Life is Beautiful

There's Something About Scotland

2009-10-21T17:59:00.012+05:30

There's something about Scotland

There's magic in the air

There's beauty in every corner

And that is very rare

If Edinburgh was enchanting

Glasgow was exciting

But the Highland experience

Was joy beyond compare

There's something about Scotland

That makes me break into a song

There's something that makes me feel

This is where I belong

Now that the serious poetry is over, over to some cool pics :)

Cute Davie, the totally decadent tour guide who had us in splits through the Highland tour

My tryst with the lone duck

A quaint little cottage that appeared suddenly, yet sat there bindaas as if the highlands and mountains had grown around it to give it company:)

Snow on the hills. Took this pic from inside my moving bus:)

Bagpiper performance on the Scottish Highlands. The tune sounded like its been lifted from our Raravenu Gopabala

Mel on the roadside

View of Edinburgh from the Edinburgh castle.

Whata shot. whata shot !!

Enchanting Edinburgh

2009-10-21T17:54:00.004+05:30

At Edinburgh, the first thing that struck me was green. Here, the colour seemed to get a whole new definition. Apart from the green, there was the blue of the sky, the freshness of the air, and beauty as far as my eyes could see. Despite having been warned about the beauty of the place, when I saw it for real, it took my breath away. I knew in that very instant why my friend was besotted with the place.
As I approached the city, I saw the Edinburgh Castle , perched triumphantly on a rock face. There was a valley below with a beautiful park. Even though the castle is now a tourist site, it still gives the feeling of protection as it towers over the city. Walking outside the Castle along The Royal Mile, I saw colorful souvenir shops, bagpiper performances and lovely churches flanking the road.

Further down I walked past the Scottish Parliament, the only modern building I saw in all of Edinburgh . Even so, the building just sat there without pretensions even as tourists busily clicked away. At any time of the day I could see parks and meadows teeming with people. And with shops closing as early as 5 p.m., I wondered if these people ever went to work.

The next day my friend took me to Glasgow by train. We enjoyed living a normal life of a Glaswegians, shopping around the streets and enjoying the people , sights and sounds. We raided Debenhams for souvenirs and immersed ourselves in the scents of “Lush”, a store that sells natural soap and cosmetics. We toured the city that day and spent the night packing for my 9am pick up from the backpacking highland bus tour that I had signed up for

Next morning, a man in a modern kilt waltzed into the lounge and asked if we were on the tour. With orders to get going, we boarded our bus and fell instantly fell in love with Davie, our Scottish tour guide. His irreverence and devilish humor spiced up the next 48 hours of the Highland expedition. Our bus pulled away and we were headed on our drive to the Isle of Sky. Davie taught us the Scottish way to swear and shout Aye!! He regaled us with tales of Rob Roy and loads of Scottish history. Back in school, if only my history teacher had been even half as much fun, I would have scored top marks every term

The Lochs and Ruins and barracks were picturesque and our tour was done at a leisurely pace. At Loch Ness: I did not see Jessie, however I took a creepy picture of me standing on a rock by the Loch and all you can see is a white light and I. Maybe Nessie was there? Who knows!!

We made it to Inverness in the evening and joined the backpackers to check out a Scottish pub! I think Inverness faces a dearth of women. Barely five minutes after our tour group arrived, a bunch of men (probably every man in town) walked through the door! In just a bit, a Scot in bright yellow wellies (Wellington Boots) walked up to us asking if would dance with him and his son. Not that his yellow wellies weren't attractive, but we just told him we needed to retire early and hurried out of the place!

The next day we did an uphill hour-long hike. The mountain was called Old Man of Storr. The view from the top was breath taking. There was a huge rock that balanced on the top and looked like it has been teetering up there for years. Legend has it, that it's a famous giant's you-know-what solidified into rock for eternity! Nothing like visiting those famous phallic symbols on vacation!

I also dunked my face into a river that is said to preserve one’s youth and beauty. It struck me that I was probably dunking my face into sheep urine (as they were grazing nearby)!

After all of us had a shot of Scottish whiskey at Tomatin Distillery; Davie asked me if he could try my hat on coz it looks so cutely “touristy”. Ouch! That word hurt. You know you are a tourist when you think "tourist" is a dirty word.

I had to take the no-reclining –seats North Star bus back to London overnight, so I could go to Paris by Eurostar the next morning. As I settled in five Scots walked into the bus , clearly bombed. They chose to sit on the bench seat behind me. Constantly belching and snorting, these men belted out a wide array of Scottish drinking tunes! It was pure madness, but it sure completed my Scottish experience in a fitting fashion.

European Escapade- Part 1

2009-07-22T15:55:00.009+05:30

At 31 years, after what seemed like (and was) a lifetime wait, I stood at the emigration counter waiting for the first ever chhaapaa in my passport allowing me to travel abroad. Big deal eh? Of course, for someone who made her passport ten years ago and has waited patiently for this moment, this surely was a very big deal. Make no mistake of thinking that I am the archetypal drooler who is enamored by everything foreign. I am aware and appreciate the beauty of my country. I simply loved to travel.

At school I had idolized Phileas Fogg and prayed that I should be able to afford to travel around the world. Later, working as a sales professional I envied IT professionals who got plum jobs in exotic lands while I slogged to win sales contests only to fall slightly short of the target for Mauritius getting Mont Blancs instead (I have quite a collection of them, incidentally). Aim for the moon and you will reach the stars, they said. I did. Aimed for Mauritius and got Mont Blancs.Why did I not attempt to take a foreign vacation? Maybe I wanted it come easy to me. Maybe I waited to see in what manner it would happen to me, if I didn’t make a conscious attempt to break the jinx.I waited. And waited. Before I knew it, my ten year old virgin passport came up for renewal. That’s when I stopped waiting and took action. I applied for my first visa –for a Dubai trip with my family -in a tearing hurry.

When emigration finally cleared me to board the flight to Dubai, the event happened a tad too fast, that my weak heart struggled to cope. I wanted to prolong the moment. All at once I could see a million white doves breaking free, wings flapping. Some angels in white frocks waving their wands saying tata to me ( blame it on Bharathiraja). Some trumpets blew signaling my victory. After Dubai, I insisted on calling myself “Foreign Returned”. I had earned this privilege. I also made up my mind, that having broken the jinx, I wouldn’t let anything stop me from making my dream of traveling all over the world come true. A recurring fantasy I had was to set out one day on a backpacking trip with no plan in mind and no particular return date. The travel route would be chosen on whim and parts of my trip would be funded by work that I would find wherever I was. Had I revealed this to all my concerned folks, they would have been petrified. So two years after the Dubai trip, I reluctantly tweaked my fantasy to settle for traveling all alone to Europe.

I had friends in London, Scotland and Paris so those places were my obvious choice. Also, the thought of doing an all girls escape thrilled me. Yet Friends and family minced no words in expressing their disapproval about my desire to travel alone . “A woman traveling alone to Europe? That’s dangerous. Are you going with a group on a guided tour? If not you are making a big mistake”. No matter how much I reassured them, it did not stop them from narrating horror stories of people getting mugged or losing their passport or getting sexually harassed. I seriously suspected that my mom went around collecting a dossier of such stories to discourage me. For their every negative, I had a list of positives to counter:

I would meet and interact with more people
I could go where I wanted to go, when I wanted to go, with whomever I wanted to go with
I have the flexibility to find my own travel techniques (as opposed to going with a tour group)
This forces me to assert my independence.

