Monday, July 13, 2009
I am Back!
After a looong blog holiday I am back in action. My European experience is up on Sify.com. I’ve been published. Finally, all of you will take me seriously as a writer :P All of you except my greatest critic Shrikanth that is.( He thinks I shouldn’t even call myself a blogger coz I just ignore it for months on end and suddenly spring into actionL) Anyway after much mocking and goading by him, I have challenged to beat him in the number of words I write, even if I die in the attempt, which is what will probably happen. That man writes as much as he talks!!!!! And since I have this competition, I will have no choice but to write about my boring weekends, my new phone, my trysts with tailors and my inability to write, just so that I can fill up space. But I promise I will make it sound as profound as possible and make it worth your while. For starters here’s the link to my published work. 2000 odd words. Also as one picture is equal to a 1000 words, I’ve put up lots of pics(he he). Please do the math and help me get even with competition!! http://sify.com/news/imagegallery/galleryDetail.php?id=jhnmbpejhcd&title=Alone_on_a_London_trip
Rendezvous With God
“I don’t’ believe in Ghosts and Gods” had been my line since when I was in college--the time when I had started my spiritual journey and reading of Ayn Rand. The author had shaped my thought and beliefs to such a large extent that I used to be a passionately proud atheist then. Later on, after more reading, marriage and added wisdom, I turned agnost. If someone asked me if I believed in God, I would answer that I believed in Aham Brahmasmi and that I had God within me. Recently, however I discovered that I believed in God more than I cared to acknowledge.
The realization that, at a subconscious level I looked upto God happened by way of an intriguing dream. The dream was like a full length movie in colour and with a lot of graphic effects. It began with my exploring the musty and cobwebbed staircases of a reportedly haunted bungalow in the middle of the night. Why on earth I would do that was not part of the dream. But I can assure you that I would do something like that, only in a dream.
In reality, I am terrified of darkness and ghosts. When at home and alone during power cuts, I dealt with my fear of darkness by getting into elaborate monologues with imagined ghosts or burglars, threatening them that I was a martial arts expert, so they had better not mess with me. Why, I couldn't even handle a mock haunted house. When I once walked into a scary house setting at a mall, I had kept giggling loudly initially to distract myself. But when all of a sudden something flew from nowhere and hurled itself on me, I let out a loud blood-curdling “eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”. Then, as if to bring myself back in control, I had threatened the flying object in chaste Thamizh “ Ennada nenache. Uchi meedhu vaan idindhu keezh vizhundha podhilum, Achamillai, Achamillai, Achamillai enbadhe”. Under extreme duress, I tended to quote Bharathiyaaar. My brother and mom still tease me about my poetic tendencies .
Given this track record, I was quite fascinated about this new and improved I, who at least in her wildest dreams had dared to quell her fear of darkness to explore a haunted house. The adventure began with my getting through the first two flights of stairs reciting my favourite achamillai. However, on the landing of the third flight of stairs, I saw a pair of gigantic legs following me. Legs that had no beginning. No end. The tiny ventilation on the walls that filtered in the moonlight was not enough to make out if there was a body supporting those legs.
I froze in terror. Could not utter a word. I wished I could run for cover and just erase the sight of the legs from my mind. But fear paralysed me. However hard I tried, I could not move an inch. What if the giant tore me into pieces and drank my blood. Images of Narasimha avatar with I instead of Hirnaya whizzed passed in psychedelic effect. Was I being punished in this janma itself? That was unfair. I was sweating from all pores. The legs kept advancing towards me menacingly. If I’d screamed for help, no one would have heard me. If I’d tried to assault the ghost, he would probably overpower me, so I thought I could talk him out of harming me. Appeal to his inherent ghostly goodness.
But wait. Maybe he was not a ghost. Maybe he was God trying to test my faith as he often does. He was getting predictable, wasn’t he? How many times he has called us humans fools because we couldn’t see through his repetitive charade. Ha , he couldn’t fool me this time.
I reached out and grabbed the legs. Not out of fear, but out of recognition! Out of enlightenment that brought tears into my eyes. Holding on to the legs tightly, I said, “Caught you God. I can make you out in any disguise. You cant fool me. Nor can you call me names for not knowing youwere walking two steps behind”. God stood there flabbergasted. Caught in the act of trying to trick an unassuming devotee.
He had encountered reactions that included screaming, running for life, throwing things at him, etc. But nobody had caught him or exposed him. What could he do, but gracefully accept defeat. He raised his palm slowly as if to invoke some power, and lay it on my head, saying “Bless you my child”.
And then, lo and behold, to my utter delight, the horrible grizzly legs started transforming into none other than Lord Vishnu in all his splendour in vishwaroopa. I could swear that I saw a benevolent smile too. One that said I know you have changed. I know you have seen me and that you will see me in everything hereafter.
I woke up, laughing hysterically. The dream was epiphany to me--My Dark night of the Soul. The atheist turned agnost turned semi-believer in me, under duress--not only quoted Bharathiyar, but surrendered to God, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient.
The realization that, at a subconscious level I looked upto God happened by way of an intriguing dream. The dream was like a full length movie in colour and with a lot of graphic effects. It began with my exploring the musty and cobwebbed staircases of a reportedly haunted bungalow in the middle of the night. Why on earth I would do that was not part of the dream. But I can assure you that I would do something like that, only in a dream.
In reality, I am terrified of darkness and ghosts. When at home and alone during power cuts, I dealt with my fear of darkness by getting into elaborate monologues with imagined ghosts or burglars, threatening them that I was a martial arts expert, so they had better not mess with me. Why, I couldn't even handle a mock haunted house. When I once walked into a scary house setting at a mall, I had kept giggling loudly initially to distract myself. But when all of a sudden something flew from nowhere and hurled itself on me, I let out a loud blood-curdling “eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”. Then, as if to bring myself back in control, I had threatened the flying object in chaste Thamizh “ Ennada nenache. Uchi meedhu vaan idindhu keezh vizhundha podhilum, Achamillai, Achamillai, Achamillai enbadhe”. Under extreme duress, I tended to quote Bharathiyaaar. My brother and mom still tease me about my poetic tendencies .
