he is a bad husband but because life threw many a curve ball at me and laughing about silly matters seemed a good way to keep my spirits up.

But there have been times when I have marvelled at how different he & I are. Sometimes I attributed it to differences of our respective cultures, at other times blamed it on his gender and so on. After a slightly upsetting morning today, for a change I did not look for reasons to blame him. Sure, he was very self-centred in the way he behaved but then was I not to blame to be playing victim in that exchange; something I realised I have done often.

I will not go into details here but offer you a background to put things in perspective. Of late, I have worried about his health- stress and BP and all that. I make sure his lunch is packed for him to take. I spend inordinate amounts of time looking at food labels to pick up items with low salt content. I remind him to take his meds.

What I do not do is take care of my own health. I am not even half as motivated to keep myself fit. Well I have the intention but it gets waylaid somewhere down the line. Needless to say, some issues have cropped up. To be specific, back aches. What I expect from the husband is to show as much concern as I do to him in these matters. Again to skip the specifics, the fact is that he doesn’t. And no, I am not asking you to think that he is a bad person. It’s just not in his personality to express (or if I may dare to say, even feel) these emotions. (To be fair, he comes to be by my side if I make enough noise J )

He believes, and rightly so, that a person has to look after his/her own self. And that’s the lesson he has grown up with. To be fair, my parents tried to instil the same attitude in me. However, I knowingly or inadvertently did not do so.

I chose, however unconsciously, to emulate the many women in my life. Them, who put their family’s needs first. I used to feel sorry for them as they struggled to keep their heads above water even as they made sure the family stayed afloat. I swore never to follow their lead. I promised to never to lose my health and find my worth in keeping my family happy and well. I fell in to the very trap I was avoiding. Somewhere in the last two years I embraced the notion that a woman who can’t look after her kith & kin or keep a house sparkling clean or cook like her mother-in-law does, and so on, is not a “successful” wife. And somewhere in the woods I also stumbled on the mental block that reminded me that if I wasn’t earning a salary, the least I could do was run the “perfect” household. All this i did to myself.

Maybe I am being a bit harsh. But I am happy that I realised what I did. You know why, because I am taking ownership- off my weaknesses and drawbacks. And I also know that this knowledge is the way to shake these very notions off. I hope what I learnt about myself today would help me give myself more credit. No not validation from others but a sense of accomplishment that I would come from within and matter more than accolades and praise from others. I know the latter is important but I also realise that the former is quintessential for a happy life.

Thanks for listening. xx

Chicken Soup any one?

2011-02-22T12:53:00.009Z

It all started when I received a mail from my darling friend Nangsyal who asked me to stop moping around and start writing. And it was not just random advice, she sent an advert along that was asking for submission by writers. It was for the Chicken Soup for the Indian Bride's Soul. Yes, yes, very apt; you can stop grinning now.

I must admit that I was filled with doubts. I had never explored the realm of short stories before this, at least not one to be submitted for publication. Agonising over it for weeks and many false starts later, I finally sent it. I guess I had to, it was the last day of submission and I had exhausted everyone's patience with my rants and angst to pen the perfect master-piece :/

This was six months back. And today I am very excited to announce that the book is finally out. Ladies & Gents one of my stories is out there for you to read and I would be grateful if you could tell me what you thought of it! You can order your copies here and here.

And now I will take your leave and go giddy with joy, again!

Happy nude rear!

2010-12-30T00:35:00.006Z

Another year gone by... and this one seemed to be in an exceptional hurry. Still, it has left quite a few memories in its wake - some cherished, others necessary, even if painful. All in all it's been a good year, a full one that shined in all its glory.

And it is ending on a good note- a trip home!

So here I am wishing you all a groovy new year, filled with good cheer, love, laughter, strength, courage and awesome adventures!

Till late Jan 2011!

Babudom or my Permit A38 moment

2010-12-16T22:14:00.014Z

Just when I think life has descended into the mundane, it decides to surprise me. Or maybe I have developed a more zen sense of humour and laugh at the mundane, who knows.

Anyway. This tale spans a weekend and a day; however, it will take a lot lesser to relate.

On a certain Friday I missed picking up a call from an unknown number. After repeated attempts to call back, I finally got through to a certain gent, who we will call P. Now P informed me after a lot of ah-and umming that I had reached the Indian High Commission (henceforth referred to as IHC). Now why would someone from the IHC call me, you wonder? I did too.

Hearing me out as I explained why I called, he deduced that someone from his department may have called me regarding a vacancy for which my CV might have been short-listed.

Now to give you a short background of how my CV reached the IHC. A couple of months back hubby saw an ad of theirs asking for applications from Communications professionals, with a Ph.d in marketing, branding and what not for some position the IHC were looking to fill. Now V’s idea is (bless him) that any thing with “communication” in it, is a role I should apply for. To keep domestic peace, I applied and the time when I was talking to individual “P” of the IHC, I thought I had actually made it to round 1!

“Bugger! Now I will have to down the humble pie in front of V,” I thought.

However, that was not to be on the dinner menu that night.

Back to individual P. “It is a part-time clerical role. If you are interested, please come along to the IHC with you passport and visa on Tuesday.”

Now before you dismiss this entry as a woeful tale of my unemployed status, perish the thought. There is more to this.

“But could you at least tell me what exactly is the job description and when how long is it for?” I enquired.

P was not aware of it and the colleague who called was away. He was hesitant to give me the name but I was encouraged to call again later in the day and check for details.

I tried and failed that day.

On Monday, however, I finally got through to the number (after five attempts, mind you) to finally have someone pick up the number, and guess who it was? Yes, it was Mr P again.

He still wasn’t sure who had called me, but asked me to come over on Tuesday if I was interested.

Now I was in a dilemma. I definitely needed (n still do) a job that was salaried (never mind that I didn’t know what this one was going to pay or even what it was!), so would it be worth legging it all the way to the IHC, just to find what it was all about.

Of late, I have become a champion of positive thinking. I knew that if this had come my way, it must be for a good reason. And so I decided to go.

The next day dawned gloomy and grey, temperatures flirting with the negatives and the tube workers of the hallowed Underground were on a strike. And it wasn’t a bolt out of the blue, these, then pending, conditions I was aware of even when I made the decision to grab my destiny with both hands.

As I sat in an overheated bus crawling through over-crowded roads, I mulled on the irony of my venture. Back in the day (sic) when I was a jhola wala, read reporter, I tried to haunt the corridors of bureaucrazy (that typo was not deliberate! Sub-conscious perhaps. However it stays, because I like it!) and failed miserably. I never quite knew how to handle their loopy talk and didn’t have sufficient skill, or patience, to “make them a source” or become one of their “reporter friends”. I steered clear of the crop as much as I could in personal life as well. In the last two years, the last time I had a tete-tete with the kind was when my passport needed renewing. And here I was seeking employment (of some sort) with them!

Two hours, a bus ride and long walk in the bitter cold later, I was at the IHC’s door. 15 minutes at the reception, a walk in the labyrinth of floors and rooms later, I was shown into the admin department, where I was greeted by the cacophony of voices that are quintessential to the babudom. To be fair, it felt nice to hear conversations in hindi. It felt like home.

The peon announced to no one in particular, there were 6 people and seven desks and chairs there, that I was there for the job.

One person asked for my passport and visa, which I provided. And then tried to ask what the job was. He ignored me handing my papers to his colleague. Who after ten minutes of scrutiny passed it over to another who had a couple of questions for me. After my interrogation was over, by which time I had spent half an hour in complete oblivion of my purpose there, I asked again, what the job was.

“Negi ji will take you to the department concerned and they will explain what it is.”

And so went I with Negi ji through yet another maze of corridors and there we were at the “concerned department”.

I was introduced to this young woman (who I think was malyali. I mention because I feel a kinship with the lot), who cleared a low-lying cabinet next to her, beckoned me to sit and went on to show me what the job was- scanning pictures and uploading them to their server. Before I could say anything, she encouraged me to try it and show her if I could do it.

She was too nice and I too polite to refuse, so I obliged. While I was in the middle of it the task, one matronly woman came to stand next to us and began asking the young woman questions.

“So you think she can do it? Yes? OK. So tell her to start from tomorrow.”

For all she cared, I was not even there.

Swallowing my pride and indignation, I told her that I couldn’t start as I was working somewhere already (I volunteer full time at a charity) and I needed a notice period.

“NO NO that wouldn’t do. If you want this job you need to start tomorrow. You shouldn’t have come if you were not available immediately!” she cried (literally).

Let's take a pause here. Now the old me would have screamed back at her and given her an earful. But the new me didn't. I am not sure if it was my Zen state of mind or fear of deportation (don't ask how) that I calmly told her this.

“You know MADAM, I was never even told why I am here.” OK so I allowed myself a sarcastic MADAM; I am only human!

I returned to dept no. 1 to collect my papers, was given another lecture on the immediacy of the job; I gave them a rueful smile. After being summarily dismissed from the hallowed halls of IHC, I realised a couple of things. One was that some attitudes just don’t change, even when far removed from Shastri Bhavan, second that I still don’t know who called me that day. :/

Girl's night in

2010-11-21T00:56:00.009Z

Now weekends are pretty sacred for V and me, as they are the only days where we can spend “quality” time together; he finishes pending work and I, well, work. To be fair, even if we don’t do anything especially special together, it’s nice to have each other around even if doing mundane stuff. But every once in a while, one of us takes time out to be with our friends doing things we did before tying the knot (which doesn’t include chatting up pretty girls, mind you; as for me, well I have no such predilections).

Today was one such day when V decided to get together with the boys and do stuff boys do when together. I could have gone and met my friends but decided to stay in instead. Reason: I like being by myself sometime. I don’t know if it is a single child thing or a trait peculiar to me or just something some people like doing- but yeah, every now and then I like to spend time with myself and doing things I enjoy.

With the luxury of spending an evening by myself, I decided to treat myself to bit of good ol’ take away, followed by cleaning up my work station, a.k.a as the kitchen and do some hardcore baking, accompanied by photography and making a couple of blog entries.

Dinner was some scrumptious-looking ready-made lasangne I had been eyeing in the supermarket aisle for a while now. With the hubby gone, I decided to indulge myself. Would have loved a glass of wine along with it, but settled for some juice instead. Once dinner was over, it was time to clean up la cucina. If two years back I had foreseen the future where I saw myself deriving pleasure over scrubbing the kitchen slab and sprucing up the fridge’s interiors, I would have begun believing in those alien abduction stories. However, two years from then, and minus extra-terrestrial intervention, I did all that and felt good.

Next on the agenda was baking. Now, I had been craving something sweet and chocolaty since afternoon. So the toss up was between chocolate chip cookies and cake; I opted for brownies instead. But that was not all. A couple of bananas were fast approaching their due by date and were nowhere closer to being eaten in their true form, so I decided to bung them in a bread instead. So came the banana bread. I wasn’t too sure how it would turn out, but I gotta admit the result wasn’t bad, not bad at all. So if you want to make better use of the fruit, try out the recipe here.

If you are wondering why I am not letting the brownie recipe out, well that’s because I took the easy way out and used a pre-mix. The verdict: avoid premixes. Enough said.

Before I got married, I was one of those who thought that post nuptials, you and the spouse have to live in each others pockets. And to be honest, it was never a prospect that appealed to me. Then I thought maybe once I met the right person, I wouldn’t mind spending all my time with him. When V came along and we decided to take the plunge, I was worried about how long I would survive in the cosy twosome; I need not have had. Even though V is someone who loves to have people around all the time, he respects my need for space. We never HAVE to do things together all the time or BE together all the time we are back from office. But when we do spend conscious time together, it is filled with love, laughter, banter, and at times companionable silences. I guess I have nothing to complain about, at least 50% of the time! J

For now, I am content. Happy to be by myself, listening to the world around me go to sleep, waiting too for hubby to return and sample the cake; after which he would tell me how much he likes it and oh-how-he missed me!

Why not to mix reading and walking

2010-11-16T16:02:00.005Z

I am a huge fan of public transport, and not just for the ease of commute. Till the blue lines and green lines or whatever-the-colour line buses in Delhi began bursting at their seams, I was a regular on them, preferring to sit by the window seat for various pertinent reasons. One of them was the need to experience the sights and sounds of Delhi. Yes believe it or not, Delhi makes for an interesting place to observe - as the bus takes you on bumpy roads through busy lanes, green avenues, collapsing flyovers, historic relics, kitchy shops under the surreal red hues blue/grey skies, while random voices talk in the background about an impending meeting or the dreaded exam or the love tangle, peppered by the bus conductor and driver's colourful exchange over ticket collection…. Sigh.... but as usual I digress.

When not indulging in sight-seeing, I caught up with my reading. However, the best place to diminish the reading backlog, I discovered, was the Delhi Metro, to which I made a move when I changed jobs and the work place existed in the back of beyond. The prolonged use of the blessed Metro rail, made the transition to the London Tube quite easy [and also the fact that when I first got on board the underground train, the announcer (on the Piccadilly line) sounded just like Neeti Ravindran. Don't laugh; when you first move away from all things familiar, these small instances help tide over the homesickness]. In fact, I found it was a better place to catch up on reading for there is no idle chatter to distract you and everyone is busy ignoring everyone else; quite unlike Delhi where most men are busy trying to find ways to familiarize themselves with your anatomy.

I have finished whole novels, while travelling; not in one go of course, no line is long enough. Husband's often commented on how I make for poor company when on the move, so now we travel separately. He thinks this obsession with reading is ridiculous but has to admit I am not as bad as some others who haunt the underground - the true “avid” reader. These souls are ones who are so enchanted by the book they are reading that they read even as they walk.

My first run in with one of them, literally, was on platform 3 at Angel station. With my ears plugged with music, I was on my merry way out when I collided headlong into one of these "avid" readers I mentioned. Not an encounter that left tweeties circling around my noggin, but one that was inconvenient enough. To be fair, the perpetrator was suitably apologetic; not enough to have been cured of her bad habit. For the moment we parted ways, she was back with her nose buried into the book. I shook my head and walked away, recognising a goner when I see one.

At the time I thought it was a one-off chance meeting with the species; I was wrong. I began spying these people every here and there. Noses buried deep into their tomes, they walk mindless of the world around them. Fond of reading, I tried to admire their dedication and came up with a naught. Well, not really; I actually felt quite irritated, and curious.

What exactly was it that they were perusing, also how did they ever mange not to find their way on to the tracks, given the concentration they were devoting to the written word. Or may be not all are lucky. I wonder how many of those “customer under the train” announcements signaled the martyrdom of some champion of reading.

I have read many an interesting book but none ever which would want me to risk life and limb for it or turn myself into a public nuisance. Honestly how much fun can it be reading as you walk, bumping into people every two seconds or being crushed under the wheels of a locomotive. How about you concentrate on getting on that train, read it as you travel or if you want, wait till you get home, get comfortable and then read... it works, I promise. I have tried it many times and I guarantee it'd be worth the wait (not of course if it is on Vampire love stories, they suck wherever they are read). If you think (as I do at times) that u can't wait till you get home, read as you travel, or first park yourself somewhere.

Or if you are merely doing it to ignore human existence while in crowded places, try plugging you ears with music or white noise, whatever you like, instead; works better. At least you would know where you are walking and may even live to read another day.