There were another set of people whose eyes popped out because I was leaving my daughter behind. “Won’t you feel guilty?” they wanted to ask. These are people who have not known the joy of taking time out for oneself. Why, I myself used to be a victim of playing roles. I couldn’t have dreamt of enjoying anything alone without experiencing guilt and questions such as “Am I a bad mom because I am able to have fun without my daughter?” Yet over time, I have learnt that “me time” is not a horrible sin. In fact it is necessary for my well being. It helps me reflect. When immersed in routine, I hardly have a moment to stop and think.

Me time not only helps me charge my batteries and improves the quality of my relationships, it also helps me deal with my faults and foibles and appreciate myself better. Its peace time, rejuvenation time, load shedding time, introspection time.

Folks around me often look at me with incredulity and amazement about my varied interests and the number of things I get entangled into besides being a mom and a working professional. Some of them are sympathetic, while others tirelessly preach that I should slowdown my pace and not try to zip five years of living into one year. Yet I don’t learn. I would be adamant in cramming ten things into one day as if there was no tomorrow. But the way I compensate this pace is by doing “spaced out” days.

When I am “spaced out”, I am not a mother, wife, professional, daughter, sister, friend, boss, singer. I am just me. Can I steal me time without actually going out on a backpacking holiday? Of course I can. Most Sundays I take off on my bicycle and go wherever my heart tells me to go. Or if no one is at home, I cuddle up with a book. Sometimes I go on a metro train journey form terminus to terminus. It can be great fun. Or I would go to a coffee shop and hang out all by myself with a book and hot chocolate and mindlessly watch people.

Besides these weekly escapades, I badly wanted a longish “me time” break, somewhat like an annual maintenance shutdown. So after much postponement and deliberation, I blocked my tickets to London, and Paris. There! I had done it. Now I had to go. I completed the visa application and all other documentation in a daze, all the time, feeling uncharacteristically pessimistic. I almost expected something to go wrong. For instance, when I had to shift my dates of travel from the first week of May to June because of some bizarre reason, I almost gave up. The second obstacle came in the way of deficient documentation. But even then I wouldn’t give up. I had to see this though to fruition. Otherwise all my anticipatory excitement would vaporize. When my visa came, I finally allowed myself to get happy and started packing with full gusto. My sister came over to assist in packing as she wouldn’t trust me to travel light. She kept teasing that I was packing for an army, yet I went on stuffing jackets and knit pullovers that were sleeping in the loft waiting for such a trip too.

Living it up in London

At London I was staying with friends. On landing I took a short nap and started planning for the next day’s itinerary. I decided to go on a hop-on hop off tour all by myself. It was great fun. My friend with me on the tube and explained the tube map to me. Once she left, I set off on the bus around the city. I had bought a London Pass that allowed me access to over hundred places in London. But I focused on favorites like the Shakespeare’s Globe, Baker street, Hyde Park and Scotland Yard. After watching the change of Guard at the Buckingham Palace, I befriended Julienne, a Brazilian lady who like me, had set out on her own. She and I became traveling companions for the day.

Together, we went to the most unbelievable Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum and took pictures with the world’s ugliest, tallest and shortest men. Julienne was fascinated with my bindi and I drew an elaborate snake like pattern on her forehead. Walking down the quaint Covent Garden, we watched some outrageous street performances. The sidewalk cafes were so charming and I introduced Julienne to bondas and samosas at Sagar vegetarian restaurant. By the time Julienne and I polished off our softy cones on the banks of the Thames, I noticed that the time was 8 p.m though it was bright as noon. Reluctantly we bade goodbye and I made my way back to the Tube. There as I recollected the day’s events and all that I had accomplished, it struck me that I hadn’t visited a single attraction covered by the London Pass that day. And I had paid 48 pounds for it. My heart bled. I swore that I would only visit London Pass attractions the next day.

As I sulked about the 48 pounds and the grumpy railway officer, my eyes rested on a beautiful poem

He who binds to himself a joy

Does the winged life destroy

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in Eternity`s sun rise

I instantly brightened up. As a believer of stichomancy, I was also intrigued by the message this poem was conveying to me. Looking around, I found another poem. This one was written by William Wordsowrth on Westminister Bridge in 1802

Earth has not anything to show me more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields and to the sky;

I later learnt that these Poems were put up in the trains as part of an initiative called Poems on the Underground, The brainchild of American writer Judith Chernaik, this program wanted to bring poetry to the wide ranging audience of passengers on the Underground. Awed by this idea, I was wishing that we could do similar stuff in India, when I suddenly remembered, we already do. Our Chennai MTC buses too have the Thirukkural, the pithy two line words of wisdom to enlighten passengers. Don’t know whether the English picked this up from us or vice versa, but I realized that commuting by car has deprived me of these simple pleasures. Anyways, thank you Judith and co. for enriching my Tube experience

The next morning with renewed vigor, I went to the Tower of London followed by Thames Cruise. Sat on the pews of St Pauls Cathedral musing about how blessed I was and calculating how much I’d got of the 48 pounds London Pass. As I proceeded to the Tube to meet my friend at Madame Tussads, I found I had misplaced my day ticket ( cost me ten pounds!!!). I appealed to the ticketing officer to issue me a duplicate, basis my credit card charge slip, only to be snubbed and ticked off. Cursing him in chaste thamizh, I walked three km to Madame Tussads.

In the evening I watched the musical Billy Eliot and boarded what I called the Parveen Travels of London” bus for an overnight journey to Edinburgh. But it turned out that London’s Northern Star bus service couldn’t hold a candle to our Parveen. For starters, it did not even have a reclining seat. Also the size of the seat was so tiny that only size zeroes could travel comfy in them. Also the size of the seat was so tiny that only size zeroes could travel comfy in them. To make things worse, the smelly German lady sitting next to me kept interrupting my sublime thoughts with her snores.

I began to wonder whether all the museums, art galleries and historical sites I had seen had succeeded in broadening my horizons after all, whether dealing with a size zero seat and a stinking German with equanimity was God’ hidden lesson for me in London!!!

When My Hero Lost A Battle!

2009-07-15T15:27:00.000+05:30

To daughters, Dad’s are their first heroes. Imagine their dismay then when their hero loses a battle. I grew up watching this strong dictatorial yet loving Dad lead the family with such efficiency that I thought there could be no one to surpass him. Yet I just loved to take him on in verbal battles, just so I could prove to him that he had met his match. As he inculcated the reading habit in me and introduced me to the Crossword, he would flaunt his Mensa score to remain one up all the time.

Though I keep arguing with him, I have to admit that no matter how much I read, I can’t cope up with him. In life too, he is a fighter, never gives up, and never lets his spirits droop even when his shoulders do. When he met with an accident and lost 3 of his fingers with fractures and injuries all over his body, he refused to faint till he flagged down a passing truck to rescue him and his dying friend.

A doctor by profession, Daddy is also a fitness freak. He plays an hour of shuttle badminton everyday for over 20 years now. When he rides his “Bullet” and zooms out to work, he would look more like a policeman than a Doctor. My friends think he is the coolest Dad.

He is 61. But to me he can never grow old. That’s why I dint jump with joy when he shared news of his victory in the badminton match. “So what’s new?”, I said. He clarified that he had been playing with youngsters half his age and today was the first time in 6 months that he had won all the sets against them.

Still, instead of being happy that he won that day, I was horrified that he had been losing for 6 months. How could he just lose everyday and give “age” as an excuse. Daddy asked me to stop being ridiculous, but I could see that he was both amused and proud knowing that, to me, he would always remain an invincible hero!

I am Back!

2009-07-13T17:49:00.001+05:30

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

2009-07-13T17:48:00.001+05:30

“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.

Gelusil on the Taj!

2009-07-13T17:45:00.000+05:30

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!)

Grandma And The Guinness Yawn

2009-07-13T17:14:00.002+05:30

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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!!
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Grumblers Beware

2008-06-20T13:54:00.000+05:30

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.