Given this track record, I was quite fascinated about this new and improved I, who at least in her wildest dreams had dared to quell her fear of darkness to explore a haunted house. The adventure began with my getting through the first two flights of stairs reciting my favourite achamillai. However, on the landing of the third flight of stairs, I saw a pair of gigantic legs following me. Legs that had no beginning. No end. The tiny ventilation on the walls that filtered in the moonlight was not enough to make out if there was a body supporting those legs.
I froze in terror. Could not utter a word. I wished I could run for cover and just erase the sight of the legs from my mind. But fear paralysed me. However hard I tried, I could not move an inch. What if the giant tore me into pieces and drank my blood. Images of Narasimha avatar with I instead of Hirnaya whizzed passed in psychedelic effect. Was I being punished in this janma itself? That was unfair. I was sweating from all pores. The legs kept advancing towards me menacingly. If I’d screamed for help, no one would have heard me. If I’d tried to assault the ghost, he would probably overpower me, so I thought I could talk him out of harming me. Appeal to his inherent ghostly goodness.
But wait. Maybe he was not a ghost. Maybe he was God trying to test my faith as he often does. He was getting predictable, wasn’t he? How many times he has called us humans fools because we couldn’t see through his repetitive charade. Ha , he couldn’t fool me this time.
I reached out and grabbed the legs. Not out of fear, but out of recognition! Out of enlightenment that brought tears into my eyes. Holding on to the legs tightly, I said, “Caught you God. I can make you out in any disguise. You cant fool me. Nor can you call me names for not knowing youwere walking two steps behind”. God stood there flabbergasted. Caught in the act of trying to trick an unassuming devotee.
He had encountered reactions that included screaming, running for life, throwing things at him, etc. But nobody had caught him or exposed him. What could he do, but gracefully accept defeat. He raised his palm slowly as if to invoke some power, and lay it on my head, saying “Bless you my child”.
And then, lo and behold, to my utter delight, the horrible grizzly legs started transforming into none other than Lord Vishnu in all his splendour in vishwaroopa. I could swear that I saw a benevolent smile too. One that said I know you have changed. I know you have seen me and that you will see me in everything hereafter.
I woke up, laughing hysterically. The dream was epiphany to me--My Dark night of the Soul. The atheist turned agnost turned semi-believer in me, under duress--not only quoted Bharathiyar, but surrendered to God, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient.
Gelusil on the Taj!
What if one fine morning, we woke up to see a giant pimple on the face of the Taj? Would we spread a pimple pack on it? The glorious Taj Mahal- the greatest monument of love that a man has ever built for a woman is soon going to be seen with a face pack, oh no a body pack, to restore its original white splendour. A mixture of Fullers earth and Aluminium silicate is the fairness cream for the Taj. A kind of clay, this concoction will supposedly bring back the white shine to the yellowing symbol of love. My heart goes out to the fading Taj. Surely, neither the Taj nor love should fade. We need it all white and pure to keep our hopes alive. Hopes, not only of forever love, but of forever fair and glowing skin.
I am not a rascist. Nor a fairness activist. Only an amused spectator of the fairness craze that we Indians are obsessed with, so much so that we let a whole industry thrive on our madness. When I was much younger, miracle seven-day fairness creams were not available and pregnant mothers ate saffron in wholesale quantities to beget a fair child. I am told that when my orthodox great grandmother held the newborn me in her arms, she complimented my mother thus- “Nee Chamathu. Ponnai Segappaavum, Pillayai maa neramaavum pethurkaye?” Meaning, it was fine if a boy had a dusky complexion. But a girl had to be fair to be marketable for marriage. My great grandma clearly did not foresee the fairness epoch of today, that forces even men to be fair and handsome. Fair-therefore handsome.
As my mother was “chamathu “ and fair complexioned herself, I was born fair. So, I was not a victim of the fairness cream bug. But as a teenager, another bug bit me. It was the pimple pack bug. I would trade my right arm and left leg and even my first boyfriend if I could have a cream that gave me clear pimple–free skin. Acne vulgaris or the good old hideous pimples were casting their revolting effect over my teens.
My pimples had fantastic sense of timing. Though they were supposed to break out predominantly during the monthly menstrual period, they had an uncanny knack of erupting right before my date with the school hero. How they smelt that I had a date with the hero (who had finally asked me out after months of covert glances and dozens of not-so-accidental bumpings-into in the school corridors)—I could never fathom. Week after week, they would faithfully surface exactly 24 hours before my date.
When a pimple first appears on a face, it does look kind a cute. But I could never allow it to stay cute. I had to fiddle with it fanatically, torment it compulsively and finally burst it with a pin till it spewed pus all over. The result: the cute little pimple of the previous day would have turned into a bloody mess and the date with the hero—messier!
Determined to defeat the deadly disease that afflicted me, I would spend all my pocket money on every pimple pack advertised and every home remedy advocated. From oatmeal packs and retino A to multaani matti, besan, sandalwood, turmeric, kumkumaadhilepam and pimple-aadhi thailam, every pimple pack made in any part of the universe would be there with me factory fresh.
Having a doctor Dad did not help. In fact it added to my worry, as my Dad always told me the truth about pimples. According to him, “Only two things in the whole Universe were eternal and invincible. One was the Arctic snow and the other, Acne Vulgaris.” As the grief-stricken thirteen year old me would worry myself sick over a monster pimple that would have sprouted right in the middle of my nose, he would break my heart with this reality check.