Dahl mein kuch kala

2010-10-30T21:37:00.005Z

It amazes me how my perspective on life and things that go on in it has changed tremendously over the years. From something as mundane as deciding to finally apply kohl to my eyes to the notion of love, all were overhauled time and again as I grew up. Yes, this maybe something you went through too (not the issue of kajal and love per say) but a recent self revelation compelled me to pen the current entry and share it with you.

I have, for the longest time, been a sucker for happily ever afters. Like chocolate, I like my stories sweet; anything above 45% darkness leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, something I am not too fond of – the same rule applies to fiction. I grew up reading happy stories, and anything resembling a sad ending, sent me into depression for weeks. Which is not to say that I am a stranger to poignant ending; but the secret romantic in me somehow almost always managed to extrapolate tragic endings into happy tidings that took place after the story on paper drew to a close. You see I am one of those who believed that Scarlett got Rhett back, eventually.

Now I am a great fan of fantasy fiction. If a book talks of magic, I need to read it; doesn’t matter what age it is targeted at. This zeal led me to Philip Pullman’s trilogy, His Dark Materials comprising the titles The Northern Lights, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, back in 2007. The first book was a breeze and quite fun to read. However, the next two novels in the series were darker and dealt with some very adult themes, the starkest being that of the pain of choice and loss. I remember my adverse reaction to the books. “I could never let my kids read this stuff.” - is what I had thought. If these left me this depressed I shuddered to think how kids would perceive the emotions that the books elicited. If you are one who thought Rowling’s Prisoner of Azkaban was disturbing, I would not recommend Pullman’s work.

Recently as I sat trying to roll over writer’s block my friend offered a sound advice but an unusual choice of reading to unclog the unresponsive mind. Witches by Roald Dahl. While I have enjoyed watching Willy Wonka and the chocolate factory and Matilda tremendously, I had never really read any of the ex-RAF pilot’s works. And having watched the two aforementioned films, especially, the adaptation of Charlie and the chocolate factory, I wasn’t sure its dark undertones were something suitable for children to watch. As I read Witches, I was again struck by how it was in contrast to the happy childhood stories I had grown up reading. The parents are bumped off early in the story of Witches and unlike a fairy tale setting, here the bad guys (or in this case women) are flesh and blood entities who are difficult to detect and are eerily real. The dark undertones prompted me to ask myself if this was really what qualifies as appropriate children’s literature.

Then I thought why not. You see I have been working with children and teens living with HIV in the last few months. The resilience they have to face adversity head on is a feat that deserves respect. At an early age they have had to take on responsibility of their health, come face to face with stigma and at times their parents’ mortality. Their lives could well be something many of us might have only read about. But they are anything but martyrs. They are heroes; heroes who took on the challenge and lived to tell the tale. For them the pain is real but so is life and the happiness it can bring. Just what Dahl told us didn’t he?

I would be more than glad if more and more children could read the works of Dahl and authors like him who don’t shy away from talking about real topics, while making sure they offer the right kind of hope needed by all of us to get by life knowing that even though the going is tough, we can be tougher than our circumstances, if we give ourselves the chance. One of the most valuable lessons our kids could learn. Furthermore, nudged by adults in the right direction, youngsters can learn the importance of empathy, not be afraid to be different and to believe in themselves through these stories.

I for one am convinced that if I ever have kids, I would want them (at some point in their growing years) to read these stories for sure and learn some valuable lessons.

In my shoes

2010-10-14T13:24:00.004Z

In the last six months, every time I have spied women perched upon towering heels, I have seen scrunched up band-aids peeping out of the borders (scrunched up because despite the global epidemic that is shoe-bite, no company has come up with a band-aid which doesn’t bunch up once inside the heeled footwear). And the numbers of such foolhardy souls is not diminutive. I see one every day, be it the underground or the street level, trudging away bravely, paying no (outward) attention to her bleeding sole (exaggeration alert). So with them masking their agony so well, how do I know? You see I am recovering victim of the “kill all women with torturous footwear” attack and I know a fellow sufferer by plain sight.

To say I have a footwear fetish would constitute an inaccuracy. No, the footwear fiend in this marriage is the husband. So if you spy shoes spilling off the shoe-rack at our ‘ome sweet ‘ome, it is because:

a) Most of them are the hubby’s

b) One or two are borrowed (read on to know why)

c) The rest sit pretty to don (more) beautiful feet, not mine. No I am not babysitting them; I am stuck with them.

At any given time since I could decide on how my feet sould be shod, I have housed a minimum of three pairs of footwear of which I have only ever done justice to one. Not because I was picky I was forced to choose one; the other two would invariably leave my feet battered and bruised. No manner of “trying out” at the shop would EVER betray the painful future the shoes held in store for me.

Today our tiny little apartment houses two incorrigible pair (of humans) and 30 pairs of footwear, 10 are mine and I still can only wear one pair.

Let’s begin at the beginning. Excited at having bid bye bye to Bata and a gusty aloha to Clarks, UK, I went shoe shopping in my first week here. Armed with the conviction that my transit across oceans had finally broken the jinx of having to wear ill-fitting shoes (I was practising the elusive art of positive thinking at this point). That particular trip earned me two lovely looking pairs of heels.

Soon came the day that the first pair of newly bought sandals was to make a debut and that too at a party which promised a good time (this for me includes dancing). Once out of the apartment, a hundred steps later, I had a familiar sensation: shoe bite. I shrugged it off and trudged on bravely.

“They are new, need to be broken into,” I told myself.

Those leathery fiends had the same idea about me. By the beginning of the night I was hopping mad, literally. In the end, all I could do was sit and drown my sorrow in a weak vodka. So much for fun.

Needless to say, the killer heels were relegated to the back of the closet at the earliest. Thankfully, giving in to a sense of nostalgia I was sure I would experience once away from India, I had packed my trusty old open toes sandals, which I worked with for the next one month. Finally, I would walk again, albeit with bandages/band-aids on.

You would think I would have learnt my lesson and picked up a few new pairs when I visited India. Nope. I am one of those idiots who believe that if tried enough number of times, the same mistake can yield a different result. Of course I had good reason to repeat the fallacy- but we won’t dwell on that. On many an occasion I have returned home from an outing with a friend walking miles in her shoes, literally.

Finally thanks to one of them darling beings I call friends, I was introduced to the W(ide) variety of shoes. So basically they are for wide toed misfits like me and fit like a dream. Unfortunately for me they are not widely available (yes yes that was funny, that’s why I said what I did). So we are back at the beginning and I am stuck with many a shoe and only one fits. But at least I am not bleeding.

Food for thought

2010-09-27T19:15:00.002Z

I began work at this wonderful charity recently and have spent an interesting one month there. Work’s been good, thanks for asking. Met interesting people, wrote interesting stuff and also took time out to enjoy a few good lunches.

Sometimes I sneak an hour out with a friend who works close by but mostly it has been a solitary meal on a busy desk. Very cumbersome I tell you, what with my indulgent streak which doesn’t let me settle for a mundane sandwich and juice routine. However, crumbly baguettes and messy spinach fillings and pungent flavours (raw onion in a grilled vegetable and cous cous salad, very very tasty, I tell you!) may not exactly be office-conducive fare, but I manage to sneak them in anyway.

The other day as I sat savouring my French baguette with chorizo, cheese and salad leaves, I began thinking of a behavioural anomaly which I hadn’t noticed before. Now, most folks who know me, would concur that I am an easy going person (husband obviously doesn’t fall in the category. I wish you could see him shaking his newly shorn head emphatically) but when it comes to meal times, I am a foodzilla. A lunch or dinner not enjoyed is precious time and resources wasted; for me this includes lunchtime in office. Even there it has to be a pleasurable activity.

People have suggested I get other things like bank work or job applications done in that hour. “And miss my lunch! You got to be kidding me,” I exclaim in my head, while trying to keep a straight face.

I have met many, husband included, for whom lunch at work has just been about sustenance. Try as I might in the 6 years of working, I have not been able to reduce the act of lunching, even at office to a necessary chore. No tight deadlines or pressing appointments have been able to keep me from enjoying my afternoon meal. But growing up in a family whose motto is “We live to eat”, you can hardly blame me for loving my food the way I do. Of course, I take it to a whole new level. I have sooner forgone lunch hour than see myself grabbing a bite without paying proper obeisance (figuratively) to the chosen food.

For me every meal is a celebration of food. It starts with taking in the presentation of the fare, the wholesome fragrance of the dish, followed by the first bite and the subsequent explosion of flavours in my mouth that elicit (mostly) appreciative (and potentially embarrassing) whimpers of joy (of course at home it starts with cooking), the last of which has embarrassed and amused many a friend.

As I sat eating by myself, conscious of stray flakes from the aforementioned baguette, I felt naked, enjoying a private pleasure in an open plan office. Not that anyone minded. I suddenly yearned for the good old days of elaborate office lunches of yore. Back at the last job, I had a bunch of food enthusiasts to share the passion and lunch sessions, people guilty of enjoying the pleasure as I did. Weekends, the Saturdays we pretended to work on, were especially cherished for the long lunch breaks we took. It was not just about taking time off but the brilliant foodie flavours we explored during the time.

Back in the present time; you have no idea how, as the lunch hour approaches, I obsess on what I could eat. With choices ranging from Ghanian peanut chicken to steak burritos to lamb tagine with cous cous to salmon with new potato salad, to hot falafel rolls and hot lentil soup, to grilled haloumi sandwiches…. What was I saying again…

Sorry yeah, so I was saying that with all this variety at my doorstep, I can’t help being distracted and eager to treat my palate. As soon as the hour strikes one, or the stomach rumbles, I head out the office doors, straight to the cobbled stone lane lined by shops offering gastronomical delights. Even if I have to pack it up and have it at my desk all by myself. Once or twice, out of a feeling of self-consciousness, I have tried to gobble a hasty lunch but blessedly have been pulled out of that mire by a more powerful desire: to eat as food is to be eaten: peacefully, respectfully and unashamedly.

To sum it up in G B Shaw’s words, "There is no love sincerer than the love of food.”

Amen!

Wick’d!

2010-09-24T15:15:00.011Z

Ever since I moved to London, I knew I HAD to see a musical. And after I read Gregory Maguire’s work, I knew it had to be Wicked. Not that the two are terribly alike, but the book was intriguing enough for me to aspire to see the musical some day and that day was the day before yesterday.

A friend from long ago had come along to visit, and we decided it was time we did something Wicked; so we legged it to the Apollo in Victoria (separately). True to form, I was late in arriving half an hour early as we had earlier decided; but in time to rally up the end of the queue at the theatre.

The oohs and the aahs began as soon as we entered; the stage set up set the mood in place. As soon as the curtain went up a spell was cast and for the next 3 hours, it was sheer magic. The production, the music, the performance: phew, it’s been three days and I am still dreaming of it, singing and dancing it, waiting for the time I could see it again.

We were sixth row from the stage, a bit too much to the right I had thought. But I need not have bothered for the producers were kind enough to move the action right to the front of the stage, clear enough for all to view without some having to crane their necks. And the drama unfolded under the terrible gaze of the clock of the time dragon that became animated every time, well, the time changed!

The scene opened with the good witch Glinda resplendent in white sitting inside a bubble, announcing the death of the Wicked witch of the West, the villagers rejoiced till one asked the white-robed socceress if she and the wicked witch were friends, and so the reminiscing began.

Like I mentioned in the beginning the book and the play are not very alike but the theme is more or less the same. Of course the book is much darker and at times bleak. (I have a confession to make at this juncture. I never did finish reading it because I did not want it to end. Yes, I am weird like that); the musical on the other hand is pure entertainment, which is not to say it is all happy and sunny. It tells you what being misunderstood means; how people will believe what they want to believe and that being different is not easy; how popularity can hide wretchedness and leaves you wondering who truly is wicked.

It was a production that would put any hindi masala movie to shame. There was drama, romance, naach-gaana galore. The music: breathtaking; the singing: PHENOMINAL. As for the performance, I can’t rave enough. Everyone, from the chorus to the lead performers, everyone was perfect. I usually pinpoint a favourite in any story but the performance of the two leading ladies was so tremendous that my love for one over took the other’s depending on who was on stage. And the times when they both shared the limelight.. what’s the word for it? Oh yeah: Magical!

Having heard people talk about live theatre performances and being friends with a couple of performers, I have always wondered if claims of euphoria a performance induces is a tad exaggerated, but one viewing down, I tell you, I am not surprised they are so passionate about their art; it is PRETTY addictive.

To borrow a fellow Wicked aficionado’s line, “ Post Wicked, my life has changed”. I think for me the turning point came when I heard and saw Defying gravity.

Something has changed within me

Something is not the same

I'm through with playing by the rules

Of someone else's game

Too late for second-guessing

Too late to go back to sleep

It's time to trust my instincts

Close my eyes: and leap!

It's time to try

Defying gravity

I think I'll try

Defying gravity

And you can't pull me down!

My eyes nearly went pop when I saw the green lady in black levitate as the music reached a crescendo and she sang her way up defying gravity. You had to be there to experience the heady feeling. It was unbelievable, if you don’t believe in magic, that is. If you do then you will know what I mean when you see what I saw!

It inspired me so that I am now actually wondering if I should join the arts. Husband reminds me that probably not a wise choice; he says (and I agree with a heavy heart) I won’t even make it off-off-off broadway with me way off off off singing voice.

But I can live vicariously now can’t I!

“And no one can pull me down”

Hair today, where tomorrow

2010-09-13T19:05:00.026Z

Life has a quirky sense of humour, and springs its surprises in odd ways. This one is about one of those days.

It’s chicken pox in the house and it ain’t a party. Though if hubby had his way he would make sure he spread the virus to all the kiddies we know so as to help them escape the agony of having it at 30. Since he can’t, he is making sure all our friends make good of his advise. So if you forgot to get the munchkin vaccinated, we offer immunization the old fashioned way at our house.

Those of you who have borne the ordeal of suffering this malaise post onset of puberty would empathise when I tell you that he has quite a few blisters on his head; for those who haven’t, let me tell you it is sheer torture, or so V tells me.

“Shave it off, I need to shave my hair off!” he wailed. Shaving would have been drastic and painful so we settled on a crew(ish) cut. So like a dutiful wife that I am, I set out to get him a trimmer as instructed.

Half-an-hour later, I reached ASDA, at one of the biggish outlets of the supermarket, the closest I can be to an establishment that dispenses hair trimmers (or so I say. Between you and me, I needed to get out of the house for a bit; which does not take away from my love and devotion to the husband since I ensured there was lunch aplenty and medicines sorted for him to have while I was gone. So don’t you dare judge me!).

Big supermarkets such as the one I was at, can be very daunting, with their endless aisles where you can lose your way and if you hate shopping, your mind. However, I love the latter and would have indulged. But I knew fully well if I were left to my own devices, the husband would have torn his hair out in frustration, an action induced by the painful blisters and the bill I would have produced.

So with blinkers on, I trudged to the customer service counter asking where I could find a hair trimmer,

I was very helpfully let to the aisle I desired. Confident that all I needed to do was pick the contraption up, I was, instead, faced with a sectionful of grooming devices. With prices ranging from £10 to £75, I was faced with the option to choose from trimmers ranging from 10 attachments to 20, 5-in-1 groomers to 17-in-1 grooming kits to pocket ones to gargantuan ones. We are talking hair trimmers here, mind you.