Parenting Blues

2008-06-20T13:53:00.000+05:30

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!

Start running, Macho WOMAN !!!

2008-02-28T16:25:00.001+05:30

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!!”

Rakhi Sawant Mint - My Choice

2007-07-19T16:07:00.000+05:30

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!

2007-07-10T17:16:00.000+05:30

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….

Of Cheeni Kum, Crosswords and Cross Words

2007-06-20T17:41:00.000+05:30

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”

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?

Loosen up Noveau Riche(NR) !

2007-05-31T12:13:00.001+05:30

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 !!

Elementary Tatvamasi

2007-05-29T16:44:00.000+05:30

How do you teach a six year old where to find God? Don’t bother. She will teach you instead. From where does the rain fall to How many buckets of water are there in the ocean to Why do we grow old, the curious questions of my six year old have been especially trying on my grey cells. Yet, I’ve tried hard to provide answers that convince her almost always.

But last night, all ingenuity evaded me when she asked if she could marry Lord Krishna. I was stumped. “But Krishna is God baby”, I offered by way of a clever explanation to what’s impossible to explain. She didn’t give up. “As he is God, I guess I have to die and go to heaven to meet him”, she said.

I corrected her that she didn’t have to do that because God is everywhere and one doesn’t have to go to heaven to find him.

That seemed to make a little more sense to her. Nodding in agreement my six year old daughter declared simply “ Cool. Then I know what to do. I will look into my heart and find him.” ( elementary my dear Krithika!!!)

A weighty statement of ecstatic enlightenement “Aham Brahmasmi” stated with absolute conviction.

I marveled at the truth of the statement while reflecting that such innocence and knowledge is only possible in children. When we grow up, we tend to lose this realization and seek solace in religion and Godmen. We search for the truth in vain and remain tired hungry souls. We pray, we meditate, but doubt lurks in the murky depths of our soul. We need to be reminded of “Tatvamasi - The best place you can find God is within yourself”

My daughter’s simple truth has opened my eyes.

As for opening my heart to find God, that’s a different matter.

Moment of Truth

2007-05-03T12:16:00.000+05:30

The deepest ocean
The darkest night
The largest heart
The longest tunnel
The hottest volcano
The swiftest wind
The fiercest storm
Cannot match the intensity
Of that blinding moment
Harbinger of light
On the dark night of the soul.
A moment,
Of truth,
Of joy,
Of peace,
Of abandon,
Of innocence,
Of harmony,
Of promise,
Of oneness,
Of sweet perfection.
I see you God.
Please stop time.

My Quit India Movement

2007-04-24T09:58:00.000+05:30

I am a patriotic Indian and will do anything short of dying for my country. But this post is about my Quit India Movement-- My first step to quit India, to visit a foreign land, just for a vacation. Just to prove a point!

I am not your archetypal drooler who is enamoured by everything foreign. I am aware and appreciate the beauty of my country. But at some point it got to me, that in all my 31 years on Planet Earth, I hadn’t once traveled out of India to a foreign land. How does it matter, one might say! But, for someone who made her passport ten years ago and has waited patiently for a stamping till it came up for renewal-- it does matter a great deal!

I envied the lucky ones who were sent on all-expenses paid trips to exotic lands while I slogged to win sales contests only to fall slightly short of the target for Mauritius getting Mont Blancs instead (I have quite a collection of them, incidentally). Aim for the moon and you will reach the stars, they said. I did. Aimed for Mauritius and got Mont Blancs.

Why did I not attempt to take a foreign vacation? Maybe I wanted it come easy to me. Maybe I waited to see in what manner it would happen to me, if I didn’t make a conscious attempt to break the jinx.

I waited. And waited. Before I knew it my passport came up for renewal. That’s when then nightmares began. The same horrifying nightmare every night—A scene of me at the passport office patiently waiting my turn, when a condescending clerk would gently take me aside to advise, “Don’t bother with renewal, my child. India is such a beautiful country. Bharath Mata Ki Jai etc”. He seemed so real. So eerily prophetic.

Moved by my pain, my dad took my horoscope to a renowned astrologer. He hoped as I did, that the astrologer would give a placebo response that would put hope in my heart and a date in my mind. But alas! It was not to be.

The astrologer, after a long hard look at my horoscope-- took off his glasses in an exaggerated gesture. A sure, ominous sign that bad news would follow. “Don’t worry”, he said, “ Your daughter would have the world at her feet in as short a while as possible.” Translated, it meant, “So what if your daughter doesn’t go abroad, she will rock in India”.

At that instant, I realized that an emergency caesarean procedure was in order. There was nothing “normal” about my first foreign trip. I acted fast. I couldn’t let the prophecy of the darned astrologer come true.

I planned a Dubai trip with my family in a tearing hurry. My nightmares didn’t stop though. The face of the passport office clerk was getting clearer. I could even distinguish his features. He had an aquiline nose and long eyelashes. Disgusting combination. What’s more, the astrologer had somehow wormed his way into the scene, with an “I-told-u-so” expression pasted on his face.

I swore to prove them wrong and prayed fervently that I could. The tickets were booked. My visa came, albeit with some struggle. The D_day approached. I packed mindlessly. It didn’t matter what I wore. Quit India mattered.

I still had 6 hours to go for the flight. My nightmares became daymares. Anything could go wrong. Murphy tied for number one position alongwith astrologer and clerk on my hate list.

Finally, after what seemed like(and was) a lifetime wait, I stood at the emigration counter for the first ever stamping in my passport. When the stamping did happen, it was too rapid. A tad too fast, that my weak heart struggled to cope. I wanted to prolong the moment. All at once I could see a million white doves breaking free, wings flapping. Some angels in white frocks waving their wands saying tata to me ( blame it on Bharathiraja). Some trumpets blowed signaling my victory. I looked out breathlessly and caught the eye of my brother standing on the other side, beaming with joy. He waved out and made a thumbs-up sign. Later on, he assured me that he saw the angels and doves too. Sweet brother.

I went on to Dubai and had a fantastic time.

I am now “Foreign Returned”. Finally qualified to tell many an aspiring foreign traveler “Going abroad is no big deal. Bharath Mata Ki Jai!”

I have earned this privilege.
-----------------------------------------

P.S: My sincere thanks to the passport office clerk of my nightmares and the astrologer whose steadfast support made my Quit India Movement successful.

Ulysses and I

2007-04-03T21:43:00.000+05:30

Kalavum Katru Mara means "Learn to steal and forget it". Not to be taken literally of course, the saying appeals to one’s passion to learn, discover and experience..

I have tried learning …
Carnatic
Hindustani
Violin
Bharatnatyam
Kuchipudi
Salsa
Veena
Drums
Tailoring
Sketching
I am a master of none of the above.
To be brutally honest, I have to admit that I have not achieved more than a minimal level of proficiency in any of these.

Then, why learn? Why Be a Jack of All Trades?

Why try something new all the time? I am mystified.

I have written a post earlier called “Perspirational Genius” which was an exalted perspective of my lack of mastery and my love of genius. I would love to discover a single streak of genius that will keep me focused on one of the above.

Will I then be at peace?

Maybe not!

Perhaps like Ulysses I am “always roaming with a hungry heart”, yearning to travel and discover what lies beyond. A few days of dullness or apathy is a pause. A dead-end. My voyage has no boundaries.
I need to hurry.
I need to run.
I need to move on.

E-Squares

2007-04-01T20:46:00.000+05:30

Writing something about nothing is an art practiced by few. I have nick named the practitioners “Edhukeduthaalum Ezhuthaalars(E-squares). To the E-squares, a smell from the kitchen, a sneeze, a morning or simply just being, are causes to write.