When I implored him to be sensitive, he had presented me with a bottle of Gelusil. Assuring me that it was indeed the miracle drug of my dreams, he made me drink it once every morning and apply it on my face twice daily. Later on, after a couple of weeks of my religiously applying and drinking Gelusil alternately with no apparent relief, my Dad had the chutzpah to confess that he had played a prank on me. “ I cannot cure your acne, so I chose to treat your ulcer instead”, he said. Enraged, I waged a cold war on him for the next six months. I told him that he was a bad father and a worse doctor. Had he known about Fullers earth when I was 13, I would have filled the earth with it for my grandchildren to benefit. Had he prescribed me the blessed Aluminium Silicate which is now going to work the magic on the Taj, I would have surely gunned for Miss India.
As I write this, my wicked Dad reads over my shoulder and can’t stop laughing. I am irritated and hurt. How can he be insensitive enough to laugh about a subject that affected my teen psychology, I ask. In response, he reveals between howls of laughter that the notorious Gelusil which once caused a rift between father and daughter was composed of magnesium silicate, a sister compound of the magic aluminium silicate that I am now raving about. “Same clay. Different Name”, he shrugs. He also rubs in that, if only I had trusted his common sense seventeen years ago, I could have been happily married to the school hero now.
P.S : (Its a different story that I met the school hero alongwith his wife in an alumni party last year and she had an oh-so-big pimple on her forehead. Serves him just right for suggesting I apply Colgate toothpaste on my sore pimples!)
I am not a rascist. Nor a fairness activist. Only an amused spectator of the fairness craze that we Indians are obsessed with, so much so that we let a whole industry thrive on our madness. When I was much younger, miracle seven-day fairness creams were not available and pregnant mothers ate saffron in wholesale quantities to beget a fair child. I am told that when my orthodox great grandmother held the newborn me in her arms, she complimented my mother thus- “Nee Chamathu. Ponnai Segappaavum, Pillayai maa neramaavum pethurkaye?” Meaning, it was fine if a boy had a dusky complexion. But a girl had to be fair to be marketable for marriage. My great grandma clearly did not foresee the fairness epoch of today, that forces even men to be fair and handsome. Fair-therefore handsome.
As my mother was “chamathu “ and fair complexioned herself, I was born fair. So, I was not a victim of the fairness cream bug. But as a teenager, another bug bit me. It was the pimple pack bug. I would trade my right arm and left leg and even my first boyfriend if I could have a cream that gave me clear pimple–free skin. Acne vulgaris or the good old hideous pimples were casting their revolting effect over my teens.
My pimples had fantastic sense of timing. Though they were supposed to break out predominantly during the monthly menstrual period, they had an uncanny knack of erupting right before my date with the school hero. How they smelt that I had a date with the hero (who had finally asked me out after months of covert glances and dozens of not-so-accidental bumpings-into in the school corridors)—I could never fathom. Week after week, they would faithfully surface exactly 24 hours before my date.
When a pimple first appears on a face, it does look kind a cute. But I could never allow it to stay cute. I had to fiddle with it fanatically, torment it compulsively and finally burst it with a pin till it spewed pus all over. The result: the cute little pimple of the previous day would have turned into a bloody mess and the date with the hero—messier!
Determined to defeat the deadly disease that afflicted me, I would spend all my pocket money on every pimple pack advertised and every home remedy advocated. From oatmeal packs and retino A to multaani matti, besan, sandalwood, turmeric, kumkumaadhilepam and pimple-aadhi thailam, every pimple pack made in any part of the universe would be there with me factory fresh.
Having a doctor Dad did not help. In fact it added to my worry, as my Dad always told me the truth about pimples. According to him, “Only two things in the whole Universe were eternal and invincible. One was the Arctic snow and the other, Acne Vulgaris.” As the grief-stricken thirteen year old me would worry myself sick over a monster pimple that would have sprouted right in the middle of my nose, he would break my heart with this reality check.
When I implored him to be sensitive, he had presented me with a bottle of Gelusil. Assuring me that it was indeed the miracle drug of my dreams, he made me drink it once every morning and apply it on my face twice daily. Later on, after a couple of weeks of my religiously applying and drinking Gelusil alternately with no apparent relief, my Dad had the chutzpah to confess that he had played a prank on me. “ I cannot cure your acne, so I chose to treat your ulcer instead”, he said. Enraged, I waged a cold war on him for the next six months. I told him that he was a bad father and a worse doctor. Had he known about Fullers earth when I was 13, I would have filled the earth with it for my grandchildren to benefit. Had he prescribed me the blessed Aluminium Silicate which is now going to work the magic on the Taj, I would have surely gunned for Miss India.
As I write this, my wicked Dad reads over my shoulder and can’t stop laughing. I am irritated and hurt. How can he be insensitive enough to laugh about a subject that affected my teen psychology, I ask. In response, he reveals between howls of laughter that the notorious Gelusil which once caused a rift between father and daughter was composed of magnesium silicate, a sister compound of the magic aluminium silicate that I am now raving about. “Same clay. Different Name”, he shrugs. He also rubs in that, if only I had trusted his common sense seventeen years ago, I could have been happily married to the school hero now.
P.S : (Its a different story that I met the school hero alongwith his wife in an alumni party last year and she had an oh-so-big pimple on her forehead. Serves him just right for suggesting I apply Colgate toothpaste on my sore pimples!)
Grandma And The Guinness Yawn
Dear Diary,
I pour over my physics textbook in misery. Oh! Why wasn't I born with a silver spoon? Why did I have to study and work to make a living? Is there no other easy way to assimilate the contents of this mammoth textbook? It is grotesquely obese. Needs a crash diet desperately. As I labour through the taxing words, an intense yawn makes its way into my mouth from the very depths of my being. I open my mouth gaping wide and close my eyes to savour every moment of it. I am in a mini trance when I suddenly hear a loud dhak noise .