Coming from a family where men proudly wear their hair and revel in all its glory, the irony was not lost on me. I shook my head at the novelty of the situation and smiled. Never in my 29 years, before this day, I had thought I would be staring 10 different types hair trimmers, wondering which one to pick up for home-shearing purposes. This is not what “we” did.

Defeated by the sheer size of choices and the inability to decide if the 5-in-1 grooming kit was more suited to V's purpose or the 3-in-one multipurpose trimmer, I approached one of the store people. "Uh excuse me, are these suitable for shaving the head". Sheesh, no wonder he gave me a funny look! "Actually neither, those are for facial hair, this (picking up a different box altogether) is what you need."

Giving him a sheepish smile and a half-hearted attempt to cover up my ineptitude, I made my way to aisles where I knew my business.

Lugging it (and a few, ahem, essential purchaces) I legged it back home. Merrily handing the packet to him, I was all ready to take it easy when I was handed another surprise.

“Sweetie, please do this for me, I won’t be able to manage it on my own.”

If even ten years back you would have told me that one day I would be shaving man's head, I would have asked you to get your head examined. But like I said, life can be quirky.

From biwi to barber wasn’t a difficult transition but again the oddness of the situation struck. Wielding that thuddering contraption, I thought to myself that never in a million years would have I thought that I would be sitting here shearing my husband’s head. Felt odd.

Hair and I have a tenuous relationship. I was brought up to respect my hair. So obviously my shorn locks (it was barely a trim actually) in college created quite a furore in the household. It was my attempt at rebellion of sorts. Till date, I cringe when I see my hair being cropped. Felt the same about his today. But I confess that as I ran the razor/trimmer (pardon me, I am still new at the technique) over and around V’s bumpy head, I found the process quite fascinating.

The various comb (I think that’s what they are called) sizes and the precision they allow, the ease with which you could wield it, the room for experimentation it offered :D…. needless to say, I was pulled out of my philosophical mode quickly enough. But obviously not before leaving me with the desire to shear or sorry share my experience with you! But yeah, who would have thunk!

P.S: If you, like me, think the illustration is uber-cool, click here know more about the illustrator.

P.P.S: Hubby health update: On the road to recovery, should be A-OK very soon. Hubby says, please make sure your kids get it when young. XX

These are some of my favourite peeps!

2010-08-31T20:50:00.010Z

Do you remember those emails better known as "forwards" that did the rounds in the past, educating you on traits of a Delhite, socialite, Keralite, a pure delight or an absolute shite. I thought of making up a list of mine. I decided to list markers to identify those friends who are for keeps. The data has been gathered through several personal and not-to-so personal experience over the last few years. Of course I will not go viral with these and put them up in my personal space instead. So here goes…

A good friend, according to me, is one who*:

… picks up a conversation from where you left it last, whether it yesterday or two years ago.

… who doesn’t hold you down in the name of friendship when she knows that letting you go is best for both of you

… who tries to be friends with your husband/wife

… knows exactly where to take you out to eat when down in the dumps is the highest you have been in the past few days

… helps keep the peace when everyone around you is going mad at your wedding

… tells you to suck it up if she/he thinks that all your cribbing is doing you no good

… who is sensible enough to distinguish that you are separate from the crap her boyfriend brings in to her life

… believes age is just a number

… pays a sincere compliment by lapping up half a litre of sambar you prepared

… reads your blog without you begging him to

… eats a burnt omelette you prepared, without a murmur

… keeps his/her sorrow aside to help you cope with yours

… lets you share her burden

… has the balls to apologise for being a jerk many moons ago

… has the grace to accept your apology for the time you let him down

… doesn’t rub her singledom in your face

… is neither jealous of you marital status nor pities it

… who eggs you on to follow your dream, whether tiny or ambitious

… who inspires you

… accepts you for who you are, quirks, oddities, neurosis, redeeming qualities alike

… never says “I told you so”

… doesn’t hide his true self from you

…saves your toothbrush that you left at her place by mistake, for you to use the next time you visit to escape a rainy day

It doesn’t matter if you don’t forward this to twenty people or don’t ring/mail me to tell me how much this means to you. All I care is that you were there when it was necessary and were away when necessary and will always be special to me.

* these are in random order

P.S: A good friend is also one who gives you lovely artwork to adorn your blog with!!! :D

Housewives, beggars: same difference

2010-08-15T10:31:00.005Z

It's not me, it's the Indian government which says this. Don't believe me? Check out the 2001 census report or this news report if you are more inclined to the pithy bits.

Ever since I read this, I have been itching to say my piece. And I did, only this time it was at The NRI, an online magazine dedicated to the vast and diverse international community of Indians residing outside of India.

An excerpt from my guest post:

The government of India’s 2001 Census, according to this news report, considers housewives, or home-makers if you prefer, to be economically non-productive workers, and by this virtue categorises them with prostitutes, beggars and prisoners.

I will give you a moment to let that sink in.

The first time I read it, my hackles rose. I agreed with the Supreme Court’s observation that it was “callous” and “insensitive”. But when I calmed down I realized that the census report merely reflected what the general perception of non-professional women.

A majority, men and women, believes that those who choose to run a house hold have “wasted” their lives away which all about lounging around the house, watching telly and cooking the odd meal or two. The impression is that these women have unlimited free time with nothing to productive to do.

For more, please visit the-nri-here.

Much labelled me!

2010-08-14T12:39:00.006Z

I recently was inspired to label my spice rack. As I stacked the jars, I got thinking about labels in general, how in life we get painted a certain hue ourselves. Short, dark, fat, thin, shy, south Indian, north Indian, uppity, good, bad, and so the list goes. I understand this makes slotting easy, case in point the spice rack exercise, but when applied to people it just makes for a mess, an anti-thesis of the labelling effort in the first place, which is to demystify and make comprehension easy. However, it is anything but easy; all I have seen it lead to is numerous assumptions and misunderstandings. You remember those old hindi movies about anglo-Indians where it was assumed all these people were jolly drunkards who had buxom wives and whose daughters wore skimpy clothes. Hated that; how could one not?

I have been fighting the battle against labelling myself, from very early on. Like I mentioned in an earlier post, I am a single child, so two labels that I got stamped with early on were of being spoilt and pampered. Then came the issue of my cultural identity. Born to a Sikh father and a Malayali mother, living in the north Indian of all cities (read Delhi) with grandparents who came from across the border, no wonder the “cultural” aspect of me was such a mystery. Not to me of course. I remember once answering the question of “So what are you?” with my entire family history and ended with “So what do you think I am”.

Following close on heels of this thriller was the question of what religion I was. “Confused” is what a friend’s mother appraised me was my status as we chatted over lunch. Her assumption made on my statement that I followed the tenets of both Christianity and Sikhism. I wonder what would her analysis be if I were to tell her for me all religions are as sacred and I make the best of what I learn. But I resisted the temptation.

But my favourite pet peeve of all times is when people assume that I am an arrogant bitch who thinks she is better than all. This label too was stuck on me right in school. To be fair I never really bothered with it, because then I could pick and choose friends, not because I was a snob but because I was painfully shy. But my silence or picky ways were thought to be a sign of inherent snobbery. Till date there are folks who think I need to get off the high horse. Never has anyone bothered to scratch the surface and find out more. Ah well.

There are many more boxes I have been tried to be fit into and the struggle to not conform continues. My very obvious problem with all this categorisation is that these are made on assumptions, and usually for the worse. Propagated over a period of time, these assumptions became reality in the labeller’s mind, the reality of the labelled’s personality. Is it laziness or arrogance that they couldn’t be bothered to find out just a bit more about the person who was so quickly categorised under a head. And then recycle this perception when another bloke from a similar background comes along.

For example, I had a friend from Delhi who went to a prestigious med school down south in the country. For one year, she was made to go through hell and back, only because everyone assumed she was from Delhi and based on that virtue, she was one who needed to be brought down a notch. Not because she behaved like a snob but because they believed she would be one since after all she was from Delhi.

While I agree that there are traits that certain sections of the society have, there is a lot be said about individual personalities. It’s OK to have reference points when dealing with another culture or background but to assume that there’s nothing more to a person but these is a limiting thought process.

I have found that by resting one’s case on these notions robs one of many interesting insights, maybe of a culture or of a life lesson, of experiences or maybe even an opportunity to gain a friend or a well-wisher. Giving somebody the benefit of doubt never made someone a smaller person. In fact, it is the beginning of evolution, of our mind and our personality.

P.S. Today’s post is extra special because the illustration going with it is by a great friend and brilliant artist: RoopaBee. There’ll be many more illustrations by her on the blog. So watch this space!

My way or the highway

2010-07-30T00:22:00.002+01:00

I love my husband. Did I ever tell you that? No?! Oh dear. So here I go saying it (again) I love my husband. He is one man who has utter and pure confidence in my abilities! There is nothing that I can do right (well that’s an exaggeration) Let’s rephrase that. He believes that ANYTHING that goes wrong, I am the reason behind it!

Socks missing: my fault. He forgot to turn the hob off when he was cooking rice: my fault, because I should have reminded him. My computer’s screen broke (because he fell one it): my fault, I should have shut the flap; Rains failed in Rajastahan, I was to balme, no rubber was tapped in Kerala… you get it, right. So supreme is his confidence in my abilities to wreak havoc that his mental faculties get too clouded to accept the obvious.

But this one is my favourite. Not too long ago we moved into a new apartment. It came with all fittings and appliances. Along with it also came an unfathomable washing machine. After many a trial and error and three laundry disasters later we finally figured it out. It was during one of those washing emergencies we clashed. I thought I had fixed the bloody contraption and we had with us a clean load; while he pointed out that it wasn’t so. Evidence: his (torn) jeans which still had muddy stains on them. With incriminating evidence in front of me, I acquiesced that it did seem to be the case and came to the conclusion that the machine was still acting up.

Now anyone would thing matters ended there, but NO. Patidev suggested that I had forgotten to put the piece of clothing in the machine. I calmly replied that such wasn’t the case. I got a smirk for a reply. Now any man who’s observed women long enough would know that a SMIRK goes a long way in fanning very negative passions in the most calm of matronly souls. And I am but one!

With many a suppressed emotions, I reiterated that the confounded pair had indeed seen the inside of the washing machine and due to mechanical malfunction of the latter came out unwashed. Again, anyone in their right minds, would let it go. But not my warrior prince from the jungles of central Travancore.

Cutting a long story short and blazing row ensued. As again, I was held blameworthy, while the blasted washing machine escaped unscathed!

Most times when there is peace, there is perfect understanding. Till of course comes the next fight. In those times, tails he wins, heads I lose (literally as well!). Imagine being stuck in this conundrum when you have grown up in a house where you were accused of assuming you were always right! Gosh that takes for a lot of adjusting.

The hubby for all this darling ways, like I proved, is convinced that I am mostly wrong, on some rare occasions, when I am not wrong we are both right. Every time I get stuck in this conundrum I think of The Box. Before you think that some metaphysical lecture that is coming your way, relax. It is a movie that I am talking of. The film held much promise and delivered as far as I was concerned but others disagreed ("others" being the husband), which is surprising and I will tell you why. If you took off the science-fiction and psychological garb off it, the plot was fairly simple. Women cause trouble!

Given his predisposition of presenting me with the blame, this should have been his favourite movie! Which it isn’t and oh yes, I was blamed for choosing it :/

A very very happy Unbirthday!

2010-07-20T20:11:00.004+01:00

If I ever have kids, I will have to put a reminder (with a loud alarm) of their birthdays on my mobile. ‘casue I don’t think they will be very happy if mommy baked them a birthday cake two weeks too late!

You might have noticed that the blog wears a new look and that was what I had intended for marking the one year anniversary of blog writing, which incidentally was a fortnight back, while in my head it was supposed to be today!

Then again, better late than never, I say! But as it is not really a birthday, birthday: Here's to a happy unbirthday to ME!

I can’t believe it’s been a year that I started Livin’ la vida sofa. This blog, may I tell you, is one of those very rare endeavours that I have persevered with! It was one frustrating Monday when I sat cribbing to a friend about my predicament of empty days. He asked me to give blogging a shot. “No harm in trying,” I thought and that was one of the most productive thoughts that I dared to act upon.

From being a time pass, it went on to become a stress buster. It proved to be an excellent life-coping device (imagine the thousands it made me save on counselling!) to a way of connecting with some lovely and interesting people, who were kind enough to lend me their support and attention. They made me feel very good about myself, which came in quite handy on the days I was low and believe me there were some very very low moments. To you I extend heartfelt gratitude.

Hmmm… this has started to sound like an Oscar award speech. But WTH, it IS my blog and I can pretty much do what I feel like, right?

So here goes! I would like to thank my husband who featured prominently in quite a few entries and brought about quite a few laughs. Thank you LS for egging me on to write and SGK for being a source of inspiration; readers who keep coming back to mrsquote, those who leave kind notes behind and also the ones who come and leave silently. I hope you enjoyed your time here and hope you continue to return.

I hope to regale you with more as we go along. But right now it is back to the kitchen and to dinner that is waiting to be cooked, to the dishes that need to be washed and to the husband who continues to snore! Life is good!

'One'derkind

2010-07-14T19:45:00.008+01:00

I am the only child of my parents.

Based on this fact, do you think I am

a) a lonely person

b) spoilt

c) selfish

d) all of the above

e) none of the above

If you chose a, b or c, shame on you.

If you are someone who thought there is too little data to go by to form an opinion then there is hope yet..

In all my 29 years I have been subjected to sentiments like, “Oh it must have been lonely” or “”lucky you” or “how boring”; subjected to an assumption that I must have been a brat; to the very recent “V’s got a lottery” and the one I have grown to hate, which is “you won’t understand this (inter-sibling quarrel, love, equation, what have you) as you have no brothers or sisters”.

The only one that they got right was that I was indeed lucky and no it was never boring. I had my friends and cousins to fill my time and the times I was by myself, I could be a pilot, an actress, a super heroine, a doctor, what ever caught my fancy, an exercise that helped in many a quarter, professional and personal! Oh and I still have my imaginary friend who lends an ear to all my rants and aspirations. And no move has been made to commit me.

As far as I remember, for the longest time I was the only single child among my friends and classmates. For me it was something that set me apart, something I was mighty pleased about; for some parents I could well have been a social evil in the making. This single child prejudice went as far as ensuring that I did not get admission in a “prestigious” catholic school in Delhi. The then principal assumed as most other grown ups did, since I was the only child, I was spoilt rotten by my parents (couple that up with being from Delhi and a kid of working parents, no wonder the odds were stacked against me).

And while I trapezed through my childhood blithely unaware of how my single status was breaking traditional norms, my folks too parried nosey comments and unsolicited advice. One instance which stays firmly etched in my memory is how one well meaning(sic) elderly gentleman at some family function spent 15 min trying to explain to my father how it was necessary to have more than one kid and threw in the male child necessity for good measure. Dad being dad stuck to his guns and smiled beatifically at this person and ignored him for the rest of the day. Oh and did I mention I was standing right next to them, all of ten. And so proud of dad. From then onwards, I have always wondered about this single child conundrum.