I picture them breaking out into a sweat with palms itching every two hours if they don’t write about what’s on their mind. Blogging is the biggest miracle to happen to them as they can write and instantly get an audience too.

I am writing this because I am an E-Square too. But a Eppovaavadhu Ezhuthaalar!
This means I write only when I feel dizzily pregnant with ideas getting all restless and laden with guilt.

Obviously I am extremely jealous of the other kind of E-Squares. Because for every one word I write, they write ten thousand.

But watch out for me! I ain’t giving up. I intend teaming up with the other kind of E-Square so I feel the rush more often and perhaps one day create my magnum opus too!

An Innocent Primrose Morning

2007-04-01T11:44:00.000+05:30

I open my eyes at dawn
A serene rosy dawn
A lovely silken dawn

Take a deep breath
Feel its beauty
How wonderful to be alive

Right next to me
A little primrose bud
Sways and stretches
Wriggles a little
Did I hear it coo?

I move closer to it
Keen to smell it
Feel its breath on me
Press my lips to its tiny forehead
Kissing it. Smiling.
Willing it to smile back

Open your eyes little primrose!
Light up my rosy morning!
Blossom ever so sweetly and lazily.
And love me as I love you!

With a gentle shudder
It opens a cute reluctant little eye.
Winks at me
Tentative, yet titillating
Oh come on, baby primrose!
Wake up my sunshine
And make my day.

One last lazy stretch
Then I behold its dancing eyes
And a guileless wondrous smile

My beautiful baby princess
My little primrose
Blossoms awake.
Joyous as ever
To greet
Another innocent morning!

Property Plus and Sevai Saturdays

2007-03-31T09:38:00.000+05:30

It is Saturday. A day of the week I look forward to for multiple reasons. Start of the weekend is probably the last of the reasons, as to me, everyday is weekend and life itself a never-ending weekend. My Saturdays are special because they start with this absolutely super filter coffee that my mom makes. Here’s an excerpt of our conversation over coffee:

Amma: Yes Baby. I am ready. Why don’t we trot out to Ratna café for some Idli Vada

I: Po Ma. Vera Velai Illai

Amma: How about Besant Nagar Sevai kadai which you’ve been threatening to take me for over a year now?

I: Amma, please, I don’t feel like driving now

Amma: (Opens fridge with a sigh to plan menu for the day) Ey.. Beans carrot irukku di, un super pulao sappitu rombha naal aachu. Panni Kuden..”

I: Maska will get u nowhere mom. I am not making anything.

All this while I have been only partially paying attention to what she said because I have The Hindu Property Plus in hand and am busy underlining interesting finds to start my tele-calling exercise. “Amma. Listen -Penthouse in Valmiki Nagar .Price negotiable", I call out.
Shall we go see it? replies Amma(Pupils dilate. Drooling begins) She reacts like this because she instantly goes down memory lane to the time when, walking hand in hand with my Dad in some posh locale , the two of them used to check out the houses they passed and remark “Damn-Good-This-House. Dash-Good-That-House” - alternatingly in a silly sing-song way and get back home feeling as if they’ve lived royally in every one of those palatial bungalows.

My tele-calling and tele-apartment-shopping stops after half an hour or after hearing a few over a crore kind of prices(whichever is earlier). At this point Appa joins me to discuss shooting real estate prices and our dropping share prices (if you are thinking, ‘wow, she must be loaded”, then I’ve achieved the desired reaction.).

My friends are amused as to why I chase after penthouses et all I have no intention of buying. The same reason men chase women they have no intention of marrying I suppose.

But on deeper introspection and analysis of symptoms, I have diagnosed that this is a dreaded congenital disorder affecting Dr.TNB’s clan. It cannot be cured ever, because we will always want that one room more and keep sighing and singing “damn good this house, dash good that house” today and every Saturday.

P.S: I am live blogging this today and its great fun. Amma has resigned to the fact that this is just another Saturday. She’s made the most delicious Pongal and Gothsu and served me at the PC as I work on my blog. As usual she started out by asking me for sevai(idiappam) and ended up doing me sevai(service). Love you Mom. Can’t wait for next Saturday.

Forty-Plus Friendships

2007-03-29T17:14:00.000+05:30

None of my friends (and a few close relatives who are more of friends) over forty years of age like to be addressed as a forty-plus friend. Don’t know why the truth bothers them so much. ( I am ok with being thirty plus) . To me their forty plus wisdom, maturity and intensity make them even better as friends. Their sanity and stability juxtaposed with my lack of both makes it a balanced and super friendship.

I am not always insane though. The sane me surfaces whenever I have to bail the Forties out of their mood swings and mid-life crises.

I only wish these adorable forties knew how precious and wonderful they are and took care of their health. Because, they have an incredibly selfish younger friend who wants them around and active when she goes through her mid-life crisis.

Is that too much to ask? ( maybe I should advance MY crisis by a decade!!!!)

POnzzzzzzzzziyizzzzzzzn Selzzzzzzzzzzzvzzzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanzzzzzzzzz

2007-03-26T20:53:00.000+05:30

My grandma is one of the faithful readers of my blog. I love writing for her.Even if she has to be given a printout and explained the context everytime I post something. Even if she feels i should be writing for The Hindu or I am wasting my time. Even if, after reading my ramblings, she always comes up with"Ellam Seri. Thamizh le ezhudina evalo jora irukkum?"

She urges me to read thamizh novels so I can improve my vocabulary and start writing in thamizh.

I want to. I really want to. But there is a problem. Within 5 minutes of focussed thamizh book-reading, I fall asleep. Instant sedative.

But you know how grandmas' voices can be. Keeps taunting one like an asareeri.
To delight Patty and improve my sense of self worth, I picked up a couple of thamizh books from a friend who also gifted me Ponniyin Selvan in the hope that I would one day graduate to reading literature.

After toiling through the 2 lovely books for over 2 months, I have graduated to Ponniyin Selvan today. z z z z z z z z z z z z z zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

My yellow STUNNER

2007-03-24T19:24:00.000+05:30

I drive a yellow car. Just bought it a couple of weeks ago. When I chose yellow, I did it spontaneously because I just love the colour. Also, I have pretty much done the rounds on all the other colours in my previous cars. So why not a yellow?

My yellow car is obviously a stunner. A stunner usually invokes only two types of reactions from the observer. Either a WOW or an ARGGHHH. Only, the wow my yellow stunner invokes may actually mean “ARGGH. How could she do this?” These observers don’t know that I am adept at figuring out whether their wow is a wow or an arrgghh. Maybe they do. That’s why they suffix the “WOW” with.. “I mean…TOO MUCH..COOL” etc. ( relax I know what you are trying to tell me). Some people get gutsy enough to ask me “ How come you chose yellow? Your daughter must lovvve it”. (Hey the mother loves it even more!) Some others actually tease me outright on my choice.

As you can see I am having a good time making out who’s honest and who’s not. But no offense. People have their views as they get to see the yellow more, not I sitting in the drivers seat.

But my yellow stunner becoming such a hot topic of debate drove me to do some research on effects of colours on people and colour connotations. My research tells me that inherently, people are afraid to be stunning, daring and different. They would rather blend.

On yellow I found that cheerful sunny yellow is an attention getter. While it is considered an optimistic color, people lose their tempers more often in yellow rooms, and babies will cry more. It is the most difficult color for the eye to take in, so it can be overpowering if overused. Yellow enhances concentration, hence its use for legal pads. It also speeds metabolism.

So by corollary, if people honk louder at me in traffic, it is my yellow working its magic on them. I didn’t break no rules!

But, who cares about psychobabble. Cheers to my yellow stunner!

OPEN SESAME!

2007-03-23T12:30:00.000+05:30

Nobody opens doors for me. And I’m not talking about the doors of opportunity. I am talking about simple manual elevator doors.