It takes me less than a second to realize that the noise is nothing but a resounding whack that my grandma had bestowed on my unassuming backside. The despotic schoolteacher in her, could tolerate any crime, but not yawning while studying. She flings my textbook to the far end of the hall while launching into a tirade that, had I been really concentrating, I would not have yawned blah blah. I put my head down in shame, secrectly hoping that the book should breathe its last as it rotted on the other end of the hall.
-------------------------------------
Dear Diary,
I write to you as a woman in my thirties who has grown up to believe that yawning is a deadly sin. Today, I am smarter. Whether I am studying or not, I have learnt to expertly stifle yawns whenever grandma is in the vicinity. Yet I watch like an eagle for the moment when my little daughter would yawn so I can practice the family art of whacking.
--------------------------------------------
Dear Diary,
Eurekaaaaaaaaaaa! I am overjoyed to read in the papers about an eye-opening piece of research by the University of Leeds. The findings of this research absolve me of my accumulated guilt. The research has found that yawning could be contagious, especially among people with a heightened sense of the mind and its functions. These people are typically empathetic and more aware of other people's feelings. An experiment has also proved that psychology students tended to yawn more than engineering students and by corollary autistic children would yawn lesser than normal children.
There it is. The writing on the wall. I knew I am not so terrible after all. Even though it took a decade and a half and the whole of University of Leeds to say some nice things about me and redeem me from years of guilty yawning, my ecstasy knows no bounds. This news gives me tremendous relief.
-----------------------------------------------------
Dear Diray
Soon after I read the news, I clutched the paper tightly and rushed to enlighten my grandma. I explained to her that her yawny granddaughter was not the engineering type after all. In fact she had a highly developed sense of empathy with her people and the Universe. So she wasn't all that dull headed and disinterested in studies as grandma had thought.
As I said this, a strange tremor swept through my body. I started shivering and my breathing became heavy turning into gasps. I was worried at first, but soon comprehended what was happening. I stood tall and proud, squared my shoulders and faced Grandma, "The moment has come Paatty”, I said. “Forgive me, but I have to do this".
With that, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, thought of my fat physics book and finally --like a baby born after arduous labour -- delivered the loudest and longest yawn ever registered in the history of mankind.
--------------------------------
Dear Diary,
You won’t be surprised to know that my yawn made it to the Guinness Book of World records. Obviously, I have dedicated the award to the one and only one who made it all possible –my dear sweet Grandma!!
-----------------------------------------
I pour over my physics textbook in misery. Oh! Why wasn't I born with a silver spoon? Why did I have to study and work to make a living? Is there no other easy way to assimilate the contents of this mammoth textbook? It is grotesquely obese. Needs a crash diet desperately. As I labour through the taxing words, an intense yawn makes its way into my mouth from the very depths of my being. I open my mouth gaping wide and close my eyes to savour every moment of it. I am in a mini trance when I suddenly hear a loud dhak noise .
It takes me less than a second to realize that the noise is nothing but a resounding whack that my grandma had bestowed on my unassuming backside. The despotic schoolteacher in her, could tolerate any crime, but not yawning while studying. She flings my textbook to the far end of the hall while launching into a tirade that, had I been really concentrating, I would not have yawned blah blah. I put my head down in shame, secrectly hoping that the book should breathe its last as it rotted on the other end of the hall.
-------------------------------------
Dear Diary,
I write to you as a woman in my thirties who has grown up to believe that yawning is a deadly sin. Today, I am smarter. Whether I am studying or not, I have learnt to expertly stifle yawns whenever grandma is in the vicinity. Yet I watch like an eagle for the moment when my little daughter would yawn so I can practice the family art of whacking.
--------------------------------------------
Dear Diary,
Eurekaaaaaaaaaaa! I am overjoyed to read in the papers about an eye-opening piece of research by the University of Leeds. The findings of this research absolve me of my accumulated guilt. The research has found that yawning could be contagious, especially among people with a heightened sense of the mind and its functions. These people are typically empathetic and more aware of other people's feelings. An experiment has also proved that psychology students tended to yawn more than engineering students and by corollary autistic children would yawn lesser than normal children.
There it is. The writing on the wall. I knew I am not so terrible after all. Even though it took a decade and a half and the whole of University of Leeds to say some nice things about me and redeem me from years of guilty yawning, my ecstasy knows no bounds. This news gives me tremendous relief.
-----------------------------------------------------
Dear Diray
Soon after I read the news, I clutched the paper tightly and rushed to enlighten my grandma. I explained to her that her yawny granddaughter was not the engineering type after all. In fact she had a highly developed sense of empathy with her people and the Universe. So she wasn't all that dull headed and disinterested in studies as grandma had thought.
As I said this, a strange tremor swept through my body. I started shivering and my breathing became heavy turning into gasps. I was worried at first, but soon comprehended what was happening. I stood tall and proud, squared my shoulders and faced Grandma, "The moment has come Paatty”, I said. “Forgive me, but I have to do this".
With that, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, thought of my fat physics book and finally --like a baby born after arduous labour -- delivered the loudest and longest yawn ever registered in the history of mankind.
--------------------------------
Dear Diary,
You won’t be surprised to know that my yawn made it to the Guinness Book of World records. Obviously, I have dedicated the award to the one and only one who made it all possible –my dear sweet Grandma!!
-----------------------------------------
I Love You
Those are the sweetest sounding yet most abused three words in the English language. Poets and lovers of life have tried in thousands of ways to express that constellation of emotions that bring immense joy to us. Be it romantic, altruistic, spiritual or platonic, love defies logic, time, place, caste, sex and age. But, hang on, I am not about to do the impossible and get into an “also ran” rambling about love. I had to write this because the teenager at home called me say, “Chachi, I have a problem. My classmate said “I love you” to me. What do I do now?” I instantly started laughing because I truly did not know how else to react to something like this. I was transported to a time and place when these words were sacred and when uttered brought the roses to the cheeks of the lady in question. I could see in my minds eye gallant knights in shining armour sweeping off the one love of their life.