I grew up perfectly happy, with the usual growth pangs as any multi-siblinged kid. I was as well settled or maladjusted as those with brothers and sisters.

But never never did the status quo of being the only progeny bothered me. It still doesn’t but yes does get my goat when people naturally assume that I am emotionally stunted when it comes to sibling relations. I want to know what more do you learn emotionally or otherwise from this association that you can’t learn from the bond you share with your parents, or friends or cousins or grandparents. My family taught me to be generous, to be loving, to share, to be emotionally strong, to be kind, to be responsible, to be courageous, to be considerate and to be proud of who I am. And I fail to understand what blanks would a sibling have filled.

I have heard of people going in for a second child, to discipline the first one. But hang on a second, isn’t that what the parent is supposed to do? Yes being a only child comes with responsibilities, but doesn’t that hold true for all progeny, what ever the number of siblings be?

I am not saying couples should stick to a one kid policy, but in case for some reason they have to, voluntarily or otherwise, they should not feel that they are depriving their child of anything. It would all depend on what kind of parents they choose to be.

There, I have said my piece.

What women want... go figure

2010-07-02T18:49:00.009+01:00

Disclaimer: This entry is poking fun at one and all, author included.

“Ah the strength of women comes from the fact that psychology can't explain us. Men can be analysed, women... merely adored.” Mrs. Cheveley in An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde

Twist it which way I want, I still find myself agreeing with this statement. For once I can see men agreeing with me, at least in some part. You know what I am talking about. The usual male lament : I can’t understand women. Guess who symapthises with you. I do.

Yes, I confess, I concur with you. We are not easy to understand. Of course it is doubly difficult for men because you are all (almost all) ill-equipped to handle such intelligence. But nonetheless, I feel for you.

So if you are a man who always wanted know why your wife throws a fit every time you leave your trousers on the floor or who was threatened with bloody murder when he conveniently forgot to take the trash out or was sent scrambling for cover when he thoughtfully gifted her that beautiful piece of jewellery instead of that promised candle-lit dinner, or in other words if you are a man involved with a woman, or woman married to a man, read on. It won’t give you any answers, maybe a chuckle or two and hopefully something to think about.

So where was I? Oh yes, I was saying I don’t blame men for their lack of comprehension of their better halves (There is a reason for this nomenclature by the way). Because the fact is that they can’t. They will have to basically exchange their testosterone for the molotov cocktail that is oestrogen and progesterone to gain an insight. (Before the feminists start baying for my blood for calling women creatures of hormones; let me clarify, I meant to say that a man will have to be a woman to understand another woman. That’s all, calm down.)

And those funny instructional manuals doing the rounds of cyberspace: I hate to admit it, some of them do contain a grain of truth. Even then, they lead you to some how-tos, but never the whys. And men being men, never try to look beyond the obvious and being tunnel-visioned can only focus on the face value, quite forgetting there is a place value attached to their woman’s reason for behaving as she does at times.

Now being a woman I understand; having doled it out in appreciable quantities over the years and also by helping fellow divinities cope with frustrating acts of men. If a girl friend tells me that her husband/boyfriend doesn’t pick up after himself or leaves a damp towel heaped on the sofa (not once or twice but ALWAYS), she will see me nod in sympathy. Because in those innocuous statements lies a frustration that transcends laundry issues.

A man may wonder, what’s the big deal? If it were you, you would keep it where it belongs. And here in lies the irony. Have you EVER been faced with a situation where you had a damp towel staring you in the face, and if you were (the likelihood of which is slimmer than the world going kaput in 2012) chances are you would absent-mindedly sit on it, while your posterior would do what the airer could have done better.

But then men just can’t get it (not don’t, CAN’T). To be fair to them, if you look at it from a “practical” perspective” (a phrase the one I am married to loves using), one just needs to hang the bloody towel to solve the problem. But what they don’t get is that in refusing to pay heed to our request (it usually is, no matter what you men say!) they send out a message that means they don’t love us.

Now I know, those of the male species are shaking their heads and saying “they are all the same” and the women are nodding in agreement. Whether you like it or not, that's how women do think. We do tend to get emotional about things like dishes not washed or clothes not put in their right places. It is perhaps even on places way above the roving eye in the list of things that send us over the edge.

And you can go ahead and tell us not to be “so emotional” and “be practical” or “not take things personally”. The fact is that the most practical of us all, will be very emotional at times and not be practical at instances because “that’s how we are programmed.” (The last bit is within quotation marks because I have been fed that goop by many a man on many an occasion.). If we pay heed to your programming needs, maybe you need to make space for us as well.

About three to four years back I was encouraged by a friend to read Men are from Mars and women are from venus to gain a better understanding of the man-woman relationship. “What poppycock” I remember thinking and refused to bother with it. Global phenomenon notwithstanding, I was of the opinion that such literature was a waste of time, an excuse used by those who were just too selfish to put in hard work in relationships and used the excuse to justify their laziness.

Four years later with a marriage to boot, I wonder if I should pick it up and at least take a look at what the author had to say. For while I haven’t read it, I wonder if it concurs with my understanding of the co-existence of the sexes. For you see in the last one year or so I have realised that if any married couple, no matter how happy with each other were at loggerheads, it wasn’t just because they had differing personalities, it was because he was a MAN and she a WOMAN.

But for those like me who loathe to read these so called self help books and the like, you can skip the 300-odd page tome and listen to Billy Joel for 3-4 minutes instead. For when he tells you that “she can ask for the truth and never believe it or she never gives in or gives out… she just changes her mind,” he is somewhere close to the vicinity of facts about women.

Going back to where I started… Men can be analysed, women merely adored.

Of mothers, sons and daughters

2010-06-20T18:24:00.006+01:00

Other than birthdays and wedding anniversaries, I have never really bothered to keep track of other special days that keep popping up thanks to commercial considerations. I think the last time I fell prey to a similar commercial enterprise was in class 6, when "friendship day" was in vogue. I am proud to say though that even then I preferred to make my own braided friendship "bands" than go buy the ones being peddled in the market. I don't know what kind of a victory that is, but never mind. Little 12-year-old girl: 1; card making and gift items company: 0.

So today, Fathers Day may have gone unnoticed too had it not for this beautiful video posted by good friend Saina J Paul (;) on Facebook.

Touched a chord. It was not difficult to imagine dad and badi mummy sharing a poignant moment.

I remember a time when my grandmother told me the story of how dad at three days old fell terribly sick. How she did not put him down for three days nursing back to health her first born, her kanwar bir, prince among princes. I remember how she breathed that heavy sigh, reliving those three days when he was battling fever and all she could do was will him to get well.

And now I see the pain mirrored in the son's eyes. The hurt in his eyes every time he sees her struggle to sit up and the desperation in his voice as he goads her to complete this simple task, and a triumphant smile when she finally manages to achieves it.

She broke her hip four months back, no one's sure if she will be able to walk again because at eighty, plagued with Parkinson's, and weak bones, it is an uphill task. But dad believes that she can. Even if it meant travelling four hours everyday to see her at therapy; even if all it would allow her to do is walk for a few minutes inside the house; to provide her with a means to become as independent as it would be possible for her.

Every evening at sun down when it is time for dad to return from work, granny would ask me if it was my dad at the door, if it wasn’t, she would listen out for his return, and when he did, she would lie content, waiting for him to come and greet her. And the first thing dad would do is to come and let her know he was back. He could well be a ten year old coming back from school and she an active thirty waiting to know all about his day.

Her downward spiral began a few years back, he tried desperately to stem it. But life had other plans, but he took it all in stoically, supported by another strong woman in his life, his wife. He made all efforts to make granny’s old age as comfortable as possible.

The message at the end of the clip tells you, "How one generation loves, the next generation learns". And I can vouch for its truth. I learnt how to love from two generations, and I can only hope I could be as good a child to my parents as they have been to theirs.

In being a good son, dad’s been a great father, friend and sounding board. We have had our run-ins, agreements to disagree. Growing up I have given him quite a few opportunities to wonder if he failed as a father, but I know that I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be my father. He always let me be my own person, the best gift he could ever give me. For all this and all the love, support, encouragement, and much much more, my appa = bestest.

Homeward bound

2010-05-30T21:13:00.002+01:00

I don’t know if this one is going to be about hellos or goodbyes. From the age of 4 till 14 I bade my parents adieu at the end of every summer vacation. There was a break in tradition from age 14 to 21, and then the cycle began again, this time it was college and later, work.

I remember being 10, peering out of the train window, dad on the platform asking me if he should push the train to make it leave. I would nod a yes putting on a brave face, pushing those cowardly tears back, wishing fervently that he wouldn’t. I hated the end of those summer hols. I also hated A/c train compartments, because then I couldn’t see ma and dad as the train pulled away.

But never, never did the pain of parting feel this acute as it does now when it is time to say bye again, this time to fly away to another continent, another time zone, another life. I am married now, my place beside my husband, mistress of my own household, all the while longing to be the daughter of the one I am leaving behind, which is the first that comes to mind when I think of home. And then there are friends to say bye to. I always took it for granted that they were just a call away and meeting them was matter of a few minutes. And now, I try to glean all the joy I can from a single meet not knowing when the next one would be possible. Went to the old office, the desk is still empty, I wonder if it is waiting for me… friends at office are still the same yet different; I am now a guest there. This time the parting was indeed difficult, the finality has now sunk in.

And at the same time I can’t wait to be back with V. My watch is still set at GMT. To be back to the home we made, to live the lives we have. To friends who tell me I am needed, who truth be told I missed as well. And while I long for the days gone by, I also look forward to what lies ahead.

Life goes on… as do we.

If the shoe fits

2010-05-28T18:07:00.009+01:00

The other day, the pater and I were embroiled in a discussion about marriage. The main argument that ensued was about expectations, of the two parties from their prospective partners, before the exchange of vows. I was of the opinion that the two important factors were kindness and respect, while he maintained there were no fixed parameters for during courtship with both parties putting their best foot forward, it was difficult to separate the real from the forced; one had to go with the gut feeling.

What we did agree on, however, was the basis of making a choice were individual and that a list of must-haves (in your choice of spouse) can lead to a no-show and acute disappointment of various kinds.

What prompted me to launch into this post was the tete-a-tete with dad vis-à-vis the anniversary of the day V and I said “I do”. (Last week was the first year anniversary of our wedding, again, which, ironically we spent apart. Not entirely out of choice but because of travel plans gone awry. However, the day was lovely, and the heart thankful for a year that tested our patience and love for each other, made us better friends.)

To sum up the second part of my inspiration, I have the following to list.

Love: with which it all started

Respect: sought

Humility:accepted

Laughter: very very important

Adventure: a part of our existence

Longing: of a time gone by

Frustration: expected

Differences: accepted

Acceptance: necessary

Change: essential

Respect: earned

Love: remains

That’s what the last one year of living together brought us. Which brings me to wonder what coming years hold for us?

As you can see from the list that the gone year was not all rosy, but then I would be a fool to expect that. Nonetheless, my expectations hovered in the vicinity of near bliss. You can’t blame a girl for dreaming.

But believe me, all the years apart when we envisaged marriage together, the picture we painted in our minds was nothing like the days we experienced in the last 365 days. He did not turn out to be the man I thought I had married, and maybe I wasn’t really what he had bargained for. The tussle to change the other was frustrating and well, we now realise, futile. It was the day one of us decided to give up this task, it became easier to smile and life together became more productive.

The one take away I cherish most is that no matter how hard you try, the only person who you can change is yourself. And let’s face it, I have resisted all attempts made by many to change me all my life. I did what I wanted on my terms and in my time. It was time I let another person decide for himself what he could or could not do.

And a precious gift the hubby brought in my life was to show me what unconditional love meant. To continue loving in spite of rabid rows, hurtful words, broken friendships, crisis of faith, sour pasta, tepid coffee, and much much more. To end every row with… “but you know I love you”. For a long time I envied those who seemed to live in a marital utopia, kept consoling myself that everyone had their skeletons to hide. It doesn’t matter anymore. What does is that every marriage has its own path to traverse. You accept the good and bad and make the best of it. For some this may sound like a resignation but believe me, I couldn’t have asked for a better lesson: one that brings us both a lot of happiness and makes us feel grateful for what we have.

Like I mentioned in the beginning of this post that I too came into this marriage with quite a few expectations, only to realise that there are no set rules in this game. You had to make a gamble, some are too naïve or wise enough to make it, others too cautious or wise enough not to make it.

Who's story is it anyway? Review: Hanuman's Ramayan

2010-05-13T15:25:00.009+01:00

Ever since I began following Tulika and its works the one thought that kept propping itself up constantly was why did we as children not have access to such a variety of books to enjoy. I do admit that there were a few candidates that did a neat job of entertaining us at the time, but the variety was limited. Moreover, what ever we did read was very orthodox and subject to conformity. And it was the very absence of these two facets that impressed me most about Devdutt Pattanaik’s Hanuman’s Ramayan.

Out of the box- that’s what I thought of the narrative. That is because the book is a part of Tulika’s “Our Myth” series which claims to draw upon timeless stories from popular and marginal sources to gently question stereotypes and rigid notions. The series aims to carry forward the spirit of oral story telling and show how myths change and still endure, as the excerpt at the back of the book will tell you. A brilliant initiative, I say.

The story, the illustration – the entire presentation was not what I am used to seeing in a traditional children’s book. And that’s what sold Hanuman’s Ramayan to me, almost. I will explain the ambiguity in the previous statement a little later in the entry. What I would also like to add is that this review is purely from the point of an adult who has no access to perspective of the kids.

Nevertheless.

For starters I would like to mention the great work designer and illustrator Nancy Raj has executed with Hanuman’s Ramayan. The Madhubani art illustrations on the cover and within the book are quirky, interesting and colourful with the art work complimenting the text wonderfully. Kudos to the publishers for getting the entire package just right. Not too gray with text and the right amount of colour on the pages.

Now for the story. Unlike the impression that the title gives, the book is not about Hanuman’s version of the Ramayana. That concept serves only as a catalyst. The story is about what ensues when Valamiki is apprised of the fact that there lies another Ramayana that is superior to his newly finished epic.

The following pages follow Valmiki’s journey to puruse the work of a story teller who is in fact a mere character in his own literary genius. Once in Hanuman’s lair, Valmiki chances upon the monkey king’s narrative written the foliage of his natural habitat. As he reads the Ramayana, the ancient sage’s curiosity and jealousy are quickly doused as he sheds tears of pure joy. But there is another reason why he cries, as he admits to Hanuman. But I will not spoil the climax for you as therein lies the ultimate message of the story.

The narrative was interesting, humorous, colourful and easy to follow. The drama in the words and setting will keep the reader turning pages eagerly. I can imagine the young tykes pausing every once in a while to ask questions; the answers to which lie in the next page by the way.

I loved the fact that story went beyond the basics of right and wrong, good triumphing over evil, which was the wont of books I remember reading as a child. While those have their own place even in this time and age, the current book under review introduces to the young audiences to the value of doing something honourable without seeking a reward. And of course introduce them to the fact that there is not just one version of the beloved Ramayana or in my opinion of any narrative.