When you take the elevator alongwith your friend/colleague (any equal in terms of physical ability) you would expect that, when the lift stops, your companion volunteers to open the door just as you do. Eventually, one of you moves faster than the other and the door gets opened.

In this whole process, there is no discomfort even if you ended up opening the door, because the other person came forward or at least made a polite gesture.

But here’s what happens in my case. When the elevator stops, my companion(gender no bar, salesmen no bar) invariably suffers a momentary paralysis attack and goes into complete stupor. I am expecting this moment because I am almost always exploited on this aspect. So I try and outwit that person. Pretend to be in stupor too.

Stupor versus stupor. Tick. Tick. Tick.Tick. TICK TICK WHAMMM! That's my panic attack propelling me stronger than the force of gravity in the direction of the door. Out shoots my hand to open it.

I LOSE.

Stupor doesn’t work for me. So I get creative and try other tactics. I fiddle with my cellphone or my watch at that precise moment to keep my hand from rushing to the door. Once I even tried a mosquito-bite-on-my-foot excuse to bend down and get the companion to open. Sometimes this works, but only partly. Which means: the companion opens door, steps out and BINGO-stupor strikes him again. He walks out in comatose condition and gets away without waiting to help me close the door behind us.

The extra polite recorded voice from inside the lift that beckons me to “PLEASE CLOSE THE DOOR” sounds to me like a saucy “Ha! Lost again? Face it. You are a born DOOR-OPENER. Go on now. Close it”.

I WILL. DAMN IT#$$%%^^&^$#@@!$%^^&&#$%^^^&*

These days I take the stairs leaving companion to fend for himself.

“Sado-masochistic” you say. But “Companion go to hell”, say I.

(The elevator takes you there faster). HE HE HE!

My first TV commercial

2007-03-09T17:26:00.000+05:30

I modelled for Dinakaran newspaper. The commercial will be aired on Sun TV starting tomorrow, everyday till the end of the World Cup series.

After a two year compering stint with Jaya TV, doing a TV commercial was a totally different, yet BORING experience. 16 hours of shooting for a 40 seconds commercial(in which I appear for 15 seconds) vis-à-vis one hour of shooting for a half an hour program as anchor. Big difference.

What I did find exciting though was that I got to dub my own voice.

Also I met several interesting people who wanted to give an arm and a leg for that 15 second appearance. And some gifted children who stole the show by being absolute pros belting out numerous variations in expression that the director wanted.

AWESOME DEAD!

2007-02-09T15:52:00.000+05:30

The Lake Superior State University(LSSU) recently banished the word “awesome” from its dictionary. This is part of its whimsical idea to do away with overused, misused and abused words.
As someone who takes the English language seriously, this announcement intrigued me. And as I meditated seriously on the disastrous consequences and the lethal impact of such an announcement on the world at large, my dad met an unassuming medical representative at his clinic. Enthused to promote his product, the salesman used the very same banished adjective in a different avataar. He said, ” Saar, You should try the combination of rabeperzole and domperidone for the patient. It is simBLY AAVISOME ”

AAVISOME BORN!

P.S They also banished blog and all forms of the word blog. But who cares anyway? Let’s banish LSSU. What say???

My new look blog

2007-01-30T16:47:00.000+05:30

Got so tired of the dreary black background in my blog, I got rid of it. I even renamed it to go with how I feel every moment of my life. Welcome to Life is Beautiful, my new and improved sunny happy blog. Hope you like it and hope your life is as beautiful as mine!

A Lesson in Love

2007-01-30T16:18:00.000+05:30

Last night, I had my first full-blown argument with my mother-in-law. A misunderstanding on a trivial household issue caused us both a lot of pain. Of course, I felt she was wrong and she the other way. In a battle of two gargantuan egos, how does one find resolution? We kept arguing . As I tried reiterating my point of view, she closed her ears and shut me out, driving me up the wall in fury. What could I do but leave the room in sheer frustration.

I couldn’t sleep a wink all night. How could she refuse to even listen to my reasoning? What had I done that was so wrong?

Mothers in Law! DOWN DOWN, I kept chanting.

That didn’t do me any good. What do I do? Should I call up my mother and ask her for help ? Bad Idea. As I would probably get a lecture and feel even worse. I had to solve this myself.
I did not want a petty issue to cause a big rift between us.

Morning came and I left home early (while MIL was still asleep) to drop my daughter off at school. On returning I couldn’t bring myself to take the stairs to my home as I still hadn’t found a solution to last night’s issue. My ego instructed me to ignore her completely and get back at her for shutting me out. But my mom and grandmom’s sternest lecture face kept popping up to warn me it wasn’t the right approach.

Undaunted I reached my home and opened the door to find her sitting right in front of me in the living room.

The picture of this lonely old lady sitting by herself and waiting to be loved shook me back to my senses. I was ashamed of myself.How terrible of me to have wanted to get back at her.

I quietly walked up, put my arms around her and hugged her tight. Amidst buckets of tears we both apologized and made up.

And all it took was a little love and a Jaadu Ki Jhapi!

SMS your way to the Guinness

2006-11-13T12:22:00.000+05:30

“The razor toothed piranhas of the genera serasalmus and pygocentrus are the most ferocious fresh water fish in the world. In reality they seldom attack a human.” That was the message given for the fastest messaging (SMS) contest. A Singaporean typed that out in 41.52 seconds and made it to the Guinness book of world records. I took 2 minutes. Try out.

Menfolk...read only if you can handle it....

2006-11-08T11:25:00.000+05:30

Q: What is the difference between men and puppies?
A: Puppies grow up.

Q: Why do men always have a stupid look on their faces?
A: Because they are...

Q: What do men have in common with ceramic tiles?
A: Fix them properly once and you can walk all over them forever.

Q: If you drop a man and a brick out of a plane, which one would hit the ground first?
A: Who cares?????.....

Q: What did God say after he created man?
A: I can do better than this! And then he created woman!!!.

Q: What's the difference between an intelligent man & a UFO ?
A: I don't know, I've never seen either.

Q: What are two reasons why men don't mind their own business?
A: i) no mind ii) no business

Q: Why did Moses wander in the desert for 40 years?
A: Because even back then men wouldn't ask for directions ..

Q: What is the difference between men and pigs?
A: Pigs don't turn into men when they drink...

Q: What makes men chase women they have no intention of marrying?
A: The same urge that makes dogs chase vehicles they have no intention of driving.

Q: What do you do with a man who thinks he's God's gift?
A: Exchange him!!

Q: Why do men like smart women?
A: Opposites attract.

Poem on me

2006-11-01T12:08:00.000+05:30

Vidya, one of my closest friends, wrote this lovely poem on me and made my Diwali extra special.
------------------------
Krithika...

You are the light of Diwali,
you glow.. you spread warmth..
there's a fire in you (always)

You are the "pattasu" yourself
you are - a perennial "sound box"
your laughter is a 100-wala
your personality (the person) is a live-bomb ticking always
You, Krithika are a 365 day diwali to people around you (who I envy).
To you, all 365 days are Diwali.
--------------------------------
Hurrrayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! I got a poem on me!!
Vidya, have I told you lately that you are the CUTESSSSSTTTTTT?

So you think I am showing off eh?
Hey..Its MY blog.