Does that sort of sweet, innocent perfect love exist anymore? Maybe it does. But constant abuse of the three words somehow makes them sound unreal and like corny bullshit. I know of a friend’s daughter who is already on orkut , lying about her age. To these kids, I love you comes as easily as hi or hello while they talk to each other . Why there are even Love Calculators to quantify the one emotion that is immeasurable. I am also quite amused about an interesting game called FLAMES that helps teens decide whether they would make a great pair. But my amusement was my niece’s agony. She was faced with the problem of tackling this hulk of a classmate who had faithfully followed her on the bicycle for a few months before mustering the courage to propose.
I asked her not to panic as she narrated what she had replied to him. “I told him I am a monster and his life would be hell with me”, she gushed. I burst out laughing as I told her that I can’t agree with her more on that and If were that boy I would a run a thousand miles before proposing to her.
Her reply to the boy was such a refreshing bit of innocence. There are a handful of sweet kids in this Orkut generation too. Glad that my niece is one of them
Does that sort of sweet, innocent perfect love exist anymore? Maybe it does. But constant abuse of the three words somehow makes them sound unreal and like corny bullshit. I know of a friend’s daughter who is already on orkut , lying about her age. To these kids, I love you comes as easily as hi or hello while they talk to each other . Why there are even Love Calculators to quantify the one emotion that is immeasurable. I am also quite amused about an interesting game called FLAMES that helps teens decide whether they would make a great pair. But my amusement was my niece’s agony. She was faced with the problem of tackling this hulk of a classmate who had faithfully followed her on the bicycle for a few months before mustering the courage to propose.
I asked her not to panic as she narrated what she had replied to him. “I told him I am a monster and his life would be hell with me”, she gushed. I burst out laughing as I told her that I can’t agree with her more on that and If were that boy I would a run a thousand miles before proposing to her.
Her reply to the boy was such a refreshing bit of innocence. There are a handful of sweet kids in this Orkut generation too. Glad that my niece is one of them
Friday, June 20, 2008
Grumblers Beware
There are these sunny people. They are super fun to be with. Carefree and happy about themselves and the world. Have a nice thing to say whenever you meet them and go around with a song in their heart and a dance in their step. When you talk to these people you end up feeling charged and joyful. And then there are the cloudy folks. They walk around like Atlas with the weight of the world on their shoulders. Every little thing right form brushing their teeth seems to be a chore and they can’t seem to find happiness in any activity that they do. They pass their time stuck in a time warp making excuses about why they have been wronged or given a raw deal by life making excuses for their incapability. They sigh more than they smile and they are full of “I couldn’t.. because” like the recent Boost commercial puts it “Losers just make excuses. Winners just go out and win”. These cloudy folk are typically ones who just live in the hope that some magical transformation will come into take them away from their life of drudgery. But I believe that even if such a thing were to happen, they will find a way to stay unhappy and grumble about how tough life is and what martyrs they are. I have a cute little song for these cloudy folk who grumble all the while
In country town or city
Some people can be found
Some people who are grumbling
At everything around
They grumble on Monday
Teusday Wednesday
Grumble on Thursday too
Grumble on Friday, Saturday Sunday
Grumble the whole week through
They grumble at their husbands
They grumble at their wives
They grumble at their children
They grumble all their lives.
That just about sums these people up. I learnt this song as a kid and warned myself never to become one of the grumblers. I sing this to my children whenever they whine about something. I only wish this song could be made into a national anthem so we can get everybody out of sulking sprees and get on with life spreading cheer and joy.
In country town or city
Some people can be found
Some people who are grumbling
At everything around
They grumble on Monday
Teusday Wednesday
Grumble on Thursday too
Grumble on Friday, Saturday Sunday
Grumble the whole week through
They grumble at their husbands
They grumble at their wives
They grumble at their children
They grumble all their lives.
That just about sums these people up. I learnt this song as a kid and warned myself never to become one of the grumblers. I sing this to my children whenever they whine about something. I only wish this song could be made into a national anthem so we can get everybody out of sulking sprees and get on with life spreading cheer and joy.
Parenting Blues
When I was younger and blindly in love I never did realize what my parents would be feeling. When my mother used to say, you will feel this anguish only when you have a daughter and she does this to you. Time flew and I did have a daughter. It turns out that this daughter who is all of seven years old is already sure of what she wants. She decides her clothes for the day and what hairstyle to sport etc. She thinks mini skirts are ugly and wild unkempt hair falling all over her face is her coolest look. She conveniently loses her spectacles when she is all dolled up for a party. I suffer in silence and silently offer my apologies to my mother. The recent long drawn argument I’ve been having with my daughter is about getting a haircut. I’ve been reasoning with her that, since she is so averse to having a comb come in contact with her hair, she needs to get the length down to a boy cut level. Her reactions have been violent- screams of protest saying that if I liked a boy cut so much, I should get one for myself first. How do you like that?
Yesterday after a long session of coaxing and reasoning, I finally managed to convince her that she would look most beautiful in a boy cut. And the poor little thing agreed. Whew. That was some victory for me. But later on, as she slept peacefully on my shoulders, I felt a rush of guilt wash over me. My little princess liked to wear her long. What was really wrong with that? If I had my way and cut her hair, she’d feel lousy till her hair grows again. She’d keep regretting that moment of weakness when she agreed for a haircut and I didn’t want even that little bit of regret causing her any pain. I decided that she could grow her hair. Later, I realized I couldn’t sleep for an awfully long time as I was haunted by a single thought. For something as silly as a haircut, I just wanted nothing but my daughter’s happiness and let go. Tomorrow if she chooses the man of her life and I don’t agree with her choice, how on earth am I going to take a tough decision. Parenting is serious business. I am beginning to wonder if I am any good at it!