There is a complexity in the message that forces the reader to think. It chooses not to be pedantic, and talks of a higher meaning. As an adult, I can appreciate the message but would a young audience be able do so, I was not so sure. However, having read the sstoryteller's review here, I guess that point is moot. The one hiccup that the book had was the sign off. Personally I would have liked the story to end at the point where hanuman makes his explanation. The final commentary was not necessary and oversimplifies what would have been a perfect book.

This small anomaly apart, the book is one Tulika should be proud to have in its collection, as should the young readers and their parents.

No net, Gain

2010-05-11T20:51:00.002+01:00

For those who cared to notice, the blog was lying fallow for the past few days. The reason being that the homeland beckoned, the call which I heeded and once there, came the summons from God’s own country (which, upon reaching, I came to conclusion had been leased out to the devil this summer). However, as exaggeration is my wont, please ignore the rant. Because I did have a good time, in terms of catching up, sleeping, driving (which I got to do after a year of being driven around in public transport) around the merry country side and no access to the world (gone) wild web.

True to the nature of an addict I was shattered when I first was apprised of the fact that lightening had struck (literally) and the connection had gone poof… for two days I paced around like a wounded cheetah and on the third, realising it was futile to crib, I relaxed- literally and figuratively. Having done that, for the first time I realised how much of my life was stuck in the virtual world.

In the days of disconnect I reconnected else where. Got down to calling friends, meeting up with relatives, catching up on local news, enjoyed conversations face to face, ran around the courtyard with young cousins, sang songs driving down to the beach, a few of us gathered enough courage to go calf deep in the Arabian sea, jotted down recipes, spoilt the little niece rotten, got together with family and prayed; spent time introspecting sans distractions or disturbance of any kind. In all, I survived and how.

With no more job applications to access or Facebook rivals to envy, I sat down and counted my blessings. That of being a part of home and hearth where I was loved and cherished, of lives lived off the virtual world, where realities are so different from most of ours, of the complexity of this difference and the simplicity of acceptance that led to a sense of peace. Of understanding your role in the game higher powers play and appreciating someone’s ability to smile even when times are tough and most importantly to understand that one is lucky to have all that one has, and in the balance of things, your life is filled with positives.

Now those who think I have taken up sanyas and am bidding the world adieu; if only you were so lucky. All I am saying is that I finally understood the meaning of taking a break and loved every second of it. I am sure there many among you who know what I mean, but those who were stuck in the Ethernet like me, go ahead, let go… I promise the break would be worth it!

Uncomplimentary language

2010-04-21T13:47:00.004Z

After an inordinately long pause, during which period the husband seemed to have taken a back seat and I was trying to take the high road, I have decided to be naughty and yield to my baser instincts. So today I present to you with yet another episode of Mars V/s Venus in the U-K household. Stop rubbing your hands in glee, especially those of you who have been pestering me to reintroduce the chronicles of the war-zone back into the blog.

Before I launch into a diatribe of the spouse’s transgressions, let me set the stage right for your ready comprehension.

Maybe it was the end of the dreary winters or the promise of sunny days, I decided to finally stoke the kitchen fires and cook up a storm, something that was on the backburner past few months. So this time I decided to try my hand at a chicken curry never tried before (at least in my kitchen) and was hoping to impress the mister and have him bow to my superior skill. But as is with best laid plans, this one came to fruit but with a caveat. So while he went demolioshing a bowl after the other, I waited for the compliments to flow.

“This tastes amazing, it’s not so much a curry but more like a soup they make back home, without all the masalas of course.” So much for feeling good about my effort. A day’s labour is passed off as chicken broth which I could have cooked out of a packet. Gah.

But then compliments and I have had a contentious relationship. I was never comfortable receiving them. As for dispensing compliments, I have no compunctions and 80% of the time they are heartfelt. But when these are directed my way, which is not very often, I don’t know what to do with them, like you would with a hot potato. Just as you would most likely dump that unfortunate tuber, I tend to do the same with compliments. And when some one insist I hold on to their felicitation nonetheless, I stutter and splutter before I can offer a decent thank you.

Given my awkwardness around kind words I am not surprised not many come my way any more. Which is not to say that I don’t enough people who don’t know how to serve a straight compliment. After delivering the nice part of the speech they suffix it with a “but” (literally and figuratively) and leave you wondering what did you ever do to deserve it. Eg: That’s a lovely kurta, but such a bright colour would never suit me or you have an “Indian” face, western clothes don’t suit you (what the HELL is an Indian face!), great dish, but mom makes it better. And this malady is not restricted to the old and wise, even when younger I have encountered compliment terrorists of the short kind. They will regale you with an “ooooo… you got a 90%, that’s great,” only to break into sobs when they have to reveal their 99 on a hundred because of the missed century. I always itched to tell them how they did score a 100 - on being obnoxious. Of course the piece-de-résistance of all compliments that came my way was the one paid at the beginning of a long long train journey to a medical entrance test in Bangalore, way back in the last decade, when a gentleman with kind intentions, or so I thought, told my dad (I was within an earshot) how I resembled a certain actress (who we all thought was pretty)… he went to add how that certain someone looked the same as me offscreen with her short frame, plump self, dark skinned, oiled hair in plaits with thick glasses to boot. Neither dad and I know where to look. Or on second thoughts, maybe he was just trying to put me off my game as I never made it to medical school EVER.

Whatever his motive be, that incident did plant a seed of perpetual doubt in my head. While I may skirt around adulations what I do keep wondering is the point of paying a compliment and then spoiling it with a “but”. Why not leave it plain and simple and if you think you can’t manage one, leave one be, especially if you can’t fake one. Believe me, that’d be better than one that comes with a suffix.

A start-up!

2010-04-09T02:19:00.003Z

Started a new venture today @ http://havemouthwilleat.wordpress.com/2010/04/09/for-starters/. Take look see. See you on the flipside, awaiting feedback.

Bright side of the dark side*

2010-04-01T16:31:00.003Z

Have you heard the Sunscreen Song? For those who haven’t or want to enjoy it one more time,this would be a good place to give it a listen. Once you do, the post will be easier to fathom.

The past few days I have been living the Sunscreen Song, or at least parts of it. The funny bit is that I realised it this April fool’s day. Life maybe enjoying a joke at my expense but it can’t fault me for not being a good sport about it. Anyhoo… Lamentations will be reserved for another day. Today I will tell you about my sunscreen experience.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

The day started with reminiscing of certain old days with a friend who I had lost touch with over time and some disagreements. And then came online scrabble and we bonded over our shared love for words, transcending the distance of geography, time and life’s experience. Felt good to know there are those who are looking out for me, irrespective of our shared past (or maybe because of it). I don’t know how it is with most people but I have had some friends say good bye for reasons reasonable and some silly, but I have been blessed with so many who were kind enough to forgive and forget, who grew wise enough to know that people change and were large-hearted enough to accommodate the divide. Oh yes, they also knew how and when to say sorry. They are the one’s who’d be around even when you are not looking.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

I am a worrier, and despite that, or because of it, I appreciate the lines above. Last month or so I sat fretting, with renewed vigour, about my career and what turn it would take, would my attempt at starting a new venture bear fruit. Then last week, one early morning, everything changed. And now I am not so worried, or maybe I am, but just about other things. But I know, things will happen as they are meant to happen.

Then there are these lines which are my favourite. Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't

Growing up I and most of my contemporaries were chided for being clueless if by 15 we hadn’t decided what we “wanted to do with our lives”. People close to me still despair (but none as much as I) about where my life’s headed. V has tried to mark an outline for me which he has met with forceful resistance. I still don’t know, but I do know that I want it to be interesting and full of adventure.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

I can’t help laughing at myself, every time I hear these words. Primarily because I love dispensing advice, carefully disguised, of course. Upon introspection, I realise how loud these lyrics ring true. Don’t we all embellish our advice (not the ones on market investment and angina pain, mind you!) just a little bit to suit the circumstances, hoping to save the receiver a possible heart ache and relive an episode of our life to revel in the happiness it brought us or wonder what we could have done so that it played out differently.

Which brings me to this: Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

* Inspiration can come knocking on the door from strange quarters at times. Take for example the title of the entry today. Came across this brilliant line in a cartoon show the name of which eludes me. It's about this little girl who is caught in a zombie land of sorts with her weird friends and making the most of a dismal life.. or so I gathered as I didn't follow it post that episode

Speaking in tongues

2010-03-15T22:20:00.010Z

Today's entry is a bit different, a departure from the norm, which is anyway missing from this blog. So if it's unusual it's normal at mrsquote.

The trigger for today's post was an interesting concept I came across here. An independent publishing house that brings out children's books in various languages, Tulika books’ blog had a very interesting topic for discussion, one that caught my eye for reasons I will dwell on in a bit.

"How different are the written and spoken forms of your first language? If you want children to become familiar with their first language, which form would you look for in children's books - formal or informal? Why?"

Languages have always fascinated me. I learnt the Punjabi alphabet relating similarities between gurmukhi and thedevnagri script on signboards over shops, hotels, bill boards, as we drove down highways through the bread basket of India or on a later date when I drove down the streets of Mohali chasing stories for the English paper I used to work for.

Which, however, is not to say I am a master of many languages, but I do admire those who can talk in tongues (not the divine kind, mind you). Case in point, the husband; he can prattle off in Malayalam, which is his first language, is a connoisseur of Tamil literature, a language he wishes was his mother tongue; he survived the Bangalore life with a smattering of Kannada; is very very fluent in Hindi (albeit with a strong malayali undertones at certain times) for a ‘southie’ who did not cross over to the north of the country till he began dating me and has impressed many a blighter with his English.

I on the other hand, can manage only English and Hindi, however, expertly, if I may add. I am very proud to say that I can mange my Hindi as well as my English, written and spoken, and without a trace of the Punjabi accent that I could have easily caught living with my grandparents or a malayali accent that my mom has not been able to shake off after all these years of living every where except in Kerela.

Now herein lies a problem - about my first language; or my mother tongue and for me, a point of contention. As you have guessed by now, my mom’s a malayali, dad a punjabi and I grew up in a mixed house hold. However, while I can more or less read Punjabi, I can’t speak it to save my life. I can barely follow Malayalam much to the chagrin of the in-laws who are hoping for a miracle when I would speak it in my sleep.

The two languages I have always felt at home with are English and Hindi. While I can read and write Hindi very well, I think in English. So does that make it my first language? I don’t know. While I am quite comfortable in this language status, I do want to learn the two languages that are a part of my heritage… something I would love to bequeath on the kid(s) someday. For while I concur that a language is a tool for communication, it has an inherent beauty that can be appreciated when one knows how to use it, be it reading the words, speaking the tongue or writing the alphabet. One doesn’t need to be a polyglot or a multilinguist to know what joy literature can bring to one.

Which brings me to the second part of the discussion, what would I do to familiarize my kids with their first language, which I wonder about, whether they will have just one. Given my conundrum, I think the children will learn their Hindi from me and Malayalam from their dad. And if by the time they come about, I would have mastered spoken Punjabi, they would learn that too. Most of it, I guess, would be picking up words from what they hear on a day-to-day basis and once they are old enough to read, from books. What I remember from my childhood is reading – a Lot… be it comics, course books, children’s books, illustrated or otherwise, I grew up surrounded by tomes, a luxury I hope to have my kids afford. I picked up the nuances of the language, in both the formal and informal set up. I was blessed with educators who kept my learning going outside the class room and at times, their area of teaching. I had a physics teacher who ensured that I was reading one novel at any given time.

Oh and another form of informal instruction that I can give credit for at least enabling an above average comprehension of Punjabi is listening to kathas (stories) from the Guru Granth Sahib that my grandparents used to regale me with.

So for me it will have to be a mix of story-telling, book reading, formal and informal instruction that would get the tots learn their first language, which ever or how many may that might be.

Terminally ill at ease

2010-02-24T19:12:00.008Z

... am I with certain terms used in polite society which if anything are the epitome of insincerity in most of the instances they are used. I have been thinking about these for some time now, having to fend them off every now and then and decided to make my thoughts public. While I may still be subjected to them and at times be even forced to supply some of these in my discourse, that doesn’t mean I can’t air my contrary views about the same. I am anything if not a vociferously honest (at most times) individual (I don’t know why I wrote this right now, but it never hurts to let others know).

Coming back to the matter at hand…

Top on my list of Terms i never could get to terms with is "dear friend" May hap because the first time I heard it, it was from the mouth of one of the ladies who lunches and plays boss woman in her spare time. Or maybe it is a sentiment I could honestly can’t grasp (even though i have been guilty of using it in life and for the life of me I could not understand why... but I am known to do things I am ill at ease with just for kicks). If some one is your dear friend, he/she would know it. And why would the addressee who is being subjected to the statement care... Is it to rub in the person's face, "ooo I have a dear friend right here, right now and you don't!" or is it to tell the dear party concerned feel obliged (in case they didn't know of they dear status) all in all I could never fathom the meaning and the reason behind these two words put together.

A close second is " I am so happy for you" I have heard this a time once too many, and been forced to spout it because I was expected to, but I have to confess I said it without really understanding the reason why. Does the addresser mean to say that it's great this "event" is happening to the addressee but were I, the addresser, caught in the situation, I would be shooting myself through my mouth, right about now? It is sarcasm at best and should not pretend to be any thing else. If one is truly happy for someone, it would show and if it is over the phone, a Congratulations and subsequent exuberance would suffice!

As would I be steering clear of False bravado, which a former editor of a newspaper I worked with resorted to whence writing a report. Enough said.

Speaking of bosses and their love for constructive criticism. It is the ultimate urban legend in the office space as far as I am concerned. It is criticism all the way and nothing’s constructive about it… Why slather it with butter when it is still a bloody burnt toast. We are all adults here (except for those hiding behind words like constructive criticism) and we can roll with the punches because at the end of the day we know you (the boss or people in such-like position) can’t stand us the recipient of constructive criticism (the feeling is reciprocal btw) and all the bile is your way of expressing your dislike. Because if you were really bothered about improving the output, you would find a better way to ensure it.

And oh yes, the ‘yours sincerely’ after the end of most official mails is any thing but that. Correspondence in question (in my case) is the one I send out almost everyday in terms of covering letters. I find it quite absurd to feel any sincerity towards folks I will most likely never see or those who reject my application. If anything I would want to hurl the choicest of abuses at them for very obvious reasons.

Last but not the least is the awkwardness of wishing some one “a comfortable flight/journey”. Really… depending on which way fate/destiny fancies rolling, they will have or not have one irrespective of your sentiment and arrogance to believe that your confidence will translate into a happy transit. And let’s say they don’t, believe me the traveller will be sending some very unsavoury thoughts your way. I too have used this phrase many a times, because I haven’t been able to devise a better send off… Maybe next time I will stick to the simple “bbye” and keep the happy journey bit in my head!

And having vented my ire for the day, I wish you a happy weekend or what ever is left of it. Take care…

Oh wait,,, that’s another one! Obviosuly one WILL take care, right… no one will willingly fling themselves off the cliff, if they can help it and are not in need to psychiatric attention! From now on if those I love (and like) don’t hear a take care from me, please know that I trust you to be wise enough to do that without me telling you to do so!

Toodles for now! Much love!