Enga Aathule Golu

2006-09-26T11:44:00.000+05:30

The Hindu, yesterday quotes me recalling Thatha's creative Golus in the article titled

"A look at how Kolu's faring in the city"- http://www.hinduonnet.com/2006/09/26/stories/2006092605910600.htm
It says...
---------------------------
" Krithika Shukla, corporate communications professional, is on a trip down memory lane this Navratri. "The person, who used to lead the entire family in celebrating Navaratri by setting up "bright and different" kolu, is no more. My grandfather used to make replicas of temples using thermocol every year -- Sabarimala, Tirupati, Palani, Vaideeswaran... There would be priests, gopurams made with gold paper... " At the end of it, everybody in the apartment complex sings and the family will gift `sundal' and some innovative gifts. "
--------------------------
Each time I used to be the official inviter for my thatha patty's golus "Enga aathule golu vechirkom. Kattayam vandu vethalai paaku vangikanum" went the script. I remember parading in pavadai chattai to all my neighbours houses and singing earnestly to earn the sundal. What fun!

You a jar twister?

2006-09-25T16:25:00.000+05:30

Did you know that the male ego is in potential peril when a woman asks a man to twist off the top of some type of container? You bet it is. Its a classic no-win situation. If the man successfully completes the task, its no big deal anyway because lid-removal is one of the few areas in which women find men to be of use.

If however the man fails to perform, the perception of his masculinity can experience major shrinkage.

So guys when you see a woman with a jar approach you --run away or better still keep a band-aid handy and quickly stick it on.

If you have better ideas to save embarassment, feel free to comment!

I fought with my little angel

2006-09-12T17:24:00.000+05:30

When she smiled the first time, my heart did a double take. When she gripped my fingers tightly, I made a promise I’d never let her down. When she took her first few hesitant steps, I held out my arms to cushion her fall. When she hurt herself, I wished the pain was mine. When she said sorry the first time I forgave her all her future faults. When she implored me for a chocolate, I wished I could buy her the world. When she sang, my heart brimmed with joy and pride. When her beautiful curls were chopped away during tonsure, I was in tears. When she lost her first tooth, I wept.

God. How much I love my little angel.

But yesterday, I punished her for the first time.. I made her face the wall for ten minutes and asked her not to speak or move till I said so. This was as strict as I could get. Those ten minutes of watching her sad repentant face were the longest and most agonizing minutes of my life. It took me all my will power not to hug her and spoil the impact of the punishment. How bravely she handled her punishment! When I could take it no longer, I held out my arms so we could hug and make up for all the hurt.

But she turned away and plonked herself in front of the television. “No hug for mommy?”, I asked . “No. Because I still haven’t forgiven you for punishing me”, she replied calmly,

God. How I wish I knew how to handle her.

I have a perfect little angel to love. But will I ever be her perfect mommy?

Time will tell!

Unwinding at the Unconference

2006-09-09T11:52:00.000+05:30

I am posting this while unwinding at India's largest blog unconference- blogcamp.in. This place is full of energy and excitement. I can see some eager beavers who are here so they may find a few more people who would read their blogs. Some "serious" bloggers as they would like to call themselves are here to say "Hey my blog has a purpose..its not just a diary". I am here as i want to learn. I hope I get to do that.

Midnight Masala

2006-08-22T10:45:00.000+05:30

Before your imagination runs wild, let me set this straight. The title is only a teaser. This post is about the masala chai I had at midnight with my old friend.

When Soumya and her daughter landed at my place for an all gals night, we chatted like there was no tomorrow and went on with our jabber session till one a.m. Our daughters too were wide awake and enjoying their sleepover thoroughly.

A little after one Soumya wanted a glass of milk to put her daughter to sleep. But alas, there wasnt a drop at home. I felt sheepish as i had prided myself on being a good host until then. Feeling lousy at my negligence, I called the 24 hour pharmacy only to be told that they didn't stock milk or milk powder. Soumya assured me she would manage. But I couldnt let it go.

I had an idea. Why not go to a 24 hour chaiwala somewhere down the road and buy milk? In the bargain, we would not only get milk , but an adventure too! Soumya being as wild as i am, approved. We set out with our daughters looking out for a 24 hour chaiwala at 1.30 a.m. The children were excited and we were glad to be out too.

After a 4km drive we finally found a chaiwala. While I parked, Soumya stepped out and rebounded in top speed. The place had , on closer inspection, turned out to be a sleazy joint. She had just escaped an invitation from one of the drunken revellers.

We vamoosed from there at top speed. Having lost by then, the euphoria and energy to go in search of a safer chai kadai, we headed straight to the coffee shop at GRT Grand Days.

I enjoyed our masala chai rendezvous at the coffee shop immensely.

But I still felt a pang of regret on the realization that we had just turned out to be one of the snobs and not wild originals as we liked to believe!

Adieu!

2006-08-11T11:26:00.000+05:30

This might be my last post, as I have a feeling I might not survive the personal training at the gym today. I kept complaining that my workout is too boring. So my trainer decided to make me regret I said that for the rest of my life.. if i survived..that is.

My will and testament is with my lawyer. And sure enough, my trainer and all of you who are amused reading this post get zilch from me.

Goodbye until we meet in hell!!!

For music lovers.....

2006-07-25T11:09:00.000+05:30

If you are classical music lover, this article will give you a lot of insight. read on...

Hindusthani Music and Karnatak Music systems an Analysis- by Padmasani

Before going into the study let us know the meaning of these two very Indian terminologies.
Hindu means the knowledge system that prevailed in India. Sthan means the place. So Hindusthani Music means the music of the place where the Hindu system of knowledge prevailed.
And Karnataka can be interpreted at least in two different ways. a) Karnataka means of the people and the country they inhabit. b) Karna means ear and the old. Ataka means, that of the teacher- which means the karnaparampara or the aural tradition handed down from guru to pupil as an unhindered chain.
When the western authors like Day or Popley interpreted our music they called the music of the south as that which prevailed in the Deccan plateau. Unfortunately the sons of our soil prefer to go by the western authors on our music rather than probe the simple meaning from a Sanskrit dictionary. J
Anyway if you probe History there were only two distinct writers in Indian Music who could be traced as the earliest. They were Bharata and his Natyashastra and Ilango Adigalar who wrote the Silappadikaram. Both wrote amazing details about music and dance. Ilango also relates astrology with music. It is interesting to know that a man from a Royal Kingdom from the extreme south and a man from the extreme north have thought on identical lines. To them both, music was an umbrella term encompassing drama, dance and music. Anyway that shows the Aryan and the Dravidian cultural heritages as highly evolved. By and by the Dravidian tradition of the south was swallowed by the advent of Naik and Marattha Kingdoms. The dominant Telugu and Marathi literature and art forms took sway with which the music of the south also took a tumultuous turn. The Tamil music was replaced by the Aryan form with the Kannada, Telugu and Marathi regional musical and linguistic influence.
The north was no exception to this change. The Mughals brought a fair deal of influence of their own over our music. While the classical art form remained more or less the same, there were other forms like ghazals etc. which came into vogue. North also moved from Dhrupad to Khayal over the period of time. But it retained the originals intact. The music was intact in terms of predominantly creative and not set music.
To trace the textual origin, between Bharata (Natyashastra) and Sarngadeva (Sangita Ratnakara) the music was one Indian Music. By and by the bifurcation started to take place into two different styles of music. While the North retained the original Hindu Music which is raga oriented, the south adapted itself to a confluence of more than one regional influence. Now the music of the south was more lyrically emphatic and descriptive of a theme or subject. It is because the Harikatha was a famous musico-discourse form; the Bhajana Paddati with Radha Kalyana Mahotsav was of a thematic nature. The Kriti form itself served a multipurpose of being used in the above art forms than sailing as a pure musical entity. But one can not refuse that the Kriti form has served as archives of southern raga format. The kriti pool in each raga consolidates the scope of that raga under grammatical peripheries and aesthetic exuberances.
This will be evident if you would analyse the Dhrupad and the Ragam Tanam and Pallavi forms. They are similar.
In dhrupad style the tanam singing is kept alive and the pakhavaj almost equal to our mrdangam was the percussion accompaniment. Khayal is a form with akar alap and tan developed into a more attractive form with tabla as accompaniment.