Yesterday after a long session of coaxing and reasoning, I finally managed to convince her that she would look most beautiful in a boy cut. And the poor little thing agreed. Whew. That was some victory for me. But later on, as she slept peacefully on my shoulders, I felt a rush of guilt wash over me. My little princess liked to wear her long. What was really wrong with that? If I had my way and cut her hair, she’d feel lousy till her hair grows again. She’d keep regretting that moment of weakness when she agreed for a haircut and I didn’t want even that little bit of regret causing her any pain. I decided that she could grow her hair. Later, I realized I couldn’t sleep for an awfully long time as I was haunted by a single thought. For something as silly as a haircut, I just wanted nothing but my daughter’s happiness and let go. Tomorrow if she chooses the man of her life and I don’t agree with her choice, how on earth am I going to take a tough decision. Parenting is serious business. I am beginning to wonder if I am any good at it!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Start running, Macho WOMAN !!!
I constantly battle within myself whether being a headstrong independent “I can handle it all” kind of woman is good for me or not. Like it or not , I have been brought up to be someone who can take care of oneself and handle a few of other peoples’ problems as well. As a child I was not this shy timid girl but played with the boys rolling in the mud and never afraid of the dark. My Dad made me the dare devil I am today. He made me go to the bank while still in grade eight, allowed me to cycle to school that was 6 kms away, even pushed me to go out at 10p.m in the night to the shop.
He also taught me the value of money quite early – not by starting a piggy bank, but by getting me to earn it while I was still all of 13 years old- (My first job was that of a library assistant for a princely sum of Rs 350 a month. I used to find it great fun because I was actually getting paid to keep reading books. Keeping a register and handling money was little work compared to the rewards of reading all evening.) As I got to keep the money I earned, my independence and confidence blossomed. From then on, all through college until today, I have found it a breeze to earn money. This brought with it a die-hard self reliance that I’m not wiling to trade for anything.
But I realized that for me as well as many other women of today, being self-reliant also means that u have all the trappings of today’s woman-- who knows how to drive, who can buy anything at will, who can handle any kind of crisis due to resourcefulness, can multi-task (ur a manager after all). Therefore, u gotta pay the bills, manage the maids, raise children, handle in-laws and what-not. When you are juggling so many things, you are tempted to think u r a superwoman. But u don’t let that thought last long coz ur already punishing urself on all the pending items in your things-to-do in this lifetime( like getting an hourglass figure, chasing ur long forgotten dreams, reading thamizh classics, learning to play African drums or to speak the Zulu language) so u end up feeling you are no good.. look at the Indra nooyis of the world, feel miserable once more and then grumble for a while.
All this while there is a huge dichotomy in you.
Though you don’t think of urself as a superwoman you can’t take it if others don’t consider you one. Also, it bothers you that your male colleagues selectively make use of your claims of superwoman in failing to extend simple courtesies to you.
Example :When with your male colleagues, you find it infra-dig to ask for help or to expect niceties like opening a door or pulling a chair for u, because u cannot stand their condescension on u being the weaker sex or the fairer sex. So you end up opening all the doors and pulling all the chairs while being hit at and suffering borderline sexual harassment.
That’s when u get really tired of being a macho woman. You just wanna put up ur hands and say “ Be chivalrous. Open doors and pull chairs for women. Be sweet gentlemen!
When I spoke to a few women friends and colleagues on the macho woman dichotomy, I found that there were many other kinds of women out there. The resigned home-maker who has accepted that her role is at home and lets the man bring the money, but at times goes through an identity crisis, the resentful home-maker who thinks she suffers at home and therefore ends up transferring her frustration on all around. The hi-flying career woman who walks out of the responsibility of family and not-so high-flying husband cause she found all that too much trouble.
What’s common in all these women? A throbbing undercurrent of discontentment? Always wanting something else other than what’s your lot in life? I wish I knew. But I can speak for myself when I say that, being at peace and harmony with oneself is a sure way to stay happy. So I grumble for a little while, but pull up myself soon saying, “Start running MACHO woman, you have this one life after all!!”
He also taught me the value of money quite early – not by starting a piggy bank, but by getting me to earn it while I was still all of 13 years old- (My first job was that of a library assistant for a princely sum of Rs 350 a month. I used to find it great fun because I was actually getting paid to keep reading books. Keeping a register and handling money was little work compared to the rewards of reading all evening.) As I got to keep the money I earned, my independence and confidence blossomed. From then on, all through college until today, I have found it a breeze to earn money. This brought with it a die-hard self reliance that I’m not wiling to trade for anything.
But I realized that for me as well as many other women of today, being self-reliant also means that u have all the trappings of today’s woman-- who knows how to drive, who can buy anything at will, who can handle any kind of crisis due to resourcefulness, can multi-task (ur a manager after all). Therefore, u gotta pay the bills, manage the maids, raise children, handle in-laws and what-not. When you are juggling so many things, you are tempted to think u r a superwoman. But u don’t let that thought last long coz ur already punishing urself on all the pending items in your things-to-do in this lifetime( like getting an hourglass figure, chasing ur long forgotten dreams, reading thamizh classics, learning to play African drums or to speak the Zulu language) so u end up feeling you are no good.. look at the Indra nooyis of the world, feel miserable once more and then grumble for a while.
All this while there is a huge dichotomy in you.
Though you don’t think of urself as a superwoman you can’t take it if others don’t consider you one. Also, it bothers you that your male colleagues selectively make use of your claims of superwoman in failing to extend simple courtesies to you.