To granny with love

2010-02-20T03:09:00.024Z

Dear Badi mamma,

After so long, as I sat down writing, did I recall those happy days you, daddy and I spent when I was a little girl; got the same fuzzy feeling as if I was in that happy place right now…

I remember waking up to the strains of gurbani on Doordarshan when you switched on the TV every Sunday at 8 am.

When you held me in your arms in the cold winter mornings as I lazed savouring hot bournvita with you coaxing me to get up and get ready for school.

Chomping on ghee soaked toast with chat masala sprinkled on it as I ran for the school bus.

How you allowed me to have ice cream only at weddings because you were convinced they weren’t as cold as the one’s the ice-cream waala brought out from his cart.

Your insistence that I finished my homework right after school and lunch and your sigh of resignation when you couldn’t contain that 8-year-old from dashing out of the house precisely at 4 every evening to go out and play.

For as long as you could you would wait near our house gate for me to return, when I was small, from play and when older, from work… the day you stopped doing that I wondered if you started loving me loved me a little less from that moment on… Now I know better; you stopped lingering at the gate because papa insisted you waited inside. From that day you waited on that sofa.

I love the fact that I can still manage to bring that smile on your face when you see me. I wish you would stop asking for me at dinner, because I can’t join you, even though I wish I could.

I never told you this but I have never slept as peacefully as all the times I slumbered huddled next to you, dozing off as you sat reciting kirtan sohele ji da path.

Oh for the days when I sat sucking on cold sugarcane cubes as you, daddy and I basked in the winter sun on the terrace. I remember being on the receiving end of that stern stare when I fumbled at my multiplication tables. Heh heh… you would be proud to know that I can still recite them without a hitch till 13, but the going’s not so great after that. I always wondered how you did all that math so effortlessly in your head. Numbers still scare me, not that I am going to confess that to you.

You actually made exams fun, because you made sure I did well and all those A’s gave me quite a head rush. Thankfully you made sure I never became the snivelling kid who cried at a 99.

And then came the holidays. I loved packing up the house for two months when we went to visit mom and dad and then coming back from the railway station on a bus at night…sleeping on your lap as we rode bus route no. 854.

Gosh, I was such a brat, ma… how you pampered me. You might wonder how I can still recall this but I do; cycling around the house and making a pit stop at your favourite sofa seat to have you feed me as I went round and round. Fried eggs and bread weren’t they? By the way I am still trying to shed the excess weight that diet bestowed on me. No wonder I have these wide hips! Another of your legacies, other than the caustic tongue, fiery temper, honesty, the need to be fair and just: all things I love about myself and you. Of course I hope to one day realise that I have your fortitude and strength locked up somewhere inside and can draw upon them when the time comes.

On the subject of food and so, cooking. I never understood why you sat atop the kitchen counter in that ancient kitchen of ours when you cooked chapattis for us, and the pooda and chawal ke paranthe.

You loved feeding people, didn’t you, especially your sons-in-law who you fawned over then when they came for a visit, which also meant you made your famous egg curry! Pity you never tasted it, being a vegetarian. How did you survive in our carnivorous household?

Nonetheless, when it was just the three of us, you made sure that I had my weekly tandoori chicken and campa cola treat. Gosh, that reminds me, remember daddy’s next day's experiment with chicken bone soup! Only he could drink it and I can still see you shaking your head at him.

I am sorry for the number of times I scared you by falling sick. I may have downed medicines by the dozen at the time to get well but for me it was the comfort of your warm embrace that brought me out of my fevers. Most times you made sure you uttaroed boori nazar off me. Those mirchis seemed lethal, but you knew your stuff.

Then there were Gurupurabs and the amazing langar at C2 ka gurudwara every time.

I still remember your bat girl spectacles perched pert on those intelligent eyes as you reprimanded me for a mistake. What a precocious child I was, running away with that mouth of mine. At the time you made sure I got an occasional whack, later, of course, you went about sharing those anecdotes with anyone who would listen. And you know what, I think you had a hint of pride in your voice when you retold those stories.

Your red hand bag that you carried everywhere.

Your obsession with locking down the house like a fortress before going to sleep every night, another trait I picked up from you.

Mamma, I wish I could go back to those happy days and stay cocooned in their warmth. I wish it was easy to let go of the need to regress into those days. To move on and give the present a chance. It is not easy, not at all.

Those days seem like a whole different world now. In the transition from “p” peun to Peru ji, life’s taken a whole new meaning. Responsibilities, heart aches, decisions, duties, but most of all distance, of geography and heart and from the simple faith that you were a super woman to accepting that you too have your frailties.

I wish that if I ever have children they’d be as happy as I was, that they would love their grandparents as I love you and daddy. I know with that would come a heart ache such as mine… but I guess it’s worth the love they would experience and get in exchange.

Thank you for making dad who he is and for letting mom become a part of the family and for making me who I am. Couldn’t love you more, for all that you gave me and for being you.

Can’t wait to meet you. Please get well soon.

Love,

"P" Peun

Up up and away

2010-02-16T22:49:00.005Z

After a week of revelry in Glasgow, it was back to home and hearth the gone Thursday and funnily enough I wasn't feeling as up beat as I thought I would after the much enjoyed break. Blame it on holiday withdrawal or the specter or days mundane and predictable, here i was back in city staring at the endless list of applications to be filled out and some interviews to be attended, so on and so forth.

In a state of mind not so happy and upbeat I headed to a friendly neighbourhood cinema to watch a film in the hopes of getting a few laughs. The film of choice was the George Dish Clooney starrer Up in the air. Those who have missed it, please go watch it. It is as real as reality can get on screen. But I am not here to exalt the gorgeousness that is Clooney or how the role of a dapper “career transition professional” suits him better than as that of a Man who stared at goats. Pointless exercise i say...

Anyhoo. Other than the gorgeousness that is Clooney and Vera Farmiga's brilliant performance, the movie induced an epiphany or sorts... two to be exact, while it played on screen. I guess these resonated the loudest as they related quite closely to a couple of important events in my life.

Of men, marriage and expectations:T he first was when 30-something Alex (played by the beautiful Vera Farmiga) and Anna Kendrick's 23-year-old Natalie compare notes on what they look in a man worth marrying. Natalie rattles of a list of qualifications that 'fits the bill' of the perfect guy (for her): White collar. college grad, loves dogs, six foot one, likes funny movies, brown hair, kind eyes, works in finance, out-doorsy with a single syllable name, like Matt or Dave... and so it went. Compared to this was Alex's very thoughtful utterances of someone who is taller than her, earns more money than her (something she says makes sense when one's older) as the other way can create a mess in the marriage, has hair , enjoys her company, has hair (though not a deal breaker), loves..likes kids ... and a nice smile. Simple yet doable and oh-so-boring and un-romantic.

Makes you wonder how expectations go south as we grow older. Please don’t get me wrong; I don’t believe that this is a bad thing because one thing that I have learnt is not to expect the moon. Keeping them realistic has been the key for me (And I learnt this lesson just a couple of years back). Which is not to say you sacrifice your ambitions... far from it… the idea is to learn to expect the essential… which of course is different for different people… but I digress.

Back to the movie

Some may wonder, as Natalie did, if Alex’s list of expectations was akin to compromising, in other words a failure.

Alex to Natalie: You see settling as a failure... but when the right guy comes along it won't feel like settling.

Couldn't help but mentally nod in agreement. Till not long before I got married I had resisted the age old "wisdom" of making compromises in marriage. I fought the notion tooth and nail vowing not to fall in that trap. And when it was time to tie the knot, I did have to make several adjustments. Only that they didn't seem as daunting as I had made them out in my head. It wasn't as if I didn't struggle with my demons but having made the choices as I did, today I can comfortably say, these were sensible decisions that led to some happy times.

The second scene in the movie that struck a chord was when Clooney's character tells a man who he is firing that this may be the time to seize the opportunity to do what he really wanted.

"How much did they pay you to give up your dreams? At what point were you going to stop and go back to what makes you happy?" Not every body gets this opportunity... chance of a rebirth..

Made me want to quit my job right there and then (if I had one, i.e)! So I sat wondering could this phase in my life be my opportunity to chase my dreams? Getting down to doing what I claim I wanted to all this while. Isn't that what most of us do. Swap a personal ambition for "sensible" things. Before you think i am advocating quitting your job so that you can go "read a book as you go travelling the world" let me clarify that i am not. What the scene essentially said was when life gives you lemons... well make nimboo paani. I just liked this packaging so much better. Hopefully I will soon be on my way to doing things I thought I couldn’t or I should but didn’t. Wish me luck folks. So as I go figuring out if I want my lemonade sweet or salty or a mix of both, you go think about how you plan to do what you always want to do (even if it's a hobby). And those smug buggers who are already there, more power to you!

I did it my way

2010-01-29T20:24:00.008Z

There was not much ado about things last couple of weeks, hence the silence of the blogs. Hate the fact that, barring once, my log has mostly stuck to two entries per month so thought of penning down a few Whooopie moments which were a result of some very un"me"like actions, which in turn were triggered off by indulging in spot of positive thinking and acting out my contemplations instead of well just contemplating, to make up for the sparse entry count. And as I am not so much a fan of resolutions or "I have to do" lists, so I am presenting to you some items of my "I did it/and still doing some" personal milestones of 09-2010 (these are in no particular order). So here goes:

Consciously thought of becoming fit and now acting upon it
Watching what I eat (not just when it is being prepared)
Walking (briskly, may I add) three miles a day when it was 2 degrees outside and with a wind cold enough to make breathing a task (maybe i will cross climbing a mountain off my list) (Smart asses can keep their opinion to themselves! Any one trying to dampen my spirit will be sent the evil eye!)
Baked a blackforest cake (please note - none of this in chronological order!)
Roasted a chicken
Begun volunteering, finally, after years of thinking about it
Got some photographs published
Started a blog
Got back in touch with the joys of meditation
Indulged in some honest retrospection
Cut loose some old ties, bad habits; wasn't pleasant but had to be done. But for once it was pick yourself up, dust off and move on
Lived/ing in London
Ushered in the new year atop London Bridge
Met/meeting people with varied interests and life goals, who are just like you and me but with fascinating stories to relate
Became a Twit (resisted it for so long... succumbing to this curiosity was the best online temptation to give into)
Met a 104-year-old lady, hoping to be invited to her 105th.
Began dieting
Heading to Glasgow in a few days
Bonded with my niece
Stopped complaining about most stuff
Swept, swabbed, tidied the house all by myself
Chopped aromatics after resisting the act for 28 years! Granny would be so proud
Read authors I never heard of/watched movies I wouldn't have bothered to earlier
Wrote hundreds of job applications and received and equal number of rejections and still not giving up
Felt gratitude for having a loving family
Feeling good to be me
Felt grateful for friends who stood by me no matter what
Made some awesome new friends
Up against the next big challenge after the summer of 2008, when things were really down; once again not giving up. Perseverance paid off then, hoping for an encore. (V knows what I am talking about, we finally got married you see!)

Hmm... all in all a good year. Happy :)

"Bra"ve new world

2010-01-08T11:23:00.013Z

I woke up to a very colour themed facebook front page today. Suddenly all women seemed to have gone, pink, black or red. Seemed too much of a coincidence even to my fogged brain (being 7 am and all that) and only after I read very excited messages from three dear friends did it all make sense to me. You see yesterday some one executed a novel scheme of getting breast cancer awareness going. Give out the colour of your bra and raise ahem, awareness...

Its genesis is unknown. All that we know is that it started on Thrusday evening and caught on like wild fire. While I am not sure of the campaign's efficacy, I do know now that my friends and friends’ friends have a very colourful chuddi drawer. (Having said that, black still rules for most).

Like I said, I don't quite know how far the colour outings will go in spreading awareness, but I came across the following and what the writer had to say seemed like a good idea to share.

So, while you’re peeking inside your shirt to see what color bra you are wearing so you can post it in your status update, go ahead and feel around in there, make sure there are no lumps. And if there are, call your doc for a clinical exam!

(source: http://cancerspot.org/2010/01/07/bra-colors-take-over-facebook-well-kind-of/comment-page-1/#comment-157194)

(I think more of us need to repost this.)

Anyhoo…

What I wanted to write about was not so much about the whys, whats and the wherefores of the campaign but wonder out loud as to what about the whole campaign caught the ladies’ imagination.

I am quite certain it was not all about spreading awareness about breast cancer… it was barely about breasts.

Was it about feeling empowered or was it pure fun… Or like a friend said, it was about expressing solidarity with all women.

The idea caught on with me because it was just so outrageous! For me it was not so much about creating awareness than a sense of adventure/conspirational glee... I can't quite put my finger on it.

I do not want this post to be taken as a feminist or social commentary of "our times" but something interesting that caught my eye and made me want to write about it. But it did make me think how the idea of feminism seems to have moved away from the days of bra burning (though I am apprised of the fact that no bras were actually burnt prior to the coining of the term). Today it was not about “Sunday is longer than Monday”; today women wore their bra on their sleeve (a figure of speech mind you.) And the bolder the colour the braver you were.

This undercover expose is in stark contrast to the times when upon seeing a bra strap peeping out innocently, the shirt/top/kurta’s shoulder was hastily straightened to by a concerned colleague (female of course) or mom or aunt or sister. Or those seemingly nonchalant but curious one shoulder shrugs (pointing out the culprit side), and a casual patting of that particular shoulder to indicate a prison escape in a meeting. (This has to be one of the funniest sights ever… A meeting is on and from the far side you locate a colleague doing a one shoulder Macarena to tell you that your strap is out…). But today it was all out.

I have never before thought of this piece of clothing as anything more than a means of support and defying the effects of gravity for as long as possible. But today, under all the fun and mirth it created I thought i detected a glint of defiance.

Maybe I am looking for depths that don’t exist or am I on to something. Do let me know what you guys think (men included).

My way or the highway

2010-01-05T09:47:00.010Z

Not too long ago we moved into a new apartment. It came with all fittings and appliances. Along with it also came an unfathomable washing machine. After many a trial and error and three laundry disasters later we finally figured it out. It was during one of those washing emergencies we clashed. I thought I had fixed the bloody contraption and we had with us a clean load; while he pointed out that it wasn’t so. Evidence: his (torn) jeans which still had muddy stains on them. With incriminating evidence in front of me, I acquiesced that it did seem to be the case and came to the conclusion that the machine was still acting up.

Cutting a long story short and blazing row ensued. As again, I was held blameworthy, while the blasted washing machine escaped unscathed!

Given his predisposition of presenting me with the blame, this should have been his favourite movie! Which it isn’t and oh yes, I was blamed for choosing it :/

The whole nine yards

2010-01-04T20:29:00.013Z

Back when I started work at a newspaper I was introduced to the biggest, most boring of all editorial yawns called the year-ender. Through the years that I was working for publications, I hated it a wee bit more every year. Just before the end of 2009, I saw a lot of once-upon-a-time kindred souls of the newsroom lament the return of the annual chore (a pain in the a$% if ever there was one)*. There has never been a more useless way to waste newsprint. But there are those who can give you a clearer picture of how bad it can get, so let me launch into my true reason(s) to write.

Of course the first is to wish you all a great new year filled with chuckles, hugs, kisses, belly laughs, good hair days, lip smacking fares, kick ass jobs, happy endings, happier beginnings, rollercoaster rides, a bit of melodrama and a hot cuppa on the porch with good friends or a cold beer on a warm balmy evening, fortitude, courage and lots and lots of love.