Super Singer Finalist or Not Worth It Wannabe!

2006-07-21T17:34:00.000+05:30

The Super Singer contest is undoubtedly a fantastic event and a great platform for aspirants. Wannabes from small towns have had a never-before opportunity to showcase their talent- and that's admirable.

But what about the ones who didn't qualify or who came all the way to the finals but couldn't make it? What anguish would they be going through? How long before they stopped feeling devastated and moved on to a different stage or another audition? Having been a finalist of one such title myself, I live the pain of the rejected aspirants everytime.

That's why I was shocked to see the utterly insensitive hoarding on GN Chetty road that featured the pictures of the finalists and alongside -the rejects with HUGE RED CROSS marks over their faces.

What kind of a moron came up with this callous idea? Do these people have the faintest idea how hard it is coping with the rejection itself without having to go through the rest of their lives bearing the RED CROSS of it in their minds?

Shame on the Organizers!

Carrot Chair

2006-07-13T12:02:00.000+05:30

Often when you are negotiating your final compensation package with the HR executive of a prospective employer, you would find him selling you dreams to help you deal with the lower package he had just doled out. He would take you through what your perks would be were you to grow in the organization and become a VP-- a swanky car, a flat on lease etc. What he may not mention, but you'll know is also part of the VP deal is a much bigger cabin with a view.

Once, after such a dream buying ( job buying too, as I had just signed my acceptance of the offer) experience, the smooth talking enthusiastic HR chappie took me along and introduced a few managers and VPs of the Company. I went around, shaking hands, remembering names and in the process making a mental note of cabins with views as well.

During my rounds, I noticed something else too. VPs of this Company besides getting the etc.s described by the glib HR guy, got to sit on huge comfortable chairs, while all other executives sat on a sorry excuse for a chair with a back rest that ended before it began and a hard-as-stone seat disguised like a cushion.

Though shocked at this disparity, I still joined the Company and got the chair reserved for lesser mortals. After a few months of sitting on the chair I finally understood the strategy behind the chair disparity- To grow in the Company, swanky cars and seven figure salaries cant push you as hard as a perennial backache can. This is the juiciest carrot HR could dangle to a new recruit.

I'm gunning for the VP's chair since day one!!

My Thatha

2006-06-28T20:30:00.000+05:30

Suri thatha was the sweetest grandpa God ever made. He taught us love, contentment and how to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. In their two room apartment, thatha and patty have entertained scores of people. We learnt from them, that its not about how large your house is..its about how much love there is in it.

His family was his universe. He would beam with pride whenever his children and grandchildren sang and revel in our talent. Even though we were just navaratri singers, the pride in his loving eyes made us feel special indeed. At a family wedding thatha would take over the event management in his calm efficient manner. Quietly, he would take control and make himself indispensibile.

Thatha was an excellent chef and had a refined taste for food too. To simply watch him mix with gusto paruppu podi with saadham and nei was a delight. Tasting an urundai of what he had mixed was like tasting amrit.

I haven't met anyone who plays better carrom than Thatha. He loved teaching serious learners his game. With him around there wouldn't be a dull moment-he had children in awe of him with his repertoire of outrageous tricks and practical jokes.

As a raconteour, he had us spellbound with his delightful stories. The rakshasa in Sundaram's imagination as described by thatha replete with re-recording effects still sends a chill down my spine. How real he made him sound! He was a great teacher too . Methodical and patient, he could drill mensuration into the dullest brain.

Navaratri is always considered a woman's domain. But it was thatha who brought to life all the south indian temples with his thermocol art.

He had a great sense of humour. Lord Muruga, to him was "Chuppini". Even when he knew he was dying, he regaled us with Milka Singh, Ram Singh jokes.

In a world of nuclear families, not many children get to spend time with their grandparents. But we the grandchildren of Suri and Ganga were blessed indeed. Right down to his great grand daughter, Thatha showered his love and nurtured and protected us.

Love you thatha! Wish we had a chance to tell you how much we miss you!

Camp GULA

2006-05-31T13:41:00.000+05:30

My dad started the madness. "A trip to Bangalore would not be complete without lunch at MTR", he declared. We discouraged him, because we knew how crowded it would be. But he insisted, adding, "If I die without eating there my unfulfilled soul would haunt you". So as good hosts, my brother and sister-in-law yielded. They were piqued too, on what made the place legendary.

With great expectations and greater appetites, we, the family of self-certified gourmets and good cooks reached the gastronomical paradise at 1 p.m. Entry to paradise was closed and 50 fellow bon-vivants waited outside. Jubilant to be a part of the top 50, we waited..and waited..

Our smug expressions were soon replaced by despair when we heard someone mentioning "token". We discovered that they served meals only in batches, and to reserve your seat, you had to buy tokens in advance. A snooty clerk declared that tokens were available for the 2.30 batch..an hour away.

"We can't wait that long. Lets go to Woodys instead" said Dad casually. "What?",we cried in unison, shocked at his turnaround. How could he do this? He had dragged us there. My sister-in-law fought though, " Daddy, dont you back out now. Let's eat here, if only to find out what's so remarkable about this place." She was right. Crowds thronged to MTR like devotees to the Tirupathy temple or shoppers to Saravana stores.

"Dont you have commitment to your goal? How can you give up on your dream so easily?", she averred passionately. Her appeal made sense. We hurried back to Snooty, who snubbed, "3.15 batch open now. Take it or leave it".

Curiosity, dogged determination and blasted hunger made us take it. We killed the next hour(wishing to kill Snooty instead) at scenic Lal bagh playing juvenile games with my daughter.

At 3 p.m we were back, salivating in anticipation. My feminine charms failed on the gruff doorkeeper who cried open sesame only at 3.45. Gruffy elbowed us in as though we were annakavadis minus the thiru-odus.

We didn't react. Tenacity was the leitmotif of the day. In true epicurean spirit, we attacked everything from the sweet to bisibela bhaath to thayir saadam. After dessert and meetha paan, we felt so stuffed, we needed CPR.

Little wonder that on the drive back home, there was no conversation. The silence was pregnant with food and memories of our exploits. I started to doze, a myriad pleasant thoughts of cozy beds, soft cushions and sweet lullabys, caressing me into a deep sleep.

Suddenly, a giant claw forced my mouth open, holding a tadpole.. trying to feed me. I lashed out with all my strength sending the tadpole hurtling down space. Cometh the claw again, this time holding a rat. Next wriggleth a serpent. "Stoppppppppppppppppppppppp", I screamed, fully awake, shivering and drenched in sweat.
"What happened?", cried Amma. Sipping water to calm myself, I narrated the nightmare to my sadistic fellow gourmands who laughed in amusement as they listened.

Not surprisingly, my christian sister-in-law could explain it. According to her, I had committed the Third Deadly Sin- Gluttony or GULA as it is called in Greek. What I had just witnessed in my nightmare, she said, was a demo of how they punished GULA in hell.

Billions of mortals commit GULA everyday!
Thousands of mortals commit GULA at MTR everyday!
4 sadistic mortals(My dad, mom, brother and sister-in-law) connived in committing GULA with me that very day!
One cheeky mortal-my dad-started it all, becoming the ORIGINAL GULA SINNER!

Therefore, my question to God...

Why was "I" chosen for the demo?

Perspirational Genius

2006-05-18T21:51:00.000+05:30

When I encounter genius I cry. Sometimes weep. I wonder why? What is it that blows my mind away completely and brings the tears gushing out? Perhaps I am weak. Perhaps I am sensitive. Perhaps I am sublime. Perhaps I am insane.