Example :When with your male colleagues, you find it infra-dig to ask for help or to expect niceties like opening a door or pulling a chair for u, because u cannot stand their condescension on u being the weaker sex or the fairer sex. So you end up opening all the doors and pulling all the chairs while being hit at and suffering borderline sexual harassment.
That’s when u get really tired of being a macho woman. You just wanna put up ur hands and say “ Be chivalrous. Open doors and pull chairs for women. Be sweet gentlemen!
When I spoke to a few women friends and colleagues on the macho woman dichotomy, I found that there were many other kinds of women out there. The resigned home-maker who has accepted that her role is at home and lets the man bring the money, but at times goes through an identity crisis, the resentful home-maker who thinks she suffers at home and therefore ends up transferring her frustration on all around. The hi-flying career woman who walks out of the responsibility of family and not-so high-flying husband cause she found all that too much trouble.
What’s common in all these women? A throbbing undercurrent of discontentment? Always wanting something else other than what’s your lot in life? I wish I knew. But I can speak for myself when I say that, being at peace and harmony with oneself is a sure way to stay happy. So I grumble for a little while, but pull up myself soon saying, “Start running MACHO woman, you have this one life after all!!”
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Rakhi Sawant Mint - My Choice
Rakhi Sawant has just been chosen brand ambassador for ITC Foods’ Mint-o-Fresh to pep up their mint lozenges brand. The reasons: She is bold, confident and frank and Mint-o-Fresh has the same values. While the morally uppity pseudo classy folk of the country raise their eyebrows on the choice, brand experts do believe that her sensation value would surely work for the brand.
For many, Rakhi is just a sex symbol in private and an object of ridicule in public. Why? Because she shows her body to make money and get famous( Hey, what about the director who puts her in the movie and the audience who watches her and downloads her wallpapers? Why are they any better than her? ). She lacks class. She speaks her mind. She is frank. Blatant, to be precise. Obviously, she would be the favorite punching bag of the moral police and all the men and women who hate her guts.
This aggressive boisterous and loud Bollywood item girl--a policeman’s daughter--may have become famous through cheap( a relative word) publicity stunts. But I have great admiration for her. Give it to her. She is famous. Period. She makes her own rules. Isn’t afraid of anyone and challenges a Miss Universe by being equally if not more popular.
Check out her cheek!
She was booked for obscenity by the TN Police after a stage show in the city(maybe they wanted a private show instead)
She is consistently the butt of jokes by several co-stars and at popular TV shows (They can’t stand her being more talked about)
She is known for her absolute audacity and cool candour (Her opinion on herself “ Mein ek characterless aurat hoon”)
She may be cheap, loud and what not. But she is honest, cool, sure of herself and consistent. Sure enough. She is on the rise now for the right reasons with ITC Food betting on her as their brand ambassador.
Atta girl Rakhi. Way to Go!
For many, Rakhi is just a sex symbol in private and an object of ridicule in public. Why? Because she shows her body to make money and get famous( Hey, what about the director who puts her in the movie and the audience who watches her and downloads her wallpapers? Why are they any better than her? ). She lacks class. She speaks her mind. She is frank. Blatant, to be precise. Obviously, she would be the favorite punching bag of the moral police and all the men and women who hate her guts.
This aggressive boisterous and loud Bollywood item girl--a policeman’s daughter--may have become famous through cheap( a relative word) publicity stunts. But I have great admiration for her. Give it to her. She is famous. Period. She makes her own rules. Isn’t afraid of anyone and challenges a Miss Universe by being equally if not more popular.
Check out her cheek!
She was booked for obscenity by the TN Police after a stage show in the city(maybe they wanted a private show instead)
She is consistently the butt of jokes by several co-stars and at popular TV shows (They can’t stand her being more talked about)
She is known for her absolute audacity and cool candour (Her opinion on herself “ Mein ek characterless aurat hoon”)
She may be cheap, loud and what not. But she is honest, cool, sure of herself and consistent. Sure enough. She is on the rise now for the right reasons with ITC Food betting on her as their brand ambassador.
Atta girl Rakhi. Way to Go!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
You may need a dictionary for this
In promulgating your esoteric cogitations or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity. Let your conversational communications demonstrate a clarified conciseness, a compact comprehensibleness, no coalescent conglomerations of precious garrulity, jejune bafflement and asinine affectations. Let your extemporaneous verbal evaporations and expatriations have lucidity, intelligibility and veracious vivacity without radomontade or Thespian bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous propensity, psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity and vaniloquent vapidity. Shun double-entendres, obnoxious jocosity and pestiferous profanity, observable or apparent.
In other words, say what you mean and DON'T USE BIG WORDS!
Hang on. I am not the genius who made that up. That was advice by Dr Johnson immortalized to me by my Grandpa. As a kid, I memorized it to impress my friends. Now using it to impress my readers.
Hope you are suitably impressed :P
But seriously, brevity is the soul of clarity and one needs to speak to express and not to impress and not say ten words when you can do with one. Whats more? For greater spiritual communion with one’s higher self, it is recommended by experts that one goes on a verbal diet to practice mounam once in a while.
I am on verbal diet. So not been writing for a while. Shall write original stuff if and when I find my higher self. Finding..finding..finding….
In promulgating your esoteric cogitations or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity. Let your conversational communications demonstrate a clarified conciseness, a compact comprehensibleness, no coalescent conglomerations of precious garrulity, jejune bafflement and asinine affectations. Let your extemporaneous verbal evaporations and expatriations have lucidity, intelligibility and veracious vivacity without radomontade or Thespian bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous propensity, psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity and vaniloquent vapidity. Shun double-entendres, obnoxious jocosity and pestiferous profanity, observable or apparent.
In other words, say what you mean and DON'T USE BIG WORDS!
Hang on. I am not the genius who made that up. That was advice by Dr Johnson immortalized to me by my Grandpa. As a kid, I memorized it to impress my friends. Now using it to impress my readers.