And the second, having established why year-enders are mind numbing exercises invented only to torment the tortured soul of a reporter, I will proceed to inflict on you with one (of sorts) of mine... the only one till date that I would actually have filed in fifteen minutes flat without resorting to refer a past copy.

So back in 2009, on the 4th of January, there came an event when a boy and a girl who met in 2006 at a bar for a spot of breakfast, spent a small country's GDP on phone calls and flight tickets, bored of the "will he, won't she, will I, won't he" conundrum, decided to leg it to the unknown terrain- matrimony. (while there are many who believe that Jan the 4th is not THE wedding date, but we have a solution for that contention as well... more of that later).

Here I am taking stock of the year gone by and find that it's been a jolly ride, with as many ups as downs, strides into the unknown and goodbye to many things and relationships old. And I am happy to report that the balance of things is in the positive, despite the pile of laundry overflowing from the hamper or the dishes waiting to see a cleaner day or the snoring that is cutting its way through the blare of the television as I write, the walkouts and phone slamming, the libellous blogging. It's a fair trade off for all the love, support, laughter, wisdom, confidence, respect and gratitude I have received in the year gone by. V, on his end wants to add good food, clean clothes and pampering to the list!

All in all it's been a good one year... We will be reviewing this list when we celebrate our second anniversary which is just another six months away... You see with V and me normal is what others enjoy, we like our drama no holds barred (and that's why I volunteer that drama be added to the list of exciting things we got as one of our wedding gifts). Normal people have one anniversary per year. We celebrate it every six months. We got married twice... go figure! ( and that too to each other! Now if that's not love what is?). It's a standing joke in V's office, that he's been married twice, much to the consternation of a new colleague of V's who once very hesitatingly asked him why the the first one failed!

Most friends suggested we keep the first day we met as our anniversary dates but then one genius (LS, take a bow) came up with this novel solution. Oh and that also adds to the plus side of my list - double the number of presents and double the celebrations (I don't think V takes an identical view on this... too bad! :D)

Ah yes, so I declare it was a good one year and look forward to the next semester! Thank ye to all those who remembered us today and those who didn't, you will have another chance six months hence!

*P.S: And which is why I thought "hey why not pen one of my own...". Coherent and complete thoughts are not my forte you see.. and that's why you see this addition at a much later stage. (Jan 07 2010)

Simble!

2009-12-21T12:39:00.010Z

"Just wanted to remind you, Prerna, that sometimes success is better measured in smiles received, giggles heard, and hands held, than in dollars earned, deadlines met, and kilos shed."*

I wish i had penned this. I usually don't crib about my lot in life (it may not seem so going by most of my blog entries but really am usually pretty in tune with counting my blessings). But of late have been spending a lot of time cribbing about where life's taken me in the last one year, never mind the fact that I took the plunge into matrimony and the subsequent unemployment willingly. And then a couple of days I received the above in my mail and put a smile on my face. Well I know that I can't go encash giggles and smiles I received but then no bank can credit the fuzzy feeling I got every time I received an impromptu hug from V for being "a good wife" (:P) or a thankful smile from an abject stranger for a seat offered on a bus or kind words upon helping an elderly lady with her coat or a wondrous and proud wow from mom who can't believe her daughter cooked for a party of ten...

I am very fond of saying that it is the small things that pile up to make one big problem, but I guess I could tip the scale in the positive of things and believe that it is a lot of small acts of kindness, good humour and tiny happy moments that can make for one big happy life. Too simplistic, eh. But then I would like to live a simple life. Look for simple answers no matter how complex the problem may seem.

This may not work at all times, but what I have learnt so far is that most times it does.

Even as I say it, I know it is easier said than done. Especially when one can so easily fall prey to negative thoughts and feelings (believe me I know!). So I guess this new year I will gift myself the gift of staying positive and believe that:

"When driving down the road of life, Prerna, rarely do you know how good you have it, until you see it in the rear-view mirror.

Which is not to suggest that you should look back now, but to remind you that where you are today is more awesome and amazing than you probably realize."*

(Another gem wish I had penned.... Since I didn't, thought of sharing it with you.)

*Courtesy: TUT® 's Notes from the Universe(sm)

Ho ho ho!

2009-12-11T14:41:00.013Z

Dear all,

Yesterday I learnt some very valuable and interesting lessons.

Never get married (because sex isn't as great as it is made out to be!)
Yet marriage is the best thing that can happen to you.. if you find the right partner.
At 70 you may still be looking for love because the one you found at 30 didn't last!
But no matter how much it hurt the last time, we still look for it!
Love songs still make you happy and dance
12 days of christmas
That i still can't sing but for once did not care
Singing is one of the best pick me ups
You can enjoy your wine at 105 and joke about it! oh yes write a book about your life while you are at it!

How I got around to bagging these nuggets of gold? Let me start at the very beginning.

Yesterday, after debating if it was OK to skip the design class since I had only half an hour to get to it and I was still comfortably ensconced in the duvet and it was brighter in my head, eyes shut than out in the bleak weather. But for once, I overcame my lazy demeanour and in made it to class in record time... I was even the first one to arrive, who would have thunk!

After attending an interesting 3-hour session, I legged it to cover a Christmas Party. The last one I attended was when I was about 7 or 8, and the memory I held was of a shy me dressed in a red frock receiving a small little present from a badly done up Santa at the Officers Mess in Bareilly. Even while resisting the urge to bolt asap at the time I couldn't help feeling disappointed at the size of the gift! Hee hee... gosh! it must have been really small because I can't for the life of me remember what it was, except that it was really small! But what I do remember apart from the diminutiveness of the package is that they served the best fish fingers at the Mess. Sigh... the good old days.

But as usual I digress!

Back to the party organised at Juniper house for the senior members of the community. At an average age of 80, this bunch may look like an unlikely choice to attend a Christmas party with. But never denounce it before trying it out. And I am glad I went. Upon arrival at I was greeted by a small hall filled with wrinkled faces lighting up at the sight of a young couple gyrating to some catchy Bollywood tune! There was more to follow and lots for me to cover.

So there I went clicking away with the trusty D40, capturing some heart warming and at times poignant moments; a giggly twosome here, or a gaggly bunch there, a 78-year-old helping a 90 year old with her coat, an elderly gentleman savouring the mince pie, sipping on a perry, smiling contently like a ten year old. And while I clicked them and shared a cup of tea, a joke, a laugh, a request, sang along with others as Sue (a very very good singer and crowd puller) egged us on during her rendition of some amazing songs, I gained the abovementioned precious jewels of wisdom from my new friends at Juniper house.

And oh, here are a few more:

There's still a lot of good around the world
You can be surrounded by a bunch of old people and realise how much life can offer, even the bad things are not bad enough to stop you from smiling when you can see the goodness in most.
And that there are people like Rads and Liz who care enough to make life more comfortable and happy for a set of people who the world seems to forget on most days.

Just as I enjoyed a happy day, I wish all of these wonderful people I met yesterday have a very merry and happy Christmas and of course as do all who have touched my life in one way or another!

Lots of love,

Prerna

Birds of a feather

2009-11-19T14:03:00.017Z

Here I was thinking that I would be penning down reams of interesting stuff on this blog poking fun at marital life and dispensing well meaning and equally well-disguised advice, only to now realise how everything has descended into the mundane so soon!

Mayhap there is better understanding between V and I, making peace with the fact that somethings won't change no matter how loud you scream (those dishes are my sole responsibility now), that shouting doesn't make any difference and a little sensitivity goes a long way in maintaining harmony at home and abroad.

It would be wrong to assume we have attained marital nirvana, but a working order seem to be in place. For now, at least.

Or maybe I am turning schizo. Just a week back i was complaining to a friend about how difficult it seems at times to cope with this new living arrangement or if you would have been better off had you waited a wee bit longer for better prospects to bloom.

Well I guess not... but before you break into "awwww...s" let me tell you that it the answer is not even within a sniffing distance of the realm of romantic.

Things would have been the same - that's because all men are the same. (If you can accept this fact, you chug along fine without much huffing and puffing!)

Now how many times have you heard a woman tell you that (the men being the same bit)? You might agree in principle but I am not certain how many of you have actually experienced this phenomena. Before I got married I was an ardent proponent of the thought but secretly hoped to bag the elusive "he is not like others type" So when V and I tied the knot, I was almost certain, I had achieved the near impossible. Now, of course I am wiser! What I have also wisened up to is the fact that all men are indeed the same.

Last weekend was spent visiting friends who have recently entered matrimony or have been around the block for a while.

Playback of a conversation I had:

Girl 1: "Oh he is soooo nice!"

Girl 2 "Try being married to him! But your husband's is so charming"

Girl 1 (making a wry face): "You don't live with him"

And this was repeated across households.

Observing them (and endless chats about how life is soooo different from when we were single) made me realise how all of us had more or less the same issues to deal with! No matter what colour, caste or creed they may be, they are essentially from the same mould.

Which may lead you into thinking that you could be married to anyone and be equally happy or mad... maybe it's not that simple either. If you can accept the fact that you will be married to a person who will take you for granted, think he is always right, know the theory of everything but will do none of the practical, will dispense advise on how to take care of the house, laundry, food etc. but make minimal contribution and some other basic caveats (I am sure there are plenty)... But once you make peace with the above constants, you can play around with desirable (variable) qualities. eg: you want the one who can dance or is funny or charming or intelligent or successful or pretends to understand you, or well endowed... You are now absolutely spoilt for choice!

Disclaimer: This is a blog (especially this entry) born out of an amalgam of boredom, joblessness, the itch to write, frustration and lessons of life. Any resemblance to people, incidents, experiences or absolute truth at times is coincidental (intention might be a bit suspect. The jury is still out on this one).

Great Expectations

2009-10-23T13:08:00.015Z

Been really busy the last couple of weeks or so, what with lots of firsts taking place post getting married - first karvachauth, first diwali, first of things I did nothing special on...heh heh. So while I was busy doing nothing on these days, the blog languished but the "first time" experience of a newly wed continued. Now you would say that close to being married for a year, how I still consider my self a newly wed, well that's because even the normal seems to have something new about it.

Let's take for example- conversation.

For those who are married, esp those who got into the arrangement recently have you noticed how topics of conversation have changed MARKEDLY. It's all about babies, recipes, furniture, upholstery... you get the picture. But I need to elaborate further (I know the smarty pants among you must have already guessed, but kindly persevere for there's more).

So to get back to talk about talking.

How it all started was when I sat own to chat with a friend of mine. She who sports "crazy"as her middle name, got married recently and true to her nature, in a completely unexpected and exciting fashion, prompted me to comment on this particular phenomenon. I was shaken because even she of the "crazy" fame could not escape the "wifey" talk.

After exchanging our greetings and the regular "aalu pyaaz ke bhaav", she suddenly pops the question : What happened to us? Here we were discussing further studies, getting a kick ass job, staging a coup in the dastardly newsroom, contemplating slow torture of bosses from hell, irritating co-inhabitors of office space, our magnum opus- just a year back and today all we can think of talking about is -"kya pakaya" (what did you cook today); I made awesome appams, will try my hand at the stew tomorrow; I was shocked to find out how much 250 gms of Paneer costs or how difficult is it without a domestic help!"

The next half an hour was spent reminiscing the good old times, and how far removed we were from the reality of those days. Now I may sound a bit wistful, which I am also because Nostalgic is one of many middle names I carry, I am not complaining. I quite enjoy the education I am gaining thanks to being a housewife (per force! bloody recession). How slicing a Kg of red-snapper down to more than eight pieces is not a good idea, or that the fridge has a tray at the back that needs to be emptied regularly to avoid a flooding or how to avoid tears while chopping onions (HA now i have your attention!). I am proud of my new found domestic wisdom and willing to share it with those genuinely interested and have similar lore to swap

But I can only be so benevolent. I am quite patient with queries brimming with curiosity about being married and answer with great candour, I am anything if not honest! And having done so myself when I was single, I know many come with genuine curiosity. It DOES seem as if the person's grown a new self, a process akin to molting. However, that is not true... and as usual i digress.

So about the strain on my benevolent nature. That is exerted when questions about procreation crop up. (and WHAT'S with that peculiar/suggestive look and smile that follows it?)

Now I understand if mothers with tiny tots ask me that- after all misery does love company and seeing what they go through I sympathise. But how about the rest of the multitude? Pray why would I, who till now was figuring out life for myself and has recently been saddled with the well-being of another entity (read husband who has "bequeathed" the tasks of house, dishes, cooking, shopping, shoes, socks, laundry on me), willfully undertake marital harakiri in the form of a kid.

(Oh but before you call me a DINK or in my current state SINK types, perish the thought! I do want kids. But when V and I think the time is right or well if the contraceptives fail!)

You see being married is not a fairy tale (as the previous entires might have enlightened you),it's a task, one that has a year long probationary period! If you (and your partner) survive that (literally and figuratively), chances of it being a success in the long term are bright [(this is not my theory but that of several learned married women who graced me with their wisdom before I got hitched. Of course according to them (and now in moments of weakness, mine) the BEST option was to get out before any harm was done.]. This may not apply to all, as I know of couples who are happy having their first-born attend their first wedding anniversary.

So if you think having a baby will make matters easy because they are oh-so-cute, you have GOT to be kidding! I know kids are cuddly and lovable and make for great entertainment. But the visitors are long gone when the real work begins. They are not there to feed them in the middle of the night, or wash them after they poop, or to soothe the kid when it gets cranky and irritable.

Now if you think I am ready to take on these while I am still struggling with what I have my hands full of, boy you do hate me!

While I do suffer from some kind of a superwoman complex, even I am not ready for a task as mammoth as this; so unless I bring it up, let sleeping babies lie.

Life's like that

2009-10-05T15:23:00.003Z

Growing up is tough. A dear friend would say it is optional... but being a single male, it is a utopia he can pursue. For lowly mortals like me, growing up is a mandatory function lest you think the white of the straitjacket brings out the colour of your eyes.

Yet another dreary afternoon in the apartment is making me pine the auld lang syne. Well to be honest, the flu virus too did its bit in taking the joie de vivre out of my afternoons. Or maybe Iam suffering the hitherto just heard of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

So here I am staring out into the grey environs around my apartment, trying to feel inspired. A couple of incidents in the past two days made me realise how far I have come from the safe haven that was home and maidenhood.

How you took life for granted and thought everything would go as planned. Till the first shock came... your bluster and confidence of youth helped you weather that storm as well. Nothing, absolutely nothing came in the way of that optimism, you were so positive it was almost obscene. I remember a professor of ours telling us how our ideals will come to a naught once we join our chosen profession. I can still recall the vehemence with which we opposed that idea and thought him a fool and a killjoy for trying to dampen our spirit. If only we knew better. Nah... it won't have changed a thing. Because we knew we could change the world.

Then came your first job, and life opened the flood gates. The smart ones swam, the feeble sank, people in between the categories, floated. But not all was lost. There were family and friends who threw you the life jacket and brought you aboard the proverbial life boat. You thought you would sail. And sail you did till the next storm caught you unawares. For some it was yet another crappy job, for others a bad relationship and for yet another set, both. Somehow you got saved... thanks to those friends and family.