It then dawns on me that I weep, not because of all the above reasons, but because I want to be that genius, and I am not. In fact, I may never be. I am tired of being Jack of all trades and master of none. I crave virtuosity.

My soul meanders desultorily in search of a meteoric streak of genius that will explode from within me. Is there a meter to indicate if i have it in me? Would I see a blinding ray of light to signal my stroke of genius? Maybe a bell would ring to bring epiphany.

Whatever the signs are, I'll wait, albeit impatiently.

Someone said "Leave your footprints on the sands of time". I can bet he didn't write a "how to" manual on the subject? Because you have only one way to do it. Be a goddamm genius!

Math Genius! Chess Genius! Music Genius! Literary Genius! What genius are you? I ain't one today. But, if genius is 99% pespiration, I still have hope.

I will perspire!

Tele Buggies

2006-05-09T14:21:00.000+05:30

Tele Buggies are people who bug us on the telephone. Here are some I've encountered with tips on how to tackle them..

'Apram'er

Beware of the 'apram'er. Someone who badly wants to have a long phone conversation, but can't take the onus for it. Whenever you pause while talking to him, he pushes you into carrying the baton of the conversation by simply saying ..'apram?' You fall for his bait and carry on about the neighbour and your dog. When you are just about to talk about the milkman, along comes the next 'apram?'. You take off again panting and puffing and wonder after hanging up, how you fall for it everytime.
Try this when you want to put off an 'apram'er--The moment you hear the question 'apram?', in your meanest voice, hurl a 'vizhupuram' back at him. That should silence the dangerous 'Apram'er!

Cut and Runner

He is phobic to long conversations. Maybe someone told him he'l get electrocuted if he held the line for long. Often , the cut and runner would have hung up to calmly sip a cup of coffee while you are still in the middle of an animated conversation.
To avoid being a victim of a cut and run accident, remember to take a deep breath after every 5 words to check if the line is active.

Just about to call'er

He wouldn't have thought of you for ages. But when you call him, he'd swear that you'll live to be a hundred years. The just about to call'er will not only enquire about your family, your health and everything under the sun when you call, but will also have the gall to ask you for a favour -all at your cost!
The next time you find yourself exploited this way, fight back. Tell him teasingly that he could do all his pleasant enquiries when he calls up and not when you call. Or better still, pretend that you are wanted urgently for some errand, so could he please call you back in 5 minutes and hang up abruptly. That should serve him right!

Comma Caller

The most tenacious tele-buggy is the Comma Caller. His cue to begin is your hello. He cuts the small talk and zooms in with his topic of the day. On and on, he goes whether you are interested or not. So eager is he to share his thoughts, that he forgets the fullstop at the end of every sentence. He is all commas and no fullstop and you are superman if you manage to get in a word edgewise. But fret not.
Here's what you should do when he begins. Place the receiver gently on the table, pick up your ipod, listen to a couple of your favorite numbers and while you are at it, take a short nap too. You earned it. After doing all of this, quietly pick up the reciever and cough or sneeze loudly and intermittently for ten seconds. This will surely disrupt the comma caller's flow and make him pause. Listen carefully for this pause and in between coughs, excuse yourself to drink water, adding that it was wonderful talking to him. That's it. You are freeeeeeeee!

And next time do install caller-id on your phone!

Kali Amma and The King!

2006-05-06T11:38:00.000+05:30

Our family's conversations over filter coffee every morning are exciting discussions that cover anything from politics to gossip to recipes. Its a ritual we enjoy and can't do without. Especially when we critique someone's behaviour. This morning the victim was my mom.

According to the world...Amma is an elegant sophisticated and charming lady who is known for her grace, poise and patience. Someone who thinks before retaliating, never raises her voice and hardly flares up in anger. In brief a benevolent angel who can do no wrong.....

But my dad begs to differ...

When they have an argument, my mom takes Durga's or sometimes Kali's avatar. She retaliates vociferously and defends herself admirably-- and most of the time, wins the argument too. Poor Dad who has been labelled a "ferocious tiger" retreats like a beaten cat meowing back into his den.

I am usually a witness to Amma's kali avatars and this morning, I threatened to expose her "black" side to humanity. A victim of blackmail, my mom begged me not to "tell all". She reminded me of all her sacrifices in raising me and appealed to my gratitude. It didn't work.

Then she tried bribing. She promised to cook all my favorites and wait on me hand and foot like she did when I was in school. I still did not budge.

As a last ditch effort, she tried her final asthra -the brahmasthra. She said that if I truly loved my DAD, I wouldn't do it. "What is the connection?," I asked. Her reason-- spoken like a true pativrata-- exposing her kali avataar would also expose dad's saadhu avataar. Everyone who feared his ferocity would see him as the blue jackal who pretended to be king. Her mighty tiger would then be dethroned and she cant stand that.

That did it. To protect my dad's reputation , I reluctantly gave up blackmail.

Triumphant Amma still oscillates between benevolent Parvathy and angry Kali, and loyalist that I am -I still protect the King.

Love me back!

2006-05-05T10:55:00.000+05:30

When you expect love in return, your love ceases to be unconditional.
How can you ask for unconditional love, when you can't give it?

Love is a "condition". A sweet condition.

Krithi's Law of Swimming

2006-05-04T13:07:00.000+05:30

The day you struggle to swim the breadth of the pool and almost drown, the eight year old boy you want to impress laughs at your inability.

Addendum
The day you finally swim the length of the pool and even dive, he doesn't turn up!

Die honorably!

2006-05-03T09:59:00.000+05:30

I've always thought I'm invincible. But learning to swim has humbled me.
Today is my eighth day at swimming class and I still can't swim the length of the pool. What a shame! Children do it efffortlessly and I am amazed at how I have let my fear and anxiety cloud my basic instinct for survival.

But I am not giving up. I psyche myself to blow inside the water, do a namaste with my hands then bend, kick and join my legs, while coming out to inhale. Phew!! This isn't easy.

After a few trials of breathing kicking and namasteing, I feel buoyed to swim at the deep end of the pool and call out to eight year old Rohit to watch me(challenging eight year olds can do wonders to your ego).
I dive in and glide gracefully for a few seconds and start my first namaste. This feels wonderful. But suddenly my namaste clashes with another namaste under the water and before I know it I am drowning. " Rohit, heeelllp", I scream. But Rohit can't hear me as even i cant' hear my voice.

I move about in panic desparately trying to clutch something, anything that will save me.
I am terrified.. Of dying? Certainly not. What really scares me now is dying a cowardly ridiculous death. "Woman drowns in a 5 feet pool" the headlines will scream tomorrow. Oh noooooooooo! Can't allow that. I want to die in honor. Don't we all?

In a mammoth effort to save myself from a pusillanimous death, I leap, kick, blow, namaste and ahhhhhhhh find the bar. Eureka. I made it.

I know, that I am living to die someday. But then, I'm dying to live everyday. Today, I am glad to be alive, perhaps to die honorably another day.

I have no excuse

2006-05-02T14:41:00.000+05:30

My grandma wants me to be a writer. She also wants me to be a great mother, a successful career woman and a great housekeeper. That is when i am not learning tailoring or anchoring tv shows. So you see, she has a wish list and I being who i am, feel compelled to tick everything off. And if you are wondering how many are pending in the list--Ive done the anchoring, I sing whenever I have an audience(which would be just Patty most of the time), I have a great career, as housekeeper--i keep a decent house. On tailoring, I am yet to score. And ah!! Writing. Call it writer's block, inertia or sheer laziness, I havent put pen to paper in a long time. But now thanks to technology, I can not only write , but get it published too. I have no excuse. So Patty and all of you-- here I am at large all set to share whatever I am excited about. Hang on and visit me often. And Dad--do join me on board!