Hope you are suitably impressed :P
But seriously, brevity is the soul of clarity and one needs to speak to express and not to impress and not say ten words when you can do with one. Whats more? For greater spiritual communion with one’s higher self, it is recommended by experts that one goes on a verbal diet to practice mounam once in a while.
I am on verbal diet. So not been writing for a while. Shall write original stuff if and when I find my higher self. Finding..finding..finding….
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Of Cheeni Kum, Crosswords and Cross Words
What’s the connection between Cheeni Kum, crosswords and crosswords? To explain I must first list out certain trends/observations
My 80plus neighbour suddenly grows his hair, pierces his ear and starts wearing a ponytail
My forty plus friend start writing that Life Begins at Forty
Another Forty plus friend wears short skirts and starts pubbing
My dad competes with me in sms typing speed even though he has to use a magnifying glass over his mobile phone when he types
My Dad calls me in the middle of the night to ask me how to send an emoticon on sms..
Though this sample data is small, it is large enough in my life for me to draw one major conclusion. “CHEENI KUM”
My 80plus neighbour suddenly grows his hair, pierces his ear and starts wearing a ponytail
My forty plus friend start writing that Life Begins at Forty
Another Forty plus friend wears short skirts and starts pubbing
My dad competes with me in sms typing speed even though he has to use a magnifying glass over his mobile phone when he types
My Dad calls me in the middle of the night to ask me how to send an emoticon on sms..
Though this sample data is small, it is large enough in my life for me to draw one major conclusion. “CHEENI KUM”
Quoting a great man I know Cheeni Kum as a movie is not only impressive because of its cast, music, dialogue etc., but because it gives hope to millions of Baby Boomers (BBs) that love can happen to you at any age. And what’s more, you can be old, but nothing stops you from being “cool” at the same time. A very interesting perspective.
But, whether love happens or not, I can see that BBs of current day are certainly a cool lot. While a majority of oldies sulk and go for long walks and resort to Gandhian austerity like our man Paresh Rawal, there is this swanky intellectual minority who embrace their age in style, sporting streaked hair styles and bermuda shorts. So what if the wife presdeceases/leaves him, this uber cool baby boomer makes the most of his second chance. The trend I see when I look up obituaries is that people anyway live up to a ripe old distinguished age. So what do you do when you get described as ripe, wise, distinguished etc.? Cash in on the ripeness and enjoy the company of girls who enjoy the wisdom and experience of older men.
One would think these BBs would be averse to technology. But I see that they are far more at ease with the gizmos of today if only to send forwards and sweet nothings to girls half their age. Why, my dad completes the daily crossword by sending bulk sms to all his girlfriends. His daughter being his most favourite girlfriend gets all jealous if his other girlfriends solve the clue faster and father and daughter exchange some cross words.
Today’s paper says that geriatrics are allowed to snack and theorizes on metabolism and the effect on their overall well being and blah. But I say that a Cheeni Kum allows them better things. It comes as a breath of fresh air if only to put hope in the heart and dance in the step of all our charming BBs. Can there be a better antidote for age?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Loosen up Noveau Riche(NR) !
It is wonderful to be rich. Noveau or not. Yet there is a marked difference in the attitude of parvenus towards their wealth and their possessions. You can easily tell they are NRs if you observe them closely.
Some dead giveaways –
You would find them splurging on a Rs one lac home theater system and on getting back home, trying to a reuse a disposable plate.
You can tell they are NR if the plastic wrapping on their car seats stays intact even when their car isnt’ new anymore.
In an ice-cream shop you would see them asking for extra disposable plates and spoons. A little extra doesn’t hurt you see?
When a big bunch of relatives land up for a long stay at his house the typical NR suffers anxiety pangs about imagined horrors.
Imagined horrors turn real when one of the relatives leaves the air conditioning on for hours together.
When someone places their dirty feet on the plush upholstery or their oily heads on the walls, bloody tears make their way into the corners of their eyes
And if the brat in the pack accidentally breaks the crystal vase, NRs suffer a mild heart attack.
Such is the plight of the NR whose coolness and poise is a façade. Beneath his chill demeanour is a bizarre insecurity about the future. He holds on to his newly acquired things as if a Cinderella curfew would suddenly turn them into pumpkins and mice one day.
In contrast, check out the attitude of the people I stayed with in Dubai.
Over a dozen guests staying with them at the same time with brats of all sizes making a mess of their place.
When we went shopping in their BMW or Merck, we gorged on Panipuri and popcorn with little worry about what we spilt on the expensively upholstered seats.
Guests were given free access to their wardrobes, accessories and perfumes.
Unlimited number of ISD calls were made from their phones
A hairstylist was arranged for every one of their guests to do their hair on the day the hostess celebrated her birthday.
Fresh bottles of evian replaced empty ones in the guest rooms every few hours.
Did they bat an eyelid for any of the above? Not at all? After all the mess we made out of their house, they urged us to stay on for a few more days and bade us farewell with gifts of gold. Frankinscence and myrhh was already offered in their palace:). What can I put this all down to?
Magnanimity?
Bigheartedness?
Love of the human race however dirty they made their carpets and mercks?
Absolute detachment over their possessions?
Magnificent Acting?
Most of the above. But above all, I realized that this level of tolerance and generosity could be attributed mainly to the security and comfort brought by “Old Money”.
Old money has given them the sheer confidence that the money is here to stay. That the money keeps growing even as they keep giving. And even if the money does leave them at some point, it would leave them richer by attitude, generosity and the joy of giving. Such is its power.
Yet there is hope for parvenus. We can never become “old money’ed” people. But we can certainly learn to share, give and love the act of giving. Learn detachment. Learn that by letting go, we are freeing ourselves. Learn that nothing is eternal, everything ephemeral.
Learn not to sweat the small stuff. Learn to loosen up !!
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