The next level, however, upset the boat, literally. And that's when you actually began recognising the growth pangs. When you realised that the boat wasn't steady anymore. There was just too much baggage for the vessel to handle. Some threw the baggage overboard and held on to the mates. Others decided to swim away instead. Some partings were bitter, others sweet.

Now I have had a taste of all that and more, and while they seemed to weigh down upon me at the time, I am a bit wiser because of all that experience I have gained. And the grace and blessings of a higher power. Heaven knows I am still imperfect ;) but i did learn some valuable lessons.

Of the ones I learnt through the good times and the bad, the lessons I try to live up to are:

1) Count your blessings

2) Don't be afraid to say sorry and mean it

3) Don't lie to yourself

4) Be true to you true nature

What I also realised in these last few days is how far I have moved on from the times I shared with people who were once friends. There's no rancour, just the wistful feeling wishing things had ended on a cordial note.

Anyhow. Lesson# 5 has been that you can't decide for people. They decide their own actions...

Lesson#6 Bless those who hurt you, because they made a huge contribution in making you who you are.

God Bless.

What I still need to learn among many other things is to cut myself some slack and remind myself I am not perfect, at least not yet. :)

And to think!

2009-09-30T19:08:00.006Z

How can there be hate in the marriage? You make room- Thus spoke the wise Marie Barone. One of my favourite characters on TV. Well to be honest most of my marriage wisdom comes from the great sitcom that is Everybody loves Raymond. But this time the topic of discussion is not to exalt the virtues of this great work of art but to gripe…yet again. And the famous words of Mamma Barone make my head nod fervently.

This has to be the soonest I have ever posted an entry after I have made one for the week. There is good reason for it... for I don't want to contradict the very wise saying that Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned (or her blog, in my case!)

Researching for some scathing sentiments from neutral parties (read online quote resources) I came across the following gem. "If they can send one man to the moon why can't they send them all?" My sentiments exactly! And while we are on the subject, please make sure my husband is on that flight. Fit him in the cargo if the seats are full!

A sudden change from my last post, you say! Let me tell you why. I finally understood why someone once said love is a temporary insanity cured by marriage. In my case I am sure it must have been a superbug that addled my brains!

Because no matter what you do, something’s don’t change. Night follows day, bees sting, dogs bite, flu sucks and men remain men.

For no matter how taken in you may be by the love shuv and the rest of the rigmarole, reality comes sauntering back and bites your hiney, eventually.

After writing the last post I made His highness VTK, aka as the husband, read the entry. As he read, I looked upon him fondly, caressing his sparse hair… telling myself how lucky I was and how much I loved him. This sweet sweet man. As his finger scrolled the page down, and the words flowed reflected in his hypermetropic eyes, my heart overflowed with love for him. He finishes reading it, gives me a peck on the cheek and says,

“Not as good as your earlier ones!”

I will give you a moment to let it sink in… another few moments to feel sorry for me…and those pigs among you, moments to laugh.

Ah so this is what a sucker punch feels like.

SO much for, the cuddles and cooings and love yous and faux gallant efforts at looking after me. The second the mercury dipped to 98.6 degree F, it was business as usual in the UPPAL-Kallarackal household! (He had a problem with this nomenclature as well!) Foolish foolish girl And for the record, it will REMAIN Uppal-Kallarackal!HA!

Why are they such a thankless lot! Does it kill them to keep their ill-formed opinion to themselves and do the right thing by keeping their gobs shut!

After months of ribbing about how my blog is my way of venting off ire, and teasing me about how made fun of him publicly, I decide to do the decent thing and thank him PUBLICLY for being…. (it now kills me to say it) nice! So much for Mrs goodie two shoes!

No more Mrs Nice guy (I guess there’s no fear of that happening!)!From now on I stick to my guns and fire away at these ungrateful punks!

And now that the honeymoon is over folks, I need to go back and resume doing the household chores .

Of all the ungrateful, thankless, muleheaded….grrrr… And oh yeah… The breakfast wasn’t all that great! HA!

Who would have thought!

2009-09-29T12:47:00.011Z

After a week-and-a-half of sniffling and feeling generally miserable thanks to the flu, I thought it was time I distracted myself with a spot o' blogging. While I am much better, thanks for asking, I am feeling a bit dull. So pardon me if the wit is not biting enough and I seem soppy in this particular entry.

Well the last few days may not be what you call exciting, they were enlightening in a way. For starters I was pleasantly surprised to discover a sensitive side to the husband which has been very well hidden (of the buried in the backyard with a tree growing on the spot types.) till some days back.

The outbreak of the flu in the Uppal-Kallarackal household meant a retirement to bed on a more or less day-long basis. With no mom to fuss over me and no dad to needlessly worry, I was feeling the pain acutely. To think of all the cooking to be done and clothes to be washed and house to be cleaned, the ground couldn't get deeper for me to bury my head in. As I lay mulling these unsavoury thoughts in my head stuffed with phlegm, and shedding copious tears for the good old carefree days when your problems were your mom's, a silent metamorphosis of sorts was taking place in the house. Read on to discover.

I felt a gentle nudging trying to shake me up from a despondency and cough syrup (almost) overdose induced sleep. Upon opening my rheumy eyes, I see an apron adorned husband holding a breakfast tray in his hand. "Oh crap, I am going to die," I think. Surely this is worse than even swine flu, because I don't remember hallucination being one of the symptoms.

Then I try calming down. "must be the effects of the cough syrup... let me sleep if off," I try convincing myself as I turn over. However, the nudging resumes and as I reopen my eyes I see that the apparition persists and is now wearing a worried look on his face.

Apparently (later I realise actually) it IS INDEED the husband standing there with a carefully laden breakfast tray.

HA! Who would have thought!

Wondering if there is catch, I chew (might I add with great difficulty, not because of the quality of food, which was par excellence even to my fevered state) and move around the house a bit, I almost faint. Now now, don't worry, it wasn't the fever, in case you are worried. The house was actually tidy. The man who used to step out of his clothes and leave them to pick up after themselves had tidied up the house!

“Either I am already dead or my husband has been possessed!”

“Typical man,” I tell myself, “He had to go invite foreign spirits in when I am sick,” I curse as I try to remember the local priest’s phone number.

“Sweetie, I will be back early in the evening. So don’t worry about anything,” I am told as gets ready for work. “He sounds the same…,” I think.

A very very worried me gets crawls into bed exhausted by the turn of events when I see him pick up that dreaded deodorant of his. Now I am all for nice smelling men and women, but I take exception to the kind that mistakes the said perfumed aerosols for room freshners. Unfortunately for me, I am married to the variety. Most of our mornings are spent debating the pros and cons of unchecked spraying and I sit prepared for another one. Only to stare at V’s retreating back as he takes the bottle out of the room to spray himself. HA, again!

Having gone through these 600-odd words you must have pretty much figured out that this time V has earned himself the right to be lauded! Not that I ever believed I had married a monster, maybe an occasional ogre, yes, my first post marriage seasonal flu helped me realise my ogre is a Shrek! I have been fed, pampered, had my aching limbs massaged, bucked up, indulged despite tight deadlines, hectic schedules and screaming bosses at work.

Now there maybe some of you who know where I have embellished facts, but the truth remains that my man came through at a time when I was miserable (I am worse than a colicky baby when I am sick) and I was reminded once more why I fell in love with him… Because he is a good man and that when the need truly rises, he has donned that shining armour and rescued me. V, we may have had our disagreements and I may scream at you because of the dishes, and you may storm out of the house because of the mess the house is in and I may sass about it in the blog, but know this that I love you and that I know I made the right choice.

P.S: If you continue being the angel you have been, I will wax eloquent about you in every blog! So pl pl pl pick up after yourself on a regular basis and not just when I am near death! Love ya!

Marriage is a circus, embrace your clown!

2009-09-16T13:34:00.006Z

So here I am all dressed up and ready to catch up with a friend who spent an exciting two weeks in France over a bottle of wine. We were meeting up at her place and the wine was my responsibility, while the poor thing slaved over the hob preparing lunch, a thoroughly lip-smacking fare, I may add! Having cinched the easier part of the deal, I sauntered over to the local store in quest of a refreshing Rosé to compliment our afternoon fare. OK OK I am no wine connoisseur, I just read the label at the back of the bottle. As I bagged a seemingly enticing bottle of red (instead), I proceeded to the counter to pay. So this good man takes a look at the bottle and then at me a couple of times, quizzically. “That’s wine,” he tells me helpfully.

“Uh yeas,” I reply, beaming at him, hoping to mask the”duh” in my head.

“You are buying this, yeah?”, he asks, frown in place.

“Yes, please,” I reply, still beaming.

It was his question next that stumped me clean.

“how old are you?” the frown deepening.

“I am __” ah well suffice to say old enough to vote my friend! (Ha you thought I would reveal my age! Oh wait or have I mentioned it) Anyhow…

Despite my calm outward appearance I may inform you, I was a bit taken aback… actually no… I was maha flattered! It began to dawn on me that the guy thought I was younger than I looked. But why should that stop him from selling me the wine, i wondered. After all it's legal to buy liquor even if in your very very early twenties, right?! Of course my answer came seconds later.

“Heh, you sure? You look 15 – 16,” the man says! Now I am all for receiving compliments on my youthful looks, but this is taking it too far.

So after reassuring him that I was from the neighbourhood and not an underaged alcoholic, he agreed to let me buy the wine, on the condition that the next time I visit there, I should have an ID handy.

(But he was mighty sweet about the whole thing, so he’s forgiven)

Well I may protest at being considered a juvenile, truth be told I was actually thrilled at being considered younger than my age…ah well numbers are just numbers, 15 or 20 or 22, how does it matter, as long as the figure was under 25.

But this post is not about my looks, as young as they might be. So read on.

Having spent a generally happy day, I met up with the husband at the tube station on our way back; I from my friends’ and he from office (Pray bear with the details because I don’t want you distracted!) and I recount the incident to him.

He takes one look at me and points to my face saying, “It must be the acne.” No ladies and gents, he was not kidding. He said it with a deadpan look and with complete sincerity.

I would have pushed him off the train but there were too many witnesses and yeah the doors were closed.

Flabbergasted I gave him a wan smile and wondered what happened to the man who a scant 10 months back couldn’t stop going on and on about how lucky he was to have a pretty girlfriend! Which bring me to the question- why is it so difficult for men to appreciate their wives.

You plan weeks ahead to organise your child’s first birthday party and create an event everyone can’t stop raving about. You make the costume and the party hats, prepare the food, manage the decorations, and still manage to look like a hot mama for the shindig. The party turns out great, and all your husband can spare at the end of it all is, “Oh good choice on the emcee, he was pretty good!” Can you be blamed for wanting to smash the cake in his face!

Or you slave in kitchen cooking up a meal fit for a king, in this case the husband, feeling guilty for having fought with him, only to be told later, “Next time we go home, ask mom to teach you how to make the biryani the way she does!” You sit and wonder why you bothered.

And then there is the four course anniversary dinner you cooked hoping to be appreciated for the effort and love that went behind it. The mood is right, the place is set, you serve the hor ‘doeuvers awaiting the compliment with bated breath.

“Eww… is that fish? I don’t like fish”

Would you like some knuckles served instead?!

Would it have been too hard to say, “Great party honey!” or “Loved the food” or get some nice flowers and a diamond pendant for the effort? So what if you don’t like fish, would it be too hard to hold your tongue for a change?

Now please don’t think I am asking you menfolk to be insincere, all I am saying is that a little sensitivity goes a long way in keeping the wife happy and the house quiet. So what if she’s put on a little weight or still sports youthful acne, she’s still thinks she’s the princess you fell in love with!

I'll tell you what's cookin'!

2009-09-08T14:10:00.010Z

I have been ignoring the urge to write about this certain topic because honestly I thought my reaction was a reflection on what I felt. Well this time I threw caution to the wind and decided to vent my ire nonetheless.

But before I launch into my diatribe, let me give you a background. I have been a working professional (a better phrase escapes my incensed state of mind for now!) for the last five years and quite proud of it. So it was quite a difficult decision to make when life being a B*T$% it usually tends to be, put forth a choice between matrimony and temporary (oh How I hope it is temporary) unemployment! Having dealt with the predicament over six months or so and telling myself ki naukri toh mil jayegi but I will lose out on this handsome devil, I decided to tie the knot instead and kissed my pay cheques goodbye.

Now before you tell yourself that it serves me right, let me clarify something. The husband is not a medieval tyrant who can’t stand working women. It’s just that marriage came with the compulsion of moving out of the country. With many a snigger and tut-tuts I was asked if I was serious about quitting my job in peak recession time, to which I gave them an enigmatic smile and nodded a confident yes.

Needless to say after the initial days of bliss the scary scepter of the unemployed status began rearing its ugly head. I know many young women who made the same decision as I. Some were smart enough to have back ups (the option to work from home), others were happy taking a break. I being a worry wart love to obsess. You see having accomplished the first half of fat and complacent in the last 28 years or so, I have a mortal fear of the onset of complacency!

In fact, the blog was a result of the resolution not to let my skills go to waste. Anyhow I digress… So while I was trying to look to earn a living, I had to perform certain domestic duties, such as cooking. Now I had never cooked before getting married. It’s not something I am proud of, but is a statement of fact. I just couldn’t get my head around chopping the aromatics… anyhooo I digress yet again. Cutting the long story short, soon I realised that I am a mighty good cook (you see modesty was never a virtue with me), and have the flair etc. Heady with excitement after the first perfectly cooked batch of pepper chicken and navrattan korma, I went and proclaimed it to the world!

One other thing you need to know about me that while modest I am not, naïve I am plenty. Here I am thinking people will tell me how proud they are of me and my prowess, I had actually given some a handy weapon to undermine my unemployed ego! Now no longer am I asked how life is, but how is the cooking coming along, or “oh what did you cook today”, or how cooking is my new found love, you get the picture. Now the ones who genuinely feel for me don’t make the entire cooking escapade an issue but then there are those who never fail to rattle my nerves, with their constant kitchen bitchin’. How else do you explain, “you are so lucky to have the time to experiment, I am so pooped after work, I can barely manage to eat!” This from a former fellow reporter who claims to be an epitome of bharatiy naarihood! Or this other person who recently earned her colours as a doc and a new boyfriend but can only find time to ask “kya pakaya” or what’s the new thing you are experimenting with in the kitchen" or "A hyrdocoele kept me busy today, anyhow you tell me what did you cook today". Nothing nutty enough, I should have told her! These are just a couple of examples, and while the list of such people may not be long but the constant kitchen queries are no less irritating.

Initially these jibes would hurt. Mainly, I thought, because this dramatically changed situation was new to me and it was all in my head. Then I tried ignoring the barbs. In fact began giving these folks enough details to shut them up. Then recently this irritating person popped up again with the same smug attitude, which pissed me off. Then a funny thing happened - I laughed. I laughed at myself for being a fool. For letting this bunch making me resent something I enjoy doing. Well yes there I said it. I LOVE Cooking and for their information I am jolly good cook. I make a mean meen curry and I am proud of it. You can take all your articles and shows on well being and your stethoscopes and shove it up where the sun don shine ‘cos my sambar rules!

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